The Cyclist (10 page)

He heard a faint acknowledgement greet his knocking, so he opened the door. The outer office was as large as his own was at the prefecture. A desk hovered next to the door of the inner office as if it was there to prevent entry, like some brooding, wooden guard-dog. Seated there was a woman, her hair up in a neat bun and her brown dress tidy and clean. A black metal typewriter stood on the desk and there was a small vase with flowers in as if to say the office was cheerful which he knew it never was. The constant visits by lawyers and criminals, criminals and lawyers in endless procession could never be anything but cheerless to Auguste and he wrinkled his nose at the thought.

‘Well,’ said the woman, ‘what brings the Inspector of Police to these corridors?’

She smiled a cold, lacklustre smile.

He said, ‘I need to see the Judge about a murder.’

‘So my mother’s favourite son needs his sister does he?’

‘Juliette, she only had one son and I was never her favourite.’

‘Now, now, Auguste. She spoke of you even in her dying breath. She never mentioned me.’

‘So you say in your endless bitterness. I did not come here to argue about such things. My God, I am here on business and I need to see the Judge.’

Her lips tightened and she said, ‘He is busy, Auguste.’

‘This is important, a murder.’

‘Well in that case, I will ask him.’

She stood. He stepped forward, close.

‘Juliette, can’t we stop all this? It is ten years since Maman died. Can’t we have peace between us?’

‘Stop what? I don’t understand. I have no problems.’

‘No problems? We haven’t spoken outside this office since she died.’

‘Why should I give you the satisfaction? She left it all to you. The house, the land, even her jewellery. And why?’

‘But you were in Berlin. Maman had not seen you for ten years. She believed you were secure.’

‘Secure? Married to a bankrupt? You turned her against me. Leaving it all to you was the final stroke. And when I came home? Nothing. I have nothing.’

‘Juliette, please.’

‘Wait there,’ she said.

She strode to the door and knocked. She disappeared inside, closing it behind her. Auguste watched as the door closed. He felt inured to this scene, it had replayed in a monotonous eternity for years. He was tired of it and it was still painful.

Auguste felt exhausted and weary of conflict, tired of the war and most of all, he wanted peace in his soul and conscience. The events of the last few days were wearing him to a frazzle. This silly woman twittering on about her inheritance and Bernadette murdered, with no culprit in sight unless it was Brunner.

And Monique? What had he taken on? Odette and he were risking everything for one child. If he stayed in charge here, he could surely save many more lives. But he knew he could never hand her over. He knew he would protect Pierre’s daughter. Whatever happened he would be there for her, though her father was not.

Presently, Juliette emerged.

She said, ‘Judge Dubois will see you now, Auguste.’

Dubois sat still as Auguste entered. He looked up. The Judge was a small round man, like his brother the Pathologist; Auguste thought of him as globular. He was bald and his head sweated even in cool weather. His dark blue suit made him look official and his gold-rimmed spectacles, intellectual, as he would have put it. The beard was grey as if the hair on his head had slipped and resided now on his face, sliding across his sweaty brow and descending to its final position. No smile adorned his plump lips.

‘Inspector?’

‘Judge Dubois. I came to report a murder and to advise you of the investigation so far.’

‘Yes, my brother telephoned me earlier.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, he thought I should know.’

‘But he was maybe premature. He hasn’t done the post mortem yet.’

‘Besides, I have the report from your office.’

‘Report sir?’ Auguste frowned.

‘Yes, about the prostitute.

‘What prostitute?’

‘Found outside your office, was she not?’

‘What report? I sent no report. I have just come from interviewing the only relative, the girl’s mother.’

‘Well, it is signed by Desour. You mean you didn’t even read it?’

‘Well, I...’

‘Ran, you seem to be slipping. You don’t even read the reports from your office, yet you come here in the middle of my constructing a judgement?’

‘The girl was no prostitute. I knew her. She was a student and a singer. A decent family.’

‘A singer? Opera?’

‘No, popular songs. Piaf and the like. She was changing jobs, to work in a bakery before the murder happened.’

