The Cyclist (20 page)

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you may be required to give all this as a statement at the Prefecture.’

‘I have already done this.’

‘When?’

‘Yesterday. What a polite young man he is. What’s his name? Charles?’

‘No, Claude.’

‘Yes, that was it. Funny though; he asked me not to tell anyone what was in the statement. A secret, he said.’

Auguste realised there was much to do. He took his leave after finishing the bread. He heard her cackling as the door shut behind him. Had the woman some sexual intention? He dismissed the thought with a shudder and went on to question the rest of the neighbours; following in Claude’s footsteps. The answer was the same. The black German car had been identified by two of the occupants of the opposite houses. He could now, if he wished, prove Claude made a false report.

He headed back. He knew what he had to do but pondered whether it was wise.

2

Auguste had another thing left to do but uncertainty had him in its clutches. He needed to communicate with Pierre. Dufy was the key he thought, but he had no unobtrusive way to make contact. It had to be today.

He wrapped his overcoat around himself, pulled the collar up to warm his neck and climbed the Prefecture steps. Claude was emerging as he entered the building.

‘Ah, Claude. I read your report.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry there was so little to learn,’ Claude said, as the two stood conversing in the doorway. The empty street behind them was white and cold and a wintry breeze curled around their legs. The look in Claude’s eyes could have been mistaken for triumph but Auguste knew it was only a minor victory even in Claude’s view.

‘A great shame no one saw the car. I will have to concede to Judge Dubois we have drawn a blank here. He will not be pleased.’

‘Well, if we have no clues and no suspects, there is little we can do.’

Auguste gripped Claude’s arm.

‘My boy,’ he said, ‘you will go far in this police force.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure your natural ability in police work will further you career, that’s all.’

‘Yes. Thank you Auguste.’

‘Off out?’

‘Yes, I’ve an informant to meet.’

‘Well, I won’t get in your way.’

They parted and Auguste smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs. He would show Claude how a little subtlety could make all the difference to police work. Oh, yes.

He strode into Édith’s office, raising a finger to his lips, to ask her to be silent.

She said nothing as Auguste crossed to her side and taking a pencil, wrote on the blotter. Édith nodded and Auguste left.

An hour later, he drew up outside the Judge’s chambers. He kept telling himself he should not appear smug but a flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he opened the tall oak door to the outer office. Juliette looked up.

‘Back so soon?’

‘Tell him I have to make a report.’

‘I’ll buzz you through.’

The reply came and Juliette indicated the door. She remained seated. Auguste understood the implication. She would do nothing to help him.

Judge Dubois was standing at his window, looking out at the street below. Without turning, he said, ‘You have a report to make?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well?’

‘It is here.’

Auguste placed the buff folder on the Judge’s desk and stood back. Dubois turned and took his seat at the desk, indicating to Auguste to sit opposite.

Judge Dubois thumbed through the folder in silence.

Presently, he said, ‘Are these witness statements sworn?’

‘Naturally.’

‘You are certain this car is the one Brunner uses?’

‘Yes, I checked.’

‘But no blood grouping from the fingernail?’

‘No.’

The Judge shut the file.

‘It is all circumstantial. For all you know, some other German used the car and the scratch on Brunner’s face proves nothing.’

‘And the burn marks?’

‘Burn marks? That also cannot be used to trace anyone.’

‘It might convince a jury. A good prosecutor would convince them.’

‘I want you to drop this case. It is important you listen to me this time. A prostitute found murdered by a customer. The customer untraceable. End of investigation.’

‘But this is not right.’

‘I will decide what is right. There are political matters you cannot understand. Now, if there is anything else?’

‘But Brunner did this.’

‘Brunner. You are obsessed with Brunner. There is no evidence to connect him to the girl. No, we will not pursue this further. Please leave or you may find yourself in trouble.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Let us just say, I am warning you for your own good.’

‘Or Brunner’s good.’

The Judge stood. He pointed to the door.

‘Get out while I can still control my temper.’

Auguste rose. The two men glared at each other.

