The Tortured Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  “I just don't see why you would risk your life and career for me, someone whom you openly disliked and had contempt for. What is your motivation?”

  Lafarge sighed and sipped from his glass.

  “Let’s just say I am fed up with the hypocrisy and the crimes being committed by a government headed by a man who claims to have saved France for a second time when in fact he is staining our name for ever,” sad Lafarge passionately.

  “Thus I am not going to do all in my power to avert another state sponsored murder orchestrated by a man who along with Laval are the main progenitors of this odous period of collaboration with one of the most appalling regimes in history.

  “And don't think de Chastelain that I have no blood on my hands, for I too have had to make a choice which I would rather not have had to do and indeed if it had been peacetime I would never have had to make.

  “However, I have done so and now I must live with that, which makes me even more committed to seeing this through, saving you first will do something to salve my conscience,” he said biting back tears, as he thought of the horrors that Aimee might be experiencing as they sat in comfort on the train.

  “Well I thank you for that again and I do have some sympathy for your predicament, and I won't ask you any further about what this sacrifice might be,” said de Chastelain sincerely.

  The increasingly cordial chat continued for another half hour until the conductor came by and informed them they would be arriving in 10 minutes. It sobered them up and left them to their own thoughts, Lafarge praying that there were not two reception committees waiting for them, for then it would entail some quick thinking on his part so as not to let de Chastelain fall into the hands of Bousquet and probably hasten both their ends.

  *

  Both Lafarge and de Chastelain got off the train the worse for wear. Their lack of sleep and enormous intake of alcohol had taken effect even on the usually impervious detective, but they succeeded in ambling, albeit slowly, along the platform.

  They were swallowed up in the mass of people, a mix of civilians and Germans in all types of uniform returning for the most part from some welcome time resting in the South of France.

  Lafarge looked round to see if by chance von Dirlinger was amongst the mass of Germans, given de Chastelain’s account of the events it wouldn’t have surprised him that he had been tracking him all this time.

  There was no sign of him and Lafarge chided himself for being so neurotic. They reached the sanctuary of the designated meeting spot, the bar at the station, ordered two glasses of red wine and positioned themselves at the end of it so they could have a good view of who entered.

  Even at that ungodly hour of the morning, it was just after seven, eyebrows were not raised if one ordered alcohol. The French tried to justify their enormous consumption of their finest product by claiming wine was not categorized as alcohol, Lafarge being one of those saying it was fermented fruit juice.

  Not that he accompanied the wine with a croissant as was customary with the usual liquid served at most breakfast tables, but then he reasoned he wasn’t the norm.

  The bar was pretty busy.

  The majority were grey suited types waiting for their train to be readied for departure, some travelling lightly others accompanied by what appeared to be their wives. Some were with their children as they headed for their holidays in the south, refusing to allow the changed circumstances of the period to interfere with their annual ritual.

  Celebrating their new found camaraderie Lafarge and de Chastelain clinked glasses and spent the time making observations about the others in the bar, though, as time wore on the conversation became edgier as Lafarge began to wonder whether their rendezvous had been aborted or Gerland had failed to get through to his contacts.

  However, at the same time he was relieved that there had been no official welcoming party. There had been what he felt a larger than usual police presence at the station but they had paid scant attention to two weary looking gentlemen having trouble walking in a straight line.

  Finally after what seemed hours, but in fact had been around 45 minutes, two well–dressed, well–built middle aged men came into the bar, unencumbered by baggage but carrying about them an official looking air.

  Both made their way immediately to Lafarge and his companion, who were indulging in their second glass of red, and introduced themselves. Lafarge knew one of them already, a former inspector in his division from before the war, Gilbert Huariau, known for his honesty and diligence, but who he had lost touch with.

  The other introduced himself as Florian Conti, whose accent confirmed Lafarge’s initial reaction when he heard his name that he was from Corsica. By the look of him he was certainly the muscle of the duo. Scars on his face and light bruising on his hands indicated he knew how to handle himself, and the large bulge on the inside of his jacket suggested he knew how to use a gun as well.

  Both of them weren’t in any mood to move off quickly and gladly accepted the offer of a drink, before Huariau explained why they had been held up.

  “While you have been travelling back from the no no zone here in the ja ja zone things have been getting busy,” said Huariau, using the pejorative terms for the Vichy controlled area and the Occupied Zone.

  “There’s a massive police operation going on in Paris this morning. We must have been stopped three or four times by uniforms, but once we flashed my old police badge there was no problem. They didn’t really look at it very intently, just saw police and waved us on.”

  Lafarge grunted and thought perhaps that was why there had been no–one to meet them, for this was the big event that Bousquet had alluded to when they spoke on the phone. That was good news but it also meant that were they to be stopped de Chastelain might be in danger of being arrested as he had no papers that he was aware of.

  “Don’t worry Lafarge we have papers for your friend here. When we have a client we leave nothing to chance. Besides I think the road blocks will have lifted soon, it appeared also they were only interested in our yellow star wearing friends,” said Huariau.

