The Great Swindle

by Pierre Lemaitre

  The crowds applauded as cadets from the École Polytechnique14 marched past, followed by officers from Saint-Cyr with their tricolor shako plumes, the Republican Guard, the Fire Services, then came the rank-and-file soldiers in their pale-blue uniforms, the crowd leapt to their feet. There were cries of “Vive la France!”

  Édouard was standing in front of a mirror when he heard the cannons being fired at les Invalides. For some time now, he had been worried to notice that his exposed throat was flushing a vivid crimson. He felt weary. The morning newspapers had not brought him the same joyous thrill as those the day before. How quickly emotions aged, and how badly his throat had aged!

  What would he look like when he was old? The cleft in his face would leave little room for wrinkles, other than on his forehead. It amused Édouard to imagine that the folds and furrows that could find no space on his missing cheeks, his missing lips would all flow to his forehead, as diverted rivers carve out new channels, following the path of least resistance. As an old man, he would be no more than a forehead as rutted as a parade ground above a gaping crimson void.

  He checked the time. Nine o’clock. He was so tired. On the bed, the chambermaid had set out his full colonial regalia. It lay there like a corpse emptied of all substance.

  “Is this how you wanted it, monsieur?” she had said hesitantly.

  The hotel staff were no longer surprised by Monsieur Eugene’s notions, but even so, that safari jacket with the huge green feathers stitched to the back . . .

  “You’re planning to wear this . . . out?” she had said, surprised.

  In answer, he simply pressed a crumpled bill into her hand.

  “So . . . should I ask the bellboy to come get your trunk?” she said.

  His luggage was to be collected at eleven and go on ahead of him to be loaded onto the train.

  He would keep only the ancient, battered haversack into which he had packed his few personal belongings. Albert was the one who carried the important things, I’m always afraid you’ll lose them, he would say.

  It did him good to think about his friend, in fact he felt an inexplicable pride as though, for the first time since they had met, he was the parent and Albert the child. Because at heart, Albert, with his terrors and his nightmares, was just a kid. Like Louise, who had unexpectedly reappeared last night—what a pleasure to see her again.

  She had rushed in, panting for breath.

  A man had been at the impasse Pers. Édouard had bent forward, tell me all about it.

  He’s looking for you, he ransacked the apartment, asked all sorts of questions, we didn’t say anything, obviously. A lone man. Yes, in a taxi. Édouard had stroked Louise’s cheek, traced the curve of her lips with his forefinger, thank you, that’s very sweet, you did the right thing, now go, it’s getting late. He would have liked to kiss her forehead. She would have liked this, too. She shrugged, hesitant, then decided to go.

  A lone man in a taxi, clearly not the police. A particularly shrewd reporter. He had tracked down their address, so what? Without their names, what could he do? And even if he had their names, how would he track Albert to his lodging house or Édouard to the Lutetia? Especially as the train was leaving in a few hours.

  Just a little, he thought. No heroin this morning, just a drop of morphine. He needed to stay lucid, thank the hotel staff, say his good-byes to the manager, get into the taxi, go to the station, find the train, meet up with Albert. And then . . . then would come the surprise that thrilled him. Albert had shown him only his own ticket, but Édouard had rummaged around and found the others, in the names of M. and Mme Louis Évrard.

  So there was a woman. Édouard had long suspected it, but why the hell did Albert have to be so mysterious? He was like a child.

  Édouard took his injection. The relief was instantaneous, he felt calm, weightless, he had been very careful with the dose. He went and lay down on the bed, he ran his finger around the edge of cleft in his face. My safari suit and I are like two dead men side by side, he thought, one empty, the other hollow.

  Except for checking stock market prices, which he did unfailingly morning and evening, and a few financial magazines, M. Péricourt did not read the newspapers. Others read for him, wrote up brief digests, advised him of any pressing matters. He was loath to depart from this rule.

  On a sideboard in the hallway, he glimpsed the front page of Le Gaulois. Damn. He had expected the scandal would break at any moment; he had no need to read the papers to know what they were saying.

