The Compromised Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  “It involved him levering the gate apart with his Luger, and for me to pull myself up onto the top of the lift itself and then he pulled me to safety. I don’t think I have ever found anyone quite so handsome in my life!!” she laughed.

  “And the rest, as they say, is history,” said Lafarge.

  She smiled sadly and nodded.

  “Colonel Karl-Heinz von Liebkampf, an extraordinary man, well read, cultured, a Francophile as so many were who were stationed here. He wasn’t married either. My vow of marital fidelity evaporated very quickly once I met him,” she said gazing into the distance.

  “I would have gone with him you know,” she added, tears appearing at the corner of her eyes.

  Lafarge felt inside his trouser pocket and found a relatively clean handkerchief and handed it to her. She shrugged it aside and wiped her eyes with the cuff of her cream chiffon shirt.

  “So he escaped?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “He was executed by his lords and masters back in Berlin,” she said bitterly.

  “Sorry, come again?” asked Lafarge a little confused.

  She looked at him as if he was playing dumb for the sake of it.

  “Where have you been, Mr Lafarge? The July Plot? Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Erm no, I’m afraid not. I was not in Paris at the time,” said Lafarge not wishing to divulge why.

  “Well then I understand. Karl-Heinz and his direct superior Karl-Heinrich von Stuelpnagel as well as the majority of his staff decided to act before it was too late and conspired to assassinate Hitler and as many of his cronies that were present at a meeting in one of his headquarters at the time of the attempt.

  “Sadly it failed and they had already gone too far in rounding up the Gestapo and the SS in Paris. The conspirators’ efforts to persuade Field Marshal von Kluge to switch sides with his army fell on deaf ears. Von Stuelpnagel tried to make things good by then releasing the officers and explaining it had all been a gross misunderstanding.

  “However, under intense interrogation someone in Berlin revealed his name plus that of several members of his staff, and Karl-Heinz was on that list. I told him to try and flee to the Allied side but he said it was no use, von Kluge wouldn’t allow any of them free passage as he still hoped to save his own hide.

  “Thus I then said I would accompany him to Berlin, but he refused my offer saying he would be taken into custody immediately and he would not be coming out again. I haven’t heard another word since he and von Stuelpnagel left under armed escort for Berlin.”

  She started sobbing and this time Lafarge brooked no objection from her as he dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief. He felt genuinely sorry for her, as without doubt she had been in love with this officer as indeed had been the case for many French women. Affairs of the heart had no such boundaries or indeed could dictate what was right or wrong; it didn’t matter if they wore different uniforms.

  Von Dirlinger had really been an opportunistic dilettante but this colonel sounded like a man of principle, someone Lafarge would have enjoyed meeting.

  He couldn’t really understand what she was doing here. An affair with an officer who had had the courage to try and rid not just Germany but the world of the dictator, surely placed her in the innocent category. Better by far than those who had sought advantage and privileges by having affairs with the SS and more diehard loyalists among the Wehrmacht officer caste. He, had he been in a position to do so, would have released her without further delay.

  “What about your husband? Is he still alive?” asked Lafarge.

  She nodded.

  “Is he aware you are here?”

  “I hope so. Though once he is apprised of the circumstances I am not sure he will be so keen to help me,” she said as tears once again welled up in her eyes.

  Lafarge surprised himself by taking her in his arms and settling both of them on the floor pressed against the bars of the cell, allowing her to nestle her face in the crook of his armpit, which must have smelt lovely and fresh after two days without soap. However, it didn’t seem to bother her as she fell fast asleep as did eventually Lafarge.

  He awoke bathed in sweat a few hours later with someone shaking him. He stared upwards to see one of the guards peering down at him.

  “Come on, up on your feet. You’re getting out of here,” he said brusquely.

  Lafarge took a few seconds to register the guard was addressing him and not Berenice, who was also awake, but still had her head nestled against him. He gently freed himself from her, and they both rose to their feet. The guard, a kindly looking florid-faced, middle-aged man, shook his head at Berenice.

  “Just him, not you madam,” he said.

  She sighed resignedly but Lafarge gripped her hand to give her some solace.

  “Look, I will do what I can to have you released. That is if I have any currency still with Pinault,” he said trying to sound reassuring.

  She nodded gratefully, though the look in her eyes betrayed her doubts that he would be successful.

  As he bade her farewell – this time she willingly took his hand – she asked him: “Who is Isabella?”

  He was taken aback by this question but then recalled that the reason for his waking up in a cold sweat was he had been dreaming about the moment the ship had been torpedoed and the immediate aftermath as they plunged into the water. It had been the last he had seen of her before he had been picked up by one of the few lifeboats that had been able to be launched.

  “She was my wife,” he said dolefully before he turned and escorted by the guard exited the cells.

  ****

  Pinault was extremely apologetic – too much so, thought Lafarge – about his longer-than-expected stay in the cells, but the former Chief Inspector didn’t feel he was yet in a secure enough position to make a tart remark as to that fact and grudgingly accepted the apology.

