“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Hodge, sipping at the kir Ivan had brought him. “The art world can make the Wild West look like Sunday school.”
Hodge put down his drink and began scrolling down the text on Bruno’s laptop. “I see he wasn’t called Bourdeille at this point—you might want to check into that name change. He was shot while avoiding arrest while scrawling anti-Vichy slogans,” he said after a while. “What would they be?”
“Painting V FOR VICTORY signs on walls.”
“This guy who got away when Bourdeille was arrested sounds interesting, Paul Juin. What do you know about him, other than that he’s a Compagnon de la Résistance?”
“Nothing yet,” Bruno said. “But they only made about a thousand people compagnons, and de Gaulle had to approve each one personally. I’d better check him out.”
“The master forger of the Resistance, it says here; false papers, work documents, birth certificates, travel documents. Juin even forged some release papers to spring people out of prison and made big money after the war with a printing and engraving business. I imagine there were always lots of juicy government contracts for a loyal résistant.”
Hodge paused, scrolling down through the pages quickly, occasionally breaking off to speak in staccato phrases: “Bourdeille marries Juin’s sister after the war. Juin buys them a château and Bourdeille inherits it when his wife dies. Wait, she committed suicide, threw herself under a train. Now we come to the fishy paintings. A couple of lawsuits settled out of court. Speculation that some of the attributions could be based on some dubious documents that may have been slipped conveniently into the archives by Juin. The plot thickens.”
Hodge looked up. “I guess if Juin was good enough to fool the Gestapo, he’d have no trouble fooling people in the art world who want to believe Grandpa’s ancient painting is really an old master.” He plunged back into the report.
“Bourdeille turns the château into a Société Civile Immobilière after he inherits. What’s that, some kind of tax dodge?”
“A lot of old families use it to protect the estate,” said Bruno. “It turns a house into a company owned by shareholders. It can help avoid estate taxes, but it also means that the usual heirs do not automatically inherit.”
“Usual heirs, huh? It says here that Bourdeille’s wife had a daughter in 1944, but he only married in 1946. When she got pregnant, Bourdeille was still in prison. He can’t have been the father, so I see why he wanted to be sure she didn’t inherit. I wonder who the father was.”
“That’s not in the file?”
Hodge shook his head. “Ah, now we’re into a new area. Bourdeille wanted to change his name, claiming to have old family documents that prove he’s descended from a bastard child of someone called Pierre de Bourdeille, abbot of Brantôme. The real family objects, claims the documents are forgeries. Settled out of court—he can call himself Bourdeille, but he can’t be in the line of inheritance. Nor can they inherit from him.”
Hodge looked up again. “This is all very interesting about Bourdeille, Bruno, but I don’t see what it has to do with Claudia. There’s not enough evidence here to turn the guy into a crook. And his reputation in the art world remains strong. He’s still a consultant at the Louvre.”
He closed the laptop lid. “The last page is about the paintings in Bourdeille’s collection. The Hexagon people reckon the current market value to be five million bucks or more, if the identification of the paintings by the client—who is Claudia—is correct.”
“So there’s nothing in the report that suggests Bourdeille might have had a motive to have Claudia killed?” Bruno asked, wondering whether he should tell Hodge about Claudia’s interest in buying Bourdeille’s estate. Recalling Bourdeille’s wish to discuss a bequest with the mayor, Bruno thought it best to keep this to himself for the moment.
“Not that I can see,” Hodge replied. “He’s ninety years old and in a wheelchair. He couldn’t have done it himself even if she was drugged to the eyeballs.”
“Then there’s the American boyfriend she ditched, Jack Morgan.”
“He’s already on my list,” Hodge said. “We’ve got people in London who will take a good look at him, check his movements.”
Ivan brought the soup, the bread and the decanter of wine. They ate in silence, and Bruno poured a splash of the red wine into the last spoonfuls of soup in his dish, swirled them together and then raised the bowl to his lips to drink it dry.