  “Why are they suddenly so interested in the Jews and where they are, there hasn’t been an uprising since I left has there?” asked Lafarge half hoping that was the case.

  Huariau laughed grimly and took a gulp of his wine before ordering another round.

  “No, it looks like our colleagues, or rather your colleagues and my former ones, have decided to round them up, make Paris a safer place for all non Jews! Makes you want to laugh huh Lafarge! If they took a sample of the religious break down of the people I arrested before the war I doubt the percentage of Jews would have come to double figures,” said Huariau clearly disgusted.

  “To be honest I never looked at it like that, for a criminal was a criminal and nothing to do with his ethnic background, but yes it makes a mockery of their justification for what they are doing,” said Lafarge.

  “Still I can’t believe it is anything but giving the Jews a prod, a humiliating sort of kick in the butt and then letting them go about what little business or socializing they are allowed to conduct these days,” said Lafarge gloomily.

  “You’re naïve if you think like that Lafarge,” said de Chastelain.

  Lafarge turned to him annoyed at being contradicted and belittled by him in front of his former colleague but it didn’t have the desired effect of shutting de Chastelain up.

  “Even you must have heard of the stories of how the Polish Jews and the others who have been steamrollered by the Nazis have been first maltreated and then disappeared in their thousands, never to be seen again.

  “They were transported, so the Germans say, for crucial work in the east, preparing the way for their faithful German people to move into their homes as they depart. Judging from what Huariau is saying they are starting on them here too now and what is worse relying on us the French to round them up.

  “Yet another dark stain on our nation and one that won’t be easily erased. Of course for yo
u and your colleagues it is just another example of the efficient teamwork between two allies. It makes me sick to the stomach,” said de Chastelain spitting on the floor.

  “For Christ’s sake de Chastelain, don’t be so dramatic and unnecessarily critical of the French police, I am sure that they are not engaged in anything as illegal as you suggest. The vast majority of policemen are at best ambivalent about the Nazis and would certainly not volunteer for such an appalling task,” retorted Lafarge.

  Huariau grinned and drank the last dreg from his glass, licking his lips to make sure nothing had escaped his attention.

  “Now, now you two. Listen we better be making a move regardless of what is going on in Paris, as we have to take your friend to his safe house.

  “You have the address already Lafarge, and you can contact me at this number when you feel that it is alright for taking him to the person who is going to put him on his way to freedom,” said Huariau handing Lafarge a slip of paper.

  Lafarge thanked him and Conti and walked with them to the main exit of the station and bade de Chastelain farewell.

  “By the way Lafarge, I would suggest you walk back to Orfevres, not only to clear your head a bit but also to see what is really going on. I think you will find de Chastelain’s version is nearer the truth than what you hope it to be,” said Huariau softly before the trio disappeared into the sedan car that was waiting for them.

  Lafarge absorbed what he had said and without further ado he began his journey on foot with a deep sense of foreboding at what lay ahead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  The first thing that struck Lafarge was the huge amount of buses that were on the streets. A succession of the green and cream coloured vehicles winged their way through Paris, when normally one waited hours for one to come along, shortage of petrol being the main reason.

  There were hundreds of them. He wondered at first whether this was a new national day imposed by the Nazis, ride a bus day and promoting the values of public transport where everyone could be together and not the individualism and hence independence of driving one’s own car.

  However, that was a laughable thought as if he were not a detective he would be hard pressed to be able to afford to run a car.

  However, it took him a while to realize that all the buses were either completely empty and heading in one direction, that of the largely Jewish neighbourhood of the Marais, or were packed.

  None of them either empty or full were stopping at designated bus stops.

  Lafarge decided to head to the Marais to see what exactly was going on. His heart sank, though, as he took a closer inspection of two buses that passed him on their way to their destination, for on both, situated at the rear, were uniformed policemen.

  However, what shocked him was that these passengers were not your average Parisian going to work with their habitual expressions of fatigue or resignation. Nor were they engaging in the social discourse that some people, Lafarge could never cope with them, found easy to come by so early in the morning.

  No, almost to a person their expressions were glum.

  Some were crying – not even the most humdrum of jobs could possibly induce that, mused Lafarge in an attempt to introduce some levity into his thoughts – while others were banging on the windows as if they were desperate to escape the mass of people they were crammed in with.

  For those lucky enough to not be inside they were standing on the small platform space at the rear of the buses, guarded – for that was clearly the intention – by two policemen.

  Drink had clearly dulled his powers of observation.

  For it took him a while to register that a surprisingly large percentage of the passengers were children, or perhaps he just didn’t want to accept what was taking place before his eyes, and that all bar the policemen were wearing the yellow star.

  The cargo, for that was what it was, were all Jews.

  He felt physically sick, nausea gripped him, and he retched but nothing came up. He strode on, and reached St Paul near the Bastille – where nearly 150 years before the people of Paris had struck the first symbolic blow against the Bourbon monarchy – which marked one of the boundaries of the Marais.

