The Statement (16 page)

‘What year were you born, Colonel?’ he asked his interlocutor.

‘’42.’

‘So we’re the same generation. I was born in the spring of ’43.’

‘In Lille?’

‘No, in Bayeux. And you?’

‘Me? Dijon,’ Colonel Roux said.

‘And we’re both too young to remember the war.’

‘I remember it only as something my parents talked about,’ Roux said.

‘Mine didn’t.’

‘Mine did,’ Roux said. ‘My father was a butcher. He used to tell us stories about RAF pilots being picked up and sent home through a Resistance chain. He said he was part of that chain. The Resistance. Of course, everyone claimed to be in it. Afterwards.’

‘If only my parents
had
been in it,’ Valentin said. ‘Or told us some believable lie. But they didn’t. When my sister and I asked about those days they said, “You wouldn’t understand.” My parents had a drapery shop in Bayeux. They kept it going all through the Occupation. And of course, like most small-business people, they saw the end of the war as a victory for the communists. When I think back, I realize they were against things, not for them. Pétain? My father simply said he was too old to lead France. After the war they voted for de Gaulle, but I don’t think they bought his
folie des grandeurs
. What were they for, I wonder? What were their ideals? They certainly didn’t seem to have any during the Occupation years.’

‘It’s hard to pass judgement on what people did back then,’ the colonel said. ‘We haven’t lived with Germans walking up and down our streets. France had lost the war. Pétain was an old war hero, perfect casting as the honest broker between France and Hitler. Who was de Gaulle? Some jumped-up general in London, someone our parents had never heard of, someone working with the British who’d let France down, someone who sounded like a potential dictator. And let’s be honest, de Gaulle’s primary interest wasn’t fighting the Germans and winning the war. It was making sure the Anglo-Saxons accepted him as the leader of Free France and that France would emerge as one of the winning team.
And
claiming a victory France didn’t deserve.’

‘You’re not a Gaullist, I see.’

‘No. I was a socialist once. Now, I don’t know.’

‘I was just thinking of de Gaulle,’ Valentin said. ‘Hard to believe that it’s forty-four years since the Liberation.’

‘Yes, but what does that mean to a twenty year old?’

‘I wonder. I suppose they’d consider us fools for trying to bring to justice some old French fascist who killed Jews before this generation was born.’

‘I know,’ Roux said. ‘Yet, I consider this the most important case of my career.’

Valentin glanced sideways at him, a tall, military figure, his head up, his step brisk. Suddenly, Roux paused in his stride and said, ‘Because of that I’m grateful for what you’ve done today. You’ve given me two avenues of pursuit. One is to look more closely at this murder. Do the Salon police know something they haven’t released to the public? Also, your information has opened up more strongly the line I used with Monsignor Le Moyne.’

‘Which was?’

‘I put into his mind that I’m a less dangerous pursuer than these Jewish avengers. I believe it had an effect. It will, I hope, have a similar effect if I use the same tactic with our friend Dom Vladimir Gorchakov. If someone’s betraying Brossard to this group, I’ve got to get to him before they do. For both these reasons I’m going to Salon.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight.’

‘
Bourride
!’ Inspector Cholet pronounced the word like an actor announcing a pageant. ‘Colonel, today is the one day, the only day of the week, in which Mère Michèle prepares it for luncheon at her restaurant, the Tout Va Bien. When you telephoned me this morning I took the liberty of reserving a table for two. In the pantheon of fish stew, Mère Michèle’s
bourride
is the summa.’

Roux, estimating the inspector’s weight at closer to three than two hundred pounds, realized that this lunch would not be a matter of forty minutes. And, indeed, when they arrived at the Tout Va Bien, a workers’ restaurant a few streets behind the Salon Préfecture de Police, they were shown, with the special handshakes and greetings accorded to regular patrons, to a table in a secluded alcove, ideal for a tête-à-tête. Inspector Cholet seated himself with his back to the wall, a chequered napkin tucked into his shirt collar, a glass of Chablis in his hand, with the air of a man whose afternoon at the office will be short.

But he listened carefully. He was, Roux guessed, one of those affable fat men who successfully conceal the razor-sharp inquisitor lurking within their bonhomous responses. The story Roux had elected to tell him was an edited version of Valentin’s discoveries, namely how, through a confidential source, Roux’s office had learned that Brossard had been a guest in the Abbaye de St  Cros and had left abruptly on the evening of the day of the murder. Roux emphasized that he, as the officer in charge of the hunt for Brossard, was giving this information to Inspector Cholet because he felt it his duty to inform him that there might be a connection between Brossard and the murder. In return, he asked if there were any elements in the case which the Salon police had not made public.

‘You know, of course, that we have interrogated the Abbot of St  Cros?’ the inspector said.

‘So I’ve been told. He did not, I imagine, mention that he had played host to a wanted criminal?’

‘Indeed, he did not. Although when I looked up our records, I discovered that back in ’71, just before the presidential pardon, we visited the abbey to make inquiries in this connection. The inquiries, I admit, were perfunctory. And of course, after the pardon, the inquiry was dropped.’

‘But later, when the new charge came out – the complaint of a crime against humanity – wasn’t the inquiry reinstated?’

The inspector smiled and, reaching across the table, refilled Roux’s glass. ‘Officially, yes. The inquiry, as you know, was run from the
préfecture
in Paris. All I can tell you is that, here in Salon, we were not asked to check on whether Brossard was still in this region.’

‘That’s odd.’

