To say nothing of Pauline . . .
Blood drained from his face.
What if he confessed the truth and she was so shocked she turned him in to the police? “How awful!” she had said, “How wicked!”
The suite at the Hôtel Lutetia was suddenly silent. Whichever way he turned, Albert was trapped.
Édouard laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, he hugged him.
Poor Albert, he seemed to say.
Only when he broke for lunch did the manager of the printworks on the rue des Abbesses have time to open his newspaper. As he was smoking his first cigarette and waiting for his lunch bucket to warm up on the gas stove, he read the short article. And he panicked.
First that gentleman who had shown up at the crack of dawn and now this article in the newspaper, Jesus Christ, he stood to lose everything, his company had printed the catalog . . . He would be lumped in with these villains, he would be charged as an accomplice. He stubbed out his cigarette, turned off the gas ring, pulled on his jacket, called in his senior clerk, he would be out all day, and tomorrow being a holiday, he would not be back until Thursday.
Henri was still bounding from one taxi to another, indefatigable, increasingly short tempered, irritable, his curt questions soliciting ever fewer responses. And so, making a great effort, he forced himself to be more ingratiating. At two o’clock in the afternoon he made his way along the rue Poteau and came back via the rue Lamarck before tackling the rue d’Orsel and the rue Letort, handing out money—ten francs, twenty francs—rue du Mont-Cenis, thirty francs to an overbearing woman who insisted the man he was looking for was a Monsieur Pajol who lived on the rue Coysevox. Again Henri drew a blank; it was now 3:30.
Meanwhile, the article in the Petit Journal had begun its work. People telephoned one another—have you seen the paper? By early afternoon, a few readers from the provinces began to call the newspaper’s offices to say that they had contributed to a public subscription for a memorial and were wondering whether they might be among the “victims” mentioned.
At the offices of le Petit Journal, a map of France was pinned up with colored tacks marking the location of the callers in towns and villages in Alsace, Bourgogne, Bretagne, Franche-Comté, Saint-Vizier-de-Pierlat, Villefranche, Poitiers-sur-Garonne, there had even been one from a school in Orléans . . .
At five o’clock, they finally managed to obtain the name and address of Patriotic Memory and those of the printers from one of the town halls (until then, their calls had gone unanswered; like Labourdin, most councilors were quaking in their boots).
Reporters visited 52 rue du Louvre and were shocked to discover there was no company; they raced to the rue des Abbesses. At six-thirty, the first journalist to arrive found the printworks closed.
When the afternoon editions appeared, they still had little additional evidence, but what they had seemed sufficient to take a more confident tone than they had that morning.
The printed certainties:
PROFITEERS SELL PHONY WAR MEMORIALS
Scale of Fraud Not Yet Known
A few more hours of investigating, making calls, answering telephones, asking questions, and the late editions were categorical:
WAR MEMORIALS: OUR VALIANT HEROES’ MEMORY MOCKED
Thousands cheated by unscrupulous profiteers
UNSPEAKABLE “SALE” OF PHONY WAR MEMORIALS
How many victims?
MEMORY THIEVES
Organized criminals sell hundreds of nonexistent war memorials
WAR MEMORIAL SCANDAL:
STILL NO GOVERNMENT STATEMENT
The bellboy who brought up the newspapers Monsieur Eugène had sent down for found him in a mask and full colonial regalia. With feathers.
“What do you mean, with feathers?” he was asked as soon as he stepped out of the elevator.
“Exactly as I said,” the young man said, prolonging the suspense. “With feathers.”
In his hand, he held the fifty francs he had been given for his trouble, all eyes were on the money, but still, this business about the feathers, they were anxious to know more.
“Like angel’s wings on his back. Green feathers. Huge, they were!”
Hard as they tried, it was difficult to imagine.
“They looked to me like dusters that had been pulled apart and the feathers glued together.”
