by Pirate Irwin
His remark gained some credence when a leak to a newspaper, allegedly by a member of General Leclerc’s staff, revealed Leclerc had yielded to American demands he omit the coloured members of his army from the victory march through Paris. The Americans had a strict segregation policy and were horrified to see the French liberally deployed multi-ethnic regiments in battle. “Comes from not having a colonial history of their own” was Pinault’s laconic reply to Lafarge’s outrage at the story.
However, the article provoked more than a passing interest in Lafarge as reading between the lines he could detect the leaker was claiming Leclerc had disobeyed de Gaulle by acceding to the Americans’ demand.
Was this another part of de Cambedessus’ strategy, undermining the chain of command and implying the highest profile combat general in the French Army was at odds with the overall leader?
Or was there a bigger problem and it was true which meant the Americans having reluctantly backed de Gaulle, instead of the politically maladroit but more pliable Giraud, saw the heroic Leclerc – a devout Catholic by all accounts a devoted Royalist before the war and a supporter of Maurras – as an alternative leader.
Lafarge hoped this was not the case because defeating Henri d’Orléans, a man barely known to the wider French public, would be easy compared to Leclerc, whose popularity was growing as his daredevil leadership and exploits were plastered over the front pages of the newspapers on a daily basis – of Marais there was no mention which must have aggrieved his pining lover Cocteau sitting alone in the Palais Royale apartment.
This all gave Lafarge much to think about and he feared the reason he hadn’t been contacted by McLagan was that de Cambedessus had ruled him out or felt it better to keep him at arms length while he continued to develop the plot.
It left Lafarge feeling increasingly frustrated as he tried to get a handle on the machinations going on but without being able to touch the orchestrator.
Luizet and Pinault were adamant he needed hard evidence, and to know more of the plotters’ identities rather than rushing in and arresting only one man based on circumstantial evidence.
Thus it was he found himself unable to sleep yet again despite the comfort of having Berenice lying beside him.
He gave up the ghost, got out of bed, and wandered into the kitchenette to make himself a cup of coffee at some ungodly hour of the morning in early October with another grey-skied dawn greeting him.
He resisted the urge to add some cognac to make it more palatable, sat himself down in his favoured battered leather armchair and stared out the window. His reverie was broken as he felt two warm hands cover his eyes.
“What’s on your mind, Gaston?” asked Berenice.
He made to get up and go and get her some coiffee but she stopped him and helped herself, letting out a shriek of disgust on tasting it to which he laughed.
“Sadly your husband has been keeping me awake most of the night, and not for the first time,” he said morosely.
Berenice, who was seated on the arm rest, laughed uproariously at his remark, the unintended humour also making him laugh.
“Well should I be jealous about this? I try to keep you awake all night but obviously I fall short when compared to my husband!” she said smiling seductively and at the same time loosening her dressing gown to reveal her nakedness underneath it.
Lafarge grinned and kissed her.
“If only his presence in my thoughts were for the same pleasurable reasons you are darling,” he said.
It was his turn to be kissed before Berenice held his head in her hands and her look turned serious; even with her hair all messed up after a night’s sleep and bereft of make-up Lafarge stared in wonderment at her natural beauty and thought how fortunate he was.
“Well, Gaston, there is another reason why the name de Cambedessus is going to keep you awake for nights on end,” she said mysteriously.
Lafarge raised his eyebrows and thought about her remark – where was the riddle in it? She grew increasingly agitated at his failure to guess what she was alluding to and finally, with a deep sigh, decided to put him out of his agony.
“I’m pregnant, you fool. I went to the doctor yesterday and he confirmed my suspicions. Before you go all cynical and ask how long, it’s all right, it isn’t that creep Monnet’s nor is it my husband’s. Lord knows that would have been a miracle if it had been as we have not made love since before he left for England.
“No, Gaston, this baby is ours,” she said flashing a broad smile, her eyes sparkling.
