“If you go there, to Dargonne . . . ,” he said.
Then stopped. Henri jerked his chin, go on, spit it out, let’s get this over with.
“. . . there are French graves with Boche soldiers in them.”
Henri was aghast, his mouth opened and closed like a fish. This was a disaster. A corpse is a corpse when you come down to it, and as far as Pradelle was concerned, once a man was dead, he didn’t give a tinker’s curse whether he was French or German or Senegalese. In the makeshift graveyards, it was not uncommon to come across the body of a foreign soldier, or even several, who had strayed between the scouts and the shock troops; soldiers were forever moving back and forth across the lines . . . Draconian instructions had been set down on the subject: the bodies of German soldiers were to be strictly separated from those of the victorious heroes; special sections had been set aside for them in the government war graves. Although the German government and the German War Graves Commission were in discussion with French authorities about the eventual fate of the tens of thousands of “foreign bodies,” in the meantime deliberately burying a Boche—they were plainly identifiable by their uniforms—in the grave of a French soldier was tantamount to sacrilege.
The very idea of a Boche soldier in a French tomb, of families kneeling in prayer over the mortal remains of enemy soldiers, over the bodies of the men who had killed their children, was unthinkable, it verged on desecration.
Outrage guaranteed.
“I’ll take care of it . . . ,” Pradelle muttered, though he had no idea of the scale of the catastrophe, or how to rectify it.
How many were there? How long had they been putting Boche corpses in French coffins? How could they be tracked down?
It was more important than ever that this report be hushed up.
It was imperative.
Henri studied Merlin more carefully and realized he was even older than he had appeared . . . those deep wrinkles, that glassy film over the eyes that indicates cataracts. He had a disproportionately small head, like certain insects.
“How long have you been a civil servant?”
Pradelle’s questions was curt, peremptory, his tone almost military. To Merlin, it sounded like an accusation. He did not like Aulnay-Pradelle, the man was exactly as he had pictured him, he was a loudmouth, a chancer, a rich bastard, a cynic—a word much in vogue sprang to mind: “profiteer.” Merlin had got into the car because he had had no choice, but he felt as uncomfortable there as in a coffin.
“A civil servant? All my life.”
It was said without pride, without bitterness, the simple factual statement of a man who had never imagined being anything else.
“And what is your grade, Monsieur Merlin?”
He had hit the nail on the head, but it was a crass remark, because for Merlin, who was only a few months from retirement, being at the bottom of the heap was a raw wound, a humiliation. His only promotions had been awarded for length of service, and he found himself in the position of a rank-and-file soldier about to finish his career as a private.
“Your work on these inspections has been extraordinary,” Pradelle went on ingratiatingly. If Merlin had been a woman, he would have grasped his hand.
“Thanks to your efforts, your diligence, we will be able to deal with these improprieties. Any corrupt workers will be immediately dismissed. Your reports will be invaluable, we will use them to sort this out once and for all.”
Merlin wondered for a moment who exactly Pradelle meant when he said “we.” Then the answer came to him, “we” was a euphemism for Pradelle’s supremacy, his friends, his family, his connections . . .
“I’m sure the minister himself will be impressed,” Henri said, “I’d even venture to say grateful! Yes, grateful for your diligence and your discretion. Because it goes without saying that, though your reports will be invaluable to us, I’m sure you agree that no one would benefit from this news becoming public . . .”
“Us” stood for a whole world of power and influence, of friends in high places, decision makers, the cream of the crop, everything, in fact, that Merlin despised.
And yet, and yet . . . Sad though it was, in spite of himself Merlin felt something swelling inside him, like an unbidden erection. After the years of humiliation, the thought of a promotion, of silencing the wagging tongues, perhaps even being in charge of those who had humiliated him . . . For a few seconds he was swept along.
Pradelle could see from this pathetic man’s face that he could be bought by any prospect of advancement, for a string of glass beads like the Negroes in the colonies.
“. . . and I shall personally see to it that your talents and your efficiency are not forgotten, on the contrary, they will be amply rewarded!”
