The Great Swindle

by Pierre Lemaitre

  In spite of the energy Édouard expended in replying to the torrent of inquiries, firm orders were slow to arrive.

  “Why?” Albert said tonelessly, “What’s wrong? It’s as if they’re not convinced by the responses . . .”

  Édouard mimed a sort of Indian war dance, Louise burst out laughing. Albert, sick with worry, picked up his accounts and read through them again.

  Though he scarcely remembered it now, since fear had engulfed everything, he had experienced a kind of elation at the end of May, when the first payments arrived. Albert had insisted the monies be used to repay the bank; Édouard, unsurprisingly, had protested.

  “What’s the point of reimbursing the bank?” he wrote on his pad, “We’re running away with stolen money anyway! At least stealing from a bank is less immoral.”

  Albert refused to budge. Once, he had almost given himself away by mentioning the Banque d’Escompte et de Crédit Industriel, but Édouard did not recognize the name, he had never known anything about his father’s business affairs. He could hardly justify himself to his friend by saying that it had been kind of M. Péricourt to offer him the job, and he did not want to go on cheating him. This, obviously, was an rather elastic approach to morality, since he was happy to cheat perfect strangers, many of them from modest backgrounds, who were scrimping and saving to erect a memorial to their loved ones, but it was not the same, he knew M. Péricourt personally, and besides, ever since he had met Pauline . . . When all was said and done, he thought of M. Péricourt as a kind of benefactor.

  Though not persuaded by Albert’s reasoning, Édouard had finally given in and the first down payments had been used to pay off the bank. Once that was done, each of them had spent a symbolic sum on some little luxury, a foretaste of the opulent future that lay in store.

  Édouard had bought a top-notch gramophone and several records. There were military marches—despite his leg, Édouard liked to parade around the apartment, Louise by his side, in a mask that was a preposterous caricature of a soldier; a selection of operas, about which Albert knew nothing, and Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, which on certain some days was played over and over as though the gramophone were broken. Édouard still wore the same clothes he always had, the two pairs of pants, two pullovers, and two thick sweaters that, once a fortnight, Albert took to the laundry.

  Albert had bought a pair of shoes. And a suit. And two shirts. Top quality. Nothing but the best this time. He had been particularly inspired, because it was around this time that he had met Pauline. Since then, everything had become much more complicated. With Pauline, as with the bank, one little lie had been enough to leave him endlessly scrambling to cover his tracks. What had he ever done to the Good Lord that he spent his days running from a hungry beast about to devour him? This was why he had said to Édouard that, although the lion mask was beautiful (actually it was a mythical beast, but on this point Édouard did not correct him), magnificent even, it gave him nightmares and he would be grateful it could be put away once and for all. Édouard did as he was asked.

  And so to Pauline.

  They had met because of a board meeting at the bank.

  It was common knowledge that for some time now M. Péricourt was no longer as diligent in his work. He was less in evidence at the bank, and those who did see him said he had aged terribly. Was his daughter’s marriage the cause? Or the weight of worries and responsibilities? No one even considered that it might be his son’s death since, the day after he learned of the death, M. Péricourt had presided over the shareholders’ Annual General Meeting with his customary aplomb; everyone had thought it brave of him to carry on despite his misfortune.

  Whatever the cause, M. Péricourt was no longer the man he had been. Only a week ago, he had suddenly walked out of a meeting, “carry on without me,” granted there were no critical decisions to make, but it was unlike the president to abdicate responsibility, he was more inclined to insist on personally making every decision, inviting opinions only on minor points that he had already settled. But at 3:00 p.m., he had got to his feet and walked out. Later, when it was discovered he had not gone home, there was some talk of a doctor’s appointment, while others insisted there must be a woman involved. Only the guard at the cemetery gates, who had not been invited to join these conversations, could have told them where he really was.

