by Pirate Irwin
“Yes, you are correct, Chief Inspector,” replied Petiot, in a matter-of-fact tone that left Lafarge incredulous but at the same time beginning to believe the accused had lulled himself into a self-delusional state he had truthfully been acting for the Resistance.
Lafarge and Simonin both snorted derisively but the Chief Inspector noted it down just as he had done the previous remarks. It would be for others to dig deeper and expose Petiot for what he was, and it shouldn’t prove too difficult.
Lafarge gestured to the guard that the session was over. However, wishing to be disabused of a nagging doubt in the back of his mind, which had germinated during the interrogation, he accompanied Petiot to the door.
He asked the guard to wait outside as he posed the question to Petiot.
“What did you do to de Chastelain, the man I brought you last year?” he asked quietly.
Petiot looked at him as if he was mad and not him.
“Why, Chief Inspector, I don’t know what you are talking about. I haven’t seen you since before the war,” he said loud enough for Simonin to hear.
He then turned on his heel and casually said to the guard to take him back to his new home and left Lafarge staring after him in disbelief.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lafarge opted to walk home in what were now the early hours of the morning. He had gone and had a couple of drinks with the men after writing up legibly his scrawled notes of the Petiot session, leaving out, of course, the off-the-record question and answer about de Chastelain.
Simonin had heard it but he made himself scarce as soon as he had counter-signed Lafarge’s version of the interview. Their conversation was kept to a minimum and Lafarge didn’t bother to ask him if he was coming for a drink; the man’s nerves were now on edge and while he might just about trust the Chief Inspector to keep his word, who ever had exposed him was likely not to be so generous. Or at least that is what Lafarge told him, suppressing the glee he felt at the fear it provoked.
Lafarge had preferred to walk home even though it was cold. Well, the end of October was hardly going to be clement, but wrapped in a thick navy overcoat, which was somewhat threadbare after years of use to the extent that the velvet collar was all but worn away, he was dressed for the elements.
He shivered at the thought of his compatriots, misguided fanatical fools that they were, now fighting the Bolsheviks on the Eastern Front. What they would do for even a coat such as the one he was wearing. However, he put that unappetising thought to the back of his loaded mind and reflected on what his former doctor had said.
On the face of it he should have been relieved for there would be no embarrassing revelations forthcoming about him turning up in the middle of the night with de Chastelain.
However, while that was good news for his immediate future and his career, he wondered whether Petiot had denied all knowledge of de Chastelain because, like Lafarge, he realised if a renowned anti-Nazi lawyer was revealed to be among his victims then his claim to have been in the Resistance would be destroyed.
On the other hand, if this was not the case then it meant Petiot had spared de Chastelain and that was not a very pleasant thought for Lafarge. His initial relief, at not being responsible for his death, had been replaced by fear. For once the lawyer, if he had survived to the Liberation, read about Petiot’s crimes he would not feel very indebted to Lafarge.
Indeed he wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to seek revenge on the policeman who had, feigning interest in his wellbeing, handed him over to a killing machine.
“Oh, Lafarge,” he chided himself, “you are a walking disaster. You emerge from one problem unscathed, or relatively so, and walk right into another almost as if you enjoy it and would miss it if everything was simple and uncomplicated.”
He now had to look out for an avenging lawyer, a bitter and increasingly desperate former collaborator in Drieu and de Cambedessus. The latter had disappeared which meant Lafarge’s case was stagnant and worse, de Gaulle could be blind-sided.
He wondered as he turned up Rue la Roquette from Place de Bastille, which was pleasingly deserted for once, whether he could make de Cambedessus confront him by announcing his and Berenice’s engagement.
Of course that would be most unusual as she was still married but he could imagine the shame and ridicule de Cambedessus would feel it brought upon him in his milieu.
Being a cuckold was bad enough. However, for his wife and her lover to so shamelessly disregard his feelings and status would be seen as an outrage and a direct challenge to his honour.
