The Marble Mask (22 page)

I was purposefully downplaying my interest. This wasn’t my turf. If Lacombe liked what he heard, I was fearful he’d take control of it, leaving me as empty-handed as before. I didn’t ponder the irony that VBI had been created precisely to overcome such territorial self-interest—I was too busy both licking my wounds and hoping to earn my paycheck.

I should have known better than to play cute with him. He gave his trademark gentle smile and said, “They sound like the key to your lock.”

Old-fashioned guilt got the better of me. I still couldn’t shake the trouble I’d caused this man all too recently. “We’re pretty interested in them. For the sake of argument, we’re pretending the letter never existed.”

“Because maybe it existed to make us happy only?” he suggested.

“Right.”

He mulled that over a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “This is interesting. You are thinking the letter was not written by Marcel and that it wasn’t sent to Jean—that it came to be after Jean was killed.”

“Maybe,” I stressed. “It’s a little like deciphering a logic problem, because even if Marcel wasn’t the author, it still might’ve been written to bait Jean, especially if Jean
thought
Marcel was in Stowe when he received it. We need to know for a fact that Jean knew Marcel’s whereabouts when he left for Stowe. If we find a witness to Marcel being in Sherbrooke, for example, then we’ve also got proof that the letter was a complete fabrication, designed solely for us. Which is why the barn and its contents were preserved by the Spaniard’s will—to create a credible time capsule fingering Marcel.”

Lacombe smiled broadly. “
Incroyable.
This is very good.”

“Only if you’re interested in establishing an alibi for your prime suspect,” I said. “Is there any chance we could find out which outfits Antoine was with in Italy, along with their rosters?”

He laughed softly. “You are a strange policeman.”

· · ·

I was tucked away in the Sûreté’s property room in the basement, wedged into a corner at a small desk under dubious lighting, side by side with Paul Spraiger, a pile of yellowed correspondence spread out before us.

“Anything?” I asked him after he put the last sheet down.

“Same as the English stuff you read—pointed questions from Jean Deschamps, vague and meaningless gobbledygook from the bureaucrats: ‘We’ve examined our records pertaining to the death of Antoine Deschamps and have found nothing to indicate anything at variance with the initial findings earlier forwarded to you,’ blah, blah. Amazing how no matter the nationality, the bullshit smells the same.”

“What about the private papers?”

He sighed and shook his head. Our research fit into two categories. Correspondence to and from various government agencies in both languages, and letters written between Jean and several of his son’s co-combatants, all in French. “There’s nothing here,” Paul conceded. “Every one’s a dead end. Either the writer didn’t know Antoine Deschamps, except maybe slightly or by name, or he wasn’t around when Antoine was killed and doesn’t have any details.”

I picked up the official report of that death and scanned it once more. Antoine Deschamps was killed in action in Italy on June 4, 1944, outside Rome during offensive maneuvers against an entrenched enemy force. His personal effects were collected and his body shipped home to his family. From what I could decipher from the bored euphemisms of such documents, he was shot during an assault, like so many others—plain and simple.

“We’re missing something,” I said.

“Could be Jean just couldn’t accept the truth,” Paul countered. “His whole life was based on an-eye-for-an-eye. An old-fashioned combat death was probably unacceptable.”

I shook my head. “No. I mean literally. We’re missing something. Even if he did go around the bend and invent a suspicious death, why aren’t there any letters here from people who were with his son when he died?”

“He was just beginning to dig into it.”

“I know,” I argued, “but still, what do you do when you organize something like this? You make lists—who to contact, their addresses, their old unit affiliations. You start with letters from the son, picking up names of buddies who were with him. Any letters from Antoine?”

“Maybe he wasn’t a writer.”

I appreciated what Paul was doing. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. Who’s the first person you contact if you’re in Jean’s shoes?”

Paul hesitated. “His commanding officer, friends he enlisted with, parents of friends who didn’t make it back.”

I waved my hand across the pile before us. “There’s nothing like that here. What’re the chances of writing letters to… how many do we have?… thirteen survivors in your own son’s old outfit and not finding a single one who was at the right place at the right time?”