  At four o’clock, needing to get M. Péricourt to sign the minutes so the directives could be approved and implemented quickly (M. Péricourt did not like delays), it was decided to send the papers to his house. This was when they remembered Albert Maillard. No one at the bank knew how the boss and the clerk were connected, they knew only that the latter owed his job to the former. On this subject, too, there had been wild rumors, but Albert, with his blushes, his irrational fears, his nervousness, his way of flinching at the slightest sound, had discouraged all speculation. The managing director would gladly have delivered the documents to M. Péricourt’s home in person, but, feeling that the role of errand boy was unbecoming to a man of his standing, he sent Albert.

  No sooner had he received the order than Albert started to tremble. The boy was a conundrum. He had to be chivvied along, handed his coat, pushed out of the door; he seemed so disturbed, they were concerned that he might lose the papers along the way. A taxi was called, the return journey paid in advance, and the driver advised to keep an eye on Albert.

  “Stop!” Albert shouted as soon as they reached the parc Monceau.

  “But we’re not there yet . . . ,” the driver said hesitantly. He had been entrusted with a delicate mission and already there were problems.

  “I don’t care,” Albert said. “Stop the car!”

  When a customer gets angry, the best thing to do is get him out of the cab (Albert got out); wait until he is some distance away (the driver watched Albert falteringly head away from the address where he was supposed to be going); then, if you’ve been paid in advance, stamp on the accelerator and drive away, justifiable self-defense.

  Albert did not even notice, so preoccupied had he been since leaving the bank at the thought of finding himself face-to-face with Pradelle. He had already imagined the scene, the capitaine gripping his shoulder, bending close.

  “Well, well, Soldat Maillard, come to pay Capitaine d’Aulnay-Pradelle a little visit, have we? That’s very kind of you . . . Come this way . . .”

  Leading him down a corridor that turns into a cellar, they need to have a little chat, Pradelle beating him, trussing him up, torturing him, and, when Albert is finally forced to confess that he is sharing an apartment with Édouard Péricourt, that he has stolen money from the bank, that they are involved in an unspeakable swindle, Pradelle roaring with laughter as he looks up to heaven, invoking the wrath of the gods who rain down on him a quantity of earth equal to that displaced by a 95mm shell when you are at the bottom of a crater clutching the horse head mask you intend to wear when you arrive at the gates of a heaven reserved for fools.

  As he did the first time, Albert turns, hesitates, retraces his steps, petrified at the thought of bumping into Pradelle, of having to see M. Péricourt, whose money he has embezzled, of seeing Édouard’s sister and suddenly blurting out that her brother is still alive. Clutching the papers to him like a soul condemned, he racks his brain for some way he might deliver them to M. Péricourt without going into the house.

  He needed someone to do it for him, that was it.

  He was disappointed that the cab driver had taken off, he could have parked two streets away, delivered the message, and come back, Albert would have kept an eye on the taxi . . .

  It was at that moment Pauline appeared.

  Albert was standing on the other side of the street, one shoulder pressed against the wall; he saw her, but before he realized that this young woman was the answer to his prayers, he saw her as the embodiment of another fear. He had often thought about her, the pretty little housemaid who had laughed at his ridiculous shoes.

  He walked straight into the lion’
s den.

  She was hurrying along the street, probably late for her shift. As she walked, she had half-unbuttoned her coat to reveal a pale-blue calf-length dress cinched with a low-waisted belt. She was wearing a matching scarf. She skipped lightly up the steps to the front door and disappeared.

  A few minutes later, Albert was ringing the bell, she opened the door, recognized him, he puffed out his chest because, since their last meeting, he had bought new shoes, and being a perceptive young woman, she noticed; she also noticed that he had a new coat, a fine shirt, a handsome tie, and still that curious, embarrassed expression as though he had just wet himself.

  Who knows what was going through her mind, she started to laugh. The scene played out again, almost exactly as it had six months before. But things could not be exactly the same. They stood staring at each other as though he had come to see her, which, in a sense, was almost true.

