by Pirate Irwin
Lafarge laughed out loud at the equivocal language being used by Luizet, who had taken to his job and its Machiavellian ways very quickly.
“Excuse me, sir, but these ‘measures’ – what exactly do you mean by that? I may be being simple but the term can embrace many different things,” said Lafarge.
Luizet sighed somewhat impatiently and ran a thin hand along his trouser leg.
“Chief Inspector, I am not going to be specific about the measures you can take. Only that you do not leave several corpses behind when you come out of the room unless of course it is in an act of self defence,” said Luizet.
“I have seen the dossier on the Suchet case so you know what I am referring to. Best to have live bodies to charge don’t you think?” he said smiling.
Not if one’s the murderer, reflected Lafarge, hoping Luizet’s box of tricks did not include reading minds.
“I quite agree, sir. New leaf and all that! But I thought you said de Cambedessus would make much of my affair with his wife? And arresting an American general who is friendly with Eisenhower, won’t that cause a storm?” asked Lafarge.
“Indeed I did. Well you are just going to have to hope he pulls a gun on you, or you decide to gamble you can impress the judge in the witness box more than de Cambedessus does. As regards to the American general, well I think Eisenhower has enough on his mind to forego losing a drinking partner,” said Luizet smiling even more broadly.
“No, Lafarge, you have my permission to deal with this odious duo as you see fit, you just have to pray the Comte is not there because then I am afraid realpolitik comes into play and you must refrain from doing your duty. Is that clear?”
Luizet’s tone suggested any alternative answer to yes was pointless. For once Lafarge kept his counsel. He even thought of doing the unthinkable and walking the short distance to Notre Dame and praying the Comte would not be at the meeting and he could enact these ‘measures’ as he saw fit.
****
Lafarge stopped by his desk on his way out of the Quai to check if any messages had been left for him. He also wanted to show he was part of the team, because since he had been given a second chance he had barely been in the building.
If he had wanted to impress several of his colleagues it fell flat as there were only three in the room. On closer inspection it looked like several of those who were absent wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Their desks were unencumbered of any paperwork and their family photos were also missing.
“Serge, have they all put in for transfer,” he asked of one of his colleagues gesturing towards the empty desks.
Inspector Serge Ruffier looked at him as if he had emerged from some dark cavern after several years of introspection.
“You’ve just been upstairs right, Gaston?”
“Erm, yes, and why would that have any relevance to my question?” asked Lafarge becoming even more confused.
Ruffier was a thoroughly decent sort who had been demoted and posted to the provinces during Bousquet’s rule of terror. His offence had been to dare to question Bousquet’s orders and had reported several of the men from the Brigades Spéciales for their brutal treatment of prisoners.
He may or may not have been aware of Lafarge’s role in his bête noire’s downfall, as he was freshly back in the Quai, but his irreverence clearly hadn’t been blunted by his exile as he tapped the side of his head suggesting the Chief Inspector was lacking in brain matter.
“Honestly, Gaston, I don’t know what they did to you in the cells but they seemed to have removed some of the grey cells from your head. I am amazed the chiefs didn’t take the time to tell you but there has been a complete overhaul of the services.
“It happened overnight. Sweeps of our colleagues’ homes and then they were told to stay there and report to their local police station where they would then be informed of when they are to appear before the Police Committee. It will then decide whether they face charges or can be reintegrated into the new clean police force.”
The last phrase had dripped with sarcasm and Lafarge laughed. The notion of any police force being clean was risible. Just because they were ousting the most objectionable of the collaborators did not mean all the crooked police were being thrown out.
Lafarge knew, and he ventured Ruffier would too, several of the biggest shakedown artists in the force had not bothered to collaborate because their natural business habitat – the cafes and shops that they ‘protected’ – had not been affected by the Occupation.
In other words they had not been owned by Jews, or other groups, that failed to meet the stringent and repulsive requirements of the Nazis and Vichy.
“Ah I see. No, funny the matter seems to have escaped their mind,” said Lafarge wondering why he had not been swept up in this operation. It really did look like he was fully trusted by those above, or at least till he had wound up this case.
“Yup, well I must say I won’t be crying too much over the majority of them being thrown off the force. It might get me my old rank back with so many vacancies at that level,” Ruffier said grinning.
“However, what I do mind is that you owe me 10 francs,” added Ruffier.
“I owe you 10 francs? How could I? I have barely seen you since I returned,” said Lafarge incredulously.
“Well, no you didn’t borrow them off me as such. Only I bet with your partner that you being called upstairs could only mean you were back in trouble and about to be unemployed again. Shows how much I know!” said Ruffier winking at Lafarge.
Lafarge smiled and turned to address whatever he needed to on his desk; which sadly was not in the neat state of the others – papers were overflowing or fighting for space on it. He started to make his way through the mess, and was putting most of it in the waste paper basket when Ruffier who was making his way out the door stopped and turned to him.
“Sorry, Gaston, I forgot with talking about the other stuff that I took a call for you earlier. I mean, even though I believed you weren’t coming back I thought I might as well answer your phone in case it was urgent,” said Ruffier apologetically as if he had just told Lafarge he had robbed his grave.