If they envied the young man, it was not simply because of this business with the feathers, but because he had earned his fifty francs just as rumors that Monsieur Eugène was leaving tomorrow morning were spreading like wildfire; all the staff could think about was what they stood to lose, Monsieur Eugène was the sort of guest you encounter once in your career, and perhaps not even then. Everyone present was mentally calculating how much this or that colleague had had from Monsieur Eugène, some complained they should have set up a kitty. Their eyes flashed with regret and resentment . . . How many more times would Monsieur Eugène need errands before he left for who knew where? And who would get to attend him?
Édouard read the papers eagerly. We’re heroes again! he was thinking.
Albert was probably reading the papers, too, though his thoughts would have been very different.
The newspapers now knew about Patriotic Memory. However much they protested, they were clearly impressed by the audacity, the cunning (“these dazzlingly ingenious swindlers”), though the flattery was expressed in shocked outrage. All that remained was to find out the scale of the fraud. To do that, they needed access to the bank records, but who could they find on July 14 to open up the offices and show them the records? No one. The police were ready to pounce at the crack of dawn on July 15. By then, he and Albert would be far away.
Far away, Édouard thought again. And in the time it takes the papers and the police to track down Eugène Larivière and Louis Évrard, two soldiers reported missing in action in 1918 . . . we have time for a whirlwind tour of the Middle East.
The floor was carpeted with newspapers as once it had been strewn with pages from the freshly printed catalog of “Patriotic Memory.”
Édouard suddenly felt weary. He was feverish. He frequently had hot flushes after an injection, just as he came back to earth.
He took off his safari jacket. The angel’s wings slipped away and fell to the floor.
The man with the handcart went by the name of Coco. To compensate for his missing arm—lost at Verdun—he had fashioned a harness that fastened over his chest, wrapped around his shoulders, and hooked onto a wooden shaft screwed to the handcart. A lot of war veterans—especially those with nothing but a state pension—had become extraordinarily inventive; there were clever little carts for legless cripples, homemade gadgets of wood, metal, or leather to replace missing hands, feet, legs; the country had a host of resourceful demobilized soldiers, it was a shame that most of them were unemployed.
It was on the corner of the rue Carpeaux and the rue Marcadet that Henri finally tracked down Coco, whose harness meant he was forced to pull the cart with his head bowed and his body at a slight angle, which further accentuated his resemblance to a workhorse or an ox. Exhausted by a day spent combing the streets, scouring the arrondissement, Pradelle had spent a fortune in tips for worthless information. The moment he found Coco, he knew he was saved; rarely had he felt more invincible.
The baying pack (Henri had read the late editions of the papers) was already onto this war memorial scandal old Péricourt seemed to care so much about, but he had a head start that would allow him to get the better of them all and bring enough information back to the old bastard for him to make the promised telephone call to the minister, who, in a few scant minutes, would wipe his slate clean.
Henri would once again be as white as snow, his reputation restored, he would be able to start over again and keep what he already had, besides, the refurbishment of his estate at la Sallevière was almost complete, and his bank account continued to siphon exorbitant sums from state coffers. He had become embroiled in this mess through n
o fault of his own, but now that the worst was past, people would see who Henri d’Aulnay-Pradelle truly was.
Henri brought a hand to the pocket stuffed with fifty-franc bills but, when Coco looked up, he changed his mind and went for the other pocket, the one where he kept twenty-franc bills and coins, sensing that he could get the result he wanted cheaply. He thrust his right hand into the pocket and jingled the loose change. He asked his question, those catalogs you picked up from the printworks on the rue des Abbesses, ah, yes, said Coco, where did you drop them off? Four francs. Henri dropped four francs into the remaining hand of the barrow boy, who thanked him profusely.
Don’t mention it, Henry thought, already in a taxi on his way to the impasse Pers.
The large house with the wooden fence that Coco had described came into view. He had had to wheel the handcart all the way to the bottom of the stairs, you bet I remember the place, had to deliver a bench there once, one of them sofa things, what are they called . . . Anyway a bench, but that was a while back, months and months ago, but that day at least there was someone to give me a hand, but with them there catalogs for . . . whatever it was. Coco could not read very well; this was why he pulled a handcart.
