by Pirate Irwin
“To be quite honest Lafarge, it can only be a matter of time before de Chastelain is caught, for all his friends and colleagues are here in Paris. Why you could do with some time outside Paris, couldn’t you? Get away from the loneliness of the apartment,” said Drieu.
“Kindly leave that out of the equation,” replied Lafarge acidly.
He was furious, not because of the last comment which was hurtful, but because his friend had willingly aided a fugitive to escape, someone who he desperately needed to talk to in his present investigation.
Would he report Drieu to Massu? He was torn between that and just using the information and calling in a huge favour from his friend later, when he might need it.
“When was this?” he asked.
“Two nights ago. He didn’t say very much about where he had been hiding out, but the weird thing was that I noticed when he washed the morning of our escapade, that he had dried blood on his shirt, quite a lot of it in fact. That made me wonder, as he didn’t seem to be hurt or wounded himself,” said Drieu teasingly.
Lafarge thought to himself, if it was two nights ago, that was when Marguerite was murdered. Her body had been dragged through the apartment and if the murderer had come into contact with the entry wound then he would have been covered in her blood. This made it even worse that Drieu had aided de Chastelain.
“Christ, Drieu, that was the night Marguerite Suchet was murdered. You may well have helped her killer escape. What’s more, you say that he will be caught soon, that he has no friends down there, but you are forgetting something.”
“What’s that old chap?” asked Drieu in an insouciant tone.
“It’s bandit country down there. Limoges is renowned for being a hub of Résistance recruitment and activity, or at least the countryside around it is,” replied Lafarge shaking his head in bemusement at his friend’s apparent naiveté.
For the first time that evening, Drieu La Rochelle looked unsure of himself, and Lafarge shook his head again as if to rub in his stupidity, a characteristic he was shocked to see he possessed. He hoped it was stupidity and not Drieu trying to make a fool of him.
“Well, in one way, I guess I should thank you. It is the first piece of hard evidence I have regarding the whereabouts of de Chastelain, his movements and perhaps an indication of where he might have been prior to turning up at your place,” said Lafarge with a note of appreciation in his voice.
“Also, you didn’t have to volunteer this information, so I am grateful. On the other hand you have willfully broken the law, such as it is these days. But given that we all have something to hide, even more so now, I will use the information but will for as long as I can keep your name out of it.
“On the understanding that if further down the line I am in trouble or I need a big favour, you reciprocate. That is clear, yes?” and while he posed it as a question his tone made it crystal clear that it was a rhetorical one.
Drieu nodded with visible relief.
“I am very grateful for your understanding, Lafarge. I am sorry, but if I have a failing it is that unless someone has really crossed me, no matter that we may disagree on political beliefs, I am fiercely loyal,” he smiled thinly, almost apologetically.
“Good. Right I have to get off now, I have someone else to see and under circumstances less welcoming and charming than these ones. I will see you soon, Drieu. Thank you for the drinks,” Lafarge said curtly, patted his old friend on the shoulder and strode off in the direction of the Cherche–Midi Prison and what was sure to be a captive audience there.
CHAPTER SIX
Arnaud Lescarboura shuffled into what passed for a visitor’s room at Cherche–Midi, looking none too pleased at being awoken, even if it gave him a rare chance to leave his miserable little cell which not even the hardiest of monks would have put up with.
To Lafarge’s eyes Lescarboura was not a good bet for surviving 10 years inside, as just a few days of relative comfort prior to his departure for an unknown destination and hard labour had already left its mark.
Physically he looked as if he could handle the work that lay ahead of him for he was stocky and muscular. However, the way he dragged himself to his chair in the sparsely furnished stonewalled room either indicated an unwillingness to accept his abject circumstances, or someone who was already prepared to give up on life itself.
The trouble was Lafarge could not offer him much in the way of hope. A reduction in sentence perhaps if he could get his full co–operation and if his information led to uncovering the truth, but even then he would have to pressure Massu, who would then have to probably go to Bousquet and so on and so forth.