Merlin nodded.
“Here, while I think of it . . . ,” he said in a dull voice, bending over his bulging briefcase and rummaging inside. Henri could breathe easily now, he had found the key. Now all he needed to do was persuade the man to withdraw his reports, retract everything, write new positive reports in exchange for some award, some promotion, some bonus: with such mediocrities anything would do.
Merlin continued rummaging in his case, then he sat up again, clutching a crumpled piece of paper.
“. . . while I think of it,” he said again, “here’s something else you might like to sort out.”
Henri took the piece of paper and read it. It was an advertisement. Blood drained from his face. A company called Frépaz was offering to pay “a fair price for any and all dentures, even if cracked or broken.”
The inspection report was dynamite.
“Works pretty well, apparently,” Merlin said, “turns a little profit for the workers on the ground, only a couple of centimes per denture, but, you know, mighty oaks from little acorns grow.”
He nodded to the pamphlet.
“You can keep that, I put a copy in with my report.”
He bent down to pick up his briefcase, his tone now that of a man no longer interested in the conversation. And this was so, because the vision he had glimpsed had come too late. The burning desire for promotion, for status, had guttered out. He was on the brink of retiring from the Civil Service, he had long since given up all thought of preferment. Nothing could wipe out the forty years he had endured. Besides, what would he do sitting in a manager’s chair giving orders to people he despised? He tapped his bag—right, well, it’s not that I’m bored or anything, but . . .
Pradelle suddenly gripped his arm. Beneath the coat he felt how thin the man was, felt the bone, it was a disagreeable feeling. Merlin flinched, though he was not easily intimidated. Pradelle’s whole body exuded violence, he was gripping Merlin’s forearm with cruel force.
“How much do you earn?”
Merlin pretended to think. Of course he knew the figure by heart, 1,044 francs a month, 12,000 francs a year, a pittance on which he had eked out a living all his life. He owned nothing, he would die nameless and destitute, would leave nothing to anyone, but it hardly mattered, there was no one to leave it to. The shame he felt about his salary was a more sensitive subject than his status, which mattered only within the ministry. Financial hardship is something you take with you everywhere, it shapes your life, rules it entirely, it oozes from every pore. Privation is worse than utter destitution, it is possible to be destitute but noble, but hardship fosters meanness, it turns a man into a skinflint, debases him, makes him less than whole, it robs him of his pride, his dignity.
This was how Merlin felt, his eyes grew dim, and when he came to his senses again, he was dazzled.
Pradelle was holding out a large envelope stuffed with bills big as banana leaves. There was no more attempt at subtlety. The former capitaine had not needed to read Kant to know that every man has his price.
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” Pradelle said. “There is fifty thousand francs in this envelope . . .”
Now Merlin truly was out of his depth. Five years’ salary for a man at the end of his career. Fa
ced with such a sum, no one can be unmoved, you cannot help yourself, before you know it images flash before your eyes, mentally you begin to calculate, how much does it cost to buy a home, an automobile . . . ?
“And in this one” (Pradelle took a second envelope from his inside pocket), “there is precisely the same sum.”
A hundred thousand francs. Ten years’ salary. The proposition had an immediate effect, Merlin seemed twenty years younger. He did not hesitate, in a flash he ripped the envelopes from Pradelle’s hands.
He hunched over, snuffling loudly, he looked like he was sobbing as he bent down and began stuffing the envelopes into his briefcase as though there was a hole in the bottom he was trying to plug.
Even Pradelle was surprised at the swiftness of his reaction, but a hundred thousand francs was a lot of cash, he wanted to ensure he got value for money. He gripped Merlin’s arm so hard he almost snapped the bone.
“I want you to flush those reports down the toilet,” he said through gritted teeth. “Write to your superiors, tell them you made a mistake, tell them what you like, I don’t give a damn, just make sure you take the blame. Is that clear?”