‘Things really have changed here since the Germans came. We used to seek justice. Now we do as we are told.’

‘Get out.’

Auguste left the office. Juliette looked up at him.

‘Auguste...’

‘What.’

‘Oh nothing. You had better go.’

‘You heard? Whatever is going on between us is as nothing compared to what is happening in our town. You know that?’

She looked uneasy for a moment and fiddled with her bracelet.

Looking up at him she said, ‘I think the Judge is right. If the murderer is a high-ranking SD officer, he will be above the law. There is nothing the Judge can do about it. You have never been one to listen to the voice of reason, but this is one time when you must.’

‘You seem well informed.’

‘I am neither deaf nor blind Auguste. I have worked here for years and I see everything. Remember?’

‘Are you now one of these people? Can I not even trust my own sister?’

‘Goodbye.’

Auguste left and got into his car with slow painful movements. His back pain felt worse, as if it was a reminder to him of his impotence. Judge Dubois was collaborating with the Germans; it seemed obvious. If Brunner had telephoned the Judge, warning him to suppress the case, it would explain everything. For all he knew, both Claude and the Judge were co-operating with Brunner. It all seemed to whirl around in his mind. The pivot for all his troubles seemed to be Brunner and no one else. The man was a sadistic killer and he had to face justice. The thought of Brunner never standing trial kindled such anger within him he began to wonder if there was not some other way to avenge Bernadette.

Judge Dubois had accused him of being obsessed with Brunner. Auguste wondered if he was right. He had only circumstantial evidence but he knew the SD officer was guilty. It might be possible to entrap him but Brunner was clever as well as powerful. He wanted to hear Brunner confess. If he had that, he could testify himself in court, even if it meant involving another Judge or even a Judge from another commune.

He had one last thing to do before driving home. He knew it was dangerous but he had no choice now, or his whole plan for the hanging would go astray.

Chapter 17

1

The headlights’ beam cut the dusk like a knife cutting paper. It began to rain but a fog had descended and Auguste heaved a sigh of relief at he drove. He crossed the Dordogne Bridge and glimpsed the brown rushing waters of his river—Pierre’s river, where they played and grew up together. How could all this have come about? How could he find himself here, trying to justify his very existence, hiding Monique, meeting criminals in the night?

The road wound away from the river and Auguste turned off onto a small, familiar dirt track. He pictured himself and Pierre wandering here as they did so many times in their adolescence, rifles in hand, looking for rabbits.

He recalled one occasion, faced with a small spring rabbit. It was feeding and somehow, it took no notice of him. He remembered standing still. With the gentlest of movements, he took aim. The small-bore rifle butt fitted snugly onto his shoulder and he drew the little creature into his sights. The trigger pulled, Auguste stared through the smoke. Nothing. He missed at twenty paces and Pierre howled with laughter. He recalled how he blushed, then joined in the merriment. What was there now to laugh about, he pondered.

The scene faded in his mind and he returned to concentrating on avoiding the potholes in the rough grit-strewn road. A mile on and he came to a small cottage. He drew up and parked. He struggled out of the driver’s seat, his back paining him still and approached the door. The building was a timber-built house, with one storey and a felt roof. It stood on the edge of the forest, isolated and bleak with no others within half a mile. A low veranda faced the dirt road. The garish red-painted door stood out like a pimple.

Auguste knocked. He heard a dog bark somewhere at the back of the house. No answer. He waited in the gloaming. No lights lit the interior, but he looked in through the window in any case. François Dufy was not a man who would frequent the cafes in town and Auguste knew it.

He had almost decided to leave and hoped he might contact him in the morning. The silence broke. He started. He heard a sound behind him. It was a familiar sound. A gun cocking.

Turning, Auguste said, ‘François?’

Silence. Auguste saw no one.

‘François? Is it you?’

A shadowy figure stepped into the fading light and Auguste felt relief as he recognised the outline of the old poacher.

‘What do you want? You are alone?’

‘Yes. I need some help.’

‘Help? What can a man like me do to help the police?’

‘I need you to pass a message.’