So from that point of view, Lafarge also started from a disadvantageous point, for without too much to offer Lescarboura, there was not much point in him being co–operative. Perhaps the only thing that might keep Lescarboura going through his years of hell would be the thought that one day, he might prosper from the jewels wherever they might be hidden.
However, given the comportment of Lescarboura it appeared that even the hope of that had disappeared.
Lafarge offered something that at least was in his powers and that was a cigarette, indeed he left the pack on the table, just in front of him so that Lescarboura could reach for them but not without having to ask him if he could.
Lescarboura eagerly accepted the cigarette, and Lafarge lit it for him. He noticed that whilst there were no visible marks on the prisoner’s rather handsome if slightly effeminate face, or indeed on his hands, he was shaking and it wasn’t because of the cold bare floor or walls. Lafarge waited while Lescarboura smoked his cigarette, which he did with sparing puffs, so as he could enjoy it to its utmost.
“Looking after you alright in here Lescarboura?” asked Lafarge in as warm and concerned a manner as he could muster, though, years of similar discussions had eroded any real sentiment of caring for people who had known the risks they were running by committing crimes.
“I suppose so. In as much that I get some sleep, I eat three times a day, slops that they are, and haven’t been beaten yet. Better than I expected. But it’s not the Hôtel Meurice!” he replied laughing bitterly.
A heck of a lot better than wherever you are going, thought Lafarge.
“Right. You may be surprised that a policeman is still interested enough in you to want to ask you further questions, but there have been developments since you were sent here, and which I am certain you are not aware of,” said Lafarge.
Lescarboura stroked his stubbled chin and looked at Lafarge suspiciously but didn’t say anything, allowing his inquisitor to carry on and inform him of these developments.
“You must prepare yourself for a shock, another unpleasant one I am afraid. Marguerite Suchet was murdered two nights ago,” said Lafarge gently.
Lescarboura reacted as Lafarge had anticipated, tears welled in his brown eyes, his shoulders sagged, and he rose from the chair and paced the room with his hands covering his eyes.
Lafarge kept his counsel for a while, allowing the wretched Lescarboura his moment of grief. After his sobs had subsided and he had wiped the tears from his eyes and cheeks and returned to the table, Lafarge resumed his discourse.
“I am sorry for your loss, Arnaud, for I have learnt that you and Marguerite were friends since childhood and this blow cannot have come at a worse time for you,” he said his tone sympathetic.
Lescarboura nodded in appreciation at Lafarge’s remark, but remained silent, only opening his mouth to place another cigarette in it.
“Now, also knowing that you had remained very much in contact with her, and indeed spent some nights at her place, staying in the spare room I might add, I was wondering whether you could throw any light on her private life.
“Whether there had been anything especially worrying her, or if anyone had been threatening her?” asked Lafarge, preferring to take a roundabout route to the interrogation.
Lafarge waited patiently while Lescarboura collected himself and was able to t
hink more clearly, for after the shock he had received it might take some time.
Lescarboura had screwed up his face into a contorted shape. Lafarge didn’t know whether this was how the most notorious jewel thief in France always looked when he had to think, and if it was, then no wonder, thought Lafarge, he had never moved from the spare room to Marguerite’s bedroom.
He looked like a badly disfigured gargoyle. Lescarboura also tugged at his long black hair, twisting it round and round until he came away with a few strands in his hand.
“I’m afraid I can’t say much mister policeman, unless I know what you can offer me. You see I am already in a system where life is not valued very much, indeed it barely has a value to it at all in the present regime,” said Lescarboura miserably.
“The information I have would place me at risk of not even seeing the light of day, which of course could prove to be a blessing as I am not eager to see the place I am being sent to to serve my time,” he added with a grim smile.