‘She sang in bars? Not a prostitute? Seems a bit farfetched to me.’

‘I can vouch for her character. Believe me, she was not a prostitute. She was singing to earn money to support her mother who is crippled, and to pay for her studies.’

Auguste noticed his feelings of anger. He wanted to thump the desk and remonstrate, but he knew it was not the way to play this scene. Judge Dubois had the power here. Anger was neither relevant nor of value to him. This was a place of law and nothing more. Justice he thought was not the law. Law was a book with pages and justice was something less definable.

‘I know she was murdered and her body was naked. This sounds to me to be the sordid murder of a prostitute. Desour says so in the report. Have you changed your mind?’

Auguste wanted to tell him about La Bonne Auberge. He wanted to clarify the girl’s life, her purity, but nothing came now. It had been decided already. Bernadette, a voice like an angel and the body of a girl, had already been judged a harlot. He felt nauseated by the conceit, the arrogance of the man in front of him.

‘The report was premature. She left her mother’s home that evening and never returned.’

‘So you have some leads?

‘I think it may have been Brunner the SD Major.’

‘You have proof? Evidence? Without it, there is no case and frankly, the chance of indicting a German SD Major is non-existent. Germany has defeated us. They hold the power and any attempt to dissent will be seen as treason and result in death.’

‘He’s a killer.’

‘Prove it.’

‘I will have to work on it. I am seeing your brother the pathologist, this afternoon.’

‘Then do so. I want another full report in the morning. Until then you will pursue your investigation as you please.

Auguste made to leave,

‘Oh by the way. Perhaps you should leave this case for a younger man to cut his teeth on.’

‘Younger?’

‘Yes, Claude could perhaps run the police case and you might wish to oversee him.

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous?’

‘I am the senior officer here. It is up to me.’

‘No Inspector. It is up to me.

Auguste turned to leave.

‘You had better find your killer. If you don’t, perhaps Desour will need to be put in charge of the case.’

Their eyes met. Auguste detected the hostility and he knew there was no support here.

‘Oh, by the way,’ the Judge said, ‘I think you have more important things to attend to.’

‘Yes?’

‘You need to begin transferring those Jews to Drancy.’

‘It is going ahead early next month.’

‘Has it never occurred to you they might be right?’

‘In what respect?’

‘About the Jews taking our jobs and cheating us with high prices?’

‘They are people. They may have been too clever for the dull Germans to tolerate but the discrimination and degradation is not French. France has always had tolerance and treated everyone equally.’

‘You sound like a communist, Inspector.’

‘Liberty, equality and brotherhood. We have lost the first and last, have we lost the middle one too?’

‘As I said, you have more important things to attend to. Make sure you do. We have new masters and they do not tolerate bungling.’

For a moment, their eyes met. Dubois’ eyes held steel. Auguste looked away but he wondered as he left the office whether he should have defended Bernadette in stronger tones. She deserved better from her compatriots than to be labelled and discarded. It seemed to Auguste it was symptomatic of the capitulation of his country. They had lost respect for each other as if defeat brings with it a form of intolerance directed at anyone who was weaker.

As he drove back to the Prefecture, he found himself in a whirlpool of anger, hatred and injustice. He was determined to swim and not sink. He had family who needed him, depended upon him and he would no more succumb to these pressures now, than he would give in to his urge to flee. He felt he was there to stay and he would do the best he could as a Christian, a Catholic.

Chapter 7

1

To Auguste the world began to change. His secure base of work now seemed to have foundations of sand. He still clung to his morals, his beliefs and his conviction that justice was everything, like a man would cling to a crucifix when facing death. He did not intend to allow the Jewish internment to go as planned. He would enlist the help of the old Colonel and ensure the Jews knew what the government intended. How they might escape was another matter and not one with which he could help them. His biggest problem was he had no contacts in the resistance, the Maquis, or the Communists. Every one of them whom he had known, languished in some prison or was dead.

He stood with his hand on the door-handle of his office as if he felt reluctant to enter. He heard his stomach complain and realised he had not eaten since breakfast and began to feel hungry.