Lafarge grabbed her and pulled her onto his knees kissing her all over before overcome with emotion he burst into tears – only this time they were for joy.
He was ecstatic. Indeed he had not felt this content, well, since just before he and his family had set off for their ill-fated crossing of the Atlantic, and wiping away the tears he rose and lifted Berenice in his arms and kissed her tenderly on her cheeks and lips before setting her down as elegantly as he could in the armchair.
“This calls for a celebration, and lord knows it is the first one for me since I succeeded in hounding Bousquet out of office,” he said grinning.
He made his way to his fridge, though the electricity worked so rarely that it was more like just another larder, and plucked a bottle of champagne from it – it came from the oldest producer of champagne Gosset – one left by the Rosenbergs, the Jewish couple he had saved from his colleagues but for whom it may only have been a temporary respite.
“How romantic to be compared to Bousquet, what a great honour!” said Berenice sarcastically before breaking into a grin.
“Yes well sorry, darling, but I have a largely unbreakable habit of speaking the truth, sometimes as you can tell to my detriment!” he said popping the cork of the bottle and poured the two of them liberal doses into two tumblers, the only glasses he owned as all the others along with the flutes were lying at the bottom of the sea.
They clinked, swirled the delicious champagne round their mouths and fell silent.
Lafarge closed his eyes and made the most of this happy break in his gruelling routine, where good news had been in short supply over the past four years.
Now he had something to really enjoy for after all the death that had enveloped him – he and Berenice were going to produce a child. He or she could grow up and be part of a generation that, unlike them, lived in peace and in a country comfortable with itself, one not riven by political divisions and vicious prejudices that descended into violence and appalling crimes.
Of course he would not wish to repeat the mistakes he made with his late children, spending too much time working, and when he had the chance to rebuild the father-child relationship it had been ripped from his hands by the torpedo.
“Well, Berenice, you have made me happier than I would have thought imaginable just a couple of months ago. I may be accused of not waiting a decent length of time since my wife died but I feel this is a special circumstance which requires urgent action,” he said.
“Thus as I am sure you would also not wish for our child to be born either to a man who is not the father nor out of wedlock I am asking you to marry me,” he said filling their glasses once again as if that would act as further encouragement for her to say yes.
Berenice sipped at her champagne and remained silent, keeping Lafarge waiting for her reply.
“I accept, of course I do, Gaston, you silly bugger! However, we will still have to deal with the prickly problem of the matter of my husband as divorce is not seen in a favourable light in the circles he moves in or by his family. Strict catholics and aristocrats to boot, they would see it as bringing shame on their name, you know all that rubbish and baggage that comes with titles,” she said, almost spitting as she finished her sentence.
“You, though, have made me so happy and helped to rebuild my self-esteem and morale since that awful man raped me. Your kindness, thoughtfulness and humanity have helped me to recover from the lowest I had ever felt. Indeed without you I c
ould well have taken my life, such was the lack of comfort and sympathy I received from my husband.
“So regardless of his family and their code of honour I am willing to risk becoming a social outcast if it means ending up with you and our child, for nothing would make me happier.
“Quite frankly if I have learnt anything over the past few years it is that happiness is a feeling one should never let go of once one has the privilege to experience it.
“My husband never provoked such a feeling in me. Security yes but neither happiness nor the love I felt for Karl-Heinz and now you,” she said, and in trying to mask her own tears she bowed her head and then tipped it back with another long slug of champagne.
Lafarge had been expecting the divorce to be a barrier and he was deeply relieved and also delighted she would not shirk the battle no matter how intimidating de Cambedessus could become.
Indeed her martinet of a husband may think he is in control of every situation but in the coming weeks he would face what the Nazis had faced over the past three years – a war on two fronts and Lafarge hoped he too would wilt as they had done.
“Berenice, don’t you worry. Once I make him an offer I think you will find he surrenders very quickly with the minimum of fuss and avoiding any scandal that might have arisen from it,” said Lafarge seeking to reassure her.