“What’re you suggesting?” Paul asked cautiously.

I sensed what was behind the question. “Not a military conspiracy. I’m not
that
paranoid. This has to have been picked over. I don’t think Jean couldn’t accept his son’s death—from what we know, he wasn’t the hysterical type. I think he either got a letter or a telegram or a phone call, or maybe met someone, and that’s what got him going. I also think he found something tangible that kept him on track, and which isn’t in this pile. How do you explain his actions otherwise?”

But Paul kept to his role of devil’s advocate. “How do we know about those actions in the first place?”

I stared at him and then repeated Willy’s comment from the day before. “You mean the old secretary?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe we should do our own interview.”

· · ·

Marie Chenin lived in a modern apartment building on the fringes of Sherbrooke, in a section I suspected had been farmland not long before. It was an expensive building, clean cut and tidily maintained, as neatly placed next to its neighbors as a brand-new domino. Approaching it from the parking lot with Paul, I couldn’t help superimposing a sense of sterile imprisonment where only luxury and comfort had been intended.

We took a quiet, plastic-walled elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the hallway, striding through an invisible haze of new-carpet odor and disinfectant.

Madame Chenin met us at the door, looking old, bent, and frail, except for a pair of intelligent, calculating eyes.

Paul did the translating.

“Gentlemen, how nice to see you. Please come in. It’s not often I get so many visitors in such a short time.”

“That’s kind of you to say,” I answered. “I was afraid we might be imposing.”

She led the way to a small, richly decorated living room with a sweeping view of distant mountains across miles of dazzling white, snow-covered countryside.

“Make yourselves comfortable. I prepared tea. Would you like some?”

She placed herself in an armchair facing a silver service matching the plush setting, if not the financial image, of a long-retired secretary. Paul and I had no choice but to sit like schoolboys on a small sofa opposite her. The windows ran the length of the wall across from us, their curtains wide open, and the snow-brightened light coming through them was enough to hurt our eyes. Despite her seemingly impeccable manners, Marie Chenin made no offer to ease our squinting at her.

For the moment, I decided to play along.

She smiled cheerfully as she passed us tiny cups and saucers. “I’m afraid the pleasure of your company will be all mine, since I can’t imagine what I can add to what I told the other young man.”

I took the time to sample my tea. “Actually, Madame Chenin, it’s your helpfulness then that brings us back now. There aren’t many people left from those days who have your sharp memory.”

Her smile remained, but I could tell she was slightly irritated. “You haven’t said if you like your tea.”

I placed the cup on the low table between us. “Wonderful. We’re not here to bother you about those papers you took from the Deschamps, by the way. That’s ancient history.”

She cut me a quick look and then offered us a small bowl. “I should have offered you sugar. I’m becoming forgetful.”

We both passed. “We’d like to know more about Antoine,” I explained.

She was visibly surprised. “Antoine? Why?”

“We think his death may have had something to do with Jean’s disappearance. I understand you knew Antoine, before he went off to Italy?”

“Yes, of course I did.” But she still seemed confused by my approach.

“Tell me about him—how he was, how he worked with his father, how he got along with his brother.”

A change came over her then, and she settled back in her chair, abandoning the role of hostess. I sensed a burden slipping from her and remembered the intel report about her first interview—how merely mentioning Antoine had changed the tone of the conversation. I tested this theory by slowly rising, closing the curtains to quell the glare, and silently returning to my chair, all without protest from her.

She spoke softly. “Antoine was a wonderful boy—strong, handsome, intelligent, and graceful. Very much like his father. I used to think they worked together more like brothers than as father and son, they joked together so.”

“That must have been tough on Marcel.”

Her face hardened slightly. “Who could tell? Marcel wasn’t like Antoine at all. He was withdrawn, unathletic, given to moods. And he was devious, always working behind your back. I don’t think Antoine’s friendship with their father struck him as anything other than stupid.”

“Did they fight?”

“The two brothers?” She shook her head. “They barely had anything to do with one another, and there was enough money so they could pursue different interests.”

