Tug of War (6 page)

In the end Joe had reduced their visits to two places of remembrance. Mons where it had all started and Buzancy, not very distant, where for him it had all finished in that bloody July four
months before the end. He’d chosen Buzancy because it represented the combination, at times uneasy, of the allied forces. French, British and American had all fought here. But, above all,
he’d chosen it because the small stone monument, a cairn in his eyes, had been hastily built up from material to hand after the battle; it was simple and affecting and bore no heartbreaking
lists of the dead. Erected by the 17th French Division in honour of the 15th Scottish, it marked the place on the highest point of the plateau where had fallen the Scottish soldier who had advanced
the farthest. A simple two-line inscription said it all, Joe thought:

Now they’d arrived in Reims, he was determined to put nostalgic thoughts aside. Put out though he was by the hold-up, he was cheered by the sight of so much determined gaiety around them
echoing his mood.

‘But look at the town now, Dorcas! It’s almost back together again. A triumph of civilization over barbarism you might say. That’s worth celebrating. Sit back and enjoy the
show! And tomorrow I’ll take you to see something really special. Something symbolizing for me and for many others, I know, the spirit of this part of France.’

They paused to clap and cheer as another cart creaked past, overflowing with flowers, fruit and vegetables, the produce of the market gardeners of Cormontreuil.

‘I’ll show you an angel. Not just any old angel. You know . . . holy-looking . . . eyes raised piously to heaven . . . suffering a frightful stomach-ache. This one is smiling.
You’ll find him by the great door to the cathedral. He’s smiling at someone at his elbow, caught, you’d say, in the middle of a conversation, or even telling a joke. And I always
look for the glass of champagne in his hand. No – it isn’t there, but you can imagine.

‘And the Germans didn’t have it all their own way! In their hurried retreat from the town – they’d been here for four days – some of the troops got left behind.
They were carousing and failed to hear the bugle sound. Sixty of them were taken prisoner single-handedly by the innkeeper. There are tales of French derring-do on every street.’

‘How about a spot of English dash on this street?’ Dorcas suggested. ‘Look – there’s a gap between the floats – they’re having problems with that
tractor and the policeman who stopped us seems to be rather distracted by the lightly clad young ladies from the Printemps display. Why don’t you . . .?’

Joe had already put his foot down and was surging forward through the gap.

‘Left here and second right,’ shouted Dorcas and, for a moment, Joe was almost glad she was aboard.

He appeared intrigued to hear of Joe’s involvement in the later stages of the war with Military Intelligence and his months of working as liaison officer with some distinguished French
generals. His eye was drawn for a moment to the discreet ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur which Joe had fixed to his jacket as they mounted the stairs. Joe thought Bonnefoye looked too young to
have participated in the war but, from his bearing, he judged he might have at some stage undertaken a military formation. He decided to treat him with the clear-cut good manners of a fellow
soldier.

They were politely offered refreshment. Tea? Coffee? Joe deferred to Dorcas who, to his annoyance, went through a pantomime of wide-eyed ‘What was that, Uncle Joe?’ and then produced
a triumphant: ‘
Café
. I’d like
café
, please.’

A tray was sent for and the two men settled to business. Files were produced. Dorcas opened her book.

With a few pointed questions the Inspector satisfied himself that Joe had made himself familiar with the facts of the case and was taking it seriously. Joe, in turn, filled in some gaps in his
information and noted down the time of the interview the Frenchman had arranged for that afternoon with the doctor in charge of the case. He obtained further details of the four claimants and the
Inspector’s written permission to interview them at the addresses given if he wished. This was handed over with only the slightest of hesitations. A hesitation which was, however, picked up
at once by Joe. With a slanting glance of complicity he took the sheet Bonnefoye was handing him, folded it negligently, sighed and tucked it away in his file. He made a phantom tick against an
imaginary checklist on the front page of his file and directed his full attention back over the desk again. After a further few minutes of polite sparring, Joe nodded and closed his file, putting
his pen away in his pocket.

‘Good. Good,’ he said, smiling. ‘Well, I’m sure I shall be able to supply the help I think you’re seeking.’ He stirred in his seat and raised an eyebrow,
catching Dorcas’s attention. ‘Ready, my dear?’ He turned back to Bonnefoye, halfway out of his seat, hand extended. ‘Oh, before we go, perhaps you could just give me a clue
as to what the position of the French authorities – the Pensions Ministry, shall we say? – might be in this affair should our poor unfortunate prove to be an Englishman?’

To his surprise, the Inspector put back his head and laughed. ‘I think you know that very well but I will confirm: they will say thank you very much, and post the parcel on to you. Thus
saving the department thousands of francs in a country where resources are short! But a positive identification would be most welcome on other grounds. You will be aware of the overheated interest
of the press?’

Joe nodded.

‘Naturally, everyone from the Senator downwards is under pressure to resolve the problem. And the claimant families are increasingly a force to be reckoned with as they thread their way
through the intricacies of bureaucracy, learning a trick or two as they go. They are showing a determination, a tenacity and a talent for trouble-making which no one could have anticipated. I can
tell you – they’re time-consuming, demanding to the point of aggression and they’re becoming a damned nuisance! They’ve found out about each other’s claims and
competition’s hotting up. Third battle of the Marne about to explode about our ears?’ The Inspector shuddered delicately.

‘I hear they’re even taking bets on the outcome back in England,’ said Joe sympathetically.