  His son-in-law’s hunt had been tardy and futile. Or perhaps not, for here they were sitting face to face. M. Péricourt said nothing, merely folded his arms. He would wait as long as he needed, but he would ask no questions. He could, however, offer a little motivation . . .

  “I had the Ministre des Pensions on the telephone discussing your situation.”

  This was not how Henri had envisaged this interview, but so be it. All that mattered was that his slate be wiped clean.

  “He told me it is serious,” M. Péricourt said, “He went into some detail. Very serious indeed”

  Henri was baffled. Was the man trying to raise the stakes, to bargain over what he, Henri, had to report?

  “I found your man,” he said bluntly.

  “Who is he?”

  Péricourt blurted the question. A good sign.

  “And what does the minister have to say on the subject of my ‘serious’ situation?”

  Both men marked a silence

  “That it will be almost impossible to resolve. What do you expect? The reports have already been circulated, the matter is no longer a secret . . .”

  For Henri, there could be no question of giving up now; he would sell his skin whatever the price.

  “‘Almost impossible’ is not ‘impossible.’”

  “Where is he, this man?” M. Péricourt asked.

  “In Paris. For the moment.”

  Pradelle fell silent, he studied his fingernails.

  “You’re certain it’s him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Henri had spent the previous evening in the bar of the Lutetia, he had even considered telephoning Madeleine, but there was no point now.

  The first nuggets of information had come from the barman, everyone was talking about him, about this Monsieur Eugène who had checked in two weeks ago. His presence had eclipsed everything else, the daily news, the July 14 festivities, he monopolized all attention. And made the barman’s resentment bitter: “He only tips the people he sees, so whenever he orders a bottle of champagne, the money goes to whoever delivers it, not a centime for the barman who prepared it, the man’s a boor, if you want my opinion. I hope he’s not a friend of yours? Oh, the little girl, yes, there’s been a lot of talk about her, but she hasn’t been in here, a bar is no place for children.”

  This morning, he had got up at 7:00 a.m. and talked to the staff, the bellboy who brought his breakfast, the chambermaid, he had even sent down for newspapers just for the opportunity to talk to someone else. It all tallied. This Monsieur Eugène was anything but discreet. He clearly believed he had complete impunity.

  According to the barman, the girl Henri had followed had only ever visited one guest at the hotel.

  “He’s leaving Paris,” Henri said.

  “Destination?” M. Péricourt asked.

  “I suspect he’s fleeing the country. He leaves at noon.”

  He let this information percolate, then added:

  “I reckon once he leaves, he will be almost impossible to find . . .”

  “I reckon.” Only a boor would use such a phrase. Oddly, since he was not really a pedant in linguistic matters, M. Péricourt was shocked to hear such an uncouth expression from the lips of the man to whom he had given his daughter’s hand.

  A military band passed beneath the windows of the study, forcing the two men to pause a moment. From the sound of firecrackers and children wailing, it was obvious a large crowd had gathered to watch the parade.
r />   Once calm was restored, M. Péricourt decided to cut to the chase.

  “I shall intercede with the minister and . . .”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you have told me what I wish to know.”

  “His name—or at least the one he is going by—is Eugène Larivière. He’s staying at the Lutetia.”

  It seemed important to pad out the information, to give the old man value for his money. Henri explained about Monsieur Eugène’s whims, his extravagant tastes, the chamber orchestras, the elaborate masks so that no one ever saw his face, the exorbitant tips, the rumors that he took drugs. Last night, the chambermaid had seen a safari suit, and of course there was the steamer trunk . . .

  “What do you mean, feathers?” M. Péricourt interrupted.

  “Feathers. Green feathers. Arranged like angel’s wings.”

  M. Péricourt had formed his own picture of the swindler, made up of what little he knew about such criminals, and it was nothing like his son-in-law’s description. Henri realized old Péricourt did not believe him.