Hodge grinned. “The custom of the Périgord. I remember. What do you call it again?”
“Chabrol. It keeps you healthy.”
Over the terrine, Bruno asked if Hodge had any other names on his list to be investigated.
“Well, so far the assumption is that she died by accident. But you know my suspicious nature. So I start with the obvious one, the family. Claudia’s daddy ditched her mom and got himself a trophy wife who is said to be desperate to get pregnant and is currently going through fertility treatment. If it succeeds, she’ll want her own offspring to inherit Daddy’s money, not Claudia. And if the treatment doesn’t work, she’ll want the dough for herself. Either way, Claudia is a rival.”
“How do you know this?” Bruno asked.
“There is a charming but vengeful old lady who used to be on the protocol team at the White House, so naturally she knows all the social and political gossip. She took a final job as social secretary at the embassy in Paris. The ambassador traded her in for a newer model who’s very attractive but not nearly as well informed. I make a point of being very attentive and respectful to the old biddy, who would have made a wonderful spy. I take her to lunch from time to time, and she tells me things.”
“You mean the second wife might have wanted Claudia out of the way?” Bruno was thinking of that second family photo in Claudia’s room, the one that had been truncated, as if a person had been cut out of the picture.
“Claudia made no secret of despising the second wife, which I imagine was mutual.”
“How would a woman in New York arrange the death of a young woman five thousand kilometers away in the Périgord?”
Hodge shrugged. “She’s rich. You can hire experts in damn near anything these days. I was going to ask if you’d checked the hotels for strangers.”
“Rognons de veau au vin blanc,” announced Ivan, putting down the plates with a flourish.
“Smells wonderful,” Hodge said, bending over the plate. Bruno was impressed. Not every foreigner would relish that faint hint of the urinal that wafted from kidneys in white wine, however long they were soaked.
“One more thing,” Bruno said as Ivan poured them each a glass of the red Montravel. “Claudia’s professor at Yale, the guy supervising her doctorate, is flying over here at the family’s request. I’m not sure why. There’s a lot of e-mails to and from him on Claudia’s computer that I haven’t had time to go through yet. I’m sure J-J will let you see them, because getting official translations would probably bust his budget. It might be useful to know what they were e-mailing about before we see this professor.”
“Good idea. I’ll be happy to take a look at the e-mails, and I’d appreciate a copy of this Hexagon report,” Hodge said, eating. “This dish tastes wonderful. What’s this professor’s name?”
“Reginald Porter. Have you ever heard of him?”
Hodge had his eyes closed as he savored the latest mouthful and shook his head.
“I did a little research on the Internet,” Bruno said. “Porter is in his fifties, recently divorced, an expert on the Renaissance. He spent his entire life at Yale, as a student, then to get his doctorate, then as a lecturer and now as full professor. He wrote a book on the German Renaissance and was one of the curators of an exhibition of Cranach and Dürer at the National Gallery in Washington.”
“And because he’s recently divorced, you want me to find out if he was enjo
ying a dalliance with his favorite pupil?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“I would hope so. Such dark suspicions lie at the very heart of good police work.”
Chapter 16
At nine the next morning the driver of the vehicle from the mobile service for the disabled lowered its hydraulic ramp outside Bourdeille’s home, wheeled him inside and secured the chair. Twenty minutes later, having already taken a morning jog through the woods with Balzac, ridden Hector and enjoyed his morning coffee and croissant at Fauquet’s, Bruno met the vehicle and wheeled Bourdeille into the elevator of the mairie and pushed the old man to the mayor’s office.
“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t come to you,” said the mayor.
“I enjoy getting out from time to time, and this way we can be sure that we won’t be overheard,” said the old man, before sniffing the air and saying delightedly, “You smoke a pipe.” He then lit a cigarette.