The Inspector’s neat black eyebrows signalled mock horror. ‘Not over here to nobble the favourite . . . fix the odds . . . I hope, Sandilands? Seriously, sir, I must emphasize the
folly of becoming too closely involved with any of these individuals.’ He held up a hand to deflect Joe’s instant rebuttal. ‘I do not exaggerate the difficulties. To have survived
with their case intact to this point, they must of necessity be determined characters. You must appreciate that. I speak from personal experience when I tell you that they are
involving
and,
each in his or her different way, convincing. And they are spreading their net, gaining public support for their own faction. They seem to have tapped into a seam or a mood of national angst
– if I may use a German word – and every Frenchman and woman is passionate to know the outcome. There’s more riding on this than the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe.’

‘And, of course, the whole world loves a mystery,’ said Joe.

‘True. But the moment it’s discovered that the chap is really François Untel, a deserter from Nulleville, then the brouhaha will die off quickly. Even faster if he proves to
be Joe (I beg your pardon!) Bloggs from London. As you say – it’s the mystery that enthrals. The solution rarely proves to be of equal fascination.’

‘Yes. Take your meaning,’ drawled Joe. ‘And what a letdown it would be, were we ever to reveal the identity of Jack the Ripper.’

Bonnefoye smiled. ‘I am heartened to hear that Scotland Yard is finally in possession of it. We were hoping you would show yourselves a little more effective in the pursuit of our own
puzzle,’ he said. ‘We will all heave a sigh of relief. We await with interest the outcome of your inspection this afternoon, Commander. Who knows? Perhaps by tomorrow you will be
booking an extra passage back over the Channel? And I shall be putting this file away and planning to counter some real crime!’

Joe stood up. ‘Well, let’s remember what Uncle Helmut von Moltke said, shall we? “No plan survives contact with the enemy for more than twenty-four hours.” Oh, I say . .
. do you have a place where a chap might . . .?’

‘Of course. Let me show you.’

Bonnefoye led him to the door and pointed down the corridor. Sighing, Dorcas looked at her watch, opened her book again and waited.

‘I liked him,’ she said. ‘Good-looking and he has lovely teeth. I wasn’t happy to see you making such a fool of him. Are you always as devious as this?’

‘What on earth can you mean?’

‘Stop it, Joe! Come off it! I’ve a jolly good mind to tell Aunt Lydia that you’ve set me up as some sort of apprentice Mata Hari. She won’t be pleased! “The child
doesn’t speak French” indeed! How could you know he was going to make a phone call the minute you had your back turned?’

‘Did he? Well, I never! I wonder who he rang with such urgency?’

‘Two calls actually. You were gone a very long time. The first was to a superior, judging by his respectful tone.’ Her face lit with mischief. ‘He was passing on his first
impressions of the English policeman. I understood most of it . . .
dur à  cuire . .
. would that be flattering? He warned whoever it was at the end of the wire that he should
not consider attempting bribery. He judged you unsusceptible to that sort of thing. I was longing to tell him you’re really about as straight as a corkscrew! But, dumbly, I just had to listen
to this ill-informed judgement. The second was to the doctor at the mental hospital confirming the appointment and asking him to spruce up the patient and make him look as attractive a proposition
as he could.’

‘Spruce him up? Huh! They seem to think I’m going to sign a form or two, pop this man into the back seat and drive him straight back home to Blighty.’

‘Yes, I think so. And if that’s what’s going to happen, you might as well put in for the bribe, don’t you think? I couldn’t hear the doctor’s response but he
didn’t seem to like the suggestion. The Inspector was getting exasperated with him.’

‘Always useful to know these things. Look, I think before we check into the hotel, I’ll buy you a hot chocolate. Or a lemonade? Both? There’s a
chocolatier
over there.
And we can pore over the maps and work out my best route to the hospital. I imagine you’d rather stay behind and have a rest? I’ll tell the receptionist to watch out for you and send
you up some dinner. I’m sure that’ll be all right.’

‘Joe?’

‘Absolutely not! A mental institution is no place for a young girl. Don’t even think of it!’

From the reports, Joe had pictured a dour, earnest and competent clinician in a long white coat. He was surprised and intrigued by the figure who had come himself to the main door of the
hospital to greet them. Impeccably dressed in a grey suit and formal stiff collar, Patrice Varimont was short and bustling, radiating energy and good humour. His dark hair was parted precisely in
the centre and controlled by a touch of pomade, his cravat was pinned down by a discreet regimental tie-pin. Joe noticed that all the workers they passed on their way up to his office, medical and
civilian, quickened their pace on catching sight of him and murmured a respectful salute before hurrying on.

Varimont settled behind the desk in his well-ordered room, rearranged a neat pile of folders and smoothed down one side of his trim moustache and then the other. He glanced at a wall clock.
‘Five o’clock! Perfect timing! We ’ll have English tea.’ And, without a signal given, the door opened to admit an orderly carrying a tray. ‘One more cup please,
Eugène.’

Eugène nodded and went off at the double to fetch it.

When the doctor was happy with the parade of crockery and the timing of the brew, he invited Dorcas to officiate and, while she busied herself happily with this familiar task, he launched at
once into the case.

‘Before I take you to see the patient, a briefing, I think? Tell me, to save our time, what you already know of our poor unfortunate.’

Joe outlined his knowledge, rather underplaying the extent of it and claiming no acquaintance with the medical aspects of shell-shock. ‘I am here, sir,’ he summarized, ‘to
explore the implications of your recent revelations regarding the man’s country of origin. To try to answer the question, “Is he English?” No more than that. If he proves to be
such, arrangements will be made to convey him to a suitable establishment over the Channel and the onus will then be on the English authorities to assign an identity. Tell me – apart from the
language used during the nightmare – are there any other indications that he may be something other than French? Many races took part in the war.’