The Tortured Detective

by Pirate Irwin

Dumont didn’t look pleased at all and looked to his silent partner as if for an answer of what they should do next, but all he got was an unhelpful shrug of the shoulders. If anything Lafarge thought that the silent one looked is if he would have preferred to be doing something else rather than harassing helpless people.

  “Look Lafarge, you may not like what we are doing, but these are orders from our government, from Bousquet himself, and there is no room for flexibility on this. So I am asking you politely one more time if you know of any others in this building that we need to take away,” asked Dumont, his tone firm but civil.

  Perfect, thought Lafarge, no flexibility, orders are orders, allowing no moral judgement on the part of the executors of those orders, but he wasn’t going to fall into line.

  He played it out, scratching his head and even taking time to search in his pocket of his dressing gown for a cigarette, thankfully he found one and then scratched around for a light, which Dumont supplied him with.

  “Thank you. Truthfully, flippancy aside, I don’t know of any other families living in this building that should be taken away,” he said smiling, hoping his equivocal answer wouldn’t be picked up by either Dumont or Mr Silent.

  He needn’t have worried, Dumont appeared happier with the manner of the answer and indicated to his partner that they should move along as the other two families were on a floor above. Dumont yelled down the stairs for the uniforms to come up and help them just in case there was trouble, and thanked Lafarge for his time.

  Lafarge at last was able to shut the door and wandered back to the kitchenette where he was able to find enough coffee to make a pot. He left it to come to the boil while he tidied up the drawing room and emptied the ashtray, stashed the bottles down by the stove and washed up the glass.

  It was as he was doing this that it came to him.

  The fog of the effects of last night’s bacchanalian excesses had eased and he smacked his head with his hand cursing himself. For there was a couple down the corridor who he vaguely remembered had a name like Rosenberg, and could not be anything but Jewish.

  They had moved in late last year but perhaps their names had not been registered with the local town hall. The constant flux of people moving in and out of different apartment buildings, and a lot of people fleeing, had sorely tested the famed efficiency of French bureaucracy and this seemed to be one instance where it had failed.

  Lafarge was surprised that the concierge hadn’t provided the police with their names, but then she was an unpredictable character and if they had spoken to her in what she perceived was a patronising manner she would have given them short shrift.

  Maybe Dumont had left it to his sidekick, whose lack of enthusiasm had led him to ignore her information, or not relay it back to his superior. Whatever Lafarge was going to ensure they didn’t fall into their hands just in case their names did crop up from another tenant.

  He left the coffee to cool and as quietly as he could he stepped back out into the corridor. He heard Dumont’s voice booming out above him, he was on the top floor and having a ferocious argument with the head of the family he was coercing to go with the uniformed men, so Lafarge crept along to four doors down, right at the end of the floor.

  He knocked gently and waited, his breathing seemed to echo down the passage which he hoped didn’t reach the ears of Dumont, though, he was still engaged in conversation with Papa Horowitz.

  To Lafarge’s relief the door opened, playing silent inside wouldn’t stop Paris’s finest from breaking down the door, and Hal Rosenberg’s narrow good looking face peered out. He looked surprised and at first relieved to see that it was one of his neighbours but then his face clouded over with despair as he remembered that this neighbour was a policeman.

  Realising this must be the case Lafarge put his finger to his lips and gestured to him that he wanted to come in. Rosenberg opened the door wider and Lafarge entered.

  He was immediately struck by the beautiful antiques adorning the tables and mantlepiece and striking paintings hanging on the walls and thought this was a collection worth protecting and not giving oneself up lightly.

  Mrs Rosenberg appeared from a room to the left of the hall, she was as good looking as her husband, long golden hair surrounding an oval face with a pair of striking brown eyes and a figure as shapely as anything Lafarge had seen in his life.

  He had to shake himself away from that splendid sight to focus on what he had to tell them, though, he regretted that Hal Rosenberg was there.

  “Mr and Mrs Rosenberg forgive this intrusion. But I feel I have no choice but to warn you that you are in danger and I want you both to follow me and come to my apartment,” he said breathlessly.

  Naturally both the Rosenberg’s looked wild eyed with fright and not a little bemused by their previously anonymous neighbour, suddenly appearing on their doorstep and urging them to trust him and come with him.

  They looked at each other and then at him and asked if they could confer among themselves in the next door room. Lafarge replied in the affirmative but told them not to take too much time as his colleagues might arrive at any moment.

  They took a bit longer than he would have liked, but it was for a good reason for both returned 10 minutes later fully–dressed and with a suitcase each.

  “We’ve decided to trust you Chief Inspector, and we hope we will not be disappointed,” said Hal.

  Lafarge shook both their hands warmly and without further ado opened the door and indicated to them to stay there while he checked if the coast was clear.

  He made his way down the corridor, which was around 60 metres long and looked up the stairwell. He could hear Dumont’s raised voice as with all pretence at courtesy shunted aside he openly threatened Horowitz.

  He could hear a woman shrieking, which he took to be Mrs Horowitz and frailer voices crying while he heard things breaking from within the apartment.

  That was good news for the Rosenberg’s and himself if not for the Horowitz’s so he rushed back to their apartment and gestured for them to follow him.