  There was a silence. God, but Pauline was pretty—the air of Love itself. Twenty-two, perhaps twenty-three, a smile that made your hair stand on end, velvet lips parted to reveal two perfect rows of dazzling teeth, and those eyes, that hair, cut short as was fashionable these days, flattering the nape of her neck, the curve of her throat, and, on the subject of curves, her sheer dress and white apron made it easy to imagine her breasts. Brunette. Ever since Cécile, he had hardly looked at a brunette, he had never looked at anyone.

  Pauline glanced at the file crumpled in Albert’s hands, reminding him of the reason for his visit, but also his dread of unpleasant encounters. He has already stepped inside; the most pressing thing now is to get out, quickly.

  “I’m from the bank,” he said foolishly.

  Her lips formed a little circle. Without meaning to, he had made his impression: the bank, imagine that.

  “This is for Monsieur Péricourt,” he said and, realizing that he suddenly seemed more important, he could not help but add, “I have to give it to him in person . . .”

  M. Péricourt was not at home; the young woman suggested that he wait and opened the drawing room door, bringing Albert crashing back to earth: it was madness to think of waiting, just coming here had been . . .

  “No, no, thank you.”

  He held out the file. They both noticed it was damp with sweat, Albert tried to dry it on his sleeve, dropped the file, pages fluttering everywhere, and suddenly they were both on all fours, you can picture the scene . . .

  This was how he had come into Pauline’s life. Twenty-five? She did not look it. Not virginal, but virtuous. Her fiancé had been killed in 1917, there had been no one since, she assured him. Pauline made a pretty liar. It was not long before she and Albert were canoodling, but she did not want to go further since, for her, it was serious. She was drawn to Albert, to his innocent, heartbreaking face. He stirred motherly feelings in her, besides he had a good position as a bank clerk. Since he knew the owners, he probably had a great career ahead.

  She did not know how much he earned, but it was obviously quite a bit since he invited her to nice restaurants, not swanky, but places with fine food and a middle-class clientele. He took taxis, at least when dropping her home. He invited her to the theater, not troubling to confess that it would be the first time he had set foot inside such a place, suggested the Opéra on Édouard’s advice, but she preferred music hall.

  Albert’s money trickled through his fingers, his salary was not enough, and he had already drawn heavily on his share of the meager spoils from their scheme.

  And now that it seemed clear that very little money was likely to come in, he wondered how to dig himself out of a hole that, for once, he had jumped into with no help from anyone.

  If he were to go on courting Pauline, he wondered whether he might not have to “borrow” some more money from M. Péricourt’s bank.

  32

  Henri had been born to a crumbling family and had spent his childhood watching the rot worsen, the catastrophes proliferate. Now that he was about to snatch a definitive victory from Fate, he was not going to let some insignificant civil servant stand in his way. Because that was what it amounted to. He would send the little inspector scurrying back under his rock. Who the hell did he think he was?

  There was a considerable dose of self-deception behind this swaggering braggadocio. Henri needed to believe in his success; he could not bring himself to believe even for a second that in an era so propitious to the making of fortunes, he would not make his mark. The war had proved it: he had no fear of adversity.

  Although it had to be admitted that, this time, the mood was rather different . . .

  It was not the nature of the problems that worried him, but the sheer number of them.

  The government had thus far not been too intrusive when it came to the reputations of Péricourt and Aulnay-Pradelle. Now, suddenly, this nonentity from the ministry had delivered a new report after an unscheduled visit to Pontaville-sur Meuse, peddling tales of theft and trafficking . . .

  And, anyway, did this fellow even have the right to inspect sites without authorization?

  Whatever the case, this time the government was proving more intractable. Henri had immediately requested an audience. But this had proved impossible.

  “We can’t cover up . . . all this stuff,” he had been told on the telephone. “Until now, we were dealing with minor technical difficulties. But even then . . .”