“Your husband is, I hope, going to make an almighty mistake and when that happens a divorce is going to be the very least of his worries! Now let’s not bother with him. This is a day of rare happiness so let us make the most of it and till dawn breaks tomorrow set aside all our worries!”
****
Lafarge was to learn later from Levau – who interrupted his and Berenice’s long celebratory lunch at the Brasserie Lipp – that the long search for the elusive Doctor Petiot had finally come to a successful conclusion.
France’s least loved medical practitioner, and certainly its most murderous, had been arrested dressed in of all things an army uniform, on the platform of St Mande Station near Vincennes Castle in the suburbs of Paris.
Lafarge while he publicly reacted positively to the news groaned inwardly and thought how much better it would have been for him, and probably a lot of other people, if Petiot had been killed resisting arrest.
For like most criminals Petiot would probably seek to get a better deal for himself by offering information on accomplices and other acquaintances that had brought him his victims.
Lafarge had unwittingly delivered de Chastelain to him but that would not be sufficient for his superiors he ventured.
Aside from the inevitable questions over why he had done so there would also be further ones on his handling of the Suchet investigation. If the whole matter was re-opened it would not only cause him great discomfit but also perhaps he would slip up.
Massu had been willing to accept his version and the Abwehr only too keen to close the file once they learnt one of their own, Colonel von Dirlinger, had been involved in the black market and was a close business associate of Bonny and Lafont.
However, the complete overhaul of the police force did not augur well for him as new eyes could perhaps pick holes in his investigation and that would only lead to one eventuality – the guillotine.
No doubt Drieu once he heard the news would be raising a glass, smiling broadly and in all likelihood trying to tighten the screw and pressure him even more to help him. Otherwise he too would make an offer to the police.
“Dear, oh dear,” he thought to himself, as Levau congratulated Berenice on their news, “just when I thought the corner had been turned and everything looked so positive.”
He tried to join in the celebratory feeling at the table, offering Levau a glass of Gosset which was accepted, but he was beginning to feel panic rising within him. He tried to suppress it but any hope of doing so was destroyed by Levau.
“Oh by the way, Gaston, the commissaire wants you to come to the Quai.”
“Christ, is that an order?” asked Lafarge a little too brusquely which earned him a look of surprise from his subordinate and a reproachful one from Berenice.
He patted Levau on the knee and apologised and as a conciliatory gesture, though in reality he was trying to buy some time while he thought about why Pinault would wish to see him so urgently when he too should be celebrating, ordered another bottle.
Levau accepted but insisted he would pay for the bottle.
“Good grief, Levau, the new order must be paying much more than when I first joined!” said Lafarge as they drove the short distance to the Quai having safely deposited Berenice in a taxi.
Levau smiled sheepishly and winked conspiratorially at him. He quickly switched his attention back to manouevring his way through the traffic on the Boulevard Saint Germain. Evening was drawing in and having drunk quite a lot, though not nearly as much as Lafarge, he dearly wanted to avoid an accident.
“I wonder what Pinault thinks is so urgent that I have to come and see him now,” said Lafarge, hoping Levau could enlighten him about what was really taxing his mind.
Levau made a non-committal reply and thus a well-lubricated and none-the-wiser Lafarge entered the Quai and mounted the staircase in trepidation of what awaited him.
A great cacophony of noise greeted him as he entered the brigade’s office, quite the opposite to how it had been a month ago.
Replacements for those who had been either thrown off the force or were still under investigation had been drafted in. They were a mix of men recruited, either for their actions during the uprising even though that had not involved any policework just courage and being a good shot, or from the provinces.
Whether this had played a role in re-energising the Petiot investigation Lafarge had no idea, but whatever the consequences of the new blood there was one heck of a party going on.
Ruffier, who appeared to be the drunkest, and that was saying a lot, thrust into his hand not a glass but a bottle of cognac.
