A Man in Uniform (29 page)

He laid his hands on the necessary file instantly; Dubon supposed he had been consulting it often of late. He put it on his desk and then pulled out the letter that he and Dubon had examined together before, and gestured to Dubon to sit down. The sentence that ended with the words “that bastard D” was at the close of a paragraph and it now clearly read “that bastard Dreyfus.”

“Someone has tampered with it,” Picquart said. He looked back at Dubon.

“Colonel, there is a man who comes to see the major occasionally. A rather seedy character, seems to be called Leblanc …”

“You mean Rivaud, the forger. This is his handiwork?”

“He has been here several times recently.”

“Henry is the only other person who has a key to that filing cabinet,” Picquart said, shaking his head.

The two men looked down at the letter. It was a hugely risky move, Dubon thought to himself. The original judges at the court martial had been shown in secret a letter with only an initial. If it ever came to a second trial and the improved letter became part of the public record, the inconsistency would be glaring. Henry was relying on the judges’ silence. Evidently, he felt his superiors would agree that the end justified the means.

Picquart, meanwhile, had been doing his own thinking and now came to the conclusion Dubon had reached so joyfully on Saturday. “And the new letter. It must be a forgery too,” he said almost sadly.

He opened the file again and pulled out the Italian’s letter, and then produced another sheet in the same hand. Its content was banal, a letter of thanks after some kind of party, but Picquart must have dug it out of the files for comparison. He and Dubon studied the two at length; both were written on onionskin paper faintly lined in blue, and the handwriting on the thank-you note looked identical to that of the incriminating letter of warning.

“Well, if it’s a forgery, it will take sharper eyes than ours to unmask it,” Picquart finally said. “What a mess.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Headquarters wants this file closed once and for all. I have orders to find both motive and stronger evidence. And last week the evidence showed up through ‘the usual route.’ My superiors were pleased. I can’t go back to headquarters now and say I suspect the authenticity of the letter, not unless I can really prove it’s a fraud. And if I am not going to help them build their case against Dreyfus, then I had better be able to hand them another spy.”

“Another spy, Colonel?”

“The
real
spy, Dubon. I increasingly think we are talking of the real spy, who may still be at work. I’ll work on finding the spy; you can start by putting together a file to exonerate Dreyfus.”

“Me, Colonel?”

“Yes, you, Dubon. The rue Saint-Dominique is not going to believe the second man is guilty unless we show the first is innocent. The generals are obsessed with Dreyfus, just like Henry. I am giving you a chance to prove yourself now. You do the job.”

“Yes, of course, Colonel. And where would you suggest I start?”

“Start with this,” Picquart said, indicating the new letter. “We have to prove it’s a forgery. Go directly to Rivaud. Get him to confess. He doesn’t need to name Henry; indeed, I would prefer if he didn’t. Just get him to explain how he did it, so I have grounds to burn the pestilent thing. Here, take it with you,” he said, pulling an envelope from his desk and slipping the paper inside.

“Yes, Colonel.” Dubon reached for the envelope. He now had the Italian letter in his hands. Dare he ask for more? “But if I am going to
work to exonerate the captain, I do need to see the original evidence too. I need to see the bordereau.”

Picquart hesitated but then turned again to the filing cabinet and pulled out a second file.

“It’s the original. There is a photograph over at the rue Saint-Dominique, I believe, but this is all I have. Here you go.”

He passed it across his desk and Dubon began reading the piece of paper that had started it all. It bore no place line, date, or signature and ran as follows:

The latter is extremely difficult to come by and I can only have it for a few days. The War Ministry sent a fixed number to the Corps and the Corps is responsible for them. Each officer has to remit his copy after maneuvers. So, if you wish to take from it what interests you and then keep it for me, I will come to retrieve it. Unless you would like me to have it copied in its entirety and just send you the copy.

“So, an artillery officer about to depart on maneuvers …” Dubon said as he finished reading.

“Yes, that’s why they fingered Dreyfus initially. He fit the bill.”

“But others must have fit the bill too.”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” the colonel replied.

“Can I make a copy of this, Colonel?”

“You mean photograph it? Henry’s shown you our darkroom, has he?” Picquart paused again, but then made up his mind. “No, Captain. We have had far too much copying going on. If you feel the need to consult it again, you can always ask me. Work on the forgery angle and get that Italian’s letter back to me as soon as possible. I want to be able to seek permission to destroy it by the end of the week, before somebody leaks
it
to the press.”

Dubon was rising to leave when the colonel asked, almost as an afterthought: “And I think now I should see your order papers, Captain.”

Dubon froze and said nothing.

“Did you ever show those papers to Henry last week?” Picquart asked in a tone that suggested he knew the answer was no.

“Colonel, I am very sorry, but the thing is, my papers have been destroyed,” he replied.

“Destroyed? Dubon, you told me your papers were in your winter uniform. Were you lying to me?”

“No, no, Colonel. My papers were in my winter uniform when you asked for them last week. And then I went home and my wife …” Was it realistic to think he could afford a wife on a captain’s pay? “My wife had sent the uniform to the cleaner’s and the trouble, you see, well, the papers went through the wash. Illegible. Just a pulp.”

The colonel now gave him a long, appraising look.