“Just to be sure we aren’t overheard, perhaps we could find an errand for Claire,” Bruno murmured. The mayor nodded, summoned his secretary, asked her for three cups of coffee from his private stock and then to visit the archives and dig out the property tax files for Bourdeille’s chartreuse for the past six years. Bruno nodded his approval. That would keep Claire busy.
“You mentioned a bequest, monsieur,” the mayor said.
“I propose to donate my home and its contents to St. Denis, along with a financial endowment that would pay for cleaning, maintenance and a qualified tour guide for the art museum that I hope will be an adornment to the region,” Bourdeille began. “However, the cost of insuring the paintings would be for the commune to pay, or perhaps the département.”
“That’s an interesting proposal,” the mayor said. “What about any family relatives who might expect to inherit?”
“The building is owned by an SCI of which I hold ninety-nine of the hundred shares,” Bourdeille replied. “The final share is held by my notaire. The paintings are owned not by me but by an art trust I founded, and as chairman of the trust I would like to appoint you two gentlemen as trustees. I own two of the small houses in the hamlet adjoining my chartreuse, and they will be bequeathed to the current inhabitants, one of whom is my gardener. The other is my only living heir, Madame Bonnet.”
“Is Madame Bonnet aware of your plans?” the mayor asked.
“No, nor do I wish her to be informed of them. Therefore I would like you to convene a small group of a lawyer, a doctor and the chief of police here to satisfy themselves and certify that I am of sound mind and that in this decision I am acting of my own free will, in complete command of my mental faculties and that nobody has taken advantage of my advanced years. I want this bequest to be legally beyond question.”
“I don’t think I should be a member of that group,” said Bruno, quickly. “As the policeman of St. Denis, a lawyer could say I’m not an impartial witness. I’m sure we can find another, more senior policeman.”
“What is Madame Bonnet’s relationship with you, exactly?” the mayor asked.
“She is the granddaughter of my late wife. Madame Bonnet’s late mother was born to Rebekkah during the war while I was in prison and before our marriage. She is no blood relative of mine. Indeed, I believe that Madame Bonnet is descended from the milice swine who shot and tortured me.”
“Under French law, your wife’s daughter became your daughter on your marriage,” the mayor said.
“The circumstances of her birth were unusual and most unhappy,” Bourdeille said. “You are aware that I was arrested in 1942 for anti-Vichy activity and sent to prison. I was shot by the policeman who arrested me when I attacked him to enable my friend and fellow résistant, Paul Juin, to escape.”
Because Paul was a Jew, Bourdeille went on, arrest for him would have meant death. Paul was able to disappear, but not to warn his family in time. His family was arrested, and his sister was tortured to reveal where he might be. His father was later shot as a hostage in retaliation for the deaths of some German soldiers. His mother was sent to Ravensbrück and never returned. The torture of Paul’s sister, Rebekkah, took the form of repeated rape by the milice man who shot and arrested Bourdeille. One result was that she became pregnant and gave birth to Madame Bonnet’s mother. The second was that Rebekkah lost her mind temporarily and was put into a mental institution until the war ended and Juin could take care of her.
“Why did you choose to marry her?” the mayor asked.
“Paul asked me to do so, to give her a name, a home, some stability. And since I was impoverished and Paul had money, and because my injuries left me no prospect of a normal marriage, I agreed. The three of us lived together.”
“What happened to the child?” Bruno asked.
“She was sent to a church orphanage, where Paul and I finally traced her some years after the war. By then Rebekkah seemed to have recovered after treatment by a very able young female psychologist, and we married. I had hoped that reunion with her daughter would help Rebekkah, but she refused to have anything to do with the child. In fact, it unhinged her. The week after we brought the child home, Rebekkah committed suicide by throwing herself under a train.”
Bourdeille’s tone was flat, formal and utterly devoid of emotion. He might have been reciting entries from a telephone directory. The effect was to make his words all the more haunting. The mayor opened his mouth as if to speak but then simply bowed his head as if in silent prayer. Bruno could think of no words that might match the situation. He simply closed his eyes and sighed.