“Don’t worry about that. Who called?”
“It was the St Anne. They said it was about your sister, something to do with her having been discharged and checking that the person who came on your behalf had delivered her safely to you. I wrote the name of the doctor down on that piece of paper,” said Ruffier pointing to a tired-looking bit of notepaper hanging precariously over the bin.
Lafarge went cold and picked up the paper, his hands shaking prompting Ruffier to ask him if he wanted help himself. The Chief Inspector dismissed him as politely as he could and waited for him and his partner to leave.
He got up and paced the room trying to calm down but he knew that his sister was in no fit state to organise a plot to get her out of the hospital. She must have been kidnapped and while Drieu’s name briefly flitted across his mind as a potential kidnapper, given how desperate he was to leave the country, he didn’t think he would be as brazen as that.
No, Lafarge reasoned, though he wasn’t in much of a state to employ reason, there could be only one person responsible for that – de Cambedessus.
However, as he racked his brains he thought of what benefit kidnapping his sister would be to de Cambedessus, who knew where she was and that she was virtually catatonic while also McLagan would have informed him that Lafarge could be an ally.
De Cambedessus’s arrogance and belief he was near to achieving his goal of thwarting de Gaulle surely would not lead him to commit a crass error of provoking a man like Lafarge just when he was thinking of joining his band of plotters?
Only desperate men resorted to such tactics – insurance of a kind as they saw it. De Cambedessus may be many things but from what Lafarge had observed he was very definitely not that.
So if it wasn’t either Drieu or de Cambedessus who the hell was it! Monnet was dead and Bousquet had gone into exile; while his
list of enemies was far longer than that of his friends the ones who would actually go to such lengths were few.
The phone on his desk rang interrupting his frantic train of thought. He hoped it was the same doctor from St Anne ringing to say there had been a terrible error and his sister was safely back with them.
“Is that Chief Inspector Lafarge,” said a male voice which had a mix of a North African and southern French accent.
“Yes it is. Who is this?” asked Lafarge trying to keep his tone as carefree as possible.
“It is of little importance for the moment. I have your sister, who looks a lot better than the last time I saw her, and I would like to organise a family reunion,” said the caller laconically.
Lafarge resisted the urge to scream down the phone at him and call him every name under the sun.
“Okay, what is it you want?” asked Lafarge.
The caller chuckled, but it wasn’t a friendly tone and sent shivers down Lafarge’s spine. He could tell with all his years of experience he was dealing with a professional criminal, someone used to striking bargains with the police or victims’ families.
“I want you to procure a police identification card, no photo, but with the official stamp on it. I am going to give you an address where you are to bring it. You will come alone, do you hear, otherwise the consequences for not only you and your sister but also that slut you are sleeping with will be extremely distasteful.”
Lafarge nearly dropped the phone on hearing Berenice was also in the kidnapper’s sights, which meant he had been doing his homework.
He cursed himself for being so slapdash about watching his back. He had to think fast but he didn’t see any option but to co-operate. In any case Pinault would now be gone on his interminable hunt for Petiot accompanied by probably Ruffier and the few remaining active detectives.
“All right, I will see what I can do but it may take some time. I have to put in an official request saying I’ve lost mine and with the purge of staff the past day or so it may not be dealt with as quickly as normal,” said Lafarge in a desperate effort to win himself some breathing space.
The humourless chuckle came again, prompting Lafarge to conjecture perhaps it was a type of nervous tic.
“Lafarge, give me some credit for brains! You are just obfuscating and it is a waste of our time. Bring the fucking card as soon as possible. Otherwise your sister will find herself with more heroin in her than even she was used to in the good old golden days, and your slut will discover being raped a second time is even less enjoyable than the first occasion … and this time you can watch,” said the caller throwing in another of his chuckles.
Lafarge had had enough of the taunting and rose to his feet, but then timidly yielded to his tormentor.
“That’s better, Lafarge. Now note down the address. It is 134 Boulevard Richard Le Noir. It’s on your way home. You can walk right in, take the second staircase to the fourth floor and the flat is the second on the right.
“What’s the time now, ah yes, it is one o’clock. Well I will give you till seven this evening to fulfill your part of the bargain. There is no point you showing up empty-handed with some weak excuse, it won’t save your sister and while I allow rapes to be public viewing I wouldn’t wish for you to see a sibling’s final contortions. I’m rather sensitive about that,” he said.
“What if I’m held up but I have the card? How do I get in touch?” asked Lafarge.
“Nice try, Lafarge, trying to get the number out of me. Yes, you are right I’m not at that address at the moment. I will give you half an hour’s grace. After that, well I’m afraid you better get home quickly if you want to save the slut.”
With that the line went dead, leaving Lafarge feeling completely helpless.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lafarge arrived somewhat out of breath at the appointed time, the four flights of stairs highlighting to him, as if he needed reminding, his drinking and smoking were taking a toll.
He had the identification card in his jacket pocket but he also came armed. The kidnapper had said nothing about leaving his service revolver behind and he also had a sap hidden in the back of his trousers, for he did not intend this meeting to end peacefully.
