The Haunted Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  He had three hours before his lunch appointment with Gerland and knew he would be hard pushed to get through all the paperwork as he eyed the number of files with horror. Luckily he had a full packet of cigarettes and his indispensable best friend, his hip flask freshly replenished with some cognac from the Rosenbergs’ cellar.

  He offered some to Junot, who gratefully accepted not to Lafarge’s surprise as he imagined it was a mind-numbing post to occupy seated amongst the dust and the files of wars past, with their different accounts of misdemeanours, courageous acts, ‘justice’ being handed down, secret reports on officers comportment in the field of battle and so on.

  A good job for a historian but then this was not information to be shared amongst the general public so a young disabled officer, sworn to secrecy, is guardian of the military’s secrets. Lafarge was forbidden from taking any of the papers out of the room, and was only allowed to make the briefest of notes. Otherwise he would have to commit everything else to memory and only under extraordinary circumstances could any of the information be used in a court of law.

  He decided it best to skip through most of the files on the mutiny itself, fascinating as the story was, and indeed the courts martial which he noticed were quite threadbare in the papers relating to them. No wonder he thought they got a very limited defence so it would hardly pad out a file.

  He began to see more of his father’s spidery signature as he went through the appeals process, such as it was, at the bottom of the form either sentence commuted or confirmation of the death sentence.

  Even being the cynical soul that he was he still shivered when he looked at the papers and thinking it was his father who had signed them, with a simple swish of the pen he either gave one man another chance at life or condemned another to death. He wondered did he feel more than he had let on to him. He would never know the answer to that question, unless astonishingly his father had kept a diary. He didn’t see his father as someone who would be at ease with expressing his feelings even in a personal journal.

  However, he couldn’t fault him for carrying through the letter of the military law for those times and everything was in order. Indeed there were more people blessed by Petain’s clemency, for it was he who wielded the power not his fellow senior officers after all they as a whole had been the source of the disquiet, than sent before the firing squad.

  He leafed through the final batch of men who had been court-martialled and came to the papers regarding the curious case of Neveu and de Granville replacing him as the accused. Again he could just about grasp the decision to give Neveu a reprieve but not the one rejecting de Granville’s appeal. The young man would have expected to be found guilty but then being an officer and the son of an influential businessman to have his sentence commuted.

  The shock must have been monumental for him, and Lafarge felt sorry for his lot. However, he felt even more so when he leafed through the papers, all in order from the initial charge sheet to the court-martial to the appeal and as usual his father’s signature at the bottom confirming the sentence.

  However, unlike the others there was a letter attached to the form. He flipped over the form so he could read it but studiously avoided ripping it from the paper clip that held them together.

  The handwriting on the letter was not his father’s and had faded a bit, but was still legible. It helped that the author had clear handwriting. It was also mercifully short, not so if you were de Granville. He hoped he had never seen this letter and he couldn’t imagine his father having the gall to show it to him. Also his father would never have tried to hide behind someone else to avoid shouldering the blame, even if those lines appeared a little blurred during his time in Vichy.

  Here though he found the better side of his father, and indeed he compared very favourably to de Granville’s father. For this was de Granville senior all but pleading with the officer concerned with the appeals process to deny his son a reprieve.

  Bleakly put de Granville said his son’s death would show the ordinary soldier that it was not just they who were paying the penalty for the gross outrage and disgrace the mutiny had brought on the good name of the French Army. He tried to lessen his act of filicide by saying it was with a heavy heart he wished such a heavy penalty on his own blood and indeed his sole heir.

  However, he laid it on heavy by saying he felt it his duty as a patriot and hoped that such a sacrifice would motivate the remaining soldiers to restore some lustre to the Army’s reputation for the remainder of the war.

  Lafarge was flabbergasted by such pompous rhetoric, disguising what was in his eyes murder for it was clear that de Granville would have had his sentence commuted but for his father’s intervention. Perhaps this was Colonel Lafarge’s way of passing sentence on de Granville’s father by not tearing the letter up but keeping it as a letter of record.

  He wondered whether de Granville senior was still alive, because the man deserved to be exposed for the callous murderer he was. There was a mention of him having a grandson, very young at the time, and how he would bring him up citing his father as a hero.

  There again was de Granville senior vainly trying to put a favourable impression on his act. That he would turn his ‘sacrifice’ of his son into a different story of a heroic father for his grandson to be brought up on.

  Lafarge gagged as he read this revolting and ludicrous self-justification by de Granville.

  He set that aside and saw there were photographs, very faded of the day of execution. He saw his father, who looked splendid in his general staff uniform, standing with two fellow senior officers and then there was one of poor de Granville being tied to the stake.

  The one that caught his attention, though, was of the firing squad themselves. Captured on camera face on and looking quite the opposite in comparison to his father. They were all unshaven. Some to be fair had full beards, probably by choice, their uniforms even with long coats looked stained and tattered. However, it was their expressions that struck Lafarge the most. They looked exhausted but defiant too and there was, or perhaps he wanted to imagine it, a simmering anger in their faces, that they were doing this unwillingly.