  Lafarge didn’t bring up Madame de Cambedessus during the drive to his apartment block as his mind was solely focused on hoping Madame Grondon would have returned from her visit to her relatives, whom at the same time he hoped that she had found were still alive as he didn’t wish for her to have wasted her journey and the little money she had.

  She had indeed come back, and Lafarge spent a good half hour smoking and pacing up and down the courtyard to the building, under the watchful eye of one of Pinault’s detectives, while the commissaire dealt with Madame Grondon.

  Pinault emerged from Madame Grondon’s tiny apartment, which was an exaggeration as it was little more than one room cut in half to separate the kitchen from the sleeping quarters, and walked towards Lafarge.

  Lafarge lit another cigarette. He had persuaded Pinault to make a brief stop so he could buy some, but lighting this one required two hands as they were both shaking so much, whether from nerves or lack of a drink for three days he couldn’t tell.

  “You’re a lucky man, Lafarge. You either have overpaid Madame Grondon through the years or she has a secret passion for you,” said Pinault.

  “Let’s retire to your apartment and toast your freedom.”

  Lafarge blinked his eyes and all of a sudden felt very light-headed with his fall broken by the other detective catching him. Relief washed over him and he took a few minutes to recover his equilibrium. He then mounted the stairs along with Pinault, who left his sidekick to wait for him in the car.

  Once settled comfortably inside the apartment and with a suitably good quality bottle of burgundy opened they chatted as if nothing had taken place and that Pinault had just dropped round to see how his recently bereaved colleague was coping.

  Pinault confessed he had heard rumours of Bousquet and Lafarge’s rows but had chosen to disbelieve them as propaganda and that a son of a high-up Vichy advisor would not be the sort of person the secretary-general of the police would pick a fight with despite being senior in rank.

  “Well thanks for the confidence you showed in me Pinault. I appreciated the three nights in the
cells – another chapter for my memoirs,” retorted Lafarge.

  “I am just doing my job as I told you before, Lafarge. Besides I am under unbearable pressure to bring to ground Petiot. Thus you festering in a cell for three days were the least of my problems,” said Pinault.

  “Maybe, but doesn’t that suggest there should be somebody dealing with that question uniquely, because I am nigh on certain there are others like myself who shouldn’t be down there,” said Lafarge wearily.

  Pinault’s face – quite a noble one it was too with a jutting-out chin, an aquiline nose and high cheekbones topped by fierce blue eyes – blanched at the criticism.

  “I’d mind you to watch what you say. There aren’t many of us who have been passed fit to resume our duties, and there is little outside help to cover both crime and those who are under suspicion for collaborating,” said Pinault.

  “Okay, I apologise. Normally it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to make such comments, but seeing that I am now just an ordinary citizen I believe that I am free to do so,” said Lafarge defiantly.

  Pinault downed the last drops of his glass of wine and rose to leave.

  “Of course you are now. However, I would appreciate it that you refrain from doing so when you arrive for duty tomorrow morning, Chief Inspector,” said Pinault smiling.

  Lafarge was delighted he was still sitting down for he couldn’t believe what he had just heard Pinault say.

  “Sorry Pinault, I’m not sure whether I just heard you correctly, but you are offering me my old job back?”

  Pinault’s smile broadened into a grin.

  “I see no reason why not, Lafarge. You have been cleared by me and as I said we are so short-staffed of people and of quality ones that I need every good detective available back on the force. I know you are by reputation a prickly individual and hard to work with, but you are also a damn fine detective and get results.

  “Therefore yes, Lafarge, you are back on duty as of tomorrow. That is not to say that I won’t be keeping an eye out on you and that any hint of scandal surrounding you and your past will see you back in the cells. However, my instinct tells me you can be a valuable asset once more. Good night, Chief Inspector, see you in the morning.”

  With that Pinault let himself out leaving Lafarge, triple murderer and reinstated Chief Inspector, for once lost for words.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “So, Levau, tell me what’s the story here then?” asked Lafarge.

  It hadn’t taken long for Lafarge to be plunged back into the job, a day into his third stint as a detective – how many times can one be resurrected, he joked to himself. He had been called to a murder scene in Rue de Grenelle in the wealthy neighbourhood of St Germain des Prés on the Left Bank by his partner Hugo Levau.

  He was half-tempted to nickname him Hugenot to his face but resisted the urge given that his younger partner was new to the force in Paris, and aside from that Lafarge was on probation and didn’t wish to make a bad impression … for the moment.

  Levau had been one of the conditions imposed on him by Pinault, who was well aware that Lafarge had been a lone wolf in his brief time back in the force under Vichy. However, the new commissaire had said there were to be new rules and it was also, he added, for his – that is Lafarge’s – safety.

  Lafarge had reluctantly agreed and had been relieved he had not been given an experienced hand but a rookie like Levau who would not, he thought, wish to assert himself too quickly nor contradict a senior officer.

  Levau was a pleasant-looking fellow – straight black hair, blue eyes and an athletic build, and smartly turned out.

  He wasn’t very chatty which was fine by Lafarge as it meant the topic of ‘what did you do during the war’ wasn’t touched on. It was a taboo subject to many French people, those who had been liberated at any rate.

