by Bev Spicer
It was an honest answer, which he understood completely.
After a moment, she turned to him again. ‘Will you study Law, Patrice?’
If there was one thing he was sure of, it was this. ‘No.’
‘Then what will you do?’
And so he told her about his wish to care for animals and she listened, nodding and encouraging him, saying that it was wonderful to know so clearly what you wanted to do, and remembering the way the boy had gone to rescue the stray dog and return it to his master.
‘Why do you stay here?’ he asked, finally.
‘I won’t stay for much longer.’
He smiled at little sadly, but knew that she would be better somewhere else, that his father did not treat her well, and for this he was ashamed.
Estelle found the apartment and went up. It was a pleasing building in a very quiet location, worth every bit of the asking price in her opinion. It made her even more determined to prevent Felix Dumas from getting his hands on it.
‘Come in,’ said Clement, holding open the door for his visitor.
They sat at the table and she got out the file she had brought with her and set it down, looking solemnly at Clement, waiting for him to give her permission to open it.
‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘Dumas wants your father’s apartment for his son.’
Clement raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair with a small whistle.
‘Madame Dautriche is one of his accomplices, who poses as a buyer in order to set a low offer against a property, making the vendor believe that the notaire’s valuation is reasonable. After a week or so, another accomplice arrives, apparently out of the blue, in your case a gentleman by the name of Schwartz, offering an even lower price. The vendor, especially if he needs to sell quickly, becomes nervous and accepts the first offer.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you saying that Dumas has done this before?’
‘Yes. I have put together a file on two other properties he owns and rents out. One was ostensibly bought by Madame Dautriche. I couldn’t discover the name of the other intermediary. Of course they will not have used their real identities. And no doubt there are other properties and other accomplices.’
Clement looked at the girl with a new respect. ‘I… I don’t know how… Thank you for doing this.’
‘Don’t thank me yet, Monsieur Berger,’ she said.
‘Clement, please.’
‘Okay, Clement. And my name is Estelle.”
A smile passed between them.
‘I have copies of the Compromis de Vente that bear the name of Felix Dumas instead of that of Madame Dautriche. I don’t know exactly what happens when you sign, but one thing is for sure, the process will not be as straightforward as it seems. It may be that Madame Dautriche will purchase the property from you and sell it on, but that would incur unnecessary time and expense. Otherwise, the papers could be switched at the time of the signing, so that you sign over ownership to Dumas directly, although this seems rather risky, as you will have sight of the buyer’s details as you sign. I haven’t come up with the answer to that one yet.’
Clement shook his head. ‘I … How can such a thing happen?’ He was thinking of his father. Of his home being stolen from under his nose, of the callousness of the notaire. He wanted to go to his offices and wring his oily neck.
‘You must know that things like this happen every day,’ Estelle replied. ‘It’s just that we don’t notice them. If we scratched the surface more often, the world would show itself to be a very dangerous and violent place.’
He looked at her and was again impressed by her confidence. She was worldly-wise, for someone so young.
‘What do you want to do, Clement?’
For a moment, he was surprised. And then he remembered that she had told him that she had not worked out what would happen next, and that the sale of the apartment might go ahead, or not, according to the action he chose to take.
‘There’s something I have to tell you, Estelle. I may not have to sell the apartment. At least not for the moment.’
Estelle gasped. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
‘It is, isn’t it?’
She didn’t ask him why, but stared into space, realising that the plans she had made were no longer relevant.
‘I’m so happy for you and your father.’
Clement looked into her eyes. ‘I don’t want Dumas to do this to anyone else. We must do all we can to expose him.’
Estelle smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. But I’ll need your help from now on.’
‘Of course,’ he said, and seeing that she may have an idea, he asked, ‘What do you want me to do?’
Fifty-six
It was after midnight when the telephone rang, and Martha was just relaxing, watching the end of American Beauty, which was one of her all time favourite films.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Doll. I hope you’re not watching that terrible Spacey thing!’
I am, actually!’ It was a long time since she had been called ‘Doll’. Marcus had a habit of using movie-speak on the telephone.
‘Well, I can tell you he gets his brains blown out by the army toss-pot from across the road and then his dopey son comes down, with his dopey girlfriend and there’s some crappy music with some piece of garbage blowing around in the wind.’
She listened, smiling to herself, watching the neighbour come up behind Kevin Spacey with a gun in his hand.
‘You always did know how to ruin a happy ending!’ She had not intended the irony of her words and wanted to own up to it in the silence that followed. ‘Was that all you phoned up for?’ she continued, as lightly as she could.
‘Wanted to hear your voice,’ he replied. ‘And I wanted to talk to you about Clement Berger.’
She sat up, suddenly wide-awake, the paper bag swirling on the television screen as the credits rolled. ‘How the hell do you know his… Jane!’
‘Yeah, sure it was Jane. You’ve still got some friends that give a shit about you.’
She wanted to laugh. Did he include himself in this small but select group?