While this made Lafarge laugh he could not imagine either Berenice or Pinault finding it to their taste at all, for vastly different reasons. Lord knows he had enough to be worried about than alienating two of the few people who still retained faith in him.
No, he would just have to be patient.
If pressure was brought to bear by Luizet then he would reply that the best thing to do was to arrest de Cambedessus and try him with the evidence they already possessed, hoping Courneuve would identify him and that would be sufficient to charge him.
Whatever happened at the trial the plot to replace de Gaulle would be probably irreparably damaged as de Cambedessus was the driving force.
This seemed the best and safest solution, for Lafarge anyway, so he could live to see his child born.
Feeling satisfied with himself, at least on that score, he turned into his building, glancing up as he pushed the large wooden door to the entrance open to see that the sun was beginning to rise.
It was perhaps this that distracted him long enough not to notice the figures in the shadows of his courtyard.
One came from behind, not manhandling him but making his presence felt, and dissuaded Lafarge to reach for his revolver. The other emerged from the corner facing him sending the massed ranks of pigeons flying past Lafarge’s face.
He despised pigeons, for while they had become a part of Parisians staple diet even now after the Liberation such was the shortage of basic foodstuffs, they were still to him rats with wings. No matter how many appeared on dinner tables round the city, unlike the Luftwaffe they had no trouble replenishing the ranks.
How fat Hermann Goering would wish for a flotilla of pigeons, although with his appetite he might eat them before they took off, grinned Lafarge.
“What’s so amusing, Lafarge?” said the man facing him.
Now the pigeons had dispersed he could see the man’s face. To a certain degree he was relieved as he had feared it might be the remnants of the Bonny and Lafont gang come to deal with unfinished business.
Instead the man he had before him was de Cambedessus’s adjutant, which meant either he was bringing him a message or they were going to the neet.
“Oh nothing really, a private joke between me and Hermann Goering,” said Lafarge looking wistfully up to the sky.
The adjutant snorted disdainfully as only a young aristocrat could do as it came with years of teaching and hearing one’s parents do it, and pointed to the door from where Lafarge had just entered.
“I take it you want me to accompany you out the door, Lieutenant. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name or perhaps I did and forgot it,” said Lafarge endeavouring to bring the young man down a peg or two.
He succeeded.
“De Miromanil, and for your information, Chief Inspector, I am a Major and a Baron,” he said sniffily, placing more emphasis on the title than the rank.
Lafarge mumbled an apology and made a mental note to ask De Miromanil, as he was led to the guillotine, how it felt to suffer the same fate his predecessors had during the Revolution.
“Yes, we are going back out that door and don’t worry I will go first, you second and Captain Fremont after you.
“That is to reassure you, Chief Inspector, there is not a gunman waiting outside to shoot you down. We are to take you to the meeting which has been arranged for sometime now but to which your presence was only agreed upon at the last minute,” said de Miromanil, taking pl
easure in relaying to Lafarge the long debate that had taken place as to his suitability at being invited.
“No matter, Major, it doesn’t bother me. Better to be asked than not at all, eh? It’s not as if I’m the bridegroom in danger of missing his wedding,” said Lafarge laughing.
De Miromanil didn’t reciprocate; his curled lip, just visible under a thick blond moustache, making clear he didn’t share Lafarge’s sense of humour.
Lafarge shrugged and asked De Miromanil whether he could at least go upstairs and change, but the officer shook his head.
“We’ve been waiting for you in the bloody cold for hours, Chief Inspector, and we are running on a tight schedule as it is. So if you don’t mind we will get going now. You can’t convince us otherwise, by offering us a cup of coffee to warm us up because we can get some much better quality stuff when we arrive at our destination,” said de Miromanil.
Lafarge looked despairingly at the stairs, but accepted trying to run up them was not an option given his lack of fitness. De Miromanil might be a pompous, humourless young pup but he looked an athletic type and no doubt Fremont, who he had yet to have the pleasure of meeting face to face, although he could feel his breath on the back of his neck, was equally so.
