Tug of War (4 page)

‘Don’t recall hearing any of this penny-dreadful, Perils-of-Pauline stuff from Nevil?’

‘No, sir. These skirmishings post-dated the premature closing of the case.’ Joe did not attempt to hide his disapproval.

Redmayne chose not to pick up the implied criticism of the military pressure which he was quite aware had been applied. ‘And the child is now loosely under the protection of your sister? A
public-spirited gesture. Admirable woman! But I can’t see why her self-sacrifice should extend to and involve
you
, Sandilands.’

‘Oh, people do occasionally talk me into undertaking unwelcome projects,’ Joe said genially. ‘Orlando gathered his remaining four children together with his current mistress,
put them aboard a train and went off to the south of France as he does every year. He carouses all summer at a sort of awful artists’ jamboree – returning in the autumn. He hobnobs with
the likes of Georges Braque, Matisse, Picasso . . . Augustus John, I shouldn’t wonder . . . All egging each other on. At this time of year, my sister travels in the opposite direction, going
north home to Scotland, and Dorcas, discovering this, kicked up a fuss. She thinks of herself as a Child of the South, which, indeed, she very much appears . . . girls with her dark looks are thick
on the ground in Arles . . . and I was cajoled into escorting her down through France to whichever villa they’ve all descended on and there I hope she will rejoin her father.’

‘A sorry tale. I fear you allow yourself to be used too readily, Sandilands. Disappointing that you have let yourself become so embroiled in
that
family’s affairs. They must
all, inevitably, be tainted in
some
minds . . .’ Redmayne swept a warning glance up to the ceiling. This was his way of referring to the shadier elements of the government departments
concerned with aspects of national security who were rumoured to have offices complete with the latest in listening technology situated in remote parts of the building. ‘. . .tainted with the
scurrilous behaviour and treachery of that woman,’ he finished with tight-lipped distaste.

Joe had noticed that the few people who needed to refer to Dame Beatrice did so in a hushed voice and called her ‘that woman’. The words ‘espionage’,
‘blackmail’ and ‘traitor’ were always in mind but never spoken.

‘Hum . . . Look, take the girl with you.’

This was an order not a suggestion. ‘Might work in our favour. Give an impression of a cosy family visit, policeman on holiday with his niece, relaxed, convivial. You could well learn a
lot more – and faster – that way. And let’s not forget Houdart Fils! He’s, as you calculated, sixteen.’ Redmayne smiled with satisfaction. ‘Does this Joliffe
child speak any French?’

Joe recalled with dismay the fast and colloquial street French Dorcas had picked up trailing about after her father in the loucher parts of the Riviera. ‘Fluently,’ he said
diplomatically.

‘She does? Good. Yes, this might all work out to our advantage. Look here, don’t hesitate to telephone us if there’s anything we can supply. Full back-up guaranteed.
Shan’t be at my desk myself unfortunately. Like your sensible sister, I’m going north for a week or two.’ He glanced at the dramatic Victorian paintings of stags at bay and
frothing Scottish salmon streams hanging on his panelled walls and sighed with satisfaction. ‘But there’ll be someone here keeping communications open.’

‘Telephone?’ said Joe morosely. ‘Do they have the telephone down there?’

‘They certainly do. Halfway between Paris and Reims, you’d expect it. Things have changed, Sandilands, since you were dodging German shells over there eight years ago. No one like
the French when it comes to reconstruction. Still, when you come to think of it – they’ve had a lot of practice, poor souls. Look at it this way – sorting out
Charles-Auguste’s little problem is the teeniest bit of last-minute reconstruction. Least we can do, wouldn’t you say?’

At this point Joe, mystified and discouraged, sighed and surrendered the pass.

‘Know anything about shell-shock? Or the condition we must now call “neurasthenia” or “war psychosis”?’

‘I’ve encountered cases, sir. I can’t say I’ve made a study of it.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to. We have, naturally. In fact I’ve managed to put together a few papers here outlining the very latest thinking on the condition. Make yourself
familiar with them. It may help you in your enquiry.’

‘My enquiry? And does it have a subject, my enquiry?’