  The voice on the other end of the line became more muted, more embarrassed, as though confessing a secret and worried about being overheard.

  “. . . those coffins that did not meet the standards laid down in the contract . . .”

  “I’ve explained all that!” roared Henri.

  “Yes, I know. A manufacturing error . . . But this thing at Pontaville-sur Meuse, it’s not the same. Dozens of soldiers buried under the wrong names is embarrassing enough, but the theft of personal belongings . . .”

  “Oh, please . . .” Henri gave a blustering laugh. “Are you accusing me of grave robbing now?”

  The silence that followed startled him.

  The matter was serious, because it was no longer a question of one item, or even of two . . .

  “There is talk that it was an arrangement . . . a systematic practice throughout the cemetery. The report is damning. This all happened behind your back, of course, you are not personally implicated.”

  “Ha! Ha! I’m happy to hear it.”

  But his heart was not in it. Personal or not, the criticism weighed heavily. If Dupré were here, he would have given him a hard time, but right now there was nothing to be lost by waiting.

  At this point, Henri recalled that changes in strategy had proved very successful during the Napoleonic wars.

  “Do you really think that the budget allocated by the government is enough to hire workers of unimpeachable competence and integrity? Do they really think that at those prices we can afford be discriminating, to handpick our workers?”

  Deep down, Henri knew he had been somewhat lax in his approach to hiring, opting always for the cheapest labor, but Dupré had assured him that the foremen were experienced, for Christ’s sake! And that the laborers would be properly trained!

  The minion on the telephone suddenly sounded harried, and the conversation ended on a note as black as a gathering storm cloud:

  “The Central Services Department is not in a position to deal with the matter alone, Monsieur d’Aulnay-Pradelle. It will be have to be referred to the office of the minister himself.”

  A cowardly retreat!

  In a black rage, Henri slammed down the phone, picked up a piece of Chinese porcelain, and shattered it against the inlaid table. The ingratitude! He had greased enough palms in that department, the least he could expect was a little protection! With the back of his hand, he dashed a crystal vase against the wall. What if he were to tell the minister just how his high-ranking civil servants had profited from his generosity?

  Henri took a deep breath. His fury was directly proportionate to the gravity of the situation, si
nce even he did not believe in this threat. Oh, there had been the occasional gift, a plush hotel room, a girl he had paid, a lavish meal, a box of cigars, a few bills picked up here and there, but to acknowledge even the most trivial corruption would be tantamount to admitting to bribery, he would be shooting himself in the foot.

  Madeleine, alerted by the commotion, came in without bothering to knock.

  “What’s going on?”

  Henri turned and saw her standing in the doorway. Though only six months pregnant, she looked full term. He found her ugly, though that was nothing new, it had been a long time since she had stirred in him even a flicker of desire. The reverse was also true, of course, he could scarcely remember Madeleine’s passions. There had been a time when she behaved more like a mistress than a wife, when she hungered for him, craved him! All that was long ago, and yet Henri felt more attached to her now than he had then. Not to her, strictly speaking, but to the mother of his future son. An Aulnay-Pradelle heir who could take pride in his name, his fortune, his family home, a son who would not have to struggle as he had but who would build upon what his father hoped would be a sizable inheritance.

  Madeleine tilted her head and frowned.

  The ability to make swift decisions in difficult circumstances was one of Henri’s talents. In a flash, he reviewed all the possible solutions to his troubles and realized that his wife was his last hope. He adopted the expression he most despised, the one that least suited him, that of a man overcome by events, he heaved a despondent sigh and slumped into a chair.

  Madeleine immediately felt torn. She knew her husband better than anyone, and his affected helplessness left her unmoved. But there were ties between them; he was the father of her child. With only weeks to go before her confinement, she did not want to have to face new problems; she wanted peace. She had no need of Henri, but, just now, having a husband was useful.