  He picked out Neveu not looking much livelier than he had done when he’d seen his corpse in the morgue. He held his face up for the camera but there was no glint of relief in his features, no sense of triumph at escaping the fate of de Granville. Instead he perceived hate emanating from the man, whether for the state or for his father as the representative of the Army he could not tell and would never be able to.

  Scrawled below the photograph were their names, but whilst they were difficult to discern, it was made easier for him as over leaf there was a piece of paper with the roll call of the squad. Indeed also listed was his father, as the senior officer overseeing the execution, the medical officer, his friend the pathologist Durand, the sergeant in charge of the squad itself Morand and the eight men themselves.

  Neveu was listed, then were Privates Lambert, Giroud, Jeannot, Berazagui, who must have with a name like that hailed from the Basque country and his personal details confirmed that, Kronsbach, Philliperon and Lequeux. Their dates of birth only emphasised the weariness of their expressions in the photograph. None of them apart from the sergeant, Morand, who was 26, were older than 23.

  Lafarge thought a moment and a surge of excitement ran through his body. The officer murdered in the POW camp he’d been held in had been called Hugo Philliperon. Now it might be a stretch to think that Private Hugo Philliperon had stayed on in the Army especially after his nearly being executed for mutiny, but given that Neveu was dead and his father too it merited him looking into the career of this fellow.

  He asked Junot if there were files on soldiers who had progressed on to becoming officers. He nodded and gestured to a bookcase which ran right up the wall and was in theory in alphabetical order. However, it was clear to Lafarge Junot’s gesture had been more to say rather you than me as with only one working limb on opposite sides of his body the chances
of him climbing a ladder to get the file was close to zero.

  Reluctantly he scrambled up the rickety ladder and flicked through a whole range of soldiers beginning with P and thankfully it didn’t take too long to come to Hugo Philliperon. He sped through the file and saw that Philliperon had left the Army, hardly a surprise as it was unlikely they would have wanted him to stay on either, but had re-enlisted in May 1939 and had been impressive enough in training to be made lieutenant.

  He couldn’t really recall too much of the man himself in the camp. He was a good looking fellow, cheerful when he saw him on those rare occasions, but with hundreds of prisoners forming close relationships, apart from with those from your own regiment and some housed in your barracks, was impossible. Philipperon had been murdered in early 1941, a rare occurrence even in an increasingly febrile atmosphere where going stir crazy didn’t take long.

  He had been approached by the camp commandant, a personable enough sort an elderly Wehrmacht officer called Erich Krebe, and asked to investigate the case as he believed it was an in house job and none of his officers spoke fluent enough French.

  Besides Lafarge was a detective. He had been taken aback that such information was known to the camp commandant, but he had laughed and said he had been informed by another of the prisoners Francois Mitterrand that he had made quite a name for himself before the war.

  Lafarge knew Mitterrand as he was in the same hut. He was a sergeant but not your normal non-commissioned officer. He liked to read classical literature to his fellow prisoners. He certainly knew how to hold a crowd even if he had a literally captive audience.

  However, he was also cold and aloof, so glacial that some prisoners joked The Titanic would have gone down if it had hit him. Lafarge quite liked him and they had formed if not a close relationship a cordial one.

  Of course Krebe wanted it to be an in house job, a German culprit was unthinkable and in any case if they wanted to deal with a prisoner they could make up any sort of offence to justify the punishment, but he dangled the carrot of releasing Lafarge if he succeeded in solving the case.

  Aided by Rochedebois, Mitterrand stayed in the shadows offering a few tantalising if elliptical remarks as to whom he thought was responsible which Lafarge still judged valuable as if anything he was an excellent observer of people, he plowed ahead.

  Lafarge had eventually picked out a lieutenant Dubosc from the same hut as Philipperon. It turned out that they had a flaming row over what else but the decision to collaborate. Many had had the same arguments and their split was reflective of France as a whole, a majority supporting Petain’s decision and a minority against it.

  It didn’t mean that the minority supported de Gaulle, far from it as he was barely known to the majority of the prisoners. They didn’t like the thought of forming an alliance with Germany, a country they had been at war with three times in 60 years – to all intents and purposes Prussia the enemy of 1870 was to them the same thing -- and been humiliated on two of those occasions.

  Philipperon had been against the collaboration and Dubosc vehemently for it. The latter was known to be something of a firebrand and not being able to let the dispute lie he had taken it personally and he had struck down Philipperon.

  Lafarge had confronted Dubosc who denied the charge and became extremely enervated very quickly. They had calmed him down, Rochedebois knocking sense into him by throwing him to the ground, and taken him to Krebe.

  From that moment the affair was out of his hands, it was for Krebe to decide what should happen to Dubosc. Lafarge’s only thought was that of his impending freedom and fearful Krebe would renege on his promise.