After a long moment Bourdeille spoke again. “I have never forgotten that as far as I know I never met a single German in the whole course of the war. There might have been a plainclothes Gestapo man at one of my interrogations, but I never heard the language spoken. Everything that was done to me—and to Rebekkah—was done by fellow Frenchmen.”
“You mean the police of the Vichy regime, the milice?” the mayor asked. “Was it them who shot you?”
“Yes, but it was what the milice did to my wounded leg while I was being interrogated about Paul’s whereabouts that crippled me for life. Their attentions also put an end to my sexual life before it had even begun. I had no idea where Paul might have gone. We had no connections to the Resistance, no idea where to find them. We had simply decided to paint slogans. It was all we felt we could do.”
“How did Paul survive?”
“He went to a Spanish family, the parents of someone we knew at school. They had been refugees from Franco and the civil war. He knew I had been arrested and as soon as the milice had my address from my identity card they would be at my house and then at my school to ask about my friends. And Paul and I were known to be inseparable.”
“Did the Spaniards help?”
“They put him in touch with the Communist underground. At the time, they were the only serious Resistance, at least around Périgueux. The Communists were very suspicious at first, even more when they found that he had two ID cards, one of which he had forged himself, and some extra ration books, again forged. They didn’t believe that Paul could have made them until he showed them what he could do. Then he became a prize asset.”
It was one thing, thought Bruno, to read about the Resistance in history books and memoirs, but quite another to hear the matter-of-fact words from Bourdeille’s lips.
“Where were you painting the slogans?” he asked. He wanted to envision the place and keep it in his memory and visit it when he went to Périgueux.
“We had painted V signs on place du Coderc, since that was where the market was held, and then we went on to place St. Louis, and that was where the milice found us. A few nights earlier we had painted them on the big statue in place Bugeaud, so they had mounted special patrols to find us.”
“What happened to the milice man who shot you?” the mayor asked.
“His n
ame was Michel Cagnac, and he was arrested after the Liberation, tried and imprisoned,” Bourdeille said. “He was released early when he volunteered for the army—they were desperate for men for that ridiculous colonial war we fought in Vietnam.”
Cagnac had remained in the army after the French defeat in 1954, he explained, and had later joined the military coup attempt in Algiers in 1961, when some elements of the army tried to reverse de Gaulle’s decision to grant Algerian independence. When the coup failed, Cagnac joined the OAS, the Organisation de l’Armée Secrète, to maintain the struggle. He was named as one of those involved in car bombings and the uprising of the pieds-noirs in Bab el-Oued, the white quarter of Algiers. He was also accused of involvement in the attempt to assassinate de Gaulle at Petit-Clamart in 1962. Cagnac was killed in a gunfight in Madrid in December of that year by Gaullist agents.
“Poor France,” said the mayor. “Such unhappy history.”
“It could have been worse. If they had managed to kill de Gaulle or if the coup of ’61 had succeeded…” Bourdeille shrugged. “As it is, Cagnac and his friends lost both times, in 1944 and 1961. But enough of that,” he went on. “Now you’ll understand why I’d like to name my home the Juin Museum, for Paul and Rebekkah. I imagine you would have no objections to that.”
“No, I’d support it,” said the mayor. “But I’ll have to put this project to the council. They may have some concerns about the insurance costs you mentioned, but they will also have some questions about Rebekkah’s daughter and her inheritance.”
“That’s another grim story,” said Bourdeille. “Paul and I did our best, we tried nannies and church schools, then a private boarding school in England, but we could never get through to her. She went wild in the sixties—Paris, then London and California. She came back to France in time for May ’68. She got pregnant, but we never learned who the father was. She died of a heroin overdose, leaving a daughter whom you know as Madame Bonnet.
The Body in the Castle Well Page 14