There was no hope of calling up reinforcements or of reassuring Berenice he was fine but he had to go to a meeting. He was quite alone and would have to deal with the situation as he best saw fit and bugger the political niceties.
****
The drive was a short one. De Miromanil sat up front beside the driver while Fremont, who was indeed an athletically built type, so much so his neck bulged at the tightness of the fit of his shirt and officer’s jacket which looked as if it was a size or two too small for him. Not a word passed between them during the journey. Lafarge didn’t feel like talking in any case, for he needed to think what his options might be.
They stopped outside an impressive-looking building on Rue Durée off the Avenue Foch, close to Petiot’s hellhole on Rue Sueur. The man seemed to dog his steps everywhere, thought Lafarge. Fremont and de Miromanil accompanied him into the enormous hallway but the former being the muscle of the operation was left at the bottom of the elegantly appointed staircase. Lafarge stared down at him as he paced up and down the chessboard-coloured marble floor, like a dog straining at the leash.
De Miromanil, noticing his subordinate’s nervous pacing, left Lafarge. He descended the stairs and laid a hand on Fremont’s shoulder, remonstrating with him. Fremont said a few words of his own to which de Miromanil gestured upwards at Lafarge and patted him on the back.
De Miromanil mounted the stairs, his expression blank, and passed Lafarge without a word, leaving the Chief Inspector to follow him. He glanced downwards briefly and saw that Fremont had calmed down and was talking to a butler who had appeared out of one of the many rooms that gave off the hall.
A loud sigh from above left him in no doubt he should hurry along and so he did, being ushered into a sumptuously decorated drawing room. The curtains were decorated with figures of a lady in red, surrounded by admirers, with a parasol shading her from the sun, while the four sofas were burgundy red and their backs covered in navy blue silk drapes.
The lamps and the furniture were the finest pre-war art deco style while Impressionist-era paintings were liberally dotted along the light blue walls. However, he was not to have the pleasure of plumping himself down on one of the sofas. At the other end of the spacious room was a long chestnut-coloured table and around it sat seven men, all formally dressed, or in the case of de Cambedessus and McLagan in their uniforms.
De Cambedessus did not rise from the table to greet him. He was seated at the top of it making it clear who was in command, which relieved Lafarge for it meant Henri d’Orléans was not present. Someone as formal as de Cambedessus would not dare to sit in a more important seat than a pretender to the throne.
McLagan to his credit did rise, and with his seemingly permanent bonhomie, slapped Lafarge on the shoulders and shook his hand warmly. Lafarge caught a glimpse of de Cambedessus over McLagan’s shoulder and enjoyed the grimace that flashed across his face at his American ally’s effusive greeting.
McLagan pulled out a chair for Lafarge and sat down beside him. Lafarge looked round the table and took in the other five men and recognised two of them, both of them avowed collaborators. The younger one, Bruno Macaire who was about 40 with slicked-back brown hair and dressed in a spiv-like suit of chalk grey pinstripe, had been head of one of the Brigade Speciale.
They had been Bousquet’s most devoted disciples responsible for some of the worst atrocities and crimes against the Jews and Resistance members, not discriminating when it came to torturing them whether they were male or female.
The other was Joseph Joanovici, again around 40, who through his metal-dealing business had made a fortune out of the Nazis selling them huge amounts of precious metal. He had also been a regular at Rue Lauriston and was a close friend of Lafont in particular. He was one Jew who had managed to buy his way out of a ticket to the east, thought Lafarge sourly.
He didn’t look like he was in the least bit concerned at the recent turn of events. Rumour had it he played a role in the capture of Bonny and Lafont and so believed he had immunity from prosecution himself.