  “He lives expensively, he squanders money, he’s lavish in his generosity.”

  Good. The mention of money refocused the old man’s concentration, forget the talk of string quartets and angel’s wings, let’s talk about money. A man who steals and spends, this was something his father-in-law could understand.

  “Did you see him?”

  Ah, this was a problem. What should he say? Henri had been in the hotel, he knew the man was staying in suite number 40, at first he had wanted to see the man’s face and maybe grab him, since he was alone it would not be difficult: he would simply knock on the door and when the man opened, knock him to the ground, truss his wrists with a belt . . . then what?

  What exactly did M. Péricourt want? Did he want the man handed over to the police? Since the old man had said nothing of his intentions, Henri had thought it better to double back to the boulevard des Courcelles.

  “He checks out of the Lutetia at noon,” he said, “You have enough time to have him arrested.”

  The thought had not occurred to M. Péricourt. He had wanted to find the man for himself. In fact, he would rather suppress the news of his escape than be forced to share the information; he pictured the melodramatic arrest, the interminable investigation, the trial . . .

  “Very well.”

  As far as he was concerned, the interview was at an end, but Henri did not move. On the contrary, he uncrossed and recrossed his legs to make it clear that he was staying, that he expected the reward he had earned and had no intention of leaving before he got it.

  M. Péricourt lifted the telephone receiver and asked the operator to get the Ministre des Pensions on the line, at home, at the ministry, wherever he happened to be, it was urgent, he needed to speak to him immediately.

  He hung up, and the two men waited in a ponderous silence.

  Finally, the telephone rang.

  “I see,” said M. Péricourt slowly, “Have him call me immediately he returns. Yes. Extremely urgent.”

  Then, to Henri: “The minister is attending the military parade in the Bois de Vincennes. He is expected home in an hour.”

  Henri could not bear the thought of having to sit here for an hour or more. He got to his feet. The two men were not in the habit of shaking hands, and so they merely sized each other up and Henri left the study.

  M. Péricourt listened as Pradelle’s footsteps faded, then sat down again and turned to stare out of the window: the sky was a perfect blue.

  Henri wondered whether he should call on Madeleine.

  Why not? Just once would not hurt.

  There were trumpets, the cavalry raised clouds of dust, next came the heavy artillery, huge field guns towed by tractors, then the gun carriers, the armored cars, and last the tanks, ten o’clock sounded, it was over. The parade left a curious impression, a fulfillment, and an emptiness. The crowds began to drift away, silent but for the children, who were excited that they could finally run and play.

  Pauline held Albert’s arm as they walked.

  “Where are we going to find a taxi?” he wondered aloud, his voice expressionless.

  They had to call at his lodging house so Pauline could change her clothes before starting her shift.

  “We’ve spent enough money already,” she said. “Let’s take the métro, we have time, don’t we?”

  M. Péricourt waited for the minister’s call. It was almost eleven o’clock when the telephone rang.

  “Ah, my dear fellow, I do regret . . .”

  But the minister did not sound as though he regretted anything. He had been expecting this call for days, indeed he was surprised it had not come before now: sooner or later, M. Péricourt was bound to intercede on behalf of his son-in-law.

  And it would be an awkward conversation: the minister owed much to Péricourt, but this time he could do nothing, the cemetery scandal was out of his hands, the prime minister himself was incensed, nothing could be done now . . .

  “It’s about my son-in-law,” M. Péricourt said.

  “Ah, my dear fellow, a deplorable affair . . .”

  “Serious?”

  “Extremely serious. There is talk of . . . criminal charges.”

  “Really? That bad?”

  “I’m afraid so. Fraudulently securing government contracts, hushing up malfeasance, theft, trafficking, attempted bribery, it could hardly be more serious.”

  “Good.”

  “What do you mean, good?”

  The minister was puzzled.

  “I simply wanted to inquire about the extent of the damage.”