‘It’s none of your damned business! Either of you. It’s my money and I can do what I like with it!’ She was much more angry than her words conveyed.
‘Hold on! Don’t get your knickers in a twist! There’s stuff you need to know.’
‘What stuff? What are you talking about?’
‘How much did he squeeze you for?’ asked Marcus, and something in his tone made her answer.
‘Ten thousand euros, if you must know! But it wasn’t for him, it was for his –’
‘His old man, yeah, Jane told me. He’s a good guy. It’s not him who’s the problem. Heard of a Felix Dumas?’
Martha thought of Patrice. ‘I teach his son English.’
Marcus whistled, and she pictured him shaking his head, mocking her.
‘What about him? For God’s sake, what are you talking about?’
‘His dad, Edouard Dumas, is one of the biggest crooks to come out of Europe. Got his hand in so many pies it’s permanently sticky. Got blood on his hands, too. Felix is small time in comparison, but you don’t want to dig too deep.’
‘Why are you telling me this? What has Felix Dumas got to do with anything?’
‘You said your boyfriend was selling up. I made a few calls and spoke to some bimbo receptionist in Royan. Said that she’d never heard of Clement Berger. Only trouble is I never told her the guy’s first name. Works for Felix Dumas. So, you see, if you’re tied up with the son and Clement Berger is the shark meat, I’d say you should watch your back, Doll.’
‘Don’t call me Doll!’ Her thoughts raced. ‘What exactly is the problem Marcus? So Felix is a crook. What has that got to do with me?’
‘He’s mixed up in fraud; property deals mostly. Nothing like as sick as his father. But there was a girl, way back. A maid or something, ended up in the Charente. Nothing was ever proven, but you’ve got t
o wonder whether the guy got rid of her, or got one of his henchmen to do it.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous!’ Martha felt goose bumps rising on her arms.
‘Am I? Just telling you to be careful. Don’t get any deeper in with this Clement guy, and ditch the English lessons. If it’s money you need I got it covered. Just say the word and I’ll send you a transfer.’
‘I don’t need money, Marcus. And I’m not going to ditch the English lessons. I suggest you stop seeing the dramatic in the mundane – it’s always been one of your faults. Too many TV police dramas,’ she said, getting her own back.
‘Touché, Baby. You always could work me out better than most!’ he laughed.
She didn’t quite want to know, but she asked anyway, ‘How are you, Marcus?’
‘Oh, you know. Taking what I can get, when I can get it,’ he said, this time sounding rather half-hearted. ‘You know it’s still you, Doll.’
She had expected this.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, when she did not respond, ‘if you need me, you know where to find me. Stay safe. These guys play rough.’ And, with that, he hung up.
Martha sat on the couch, watching an advertisement for car insurance. She felt as though Marcus had spoiled something with his dark insinuations. No matter how much she told herself that it was all nonsense, she knew that his fears for her would play on her mind and for this, she held him responsible.
Fifty-seven
Angeline waited for Marie to tell her what she had come to say, glancing over at her son, who was watching television.
Marie looked directly into her friend’s eyes. ‘Everyone knows about you and the notaire.’
Angeline felt a surge run through her body and she stared back at Marie, not knowing what to say. She had been expecting some snippet of idle gossip, a divorce in the village, or a death. Something that would shock her for a moment and then be forgotten.
‘Colette saw you leaving his house. You know what she’s like. She saw you kiss him and said that you were carrying your shoes.’
‘But…’ she realised that she would have to admit the truth to her friend in order to find out more.
Marie frowned and shook her head. ‘Why did you do such a thing?’
Angeline could not bear the weight of her friend’s judgement. It made her want to slap her and tell her that life was not a fairytale, where everything was perfect, and people never did anything wrong.
‘I thought you and Guy were happy. We all did.’
‘So, you have been discussing my marriage with all and sundry! This is a fine admission. I thought I had your trust, at least. But it seems that I am nothing but an object of derision amongst the women of the village.’ Her voice had risen and Adrian looked over.
‘It’s all right, my darling. We are talking about the terrible floods in America,’ she said. And smiling, he looked back to the television, his mouth a little open.
‘If that’s the way you want to take it…’ Marie pushed back her chair.
‘Wait! I’m sorry.’
Angeline told her friend that she had been seeing Felix Dumas for months. That she did not love him and that she never would. It was a simple arrangement that suited them both and was never meant to cause trouble to anyone. ‘I’m sure that I wasn’t seen,’ she said, finally.
‘Colette said that she was walking her dog and it had stopped in front of the driveway. You had your back to her. But Dumas saw her. Did he not tell you?’ asked Marie, playing with her hair.
‘But you must tell her she is mistaken,’ said Angeline, suddenly seeing a way out of it all. ‘Tell her that I was saying goodbye and that the heel on my shoe had broken.’
‘She’s already told half the village. She has told them you are the daughter of a gypsy and do not mind that your husband will be a laughing stock.’