Henri asks the taxi to wait, hands over a ten-franc bill, the driver is delighted, take all the time you need, your lordship.
He opens the gate, crosses the courtyard, and stands at the foot of the steps; he peers up, there is no one around, he takes the risk, climbs the stairs warily, ready for anything, oh, how he wishes he had a grenade at this very moment, but it doesn’t matter; he pushes open the door, the apartment is empty. Deserted, to be more precise. That much is obvious from the dust, the dishes, the place is not particularly untidy, but it has that empty quality of uninhabited rooms.
Suddenly, a noise behind him, he turns, runs to the door. A dull clatter of footsteps, clack clack clack, a little girl scurrying down the stairs and running off, he can only see her back, how old is she? Henri has no idea when it comes to children . . .
He searches the apartment from top to bottom, tossing everything on the floor, nothing, not a single document, but wait—a copy of the Patriotic Memory catalog propping up the wardrobe!
Henri smiles. His amnesty is fast approaching.
He takes the stairs four at a time, races out of the gate, walks up to the front door of the house, and rings the doorbell, once, twice, crumpling the catalog between his hands, he is getting nervous, very nervous, but finally the door is opened by a woman of uncertain age, a face as long as a ship canal, mute. Henri waves the catalog, gestures to the outbuilding at the far end of the courtyard, I’m looking for the people who were living here, he says. He reaches for his money. He is not dealing with Coco now, instinctively he flourishes a fifty-franc bill. The woman stares at the money, but she makes no move to take it, she stares blankly, but Henri is convinced that she understands. He repeats the question.
Then he hears it again, clack clack clack. He glances to his right, the little girl, at the far end of the street, running.
Henri smiles at this ageless, voiceless, sightless woman, this ectoplasm, thanks, it’s all right, stuffs the money back in his pocket, he has already spent enough for today, gets back in the taxi, where to now, your lordship?
A hundred yards away, on the rue Ramey, there are hansom cabs and taxis. The little girl is clearly experienced, she has a word with the driver, shows him her money, a child like that taking a taxi, a driver can’t help but be suspicious, but not for long, she has money, a fare is a fare, go on, get in child, she gets in, the taxi drives off.
Rue Caulaincourt, place de Clichy, past the Gare Saint-Lazare, around the Madeleine. Everywhere is decked out for the July 14 celebrations. As a national hero himself, Henri approves. Crossing the bridge at la Concorde, he thinks of les Invalides nearby, where tomorrow the gun salute would be fired. But at no point does he take his eye off the little girl’s taxi, which is now crossing the boulevard Saint-Germain and heading up the rue des Saints-Pères. Henri mentally congratulates himself, he would be prepared to bet his life that the girl is headed—where else?—for the Hôtel Lutetia.
Thank you, your lordship. Henri tips the taxi twice as much as he gave Coco, when you’re happy you don’t count the cost.
The little girl clearly knows her way around, she does not hesitate for an instant, she pays the taxi driver, leaps out onto the pavement, and the doorman nods to her, Henri thinks for a brief second.
Two possible solutions.
Wait for the girl, grab her as she comes out, stuff her in his pocket, rip her limb from limb in the nearest doorway, extract the information he needs and dump her remains into the Seine. Fresh meat, the fish will love her.
Option two: go in, find out more.
He goes in.
“Monsieur . . . ?” the receptionist asks.
“D’Aulnay-Pradelle . . .” (Henri proffers a visiting card.) “I don’t have a reservation . . .”
The receptionist takes the card. Henri spreads his hands in a gesture that is at once helpless, rueful, but also conspiratorial, the gesture of a man in a difficult position whose manner makes it clear that he is prepared to show his gratitude to anyone prepared to help. A delicate manner the receptionist associates with only the best clients . . . meaning, the richest clients. This is the Lutetia.
“I don’t think that will be a problem, monsieur . . .” (He checks the card.) “Monsieur d’Aulnay-Pradelle. Let me see . . . would you prefer a room or a suite?”