‘Of course. But not what I gather to be your usual kind of subject. No rotting corpse on offer, no member of the aristocracy done to death in mysterious circumstances. No, the reverse, in
fact. You’ll be helping to solve the mystery of someone who’s decidedly (and rather inconveniently)
alive.
’

He produced from the file a cutting from a French newspaper. The article occupied the whole of the front page and carried a large portrait photograph. Joe took it and translated the headline.
‘
Do you know this man?’
He studied the photograph for a few moments and looked up. ‘Of course I know him. Doesn’t everybody?’

‘What! Are you serious?’

‘But his face is everywhere in London at the moment. On billboards ten feet high. It’s Ronald Colman.’

Pleased to have puzzled his boss he added kindly, ‘The film actor, sir, but a Ronald Colman after a heavy night out on the tiles, you’d say. Looks rather beaten up. You haven’t
seen him in
Her Night Of Romance
?
. . . Lady Windermere’s Fan
? And most recently
Beau Geste
? Oh, an excellent film! I do recommend it. I’m sure Lady Redmayne could
tell you all about him. The gentleman is English by birth, wounded in the war and now making a name for himself on the silver screen in America.’

‘Do be serious, Commander.’

Joe smiled. ‘The resemblance is, actually, quite striking.’ He looked again at the finely drawn, handsome face with its neat moustache.

‘Interesting. Ramble on, will you. First impressions are usually worth hearing. When they’re not flippantly delivered.’

‘No, I agree, sir, this could not possibly be a screen actor. This man is unaware of or indifferent to the camera. He’s not seeing the photographer, you’d say. He’s not
looking in that slightly embarrassed way we have to the side or past the lens or narcissistically into it. His expression is impossible to read. A mask. There are signs of a wound along his jaw and
I’d say he was about two stones underweight.’ He began to read out snatches from the accompanying text. ‘The man of mystery was found wandering around a railway station . . .
It’s thought one of a batch of late-release prisoners from a German prisoner-of-war camp for the mentally ill . . . Poor chap. That would account for his vacant expression. The man cannot
speak, has lost his memory and has been passed along from one asylum to another, fetching up at Reims where he is thought to have originated. The director of the asylum . . . um . . . from a swift
perusal of this report I’d say he would seem to be a splendid fellow . . . has interested himself in the stranger’s case and taken this unusual step to try to establish his identity and
locate his family.’

Joe looked up more cheerfully. ‘Well, I can’t see a problem there. A man with such striking looks must have been instantly identified, wouldn’t you think?’

Redmayne sighed. ‘And
there’s
our problem, Sandilands. Would you believe – over a thousand families from all over France have claimed him! They’ve mobbed the
asylum demanding to take him home with them. And, as you might guess, most of the claimants are female! Mothers, wives and sisters by the dozen. All desperate to get their man – or perhaps
any
man – back from the front after all these years. Poor devils.’

‘Easy enough to rule out most of the candidates, I’d have thought. Just a matter of process. Now I’d have –’

‘Yes, yes. Whatever
you
can think of, the French authorities have already done. Height five foot eleven, fair hair, blue eyes. Well, in a country of largely dark-haired, dark-eyed
inhabitants, those facts ruled out ninety per cent of the bidders for a start. He didn’t feature in their Bertillon files so – no criminal record. Unless he went uncaught during his
career of course. There’s always that. The French police only record the sportsmen they’ve actually apprehended and put behind bars.’

‘Fingerprints, sir? Have they explored the possibilities? I know the system hasn’t captured the French imagination – so much invested in the Bertillon recording method –
but surely a comparison would be possible and most revealing? I understand their police laboratory in Lyon to be in advance of anything we can supply ourselves here in London.’

Joe heard the touch of eagerness in his own voice and sighed.

Redmayne hurried on, playing his fish with confidence. ‘Other physical details like limbs broken before the war . . . presence or absence of . . . eliminated a few more candidates and the
upshot is – the authorities were left with a solid core of four claimants who will not be discouraged. They are all perfectly certain that the man belongs to them. Here’s a
list.’

Joe took the sheet of paper and read out one by one the names and addresses of the claimants. ‘Number one: Madame Guy Langlois. A grocer’s wife – or widow, do you suppose? From
a village near Reims. Claims to be his mother. Her son, Albert, disappeared during the first battle of the Marne.’