“I am not empowered to strike any deal with you for the moment. I have to be straight with you, because in the present situation while I still have power to investigate cases I am no longer allowed to barter for information, much as I would like to in your case,” said Lafarge smiling apologetically.
Lescarboura swallowed deeply, he cast his eyes down to the wooden table surface and his shoulders sagged again. He stayed like that for several minutes, his sorry figure illuminated solely by the naked light bulb that hung over the table.
Lafarge kept silent considering his options and as far as he could work out there were none.
His attitude to criminals may have hardened over the years but he was not totally immune to sentiment towards some of them and frankly to his mind it was ridiculous, especially now when so many people were subject to arbitrary justice, that a jewel thief should be set to serve 10 years hard labour.
In that moment, though, Lafarge grabbed onto an idea, a crazy one, but it was worth a shot in the dark. However, given the unbelievable avenues that had already opened up since he started the investigation, he decided it would be worth a try and perhaps at the same time give Lescarboura some reason to hope his present perilous position could be reversed.
“How well did you know Pierre–Yves de Chastelain?” Lafarge asked.
“Pretty well, why?” mumbled Lescarboura.
“You met him through Marguerite, I take it?”
“Yes, when they were together as a couple. I stayed in contact with him afterwards too. Well a man of my profession never knows when he will need a good advocate,” smiled Lescarboura.
“Quite. None better than de Chastelain to fight the criminal, sorry, the accused’s corner. So I imagine you ran to him straight away when you were arrested for this theft?”
“Yes. Well, no, he came to see me and said he would defend me. I didn’t exactly get the chance to phone him,” he replied sourly.
“Thus I imagine you were devastated when he failed to turn up to defend you at your trial?”
“Well of course I was pissed off. Wouldn’t you have been! I had a great chance of not exactly getting off but at the very least of not receiving too heavy a sentence. Instead I was allocated a jobsworth lawyer, who had to read up on the case in half an hour, and here I am,” replied Lescarboura bitterly.
“Most inconvenient timing, I admit. Then soon afterwards Marguerite is murdered...” Lafarge let his voice trail off hoping Lescarboura would bite.
“Yes. So what? What are you inferring, copper?” asked Lescarboura.
“Well, let’s say that in both cases, de Chastelain is a person of interest. Obviously he is a fugitive from whatever charge Bousquet wished to bring against him. I am also pursuing him not just as a potential witness to the murder, but very possibly given evidence that I have received this evening of potentially being the murderer himself?
“That is what, as you put it, I am inferring,” said Lafarge.
What Lafarge had gambled on proved to be a winner. For Lescarboura’s whole demeanour changed in that instant. From being downcast and cynical he was transformed, anger flashed in his eyes, his mouth quivered whether in grief or fury Lafarge could not discern, but he was an animated human being now, not the limpid beaten one he had been minutes before.
“The son of a bitch! The son of a bitch!” yelled Lescarboura.
“Who, Arnaud? Who are you talking about?” enquired Lafarge, knowing full well who the target was of his venomous outburst but wanting to encourage him to say his name, and more to the point why.
“De Chastelain, of course! He had this obsession with Marguerite, he would try any ruse to get back with her, any chance he had of seeing her he would manufacture a way of doing so.
“That all failed, so he came to us with this failproof plan, like he thought he could impress Marguerite with it, make her rich beyond her wildest imagination and then all but blackmail her into returning to him!” sniped Lescarboura, who looked ready to be sick.
“What? You’re saying de Chastelain was behind the jewelry theft? It sounds a bit convoluted and fantastical that he would risk a prison term just to win back Marguerite,” said Lafarge with the appropriate amount of skepticism in his tone.
“You must be living in another world, copper. Think of de Chastelain and you get arrogance, greed and lust all in one smooth package. He couldn’t lose Marguerite to some German colonel, he wanted to be rich enough to be able to not care about the poor people he defended, and his lust for Marguerite was what drove him on.