Here there were no political sensitivities to be taken into account. He was, as far as he was concerned, dealing with a common criminal, a psychopath probably, and he didn’t wish to be caught unawares.
The block of flats was pretty average, an elegant façade but within the interior betrayed signs of neglect and no sign of a concierge, evidenced by the rubbish that lay strewn in the courtyard.
As for signs of life there was the smell of cooking emanating from several apartments, with some laughter and the sound of babies crying. At least they will have the chance of growing up in a less violent and divisive France mused Lafarge as he had tramped up the stairs.
“The door’s open,” came the kidnapper’s voice from out of the darkness that enveloped the stairwell, for as in most blocks of flats the central lighting system was not working. There was no window overlooking the stairs to guide one, which was frustrating for Lafarge as it reduced his chances of making a quick descent should he need to.
Lafarge pushed the door open and was relieved to see that the lights at least worked in the flat.
The flat opened into the drawing room but there was no sign of his sister. He glanced to his right and there standing with a smirk on his face and a gun in his hand was the kidnapper. It was a face he recognised immediately.
It was Alexandre Villaplane, who 14 years previously had been a hero of sorts captaining France at the inaugural World Cup though they flopped completely. He was now, though, one of France’s most detestable characters having been chauffeur to Lafont and as a result been given a junior officer’s rank in the SS.
“Well, well, well. Alex Villaplane! I thought you had been arrested with the rest of the scum from Lauriston,” said Lafarge.
Villaplane, who had retained the same wiry figure from his playing days, allowed his smirk to widen, revealing a broken set of front teeth sporting several gaps.
“Yes I was, but fortunately I found a guard who remembered my golden era. I fed him a sob story about how I was there by accident, and him being a fellow spirit from the south he averted his eyes long enough for me to make good my escape,” said Villaplane, his eyes darting from Lafarge to the open door.
He gestured to Lafarge to shut it which he did.
“Well, he obviously chose to forget about fixed matches and the racing scandal which resulted in you being sent to prison … an offence that pales in comparison to the ones you are facing now,” said Lafarge calmly.
Villaplane shrugged.
“Perhaps, but with the card you are going to hand over to me I think I should be able to get myself to the border with Spain. General Franco’s regime would probably welcome a fellow traveller, certainly more than he would the Jewish refugees who cried and begged to be let in over the past four years,” said Villaplane who made himself even less endearing to Lafarge by mimicking a sad face with his hands spread out in a pleading gesture.
“And once I am in Spain there is money galore from our investments; some of the boys are already there and took it with them. So even after bribing some civil servant or minister there will be plenty to live on. Even better, without Lafont and Bonny around to take the major shares I will be able to avail myself of much more than usual. Why I might even have enough to start my own football team!” he said laughing.
Lafarge had a good mind to use the sap immediately but instead he had to put up with Villaplane removing his service revolver and smelling his foul breath – a mixture of alcohol and tobacco – as he patted him down. However, he didn’t do a thorough job as the sap remained hidden from sight under his shirt.
“Where’s my sister? I have the card but I will not hand it over until I see her,” said Lafarge.
Villaplane didn’t say anything, just pointed to a door which was off the passage
to the left of the drawing room. Lafarge made to go there but Villaplane stopped him and pushed him with his pistol into a battered leather armchair while he stepped back and took a seat opposite him.
“Listen, Villaplane, I really don’t want to turn this into a social visit, so let us just make the exchange and be done with it. I imagine you need to get going given you are being looked for by now by less sympathetic colleagues than the gullible idiot who let you escape,” said Lafarge.
Villaplane smiled and rose to his feet, not to take the card Lafarge was holding in his hand but to pick up a bottle of cognac and two glasses. He filled both and handed one to Lafarge who took it but put it on the threadbare carpet beside his chair.
“I’m choosy these days about who I drink with. A man who kidnaps my sister isn’t on the list of those I do drink with,” said Lafarge.
“Suit yourself, Lafarge. You didn’t hesitate to drink with Lafont that night, but maybe a chauffeur isn’t your level, snob that you are,” hissed Villaplane as he took a long slug of his.
“I didn’t have a choice then, considering you had escorted me by force to Lauriston. Besides it was far better quality than this muck. Anyway I thought it might be my last ever drink as Bonny was waiting to dispense his form of justice on me,” said Lafarge.
“Oh yes, I remember that. It was such a shame the show got stopped prematurely,” said Villaplane.
Lafarge shuddered as he recalled how close he had come to drowning in the bath as Bonny sent him under several times before Hoariau appeared and inadvertently signed his own death warrant.
Lafarge, though, shoved it to the back of his mind.
“So why did you do it Villaplane? Why go after my sister? Why didn’t you just clear off immediately?”
Villaplane eyes twinkled at his question and he allowed himself a chuckle.
“Oh, Lafarge, you are a naïve fool! I wasn’t going anywhere without my mistress, the woman whom I stole off Bonny and whose presence was a reminder to him he couldn’t have everything he wanted!