“Like what?” I asked, struck by this very different family portrait.

“I wouldn’t know about Marcel. Probably money management. He always had the soul of a banker, even though Antoine was supposed to take over the business.”

“We heard they both were, as a team.”

She waved one hand dismissively. “That was the story later, after Antoine died. Marcel might have played a role in money matters, but the operational head was supposed to have been Antoine.”

I was struck by her language—very business-oriented, as if she’d also been involved in the family’s commercial affairs. I thought Lacombe might find it interesting to check the finances of this supposed retiree.

“Legend has it,” I continued, “that Jean was a bit of a pirate in the old days, building an empire out of nothing, hard on his enemies and loyal to his friends and family. Was Antoine like that, too?”

She smiled sadly. “He had many of those qualities.”

“Why did he go to war?” I asked.

Her eyes widened. “Everyone did. Patriotism meant something back then. Our country called and we responded en masse. It was the right thing to do.”

“Marcel stayed in Canada.”

“Yes,” she said sourly. “Still managing his affairs.”

“With Jean’s connections, he could’ve secured Antoine’s safety, too. Fighting isn’t the only useful thing that can be done in wartime.”

But she was adamant. “Antoine wouldn’t hear of it, and I doubt Jean even brought it up. Jean would have gone himself if he’d been accepted, but he was considered too important to the war effort.” Her tone abruptly turned bitter. “Both he and Antoine thought the fighting would be a grand adventure, so it was up to the son to live vicariously for the father. And die.”

I added fuel to the fire, suspecting that Marie Chenin’s affection for Antoine—and perhaps his father also—went beyond that of a loyal employee. “All to the benefit of the son who stayed behind.”

“Yes,” she admitted darkly. “He made out well.”

“We’ve also been told Jean was so distressed after Antoine died that he made up the murder story to rationalize an otherwise senseless death.”

She bristled at that. “Nonsense. Jean Deschamps was not some mental cripple. He had good reason for believing what he did.”

“What was that?”

She stopped dead in her tracks, obviously at a loss. “I don’t know. He never told me,” she finally said.

“You must have had some idea, working with him so closely.”

“He was told about it by someone he believed, but I don’t know if it was by letter or in person.”

“Was anyone else in the family aware of this?”

“No,” she said emphatically. “I was certainly ordered not to breathe a word once he began his investigation.”

“What about Picard and Guidry? They worked as a team with Jean, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did.” She looked at me nervously for the first time, and then glanced around the room, like an actor groping for a line. I was struck by the notion that she might have erred in some way. When she spoke again, it was slowly and with obvious caution. “There were many conversations I wasn’t privy to… And they weren’t
that
much of a team.”

I sat forward and leaned my elbows on my knees, suddenly struck by a thought. “Madame Chenin, let’s stop doing this. Things are going on here I’m sure you don’t know about—things you never intended to be a part of. Do you know why you were told to give us that receipt?”

She stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “What do you…?”

“What did they say would happen?” I interrupted. “Do you realize the receipt was the primary piece of evidence used against Marcel for the murder of his own father?”

Her whole face contorted with confusion. “What?”

“Because it was known you so disliked Marcel, you were used to frame him for Jean’s death. The receipt led us to the inn, which led us to Jean’s old luggage, and that took us to a letter supposedly written by Marcel luring Jean down to Stowe so he could be killed. Did Marcel know how to use a typewriter back then?”

She rubbed her forehead as if fighting off a migraine. “No,” she said vaguely. “I did all the typing… I don’t understand. It’s not what they said.”

“Who said?” I pressed her. “Who told you to give us the receipt?”

Her hand dropped back down to her lap, and she shook her head forcefully. “No one. I have committed no crime. I took the receipt and I gave it to the police because I thought it would be helpful.”

I was silent for a few moments, letting the lie float in the air between us. Then, speaking very gently, I switched topics again. “Madame, after the police collected all the papers in Marcel’s office, they found several concerning Jean’s search for Antoine’s killer. But they weren’t complete—some were missing. Would you be able to help us find them?”