His jowly face was creased in a self-satisfied smile as a joke he cracked was warmly received by those around the table. He was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, a silk yellow tie and his cufflinks were solid gold. Like Macaire his black hair was slicked back, though his was receding, but in contrast to his fellow traveller he had bothered to shave and the room reeked of an expensive after-shave.
Macaire didn’t bother to acknowledge Lafarge, which was fine by him, while Joanovici shook his hand, willing to ingratiate himself from the outset.
De Cambedessus then introduced the other three men at the table – a retired elderly General called Driant, a junior Foreign Minister from before the war called Hubert de Sarrandon whose house it was, and a leading member of the Resistance called Pierre Chabrol and nicknamed ‘General’ as a result of his audacious exploits.
If Lafarge had had any doubts about bringing to justice the group trying to destabilise France once more and replace a genuine hero at the head of affairs then they had been banished for good on meeting this motley crew.
Aside from Chabrol’s presence, which he found baffling although the Resistance was made up of many disparate elements and had been handicapped themselves at times with internecine fighting over pointless political point scoring, Driant looked incapable of leading any troops into battle let alone debating the finer points of the coup.
De Sarrandon cut an unprepossessing figure and his having been in the Foreign Ministry did him no favors given the appeasement policy of before the war. The two former collaborators being part of the cabal dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s very nicely for Lafarge in making it a club he would be pleased to refuse membership of.
For the moment he had to play his part but Lafarge being Lafarge he couldn’t resist a comment or two on the assembled company.
“Well, Colonel, I see you have recruited the pick of the litter from the former regime,” he said staring at Macaire, who glowered back at him.
De Cambedessus flinched and flashed a look of annoyance at Lafarge.
“Yes, well your opinion of our colleague Macaire and indeed Joanovici may not be a positive one, but I feel comfortable with them and they bring certain qualities we were lacking. This is a broad coalition of like-minded people and we are looking to the future rather than drowning in the past like you,” said de Cambedessus, who drew approving nods from the rest of the group.
“What? Torture techniques and money?”
De Cambedessus let out an exasperated sigh while Macaire rose from his seat and paced up and down the room, but McLagan interceded to try and calm the atmosphere.
“Hey come on, let’s not get into an argument amongst ourselves, we’re here to co-ordinate a plan
and we haven’t time for petty disputes. You can settle your accounts after we have succeeded in replacing de Gaulle and his cronies,” said the American in his charming style of speaking French.
Joanovici, who had remained impassive during the exchange, grunted his assent while Macaire resorted to pouring himself a drink from a crystal decanter on a well-stocked drinks trolley.
Lafarge took the opportunity to pour a large cognac, the effects of the drink from the night before beginning to wane, and resettled himself in his seat.
It transpired Chabrol’s role was to deploy his members from his former Resistance cell in both Toulouse and Marseille while Macaire’s job was to re-occupy the Quai with the remnants of his fellow diehard colleagues. They, according to Macaire, numbered over 100 much to Lafarge’s astonishment as he thought they would have had the intelligence to flee. It just went to prove what he had always thought of them – they had little brain matter to share between them.
Joanovici’s part in the plot was, it appeared, to cajole, blackmail or bribe newly reformed apparatchiks, civil servants and the heads of the transport system into switching their loyalties, which if successful it was hoped would lead to all the major cities being brought to a complete standstill.
It wouldn’t take much to do that, thought Lafarge, as the metro in Paris was barely operating and the buses had little fuel to see them through a day’s service.
De Cambedessus, whose tone had been flat throughout his relating the various roles and plans for each individual almost as if he was reading through a shopping list and not an intricate plan to topple a regime, turned to Driant.
“You may be wondering why we have a retired general with us, with all due respect to you, sir,” said de Cambedessus, barely suppressing the patronising nature of the remark.
“Well, gentlemen, let me enlighten you, for General Driant was the commanding officer of General Leclerc and remains his mentor, whatever de Gaulle may think to the contrary,” said de Cambedessus, a contented smile appearing on his lips.