  There he came to a halt and tried to suppress his nausea by lighting a cigarette, while looking around to see if there was a café open where he could get himself a drink and try and glean information. He knew deep down that this was the highly important event that Bousquet had hinted at.

  The walk and the shock at what was taking place had sobered up Lafarge, but for him this was not a moment to be sober. This was an event that was darkening the image of France forever and would make every French person ashamed that they were part of it, for they were as guilty as the uniformed police carrying out their orders.

  This was open collusion in persecuting people because of their religion, rounding them up and taking them off to be dealt with by the Nazis as they saw fit. Work camps they had said previously, but were they really that?

  Lafarge grimaced and then to his delight he espied a café that was open on the opposite side of the street on the corner of the Rue Vielle de Temple. He entered and saw that it was populated by some uniformed policemen and others in plain clothes, while the mustachioed barman and one harassed looking waiter struggled to serve them all.

  He managed to secure himself a place at the end of the bar and ordered a cognac and a coffee, and settled in to listen to their conversation. They ignored him and chatted among themselves.

  “We cleared this building, they didn’t know what was happening and were in shock. I was a bit reluctant to order their children to come with them, but then what would happen to them left on their own, so I forced them out and into the bus.

  “They brought some belongings but that is all a sham, for they will be taken away from them once they get to wherever they’re going,” said a middle–aged officer with blotched features.

  “So what? Let them be, for they have had a good life, compared to most of us, for years. They have hoarded their money, profiting from the misery of honest French people. It’s time for them to pay a price for that,” commented a younger officer.

  “Well I am not one who signed up to be a policeman to round up children,” replied the older officer, his humanity a welcome oasis in this desert of human feelings.

  “Well old man perhaps it is time for you to go into retirement for you won’t find too many of us who sympathise with you. They’re Jews, the lowest of the low, who have remained rich while others have barely had enough to eat. I am delighted that we are bringing them to order,” said the younger officer.

  Lafarge had had enough of this exchange and, whether it was the brandy or just fatigue, he laid into the younger policeman.

  “What’s your name officer?” he asked leaning across the older man.

  “Who’s asking? A Jew? Why haven’t you got your star on?” replied the younger man.

  “Chief Inspector Lafarge, Quai des Orfevres,” said Lafarge triumphantly and producing his badge at the same time so as not to leave a smidgen of doubt in the officer’s mind.

  The older officer smiled, while the younger one bristled but felt compelled to give him his name which was Pierre Durand.

  “Your conversation repels me officer Durand, and I have a good mind to report you. It may not strike you at the moment but you are participating in an illegal act for which hopefully you will one day come to regret and be held accountable for,” said Lafarge.

  “You are a disgrace to the force, your colleague at least possesses a modicum of human feeling, you, heaven help us I hope do not accurately reflect the feelings of the men enforcing this crime today,” sad Lafarge with such force that the rest of the bar fell silent.

  Durand came round the back of his colleague and confronted Lafarge, hatred contorting his face.

  “So there are Jew lovers in the force! A plain clothes one to boot. Well sir, you and your woolly liberal conscience disgust me too.

  “Why don’t yo
u take it with you as you get out of this bar right now? Otherwise I might just have to throw you out myself and then have you reported for espousing anti state remarks,” Durand said his tone full of contempt.

  The older policeman stepped in between both of them, facing Lafarge he gestured with his eyes that it would be best to leave, and he took the hint and made for the door after chucking some cash on the bar.

  He could hear Durand making some sort of disparaging remark as he exited which was greeted with a cacophony of laughter, but he didn’t stop to make a riposte, for it was pointless.

  Durand was reflective of a group of people who were indoctrinated to the ways of the ‘new world order’.

  They couldn’t see that what they were doing that day destroyed the image of the country that had drawn up the ‘Rights of Man’ and made a mockery of the idealistic credo that adorned government and court buildings: ‘liberty, equality and fraternity’.

  With the screams of terror and misery emanating from within the Marais, Lafarge trudged despairingly away from them, and made his way towards the centre of where this evil had sprung the Quai des Orfevres and its Mephistophelian chief René Bousquet.

  What he had orchestrated today he would hopefully answer for in the years to come but Lafarge was now determined that Bousquet should be held to account for the murder of Marguerite Suchet if he was indeed guilty – even Vichy could not justify that as a state ordered assassination.

  *

  “Alright Huariau I will be round in an hour, have him ready to go,” said Lafarge before replacing the receiver and taking a sip of his favourite red wine from his cellar.

  He had made little headway at Quai des Orfevres.

  His determination to bring Bousquet to heel had failed miserably. Firstly he was unavailable as he was overseeing the operation for rounding up the Jews from another office and secondly Massu had told him to go home when he saw what a state he was in.

  Massu, who was playing no role in the criminal events in Paris whilst not interfering with the smooth brutal running of the operation, had given him a cup of coffee and told Lafarge kindly but firmly that he was better off going home and getting some rest and returning the next day if he wished to see Bousquet.