‘You are sure no one followed you?’

‘In the fog? I would have seen the lights.’

‘Perhaps. If I was following I would not have betrayed myself by putting on headlights.’

‘We don’t need to play this game. I need something from you; that is all.’

‘And you come here? You are incriminating me.’

‘No one followed, I am sure.’

The old man grunted.

‘Follow me.’

Dufy turned and Auguste followed around the side of the house. He swore as he stepped on a pile of dog excrement and he heard Dufy smother a laugh. He wiped his boot on the grass and followed the poacher to a small shed behind the house. A Border Collie chained to a post outside a makeshift kennel, snarled at him and he took a small detour to avoid its quivering snout. Dufy called to the dog and it sat, head cocked to one side, eyeing Auguste as if he was some kind of unusual fish. Dufy opened the door. An oil lamp swinging from a string hooked to the ceiling illuminated the windowless structure. A musty, damp smell pervaded the place. Another door, no bigger than a hatch, occupied the lower part of the far wall.

In one corner, a mattress lay, covered by a military-style sleeping bag with a stained, blue-striped pillow lying askew at its head. The floor was earth and sand and Auguste realised the old man lived here and not in the warmer confines of his house.

‘You sleep here?’

‘Yes, it is safer; my dog warns me if anyone comes to the house. The SD are not after me as far as I know, but things can change anytime.’

Dufy looked at Auguste and smiled. He said, ‘No-one is immune from arrest, even you. And they all talk in the end.’

‘You need have no fear of that. I know nothing. It is safer for everyone concerned.’

‘Yes, times have changed. Now we communicate less, because we know the more we share, the greater the danger. Once the opposite was true, is it not so?’

‘Yes.’

‘What message?’

Auguste could smell old sweat and the man’s halitosis made him take a step back.

‘I have a list of five names. These men must be taken out and hidden.’

‘Traitors?’

‘No local farmers, men with families. If they remain, the SD will hang them as a reprisal for Linz, the SS officer the Maquis killed.’

‘They will only pick five more.’

‘I have a plan. I can’t tell you what it is. The less you know...’

‘Alright. I’ll take your message, but if there is an answer, how do I deliver it?’

‘Just stand in the market square and sell your goods. I will send a man to arrest you.’

‘What?’

‘If we arrest you it will look like your usual spell in the cells.’

The old man grunted.

‘Oh, by the way, if you are in my office, you cannot speak freely. They are listening.’

‘Even you?’

‘Brunner.’

‘Maybe old Arnaud talked.’

‘No it was before they arrested him. I think Brunner was worried in case I could prove he murdered a girl in our town.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind.’

‘If the SD come tonight, I will know you have set me up.’

‘I was with them once, but I have realised who they are. They are messengers from Hell. I serve only France. I needed to see it that was all.’

‘Then long live that. I will have to go now if I am to deliver your message. If I am successful I will be in the market square.’

‘Good luck.’

The old man grunted and held the door wide for Auguste. As he stepped past, he caught the heavy animal smell on the old poacher again. He held his breath.

Avoiding the dog, he found his way to the car, stumbling in the dark. He wondered why his back felt better and wondered if the relief of getting everything done had relaxed him. He took a few moments to consider his position.

He thought about Bernadette, her voice, her face as she sang in the restaurant. He could hear her as she stepped from his car.

‘Te absolvo.’

Absolve him of what? Had she said it predicting the future in some kind of riddle? Her words haunted him. They festered. He felt his only absolution would come through vengeance and justice. If he could achieve it, he thought, there might be some chance of reclamation for him.

He had been so stupid, so naive. How could he have been fooling himself all these months believing the Germans were humane employers of Jews in work camps in Germany? He had seen what he chose to see. He remembered the look in the Jew’s face on the hospital steps and it made him want to shout aloud in anger and frustration. And now, he was in deep. He felt the risks were worthwhile. The thought salved his conscience to some extent. He felt better about himself though he knew he put Odette and the children in danger. He could not avoid it. Odette understood. Had she not taken on the risk of sheltering Monique herself?