It was crystal clear. Yes, yes, yes, Merlin spluttered, sniffling, tears in his eyes; he scrambled out of the car. Dupré saw the towering figure suddenly pop out onto the pavement like a champagne cork.
Pradelle gave a satisfied smile.
He thought about his father-in-law. Now that the horizon seemed clearer, he could devote his energies to the vital question: how could he crush the old bastard completely?
Dupré crouched and, peering through the windshield, gave his boss a questioning look.
And as for you, Pradelle was thinking, I’ll take you in hand . . .
35
The chambermaid had the disagreeable feeling of being a trainee acrobat. The large lemon, an exemplary yellow, kept wobbling around on the silver tray, threatening at any moment to fall and roll down the stairs; with her luck, it would probably roll like this all the way to the manager’s office. Just the ticket to get herself an earful, she thought. There was no one about to see, she stuffed the lemon in her pocket, flipped the tray under her arm, and carried on up the stairs. (At the Lutetia, staff were not allowed to use the elevator. It was preposterous!)
If any other guest had requested a lemon be brought up to the sixth floor, she would have been brusque. But not with Monsieur Eugène. Monsieur Eugène was different. He never spoke. When he wanted something, he left a message written in large letters for the bellboy outside the door of his suite. He was very polite, very correct.
But mad as a hatter.
In the household (for which read “at the Lutetia”), it had taken only two or three days before everyone knew about Monsieur Eugène. He paid for his suite in cash several days in advance; as soon as he received the bill it was paid. A real character: no one had ever seen his face, and as for his voice, he would only grunt or give a shrill laugh that either made you titter or chilled your blood. No one knew what he did precisely, he wore huge masks, never the same one twice, and he had strange whims: he did Indian war dances in the corridors that had the chambermaids giggling, he ordered extravagant quantities of flowers . . . And that was not all. A week ago, he had requested a string octet and, when advised they were about to arrive, had gone downstairs to the lobby, stood on the top step, and conducted the ensemble as they played Lully’s Marche pour la Cérémonie des Turcs, then went back to his room. Monsieur Eugène had given all the staff fifty francs for their trouble. The manager himself had visited him to say that, while his generosity was much appreciated, these little whims . . . This is a grand hotel, Monsieur Eugène, we have to think of the other guests, and of our reputation. Monsieur Eugène had nodded, he was not a difficult guest.
The masks particularly intrigued the staff. When he first arrived he had been wearing a mask that looked almost normal; it looked so real anyone would have sworn it was a man suffering from paralysis. The features were frozen, but so lifelike . . . Much more so than the waxworks at the Musée Grévin. This was the mask he wore when he went out, which was very rarely. He had set foot outside only once or twice, always late at night, it was obvious he did not want to run into anyone. Some said he frequented places of dubious repute—at that time of night, he was hardly going to church!
Gossip was rife. Anyone who had been up to his room was immediately interrogated—what had they seen this time? When he ordered the lemon, there had been much talk about who would take it up. When she went back downstairs, the chambermaid knew she would be bombarded with questions, since the other maids had all reported the most amazing scenes, arriving to find Monsieur Eugène dressed in an African bird mask and squawking wildly, or performing to an audience of empty chairs draped with empty suits, a one-man show where the actor seemed to be on stilts and babbling unintelligible words . . . This, then, was the question: no one doubted that Monsieur Eugène was an eccentric, but who was he really?
Some said he was mute since he made only gurgling sounds and wrote his requests on loose sheets of papers; others said he was a gueule cassée, his face blown off in the war, who knows why, the gueules cassées we know are ordinary folk, not rich men like him, yes, yes, you’re right, that’s strange, I never noticed . . . Nonsense, snapped the linen maid, speaking from her thirty years’ experience in the hotel business, I’m telling you, that whole thing is a trick. She was convinced he was a criminal on the run, a rich escaped convict. The chambermaids laughed; they were convinced Monsieur Eugène was a great actor, an American star who was staying in Paris incognito.