“I swear to you that he was the man who proposed the theft. He was a former lover of the Countess and had remained friends with her.
“He knew everything, the layout of the apartment, where the jewels were kept, and he even encouraged Marguerite to invite the Countess for dinner, hoping he too would be asked to dine with them.
“He wasn’t of course. Marguerite wasn’t going to have him fawning over two of his former mistresses, and all the time winking at her at their collaboration over stripping the other lady of her jewels. No, in that at least Marguerite proved smart,” said Lescarboura with a mildly satisfied look on his face.
“So, what happened when he came to see you in jail? He must have lost some of his cockiness, fearful you would try and buy yourself a lighter sentence in exchange for revealing his role in it,” said Lafarge.
Lescarboura shook his head sadly and answered, “I couldn’t because to do so would be to implicate Marguerite, and even with her having a German colonel as her lover, she would have had to be punished. No, the only hope I was left with was that de Chastelain would call on all his oratorical powers and see me right in court.”
“So what did you talk about, other than your defence, which obviously wouldn’t have taken up too much of his time as he was already au fait with the case,” said Lafarge dryly.
“Ah, all he wanted to know, the great man, was where the jewels were. Were they safely in Marguerite’s apartment, or somewhere else? I told him nothing of course, because I knew if I did I would not have any leverage over him, and he would disappear. Little did I realize how right I would be!” he said shaking his head ruefully.
“Quite. However, there is one thing that doesn’t seem right. Why would Marguerite allow herself to go along with such a plan, devised by a man she clearly didn’t want anything more to do with? Seems a bit weird to me,” said Lafarge, raising his eyebrows to accentuate his skepticism.
“I have to take the blame for that. I persuaded her that the price I would be able to get for the jewels would be enough even split between ourselves to make her rich for the rest of her life. Sadly she will never enjoy that feeling,” replied Lescarboura.
“I see. That makes sense, given I found the plan for the burglary taped to one of the legs of her makeup table,” said Lafarge, enjoying the exasperated look that crossed Lescarboura’s face.
“Yet, she still obviously entertained feelings strong enough for him to go to his apartment and warn him of his imminent
arrest. They evidently had a very complicated relationship.
“This German colonel, appears to have provided her with the information about de Chastelain’s impending misfortune. Again it doesn’t sound right, why would her present lover help her former one, who is obsessive about her? One would have thought he would prefer him safely out of the way.”
Again, Lafarge hoped Lescarboura would fill in the blanks but he was to be disappointed this time as all he received in reply was a shrug of the shoulders. Undeterred, Lafarge tried one last time, though he expected a similar response.
“Our head of Police also appears to be involved, at least through his friendship with Marguerite and also being responsible for wanting to arrest de Chastelain. Would you happen to know the reasons why?” Lafarge asked, flashing his most charming smile at Lescarboura.
“I know nothing about René Bousquet’s involvement, either with regard to Marguerite or with wanting de Chastelain arrested,” replied Lescarboura.
Lafarge smiled, pushed the packet of cigarettes towards Lescarboura and proferred his hand. Lescarboura took it, but as he did so, Lafarge held it tightly and pulled him towards him.
“Bousquet falls in the category of not up for discussion unless you get a deal, right?” whispered Lafarge, hoping that if the room was bugged it would not pick up either the question or the answer.
Lescarboura simply nodded, and Lafarge noted too that there was genuine fear in his eyes when he did so. It reflected too how he felt.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lafarge returned home not in the best of moods, for while the investigation was making progress, his main suspect was now miles away and perhaps already safely in neutral Portugal. For Limoges was usually the first stepping-stone for those wishing to take the risky option of fleeing France.
Tracking de Chastelain down could prove impossible, but he relished that challenge far more than the likelihood of his having to interview formally Bousquet. Quite apart from their personal animosity, it was not in his interests, personally or professionally, to even suggest that the Prefect of Police was linked to a murder enquiry.