  Hal Rosenberg double locked the door and then the trio made their way slowly down the corridor and with one last look upstairs, and seeing the coast was clear, Lafarge ushered the couple into his apartment.

  Once inside Lafarge suddenly came to his senses and wondered what the hell he had done for he had no plan B should Dumont call on him again, although, if he didn’t answer they were hardly going to break down a colleague’s door.

  He looked at the Rosenberg’s and then all three of them smiled with relief and as a means of celebrating he served them up a cup of coffee which was just about drinkable. He then beckoned them into the second bedroom, where his children had slept, and told them to stay there until the police had gone.

  He returned to the drawing room and then his inquisitiveness getting the better of him he once again went out onto the corridor.

  The noise had not abated but there was movement as the uniforms dragged the Horowitz children down the stairs while the parents were pushed on their way by Dumont, who was yelling insults at both father and mother.

  They passed Lafarge, who had to step back to let them pass, and he ashamed at his inability to help them averted his eyes and stared down at the parquet floor. The looks on their faces as they had come down the stairs, bewilderment and misery from the wife, anger on the face of the husband, were seared into Lafarge’s memory.

  The three children – the oldest could not have been more than seven – were all in tears and clinging to their teddy bears.

  Dumont paused briefly, as he passed Lafarge sighed deeply and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say look at these people they are impossible. Lafarge remained expressionless and simply shut the door on Dumont, of his silent partner there was no sign.

  *

  Lafarge came upon similar distressing scenes when he walked down Avenue de la Republique, children being led out of their schools and packed into buses, at least the Horowitz’s had gone together, these c
hildren weren’t even given the solace of another family member to accompany them.

  Lafarge stopped and watched from the other side of the Avenue, the heart wrenching scenes proving too much for him to just walk by and try and ignore. Indeed people from the apartment buildings which were on the Avenue had poured outside and were like him watching as these innocent young things were escorted sometimes not too gently by the gendarmes.

  The teachers offered no resistance.

  Some just stood mouths agape, some in tears, on the steps of the entrances to the two schools, that were only a few metres apart, as girls and boys, as young as six, were aggressively plucked from a place which they considered a place of safety and offered them protection.

  The children – the eldest of whom were 11 – looked confused and bemused as they were manhandled by people they had largely been brought up to respect and consider protectors into buses that were taking them away to destination unknown.

  Most offered little resistance, why would they and indeed how could they, save two cheeky looking lads, their heads covered by caps, who broke away from their two guards. One of the gendarmes held his hand as if he had been bitten by one of the boys, while the schoolboys sped down the road chased by several of the uniformed police.

  Despite the police calling out for them to be stopped, not one civilian intervened, and the two then turned left into Rue Servan. Lafarge ran down his side of the Avenue to see the denouement, there was little he could do to interfere and he didn’t wish to attract attention now he had a couple of undesirables in his apartment.

  Three gendarmes turned into Servan and gave chase, two others halted and breathed in heavily, perhaps wishing to play no part in this unedifying pursuit of two little boys. Lafarge crossed the road and stood on the corner, resisting the urge to venture further down the street.

  He couldn’t see the two little boys for the three policemen still giving chase crowded out any view of them, but he saw one of the gendarmes withdraw his service pistol and fire a warning shot into the air above where Lafarge took their heads to be.

  It didn’t appear to have had an effect as the gendarmes continued running, but then to his horror he saw the same one who had fired the warning shot go down on his knees and aim at body height.

  Lafarge yelled ‘stop stop’ but his words either failed to register or were ignored for the gendarme fired off two rounds and then stood up and inserted the gun in his holster. The other two gendarmes looked at him with a mixture of anger and shock on their faces, one made to go for him but was restrained by the other, while from further down the street Lafarge could hear screams.

  The trio of gendarmes walked down and returned a little while later and resumed their work at the schools, prompting Lafarge to go and see what had happened to the boys, although he already knew in his heart that it wasn’t good.

  He arrived to find a crowd gathered round and forcing his way through he saw the two young boys both on the ground, each with a bullet hole in their back.

  Both were dead. He felt like throwing up and he staggered to the side of the street and disgorged his guts.

  He went into a café just to the right of where the bodies lay and asked the barman whether anyone had rung for an ambulance and he was told yes.

  Preferring not to wield his badge as he thought that would not be the best idea he ordered two cognacs, offered one to the barman, who readily accepted, and downed it while he debated whether he should go back and confront the gendarme who had shot the boys.

  “Bloody disgraceful what that policeman did, bloody murderer, and to think he is French!” said the barman shaking his head as he dried the glasses.

  Lafarge nodded glumly and asked for another cognac which the barman said was on him and refilled both their glasses.

  “Thanks. Two little boys, they probably thought it was some sort of game and even if they didn’t anyone would run rather than be bundled into a bus without ones parents being there,” said Lafarge.

  The barman sensing he had a sympathetic ear to bend didn’t hold back.