  One thing Lafarge had ensured happened, and that was why he was late, had been to obtain Berenice de Cambedessus’s release. Pinault had taken some convincing but given that the cells at the Quai were starting to overflow, he had signed off on it, though he had warned Lafarge she might be safer in the cells than released onto the streets.

  Lafarge had shrugged his shoulders and then proceeded to process her papers, pick her up at the front desk and driven her to Rue Vaneau, as it was more or less on his way.

  Aside from thanking him profusely she said little, nervous at the prospect of what awaited her at home; whether her husband would be there or already gone with General Leclerc’s Brigade – who had liberated Paris and then been allowed to parade down the Champs Élysées.

  It had been a diplomatic gesture by the overall Allied commander Dwight ‘Ike’ Eisenhower to restore some pride to the French people who had been humiliated on a daily basis as the Nazis marched down Paris’ iconic thoroughfare to remind them of who was in charge.

  He wished her well and added wryly he hoped the lift was working before driving onto his rendezvous.

  Now standing in a very smart well-furnished apartment – most of the furniture was Art Deco style, with several paintings of the Impressionist period hanging on the walls – Levau told him as much as he could about the male victim.

  The corpse was lying naked in the bedroom, the pathologist going over his body giving it an initial examination.

  “The victim is Patrick de Boinville, diplomat and businessman, recently returned to Paris with the General,” said Levau leafing through his brand-new notebook.

  “Even more recently deceased. Which general?” asked Lafarge sarcastically.

  Levau looked at him a little oddly and replied with a note of surprise in his voice: “General? De Gaulle of course.”

  “Well it could have been Leclerc,” said Lafarge tersely.

  Levau didn’t make any comment and returned to his notes.

  “Count de Boinville was last seen alive by the concierge at 9pm last night, he was apparently in a cheerful mood,” said Levau.

  “Was he coming in or going out?” asked Lafarge impatiently.

  Levau looked a little hurt at this but again bit his tongue.

  “He was going out.”

  “So the concierge didn’t see him return?”

  “No. He said he turned in at around 11.30 and the Count had not returned. He would have known if he had because he doesn’t draw his curtain across his door until he goes to bed, and having seen his living quarters there is no way he would have missed him coming back,” said Levau.

  “He could have come in while he was in the bathroom. Perhaps worth asking him if he did take a break,” said Lafarge.

  Levau nodded and noted it down.

  “Go on.”

  “He was found by the concierge at around 10 this morning. The concierge was alerted by another of the residents to the victim’s front door being open. He entered and discovered the Count in his bedroom. It’s not a pretty sight, sir,” said Levau.

  “It never is, Levau, and you better get used to it. Right, let’s take a look at the victim,” Lafarge said and strode briskly from the drawing room to the bedroom, Levau following in his thrall.

  Levau had been a master of understatement with regard to the bedroom. But as Lafarge had told Levau, murder scenes were a far cry from the sanitised versions one saw in the cinema. Blood covered the blue wallpaper, the white sheets of the bed were spattered with blood, and the victim looked as if he had been exsanguinated. This could easily be explained by the fact he had been castrated and his penis was stuck in his mouth. Levau prayed that Count de Boinville had been dead before this desecration had taken place, because the alternative was too agonising even to contemplate.

  Lafarge felt the urge to throw up and wanted to open the window, but refrained from doing both; the former took enormous willpower the latter because he didn’t know yet whether the fingerprint people had been in.

  Lafarge asked the pathologist, a deathly-pale ginger-haired middle-aged man called Maxim Forestier whom he had not met before, what his initial observations were and he repl
ied that it looked like he had been strangled and then the surgical procedure had taken place.

  “So the perpetrator could be a surgeon or someone with medical knowledge?” asked Lafarge.

  “No not necessarily. It was just a turn of phrase, Chief Inspector. I don’t know too many surgeons who have performed or been called upon to do such an operation. As far as I’m aware there has not been much call for eunuchs since the Roman Empire,” replied Forestier with the type of black humour Lafarge believed pathologists had the copyright on.

  “Very good. Well I suggest you get him wrapped up and taken back to your ‘home’ so you can give me a more detailed report as soon as possible,” said Lafarge.

  However, he knew he was being overly optimistic as even with a full team of pathologists reports usually took several days, and now with the chaos post-Liberation he imagined they were far from a full complement.

  “So Levau, do you have anything else to show me?” asked Lafarge turning to his partner.

  Levau indicated a door to the right-hand side of the bed, which Lafarge opened and revealed a large bathroom.

  Compared to the bedroom it was spick and span save for several towels that lay in the bath, which were all bloodied, while there was also a cook’s apron covered in blood lying on the black-and-white tiled floor. The murderer had clearly tried to clean him or herself up before leaving the apartment, but the murder had not taken place in the bathroom which Lafarge found strange as it was enclosed and it would have been less likely for people to hear anything.

  “You have canvassed the neighbours I take it, Levau?” asked Lafarge.

  Levau nodded and said that a couple hadn’t been home, but the concierge had said he would notify them once they returned.