The inspector shrugged. ‘Yes, I must admit, I do find it odd. There are those who say the police didn’t really want to find him. As I wasn’t personally involved, I don’t know if that’s true or false. I hope it’s the latter. In any event, I want to assure you that, so far, I’ve received no instructions from my superiors on how I should deal with you. Therefore, as a fellow police officer, I intend to give you my full co-operation.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Very well, then. We’re colleagues. Personally I don’t care who finds Brossard. My job is to put the collar on criminals. I’m no politician. I don’t suppose you are, either. So let’s look at this together. Who would want to shoot him? Relatives of his victims? Most of whom were Jews. Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘A Jewish group, then, Colonel. Not one of the well-known Nazi-hunters like the Klarsfelds or the Wiesenthal Centre. It’s not their style. But possibly relatives of victims, people with a personal score to settle.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you know of such a group, Colonel?’

‘No. It’s just a hunch, a supposition.’

The inspector leaned back, sniffing the air.

‘Smell that? I believe it is the
bourride
. Colonel, you’re in for a treat.’ He offered the bottle. ‘A
petit vin blanc
?’

‘Yes, thank you. It’s good wine. Local?’

‘From the Luberon. Our wines have greatly improved in the past decade. So, to go back to your supposition, Colonel. The question I ask myself is this. If this man was a would-be assassin and if Brossard killed him in self-defence, why did he take his money and papers?’

‘Perhaps to make it look like a simple murder and robbery? In that way no one would connect him with it.’

‘Could be,’ the inspector said. ‘But he forgot something. Something we
haven’t
made public. There was a revolver in the glove compartment of the dead man’s car. It was fitted with a silencer. Not the sort of weapon a Canadian tourist would carry on a European holiday. In addition, it was doctored. No serial numbers. In addition the dead man’s clothes, his trousers, shirt, jacket, were French, not American or Canadian.’

The inspector broke off, putting down his glass and holding up his hands in a gesture of welcome.

‘Ah! Here it comes, the first part of our
bourride
. And Madame herself! Colonel Roux, may I introduce you to Mère Michèle, one of our national treasures.’

Mère Michèle, accompanying the waiter who carried the first portion of
bourride
, shook hands with both the inspector and the colonel, then smilingly watched the serving of the soup.

‘
Bon appetit
, Messieurs.’

When Mère Michèle had moved on, Roux sampled the
bourride
. ‘Delicious. We shouldn’t spoil it by talking business. But I must say I was fascinated by your comment about the dead man’s gun and his clothes. Possibly the Canadian driver’s licence was to throw us off the scent. It’s more likely he was French and a relative of some of the Dombey Jews who were all French citizens.’

The inspector shook his head, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘A relative? I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

‘I saw the corpse. It was not circumcised.’

‘You’re sure?’

The inspector nodded. ‘Quite sure. We ran a check to see if he was someone with a criminal record, a professional, hired by this group. I sent his fingerprints to Paris and I got a telex from the
préfecture
saying that there is no record of them on any files, including those of the Canadian Mounted Police.’

For Roux, at that moment, the restaurant sounds, the muted noise of conversation in the larger room, the rattle of cutlery, the thud of doors as the waiters exited from the kitchen, all blended into a confused and distant roar. The
préfecture
in Paris. He stared dully at Inspector Cholet who, smiling, watched an approaching waiter.

‘Ah! Here comes the second part of our
bourride
, Colonel. I believe today’s fish is turbot.’

18

Father Jérôme, the
père hospitalier
, crossed the courtyard of the Abbaye de St  Cros and entered the
atelier
. Twenty monks sat at their potting wheels. Six others were at drawing tables, working on design. Brother Julius and the Abbot were in conversation at the far end of the room. The Abbot saw him enter.

‘Yes, Jérôme?’

‘There is an army officer in the visitors’ room, Father Abbot. He wishes to speak to you. He gave me this card.’

The Abbot glanced at the card, then put it in the sleeve of his robe. He turned to Brother Julius. ‘The shipment for Dijon,’ he said. ‘Let me know when it’s ready.’

‘Yes, Father Abbot.’

‘Take him up to my study,’ the Abbot told Jérôme. ‘I’m going there now.’

As he crossed the yard and climbed the winding stairs, the Abbot took out the card and looked at it again. Gendarmerie. Army police. This new judge has transferred the dossier to the army. And it’s on the dossier that Brossard has stayed with us in the past.

Dom Vladimir entered his office and went over to the rough table that served as his desk. He put the ceramics order from the Galeries Lebrun in Dijon into the box with letters to be answered. As he did, he heard a knock. He went to the door and opened it, extending his hand in welcome to the visitor.

‘Colonel Roux? Good morning. Please, come in. Take a seat. What may I do for you?’

He approved of this officer. Dress uniform, gloves, impeccable
tenue
. Dom Vladimir had, in a former life, served in a cavalry regiment.

‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sir, but the gendarmerie has been assigned the task of finding the fugitive, Pierre Brossard. I came to see you, to ask if you can help us with our inquiries.’

‘Brossard. Yes. What did you want to know?’

‘I’m told he was a guest here for a period of almost a month, earlier this year?’

‘Were you indeed?’ Dom Vladimir’s tone was cold. ‘May I ask who gave you this information?’

‘I’m afraid that’s confidential, sir.’

‘Well, as you may know, Colonel, in most monastic orders, including ours, asylum offered to a traveller who requests it is also a confidential matter. So, before I answer your question, I’d like to know if you were told this story by a lay or a clerical source.’

‘A lay source, sir. But a completely reliable one.’

Dom Vladimir raised his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘Tell me. Who is a completely reliable source in matters of this kind? What do you know about this “source’s” prejudices or priorities?’

‘I believe that this informant
is
disinterested, sir.’

‘No informant is completely disinterested, Colonel. To clarify matters, let me tell you
my
prejudices. I am the son of White Russian aristocrats. I was a servant of the Vichy Government before I took Holy Orders and I believe that God’s mercy is superior to man’s justice. I suppose that last belief, or prejudice, if you will, is the most important one in this case.’