  “He should be held to account for that. It’s one thing to follow orders and round up children, although it’s not something to be proud of, it’s quite another to shoot them in the back. I know the Germans are capable of that, I fought against them in the Great War but that Frenchmen should do this, it makes me ashamed! Trouble is there isn’t anyone of any stature in the Vichy government who will stand up and take responsibility and tell the Germans it is plain wrong,” he said.

  Not one normally to take the advice of a barman, save when it came to recommending a particular wine or telling him that he had had enough to drink, Lafarge decided to break the habit and act on it.

  He reasoned that the police were unlikely to search his apartment in revenge for what he was about to do. If they were to do so and found the Rosenberg’s he would say that they had asked for shelter because they had lost their keys and were waiting for a locksmith to come and let them in.

  They had already agreed on this story before he left them in his apartment so on that score he felt confident he could argue his way out of it.

  Lafarge found the gendarme lounging against the bus, which was only half–full, with a couple of angry–looking colleagues either side of him.

  The gendarme, who looked to be in his early 30’s of stocky build and with an oafish face, waved them off dismissively and with a self–satisfied look on his face and turned to Lafarge when he called out to him.

  He gestured for Lafarge to give him his papers, which Lafarge ignored as he planted a left hook into his stomach provoking the uniformed policeman to crumple to the ground.

  His two colleagues rushed at Lafarge, who quickly flashed his id forcing them to step back. Gasps emanated from the children within the bus, and more erupted when Lafarge pulled his gun while he placed a foot on the felled gendarme’s hand so he couldn’t reach for his pistol.

  “What’s your name officer?” shouted Lafarge.

  The officer sneered and spat, the spittle staining the lower hem of Lafarge’s navy suit trousers. This earned the officer a kick in the ribs, and Lafarge waited patiently for him to recover his breath before asking him again.

  “Captain Monnet you prick!” he replied wheezing.

  Lafarge ignored the insult.

  “Right Captain Monnet, I am Chief Inspector Lafarge from Quai des Orfevres and I have the great pleasure to arrest you for the murder of the two boys in Rue Servan. So up on your feet and put your hands behind your back,” said Lafarge, his voice trembling.

  Lafarge gestured with his pistol for the policeman to get up, and asked one of the other two gendarmes to relieve Monnet of his gun just in case his temper got the better of his judgement.

  This done Lafarge withdrew his handcuffs and snapped them around Monnet’s hands and walked him back down to his apartment building where he had left his car, as he had preferred to walk to work, leaving Monnet’s subordinates stunned at what had just taken place.

  *

  The reaction from the desk sergeant at headquarters was equally one of surprise and it took Lafarge a quarter–of–an–hour to persuade him to book Monnet and throw him in a cell.

  The sergeant, who was one of the rare policemen that Lafarge enjoyed cordial relations with, took him aside, after he had Monnet taken away. He warned him that his chances of getting the two gendarmes to testify or even produce a statement regarding the incident were slim. Lafarge had smiled and replied he knew but he couldn’t let an act of cold blooded murder go unnoticed.

  Lafarge didn’t have to wait long before there was reaction from up above. Sitting in his office, drinking a cup of coffee, Bousquet’s deputy, the equally objectionable Jean Leguay, who had followed his boss from the Marne where he had been his assistant when Bousquet was the Prefect, came storming in.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing Lafarge! Interfering in state business is an offence. I am ordering you to go downstairs and apologise to Captain Monn
et and then you are to present yourself at the secretary–general’s office,” he shouted.

  Lafarge's colleagues pretended not to hear, continuing on with their business, bur he jumped to his feet, heart pumping, and approached Leguay.

  “He shot two boys in the back which to anyone’s mind, well those that are real policemen, is a capital offence. You should be preparing the guillotine for him not demanding I go and apologise, which for your information I am bloody well not going to do,” said Lafarge.

  Leguay waved his finger angrily at Lafarge brushing the tip of the detective’s nose.

  “You better do what I said Lafarge or otherwise I will have you replace Monnet in the cells,” he said coldly.

  Lafarge laughed and brushed past Leguay.

  “Well Mr Deputy after what I have seen the past two days I think you are the one who belongs in the cells.

  “You disgust me, but I tell you what, I will do one thing you asked me to and that is go and see your boss. Not to discuss the rights and wrongs of state orders but another matter that also involves murder but which has nothing to do with you,” sneered Lafarge, who made his way out of the office leaving Leguay to mutter some expletive–filled invective aimed at him.

  Lafarge stormed around to Bousquet’s office where he told the secretary that he had been ordered to see him, whereupon she looked rather uncomfortable and asked him if he could leave his pistol with her before entering the room.

  Lafarge handed it over and she put it in the top drawer before rising and ushering him in.

  Bousquet was sitting behind his desk and on the phone but gestured for Lafarge to take a seat opposite him.

  Lafarge indicated towards the drinks cabinet to which Bousquet nodded and relieved Lafarge helped himself to a large cognac. It could be the last one he enjoyed for a while given he had had to surrender his gun and their meeting was to take place in a confrontational manner on opposite sides of the desk.

  Bousquet, though, appeared to be in a rather better mood than his pitbull Leguay, or at least on the phone he was. The conversation intermittently littered with bursts of laughter and also with smiles of satisfaction spreading across Bousquet’s handsome narrow face.