  “Colossal, my dear Péricourt, there is bound to be a scandal. Especially in the current circumstances, what with this business of the war memorials, the government is in a terrible situation . . . Obviously I had contemplated intervening on behalf of your son-in-law, but . . .”

  “Don’t!”

  The minister could not believe his ears . . . Don’t?

  “I wished to be kept informed, nothing more,” M. Péricourt said, “There are arrangements I need to make for my daughter. As for Monsieur d’Aulnay-Pradelle, let justice take its course. That would be best.”

  Tellingly, he added: “Best for all concerned.”

  To the minister, getting off so lightly seemed a miracle.

  M. Péricourt replaced the receiver telephone. His son-in-law’s disgrace, which he had just pronounced without a second’s hesitation, prompted only one thought: should he tell Madeleine right away?

  He looked at his watch. He would do it later.

  He asked for the car to be brought around.

  “No chauffeur, I shall drive myself.”

  At 11:30 a.m., Pauline was still basking in the excitement of the parade, the music, the cannon fire, the roar of the engines. They had just arrived back at Albert’s lodging house.

  “I mean, really,” she said, taking off her hat. “Charging a whole franc for a measly wooden box.”

  Albert stood, frozen, in the middle of the room.

  “What’s the matter, darling, are you feeling all right? You’re very pale . . .”

  “It was me,” he said.

  Then he sat stiffly on the bed, staring at Pauline, it was done, he had confessed, he did not know what to make of this unexpected decision, nor what else he might say. The words had tumbled from his lips without his conscious intention. As though they were someone else’s.

  Pauline looked at him, still clutching her hat.

  “What does that mean, ‘it was me’?”

  Albert looked in a sorry state, she hung up her coat and went to sit next to him. White as a sheet. He was definitely sickening for something. She pressed a hand to his forehead, no doubt about it, he was running a temperature.

  “Did you catch cold?” she said.

  “I’m going away, Pauline, I’m leaving.”

  His sounded overwrought. The misunderstanding over his health lasted barely a second.

  “G
oing away . . . ,” she echoed, on the brink of tears. “What do you mean going away? You’re leaving me?”

  Albert bent and picked up the newspaper, which was still folded open at the article about the war memorials, he handed it to her.

  “It was me,” he said again.

  It took several seconds for the information to filter through. She bit her fist.

  “My God . . .”

  Albert got up, opened the dresser drawer, took out the Messageries Maritime tickets, and handed her hers.

  “Will you come with me?”

  Pauline was staring vacantly, her eyes glassy as a waxwork dummy’s, her mouth half-open. She looked at the tickets, then at the newspaper, but could not shake off her astonishment.

  “My God . . . ,” she said again.

  Albert did the only thing he could. He got up and, bending down, dragged the suitcase from under the bed, set it on the comforter, and opened it to reveal a staggering amount of paper money in neat packets.

  Pauline gave a little cry.

  “The train leaves for Marseille in an hour,” Albert said.

  She had three seconds in which to decide whether to be rich or spend the rest of her life as a housemaid.

  She only needed one.

  The suitcase full of money was obviously a factor, but what had swayed her were the steamship tickets marked “First Class Cabin.” Everything those words represented.

  In a flash, she snapped the suitcase shut and ran to put on her coat.

  As far as M. Péricourt was concerned, the matter of the war memorial was closed. He did not know why he was driving to the Lutetia, he had no intention of going in, of meeting this man, of speaking to him. Any more than he intended to turn him in to the police or prevent him from fleeing. No. For the first time in his life, he accepted defeat.

  He had been categorically beaten.

  Strangely, he felt almost a sense of relief. To lose was to be human.

  He was going to the Lutetia in much the way a man signs an acknowledgment of debt, because it was a necessary act, because he can do no other.

  It was not a guard of honor—such things are not done in grand hotels—but it looked very much like one: all those who had served Monsieur Eugène were standing to attention in the lobby. He stepped out of the elevator, shrieking like a madman, decked out in his safari suit, the feathery angel’s wings now clearly visible.