“There you go, old man, it is all yours,” said Ruffier, his eyes crossed in his head.
Lafarge looked ruefully at the bottle, sorely tempted to crack it open, but thought it best to delay their relationship till he had seen Pinault.
That was not difficult. Pinault was there, too, shepherding a beaming Luizet round the room having left a group where the latter had been shaking hands vigorously with one of the new intake.
With no one else to ask – Levau seemed to have disappeared into thin air since he dropped him at the Quai – Lafarge had to resort to Ruffier as his source of information.
“Who is that fellow that the prefect has been shaking hands with?”
Ruffier took another slug from his bottle of cognac and grunted. “Ah, that is the hero of the hour! Captain Simonin he calls himself, a spy so he says, but I know him as a rat,” said Ruffier spitting out his cognac on the floor.
Lafarge thought that was no bad thing for Ruffier to drink as little as possible given how bad a state he was in. The floor wouldn’t suffer unduly as it was already stained with god knows what.
However, he was intrigued as to what it was Simonin had done to earn such a burst of vitriol from his normally amiable and placid colleague.
“Isn’t it a bit strong, Ruffier, calling him a rat? How do you justify that?” asked Lafarge gently coaxing his inebriated colleague to explain himself and hoping he would before he had to greet Luizet and Pinault.
“I was sent to Brittany for daring to object to our esteemed leader Bousquet’s orders. I thought it would be a comfortable posting out there, the drop in wages didn’t mean much as it is very cheap, even if I didn’t and still can’t understand the local dialect.
“Well more fool I! For the man who is calling himself Captain Simonin is in reality Henri Soutif and he was one of us at one time. The bastard reinvented himself, just as he has done now, into becoming a high-up official in intelligence out west.
“However, then it was not for the Resistance but to help our European neighbours and arrest anyone who m
ight be considered a terrorist or a sympathiser.
“He is responsible for a lot of misery is our Captain and there are a lot of people who would like to see him shot.
“I fear now he is safe. No one is going to want to be known as the man responsible for arresting the man who apprehended Petiot! I thought returning here I would be free of such vermin – thanks to you Bousquet disappeared – but instead they have followed me,” he added glowering at Simonin.
Lafarge was astonished at Ruffier’s revelations, although he was somewhat sceptical that the man being feted could also be permitted into the bosom of the Parisian police headquarters. Intelligence personnel were not usually allowed access to the Quai owing to the petty inter-service squabbles that existed, without having been fully cleared first by his employers when they hired him.
In any case Lafarge’s hopes of further clarification on Simonin’s acts during the Occupation ended abruptly as at that point Pinault and Luizet approached them. Ruffier made himself scarce, leaving Lafarge in the firing line.
“Ah, here you are at last, Chief Inspector! I was all but giving up hope that Levau would persuade you to come,” said Pinault, his tone friendly which at least made Lafarge feel more at ease.
“Well he said it was an order sir, and not being the Lafarge of old I thought it best to obey it,” replied Lafarge smiling.
Pinault and Luizet both smiled back. The two of them, especially Luizet, looked unusually cheerful and smelling their breath Lafarge divined it wasn’t just because of the capture of Petiot.
“I thought with the arrest of Petiot you deserved to be present and join in the celebrations; I couldn’t have my most able Chief Inspector missing out on an historic moment. I imagine they were few and far between when you worked for the previous regime,” said Pinault jovially.
Lafarge could not have agreed with him more. Although there had been celebrations during the Occupation they had not been for the type of success that they had experienced today. Then it had been more for sweeping up unarmed Jews and young people who had posted anti-Vichy or anti-Nazi posters or published pamphlets. Those drunken and debauched parties, which often led to late night rapes of Jewish girls and women and prolonged torture of their menfolk, had not been ones Lafarge had felt like taking part in and nor, he would imagine, would his present audience like to hear about them.