Angeline put her head down at this and felt the glow of anger building in her stomach, remembering the way Ellie’s mother had dragged her daughter away and how much this had hurt Adrian. It was true that her mother had travelled with gypsies and married one of them in the end. And it was true that she herself had inherited her father’s devil-may-care attitude, preferring to do as she wished impulsively, rather than wait. But, when other people used this as an attack on her character, she would not take it quietly.
‘I will go to her house and see whether she will tell me to my face the dirt she’s been spreading. Only a coward would go around and about in this way. She will be sorry, I tell you!’
‘What is it, Maman? Who will be sorry? And what for?’ Adrian stood at the table, his empty plate and glass in his hands.
‘We are talking about the poor people in America who have lost their houses in the floods.’
‘Will the floods come here, Maman?’
‘No, cheri. We are safe here. I will protect you,’ said Angeline, looking at Marie, her eyes as hard as stone.
‘I’ll be on my way,’ replied her friend, pulling on her coat. ‘If you need me, you have my number.’
Angeline did not answer her. She let Marie open the door on her own and go outside into the yard, listening to the gate open and close. She would not allow this woman, or any other to destroy her family’s happiness.
When Guy came in from work, he was full of stories about how he was the one Madame Alizee called upon to deal with the foreign guests if they needed anything done in their rooms or wanted to have a tour of the grounds. He was becoming quite an attraction, she had told him. The guests always had a good word to say for him when they left, and most of them wanted to leave a little something for him.
‘I think I should have it for myself,’ he told his wife. ‘After all, it’s meant for me. Not for the kitchen staff or the chamber maids.’ But he remembered that all the tips made in the restaurant were divided up amongst all the staff and continued, smiling to himself, ‘Oh, well! I suppose I can boost the coffers for the rest of them.’
He handed her an envelope and she opened it silently, aware of her husband’s unsuspecting eyes upon her.
‘Look!’ he said, watching her take the money out and count it. ‘Forty-five euros! Not bad for a month’s tips. What do you say?’
‘Very good,’ she replied, putting the money on the sideboard and turning away from him to stir the pot.
‘How much did you get, Papa?’ asked Adrian, bouncing up and taking the notes to count them again.
‘Ah! At least someone is interested! Here – this one is for you.’ He handed his son the five-euro note. ‘And this is for your mother, to get herself something nice,’ he held out the money to his wife.
Angeline banished the feeling of weakness that threatened to break her and replied brightly, ‘You are the most wonderful husband in the world. I will buy a new dress and we will have a party on my birthday, to show the whole world that real love can last forever.’
Adrian was singing a song he had learned at school. It was one of the same ones she had learned at his age, when life had been easy. And, simultaneously, it crossed her mind that she might lose her husband if he found out that his wife had been unfaithful and that the whole village was talking about it. She believed that she would be strong and find a way to keep him, but, the sliver of doubt was undeniable, and it shook her, like a bet placed on a dead certainty that fell at the last fence. A bet that she had to win.
Fifty-eight
Clement had just arrived back from his interview in Saintes, which had gone as expected. He would be informed before Christmas whether he had been successful.
The telephone rang and he answered it. Felix Dumas wanted a date. He told the notaire that he would be ready to sign the Compromis de Vente in the last week of November. That would give him a few days to find out what he could, with Estelle’s help, so that he could decide how best to bring down ‘a man who has abused others less able to defend themselves’ as she had put it. Clement was not as emotional as Estelle. He observed how she became increasingly outraged as she discovered the extent of
the notaire’s corruption, and he could not help but be impressed by her resolve to bring him to justice.
‘How can he get away with it? Look at the house he is renting out to this couple! I took photos when I went round. They have no proper heating. Look! There is just one wood-burning stove for the whole house. And the window frames are rotten. It will be freezing inside in the winter!’ She held the pictures up one by one. ‘They were so pleased that something would be done about it. You should have seen the look on their faces!’
Estelle intended to make sure that Felix Dumas was held to account for every breach of human decency that he had committed. He would be made to pay. How exactly this would be accomplished had not yet been decided. Estelle was in favour of reporting him to the Chambre de Notaires or even to the Conseil de L’Ordre Supérieur. ‘We have the evidence to prosecute him,’ she said.
Clement was doubtful, and insisted that they should tread carefully. It might be dangerous to tackle such a man and disgrace him so publicly. He may have friends who would take exception to their interference. Who knows what retaliation could be taken if there were other people involved who did not want to go down with Felix Dumas?
‘But he has broken the law. He is a notaire and he has broken the law! It is inconceivable that he should not be punished. We should go to the Conseil directly. They will not be under his control, certainly. And, as for disgracing him, this is what he deserves. We must be strong. You and I, together.’
When she put it like this, Clement could not refuse. She might be naïve, but she was right. All they needed was proof. Lots of it. And so they contacted the people who lived in the properties owned and rented out by Felix Dumas, visiting them and gathering information, taking pictures.
‘I’ve found another one,’ said Estelle when she was next at Clement’s apartment.
‘Where is it?’ He hoped that it would not be far. The last one had been in La Rochelle.