“You are a good officer, Dubon. I think you want to know the truth about this case as much as I do.” He pulled a sheet of blank paper toward him. “I am now going to write a letter to the rue Saint-Dominique. Under the circumstances, I will ask Personnel for your entire file, and for a new copy of your orders. And …” He paused for a moment to let his next words sink in. “… you will deliver this letter yourself.”

Picquart was testing him.

“We should get an answer tomorrow, Wednesday at the outside,” the colonel concluded as he began to write.

He was giving Dubon forty-eight hours to expose the forgery before he had to prove his identity—or disappear.

Dubon returned to his desk, pulled his tunic on, and was just putting his cap on his head when he found Hermann at his side. Startled, Dubon stepped back. The man always seemed to appear from nowhere.

“Are you leaving, Dubon?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You are gone, then?”

“I’ll be back later.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps you were going for good.”

The next day Dubon was sitting at his own desk in his real office, trying on false beards and asking Lebrun to judge which was the most effective, when the English detective walked through the door.

“And just who exactly are you dressing up as now?”

The accent was heavy, but the sarcasm came through loud and clear.

“You, actually. I am dressing up as you.
I am dressing up as you
 …” Dubon said a second time, trying to copy the English detective’s accent. Dubon had not seen him since their exchange of notes the previous week.

“You don’t look the least bit like me,” the detective protested. “And why would you want to, anyway?”

“I am not trying to look like you specifically. I am going to visit a witness disguised as an English detective in the pay of the Dreyfus family.”

“Why can’t you just visit your witness dressed as a French lawyer in the pay of a friend of the family?” Brown asked.

“You mean dressed as myself? Can’t do that because the man already knows me as a military clerk.”

“Ah, yes, your other costume.”

“I asked Lebrun if he would do the job for me, but he declined.”

“I have my professional ethics to consider,” Lebrun explained rather haughtily.

“You’re a clerk, Lebrun. You can’t be disbarred for impersonating somebody.”

“No, but I’ll never be called to the bar if I am caught impersonating a lawyer before I have even started.”

“Do you plan to become a lawyer? I had no idea.” The notion that Lebrun might have professional ambitions was so novel that Dubon turned his head sharply to look up at his clerk and found the beard slipping. “Damn this thing.”

He had concocted his scheme the day before at the Statistical Section and run a much-edited version by Picquart that morning before he had gone back to his own apartment to change. The trick was not to approach Rivaud from the side of his paymasters but to offer him more pay from new masters.

It was simple enough, or so it had seemed to him as he walked confidently up the rue Saint-Honoré in a rumpled linen suit he had pulled from the back of his closet. It was a good beginning. Next he needed something transforming—like a beard.

“Where did you get it? It’s horrible,” the detective said.

“I bought it in the costume department at Galeries Lafayette. Cost me two francs.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I will outfit you with a professional disguise that may actually fool your quarry and you can tell me what you are up to.”

The detective opened the briefcase he was carrying, took out a small wooden box, and, sweeping Dubon’s selection of beards out of the way, unfolded it on the desk. It contained a few tiny bottles, thick colored crayons of face paint, and various strands of hair. The detective pulled out one of the bottles and held it up.

“Spirit gum. We’ll give you some whiskers that stay in place and look real.”

“All right,” said Dubon, and, waving Lebrun out of the office, he began to explain the conundrum of the new Italian letter.

“Things are moving fast,” Brown said once he had finished. “You saw
Le Soleil.
”

“Yes. Your client must be well pleased, despite the tone of it.” Le Goff, on the other hand, was angry. Dubon had just replied to his resentful telegram, promising better and truer information soon.

“Very good news,” the detective agreed. “Grounds for appeal. Monsieur Dreyfus is going to petition for one this week.”

Dubon smiled to himself. The captain’s brother might be able to take credit for getting an appeal after all. “That’s good. But if there is going to be a second trial, we don’t want some bit of paper floating around that affirms the captain was spying for both the Germans and the Italians.”

“Better yet, we want to find the real spy,” Brown replied.

“I am working on that. So is the head of the section. He’s one of the few who has kept an open mind about the case. And in the meantime, I am going to visit a forger.”

“The forger of this document that names the captain?”

“Yes. I am going to suggest to him that the document is known to be false and that the Dreyfus family will pay handsomely for proof that it’s a forgery. I’d also like to know if he’s responsible for tampering with any other evidence.”

“You plan to buy him?” the detective asked.

“He’s not a savory character. That’s why I am disguised as you: I thought he would feel more at home with a private detective than a barrister.”

“Thanks very much. And the clothes? You thought they were appropriate for an English detective?”

Dubon looked down at his old suit. “This is mine actually. An old favorite. My wife wouldn’t let me wear it anymore, but I refuse to throw it out.”

“I would never wear such a garment on assignment,” Brown said, as he began spreading spirit gum over Dubon’s chin. “It wouldn’t appear professional.”

“I am aiming for a much lower type of detective, I assure you, Monsieur Brown,” Dubon replied.

“Stop talking. I’m going to start applying hair now.”

A half hour later, when Brown held up a small mirror he also kept in his case, Dubon saw himself transformed. The detective had scattered a few tufts of long whiskers across Dubon’s face; the effect was aging and very unattractive. He had also parted Dubon’s hair right down the middle and slicked it flat on either side of his head. Dubon was proud of the continuing abundance of his hair, but the detective had somehow managed to make it look thin and greasy. Finally, he produced a pair of glasses from his kit.