‘Auguste,’ Édith said behind him.

‘Édith, I need to get a message to Colonel Arnaud. Can you...’

Édith stood with her extended index pressed to her lips. He frowned in ignorance.

She said, ‘We have had visitors. The SD were here with some SS soldiers.’

Auguste said nothing.

‘They came to check the building. Linz said they had confession evidence a bomb had been planted.’

‘They searched everywhere?’

‘Yes. They made the most thorough search of your office and spent a long time in there.’

‘I understand. There was no bomb then?’

‘No Auguste,’ she said.

She handed him a note.

He read:

They were in your office for half an hour and the door was closed.

‘I am glad our German friends are so efficient. It makes me feel secure.’

Auguste wrote as he spoke.

See if you can get a message to Arnaud. I can meet him in the square outside at 3pm. I want a copy of the Jewish file too.

‘Yes, Auguste we are most secure.’

Édith smiled and turned to go.

‘I need to see Dubois this afternoon. He will have news of the post-mortem. I also have to write a memo to my men but it is, under no circumstances, to be circulated until the night before the uplift. Oh and is there a chance of something to eat?’

‘As you wish Auguste. There were some brioche left over from this morning. I will make some coffee. By the way, can François Dufy be released?’

He smiled and said, ‘I don’t see why not. He’s had enough meals at the state’s expense.’

Édith brought a copy of the file containing the names and addresses of the Jewish families in his catchment area. It was on a tray under the coffee and bread rolls. He ate as he studied the list. Most of the addresses were in St Cyprien and Beynac et Cazenac east of Bergerac. He made up his mind to go there before the end of the month and try to get a message to any who would listen. He was uncertain how he might achieve this, but he believed not only in God, he believed in luck and he hoped an answer would present itself.

2

It was not often Auguste slept at work. On this day however, he sat at his desk, reading some reports and as his eyes blurred and his breathing calmed, his eyelids began to droop. He shook his head, he got up from the desk and paced for a few minutes, but as soon as he resumed reading, his eyes insisted on letting him down.

He awoke with a start. He realised he was drooling on the report he was reading and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve with an involuntary movement. A knock on the door made him start. He felt dizzy and forced himself to awaken fully. He glanced at his watch and realised he must have slept for two hours.

‘Come,’ he said.

It was Claude.

‘I thought you might have had someone in here.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, I was waiting for minutes at the door.’

‘You got back easily?’

‘Yes, a friend gave me a lift. He was just passing and he stopped, thank you.’

‘You have friends who can afford gasoline?’

‘Yes. I have written a report on the case, reflecting our progress so far.’

‘Not your first from what I hear.’

‘Excuse me?’ Claude said.

‘Judge Dubois, your cousin more correctly, received a report from you before I ever reached his office.’

‘It was only a preliminary report to warn him of the case. I thought it was the right thing to do.’

‘Without showing it to me?’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘Sorry? You bungled it. You described Bernadette Leclerc as a prostitute. It was incorrect.’

‘Well it seemed to me...’

‘As police officers we are not here to engage in supposition. We deal in facts. Facts. We have no facts and that is all you could put into a report. As for going behind my back, well...’

Claude switched his weight from foot to foot, he was beginning to look uncomfortable and it gave Auguste a feeling of satisfaction.

‘That will be all,’ Auguste said with an air of finality.

Claude said, ‘May I come with you to the post-mortem? I have only been to ten or so.’

‘There is no need. I’m sure you will have many opportunities to see young dead girls cut up in the future. I don’t need you. Shut the door on the way out.’

The scowl on Claude’s face made Auguste smile. He did not intend for an ambitious young man to upstage him, whether everyone important in the town was a relation of his or not.

He glanced at his watch and grabbed his coat. On the way out, he smiled at Édith. She was clever that one. What he would do without her he could not imagine. Who else would have known Brunner’s trickery? He felt hamstrung however by the loss of privacy in the office but felt relief that he knew. He could perhaps use it to his advantage if he needed to impart disinformation to the SD. It could work in his favour.