Between aristocrat and flunky there is always common ground.
“A suite,” Henri says.
Obvious, really. The receptionist purrs—but soundlessly, he is a professional—and pockets the fifty francs.
42
By 7:00 a.m. the following morning, crowds were thronging the métro, the tramways, and the buses heading toward the Bois de Vincennes. All along the avenue Daumesnil, vehicles were nose to tail, taxis, carriages, hansom cabs, cyclists weaved through the traffic, pedestrians quickened their pace. Though they did not know it, Albert and Pauline presented a curious sight. He trudged along, eyes glued to the pavement, looking like a miserable or anxious malcontent while she gazed up at the heavens, skipping along and commenting on the airship that hovered over the parade ground.
“Hurry up, chéri,” she said, “We’ll miss the start.”
But it was idle chatter, said simply for the sake of saying something. The stands by now were full to bursting.
“My God, what time did they get here, I wonder?” Pauline said.
Up ahead, lined up in marching order, ramrod straight and quivering with impatience, the Special Forces, the troops from the Military Academies, and from l’Armée Coloniale, and behind them, the artillery and the cavalry. Since the only seats remaining were so far back, shrewd street hawkers were offering wooden boxes on which latecomers could perch for one or two francs. Pauline managed to get two for one franc fifty.
The sun was beating down on the Bois de Vincennes. The colorful outfits of the women and the garish uniforms contrasted with the officials’ black frock coats and top hats. Though it may simply have been the jaundiced view of the common masses, the beau monde seemed preoccupied. And perhaps they were, or some of them at least, everyone had read the morning edition of Le Gaulois or Le Petit Journal, this business of the war memorials was on everyone’s mind. That the scandal had broken on a national holiday seemed not coincidence, but symbolic, almost an act of defiance. “A NATION OUTRAGED” ran one headline, “OUR GLORIOUS DEAD INSULTED” others trumpeted in outsize type. It had now been confirmed: a company, disgracefully calling itself “Patriotic Memory,” had sold hundreds of nonexistent memorials and made off with the takings; there was talk of a million francs, maybe two, no one seemed to know the extent of the damage. Rumor trumped scandal, and while they waited for the parade to start, people swapped information gleaned from who knew where: some said this was “another dirty trick by the Boches!” Nonsense, insisted others with no mor
e facts to back up their claim, though one thing was certain, the crooks had escaped with ten million francs.
“Ten million francs,” Pauline said to Albert, “Can you imagine?”
“That sounds like an exaggeration to me,” he said in a voice so low she scarcely heard.
People were already insisting heads should roll—as usual, this being France—particularly because the government was “in it up to its neck.” L’Humanité had explained it best: “Given that the commissioning of these war memorials must have required government involvement, if only in terms of subsidies—which, it must be said were appallingly inadequate—who is going to believe that prominent individuals were unaware of what was happening?”
“Whatever happened,” said a man standing behind Pauline, “they must have been real professionals to pull off a scam like this.”
Everyone felt that the swindle was utterly disgraceful, but they could not help but admire the sheer audacity of the scheme.
“It’s true,” Pauline said. “You have to admit, they’re clever.”
Albert was feeling a little off color.
“What’s the matter, chéri?” Pauline said, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Are you not feeling well? Maybe watching the troops march past brings back terrible memories?”
“Yes,” Albert said, “That’s what it is.”
And as the first notes of Sambre-et-Meuse were sounded by the Garde Républicaine and Général Berdoulat raised his sword in salute to Maréchal Pétain, flanked by various senior officers, Albert was thinking, ten million clear profit—any man here would cut my throat for a tenth of that.
It was now eight o’clock, his meeting with Édouard at the Gare de Lyon was set for 12:30 p.m. (“Not a minute later,” he had insisted, “otherwise I’ll just worry . . .”) The train for Marseille left at 1:00 p.m. Pauline would be left alone. Albert would be left without Pauline. Where was the profit?
The Great Swindle Page 42