He had shown his military record when he first checked in, he was obliged to provide some form of identification, although the police rarely inspected hotels of this standing. Eugène Larivière. The name did not ring a bell with anyone. In fact, it sounded slightly fake . . . No one could quite believe it. Besides, the linen maid said with authority, there’s nothing easier to fake than a military record.
Aside from his rare, intriguing nocturnal sorties, Monsieur Eugène spent most of this time in his large sixth-floor suite, and his only visitor was the little girl with whom he had first arrived, a strange, silent child with the solemn air of a governess. He could have communicated through her, but no, she, too, was mute. About twelve, judging by her appearance, she would arrive in the late afternoon and dash through the lobby without a word to anyone, though they had noticed how pretty she was, a triangular face with high cheekbones and dark, sparkling eyes. She dressed modestly and correctly, and it was clear she had a modicum of education. His daughter, some claimed. Adopted, others suggested, but on this subject, too, no one knew anything for sure. Every evening, he would call room service and order all manner of exotic dishes, but always accompanied by beef bouillon, fruit juices, compotes, sorbets, and sundry liquid provisions.
Then, at about 10:00 p.m., the girl would come downstairs, solemn and self-composed, she would take a taxi on the corner of the boulevard Raspail and always asked the fare before getting in. If it seemed excessive, she would haggle, only for the driver to realize when they had reached their destination that with that wad of bills in her pocket she could pay his fare thirty times over . . .
At the door to Monsieur Eugène’s suite, the chambermaid took the lemon from her pocket and balanced it carefully on the silver tray, rang the bell, and patted down her uniform, anxious to make a good impression; she waited. Nothing. She knocked again, more discreetly this time; she was happy to serve, but reluctant to disturb. Still nothing. And then something. A slip of paper slid under the door: “Leave the lemon outside, thank you.” She was disappointed, though not for long because, just as she bent to set down the tray and the lemon, a fifty-franc bill appeared under the door. She pocketed the money and bolted, like a cat afraid of having a fishbone snatched away.
Édouard opened the door a crack, stretched his arm out and pulled the tray inside, closed the door, went to the table, set down the lemon and, taking a knife, cut it in half.
His suite was the largest in the hotel; the vast windows facing the Bon Marché overlooked the whole of Paris. It required a lot of money to stay here. Sunlight streamed through the trickle of lemon juice Édouard delicately squeezed into the soup spoon, where he had already placed the correct dose of heroin, the color was beautiful, an iridescent, almost bluish yellow. It had required two nighttime excursions to find the heroin. And the price . . . The fact that Édouard had registered the price meant it had to be extremely expensive. But it did not matter. Under the bed, his demobilization haversack was stuffed with the handfuls of bills stolen from the suitcase of the prudent ant, Albert, packed ready for their departure. If the housekeeping staff had helped themselves, Édouard would not even have noticed, and, besides, everyone had to live.
Four days until their escape.
Édouard carefully mixed the brownish powder into the lemon juice, making sure there were no crystals that had not dissolved.
Four days.
In his heart, he had never believed that they would leave, not really. This glorious war memorial scam, a masterly hoax, a joyous, life-affirming prank, had been a means to pass the time, to prepare himself for death, but nothing more. He did not feel bad about dragging Albert into his crazy scheme, convinced that, sooner or later, something good would come of it for everyone.
Having stirred the powder, he set the spoon down on the table, anxious not to spill the contents despite his trembling hands. He picked up the lighter, pulled at the oakum, and began rolling the flint wheel with his thumb to produce the sparks that would eventually light the wick. Meanwhile, since he needed to be patient, he surveyed the vast suite. He felt at home here. He had always lived in cavernous rooms; this was a world made to his size. A pity his father could not see him in this opulent setting, because, when all was said and done, Édouard had made his fortune much more quickly and by means that were probably no more dishonest. He did not know exactly how his father had made his money, but he felt sure that wealth inevitably obscured countless crimes. He at least had killed no one, merely assisted at the death of various illusions, the inevitable effect of time, nothing more.
The Great Swindle Page 36