  Krebe had kept his word and he had been released, but there had been no such joy for either Rochedebois or Mitterrand. The latter didn’t appear to care. He seemed happy enough to continue with his literary readings and was also assigned to a work detail which gave him at least some time outside the claustrophobic confines of the camp.

  Rochedebois also took it well and simply shrugged his shoulders and joked that he would be safer inside than Lafarge would be outside the wire.

  Lafarge looked at the clock on the tobacco-stained wall of the room and saw he was in danger of being late for his lunch with Gerland. He was loathe to keep him waiting not because he was charging him – which he wasn’t – but the lawyer got peeved if he was delayed from launching into his aperitif.

  “Captain Junot I wondered whether I could be so rude as to ask you a favour,” said Lafarge pushing his luck a bit but he saw no other option if he was to be on time for his lunch.

  Junot, who was sitting at his plain desk reading a book, nodded.

  “If I gave you a list of seven soldiers from the Great War would you be able to track down what happened to them and if they are still alive?” asked Lafarge.

  To his relief Junot looked extremely enthusiastic to be set such a challenge. No wonder. He couldn’t imagine he was taxed too much in his duties in this room of ghosts.

  “I suppose it could be impossible if they left the service, but some might have been called up again or re-enlisted like this poor soul I’ve just been reading about. Anything you can come up with would be of the greatest help to my investigation,” said Lafarge.

  “Do you think if I came back tomorrow morning you might have something? I’ll bring a full hip flask!” said Lafarge hoping that acted as an extra spur to the young captain.

  Junot grinned and replied that it would be worth him trying at least the next day.

  Lafarge thanked him warmly and bade him farewell.

  He was looking forward more than ever to a long lunch with Gerland. He needed something to distract him from the worrying thought that he had got the wrong man for the Philipperon murder.

  In his eagerness to get a result and therefore his freedom he now worried he had overlooked elements of the case that could have pointed him in a different direction.

  In fact he was sure he had because it was becoming clear, although he needed to wait till he heard what Junot had discovered, there was someone going round eliminating the members of that firing squad and others who had played key roles in the process.

  If confirmed by Junot then his worst fear would be realised.

  He would have a serial killer on his hands.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lafarge made it to the Grand Veffour just on time, and in fact beat Gerland there by five minutes.

  It gave him time to admire the magnificent decoration and sumptuous surroundings of the historic restaurant.

  Situated at the opposite end of the fabulous Palais Royale to the Comedie Francaise it had like the Parisians lost its way during the Occupation when it had degenerated into being a shoddy bar a far cry from the restaurant that had been frequented by Napoleon and subsequently Victor Hugo among other luminaries.

  However, it had been restored to its old image by Louis Vaudable, son of the owner of Maxims and a fine chef in his own right, and the stars of the French art and theatrical world were returning which testified to its rebirth as a classy establishment.

  Lafarge was not surprised to see leading this revival was Jean Cocteau, who came in almost every lunchtime and was sat at the same table, often as was the case today with his boyfriend and his regular leading man in his plays the much younger Jean Marais.

  He nodded to them when he saw them walk in, as he had had occasion to interview them regarding a case, just after the Liberation, in Cocteau’s beautiful apartment which looked on to the Palais Royale.

  Marais, who was the pin-up of many young French girls who were innocently ignorant as to his sexual preference, had shed the uniform he had donned to join General Leclerc’s highly effective 2nd Armoured Division just after they had met. Cocteau looked just as birdlike as always whilst Marais appeared to have done more fine dining than fighting judging by his heavyset appearance.

  It was clear to Lafarge that the manner in which Cocteau had acknowledged him he preferred not to register with the staff he was acqu
ainted with the police, even if the man in question was the guest of the giant of the French bar Henri Gerland.

  He didn’t mind his rudeness for he had found him a rather tiresome self-absorbed character when he had spent time in the apartment, and his record during the Occupation could be best described as mixed. Anyways Lafarge could dismiss him as he was nothing to do with this case, he hadn’t had the balls to actually fight for his country in the Great War, and he imagined the sight of real blood would probably cause him to faint.

  Happily Gerland had arrived just at that point and having shared a bottle of an extraordinary Montrachet 1898 Louis Jadot – the cellar must have been locked firmly to prevent the low caste Occupation clientele from drinking it as if it was cheap everyday wine – to cover their first course, Lafarge ordering ducks liver and Gerland a dozen oysters they launched into a 1934 Chateau Cheval Blanc for the main course.

  Lafarge and Gerland indulged in ris de veau and kidneys flambéed in cognac, the lawyer ate the latter as the Chief Inspector only liked cognac cold and on its’ own.

  They left the serious part of the conversation to the end, not wanting to ruin their enjoyment of the food. Gerland may have been extremely discreet with regard to his clients’ briefs – being a defence lawyer there was usually a large amount to keep quiet about – but he was an inveterate gossip when it came to others.

  “You know of course de Gaulle wants to keep Leclerc out in the Far East for as long as possible because he fears he could challenge him and his popularity is rising in the same proportion as that of his falling,” said Gerland with a conspiratorial wink.