‘“Missing in action. Presumed to be dead,”’ supplied Redmayne. ‘But no
body
was ever found and no identification medallion handed in.’

‘Number two: a Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges of Reims, claiming a “certain relationship” with the mystery man from before the war, vows she can identify him to
everyone’s satisfaction by particular physical characteristics not yet revealed to the public. “A certain relationship”? Rather coy phrasing from our confrères?’

‘Yes. Family newspaper. Probably means he was her what d’ye call it? . . . her pimp? And the “satisfaction” she promises would undoubtedly be her own. Chap probably made
off with her money in the way of those gentlemen and the lady wants to retrieve some of it.’

‘Number three: a whole family, evidently. The Tellancourts. Small farmers from the Reims area. Brother and sister adamant that this is their older brother Thomas.’

‘Some urgency to their claim. Sad case. Lost almost everything in the war. Father and mother are still alive and equally certain of their identification. They present a strong claim. Whole
village has come out in support. Papa Tellancourt is very ill and not expected to last much longer. They are vociferous in their cries for an early decision. They were actually caught in the act of
smuggling the chap out of the institution,’ he smiled, ‘in their eagerness to acquire him.’

‘Number four. Ah . . . Now I see why I’m here and about to ruin my first holiday in three years!’ Joe cocked an amused eyebrow at the Brigadier. ‘Madame Clovis Houdart.
Of the champagne house near Epernay The invalid could be her husband, Clovis, posted missing in 1917. Do you wish, at this point, to declare an interest, Sir Douglas?’

‘Well, of course!’ He rapped sharply on the desk. ‘But an interest in finding out the truth! You must hear, Sandilands, the facts of the matter . . . be
aware
of the
pressures and expectations then you won’t fall foul of them. I was approached by my friend, Charles-Auguste, when he heard of the involvement of the British authorities. He appeals to me to
do what I can to ensure that the widow’s claim is rejected. Proved false. He is quite certain that the man in question is not his cousin. And he is deeply suspicious of the widow’s
motivation in all this. Aline. Her name’s Aline. It’s no secret that the two in-laws do not get on well but more than that I can’t tell you. They’re perfectly polite to each
other in their French way but you never can tell what’s bubbling under the surface, can you? Awkward, what!’

‘Sir, it occurs to me that we have the same theme running through each of these claims. And I don’t refer to the affection they may or may not have for a dear and supposed departed
one.’

‘Go on.’

‘A very prosaic and unromantic but deeply compelling motive. And particularly so in these hard times in France. Money, sir. I fear each of these claims could be based on financial
gain.’

‘What an unworthy thought! Had the same one myself. Mm . . . yes . . . been researching this. Save you some time. If he is ever identified to the authorities’ satisfaction, the man
will, of course, even though he’s out of his head and unaware of anything, be qualified to receive a very generous allowance from the state. A sort of war pension, calculated from the time of
his vanishing to the present day and beyond. Froggies are quite a bit more open-handed than we are when it comes to paying for damages. His family, whoever they are proved to be, can count on
receiving – shall we say – eight years’ back pay. A fortune to some of the names on that list.’

‘Park the poor fellow in a rocking chair in the corner and they can go on drawing his pension as long as they can keep him alive,’ said Joe. ‘I would expect he qualifies for a
disability allowance? But your friend Houdart? Some other financial advantage there, surely, I would guess? If the widow’s claim were to be upheld, “Clovis” would be restored to
the family estates and Charles-Auguste’s presence would be in question, probably redundant. “Thank you so much, dear cousin, but you may leave now. I will do all that is necessary from
now on.” Not confident I could navigate the intricacies of the Gallic laws of inheritance but obviously spanners would be thrown into works with a resounding clang.’

‘In a nutshell. Yes. It may come down to inheritance.’

‘But you mentioned something, sir . . . just now . . . which intrigued me. You say your friend contacted you with his plea for assistance
after
the police and the British
authorities were made aware? We may assume his approach to be subsequent to – and perhaps dependent on – the official representation? I’m wondering why they should be bothering
you with this affair at all.’