Every Hidden Thing

by Elaine Young

Chapter 14

  Once Dougie left the restaurant, Ari could hardly contain his excitement. What if . . . what if it is the Gare Montparnasse and the key is for a locker there? That must be it, he realised with dawning wonder. If it is not, I will have to try somewhere else, but it seems to fit. This cardboard tag could have replaced the official metal tag with the number of the locker on it. He removed his spectacles and rubbed his face, covering it with both hands. Tomorrow is Wednesday. I only have that lecture at eleven. I’ll go to Gare Montparnasse first thing and no-one will be the wiser. He put the key and the letter in his pocket and called for the bill.

  He had completely forgotten about Dougie and didn’t notice him standing across the street as he hurried out of the restaurant and down the road, pushing through the evening throng. He rushed back to his apartment and trotted up the stairs feeling exhilarated and excited. The first thing Ari did was call Michel with his news. He tried his Paris number first with no success, and eventually put in a long distance call to Michel’s home in Venice.

  ‘I think proof of Dubois’ guilt has come into my hands,’ he said without preamble when the phone was answered on the other side. He went on to tell Michel about the letter and his deductions about where the evidence could be.

  ‘That is excellent detective work, Ari! When you think about it, it is very logical. Gare Montparnasse will have lockers, and the stuff can be left there safely for a few days. The only person who can get at it is the one with the key.

  ‘By the way, Ari, who is Dougie? You have mentioned him a few times,’ he sounded concerned. As Ari spoke about him, all of his uncertainty about Dougie came flooding back.

  ‘I think I have been more than a bit foolish, Michel. Out of loneliness I suppose, I have gossiped away and have probably told this boy almost everything about myself, but I am regretting it. I should have believed my gut feeling. I am really not so sure about him.’ He told Michel about the disquiet the younger man had stirred in him, on several occasions. ‘But there has been nothing I could put my finger on, except that he just seems too interested in me and my business.’ Ari scratched his chin, feeling a bit uncomfortable as he thought again about the things he’d told Dougie.

  ‘I’ll have a word with my contact in the Sureté about him. What did you say his surname is?’

  ‘Brewer. Dougie Brewer. He’s from Manchester.’

  ‘Do you know anything more about him?’

  Ari realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew very little about Dougie except that he was English; he only knew him as a student in his classes. ‘I . . . no . . . I haven’t a clue. I’ve always just accepted him at face value, as I do my other students. He could belong to any society or movement and I would know nothing about it. In all the time we have spent together, Dougie has never spoken about his personal life. I don’t even know where he lives!’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

  ‘Well, only Yves Lefevre. He’s a reporter with Le Matin. Do you know him?’ Ari asked tentatively.

  ‘He’s OK, I imagine. I’ve never met the man but I believe he’s done a lot of leg work for this case, too. He could be helpful with tracing Dougie’s interests as well . . . these newsmen have contacts everywhere and a young Englishman on campus must stick out somewhat.’

  Ari wanted to ask Michel if he knew what Lefevre could have against him, but before he could, Michel continued,

  ‘Is it too late to go to Gare Montparnasse now and check out your theory? It’s important that you get this parcel, or whatever it is, as quickly as possible. I will have to brief the prosecution about this new information. Today Dubois was just asked to plead and then there was a postponement anyway. I was told that he collapsed as the proceedings came to an end and he was taken to a clinic.’

  ‘What? I hope he is able to stand trial and doesn’t die on us! OK. I’d better get going. It is just past eight o’clock. Ari knew that he would be unable to sleep anyway and realised it would give him something to do.

  ‘Just be careful. Make sure no-one is following you. In fact, take a taxi to Montparnasse. I know it is not far to walk, but don’t,’ he said as Ari began protesting, ‘because you may be spotted by anyone on the lookout for you. Ask the taxi driver to wait while you are in the station and make sure it is the same man who is waiting for you when you come out again. Can I get you on a flight in the morning?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure . . . euh . . . the truth is . . . I hate flying!’ he ended in a rush.

  ‘Never mind then, I’ll book you on tomorrow night’s train to Venice. You’ll be safer here. I’ll tell Bragadin you’re coming.’

  Ari hung up, excitement rising in his chest. He immediately phoned for a taxi. Then he switched off the lights and opened the shutters a crack before peering down into the courtyard. Old Antoine would have locked the outside entrance by now, and gone to bed. No-one seemed to be lurking in the gloom below and he crept down the stairs to wait just inside the street-door. Ari was jittery, with anticipation coursing through his body.

  When the taxi arrived, he jumped into it and instructed the driver to take him to the Gare Montparnasse. Despite the busy evening traffic the taxi soon pulled up outside the recently rebuilt station. He didn’t stop to admire the beautiful modern glass façade but hurried into the building, telling the taxi driver to wait.

  He didn’t have far to look. ‘Consigne’ announced itself on an information board and he followed the arrows to the lockers. As he moved towards them he saw that locker 69 was closed. He pulled the key from his pocket and he fitted it into the lock. With his heart racing he turned the key and slowly opened the door. His instinct was proved right. Inside was a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He realised he was holding his breath and he let it out in a sigh. He unclipped the key-ring from the key and put it in his pocket after carefully placing the precious packet into the satchel he had brought with him. Then he hurried back to the taxi and was soon on his way back home. The whole process had taken less than an hour.

  He could hear the shrilling of a telephone and he wondered if it was his, but he did not dare make a noise by hurrying up the stairs. As he opened his front door, the ringing stopped. Once inside, he slid the door-chain closed and made sure the curtains were tightly drawn before turning on the light.

  With trembling hands he opened the parcel. In it was a rather broken-down cardboard box that he put on the table. He lifted the lid and took out a very dilapidated photograph album with thick padded covers of tooled leather, in the style that was popular a century before. It had heavily mounted photographs of venerable citizens slipped into the double pages. Wondering what the significance this could have in the case against Dubois, Ari paged idly though it. He picked it up to look at the cracked leather cover again and a very shabby brown envelope slid onto the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down slowly as he twisted the split-pin that held the envelope closed.

  Out slithered a flood of faded photographs. He shuffled unhurriedly through them; suddenly his eyes almost started in his head. There was a photograph of his father’s arrest. It was unmistakeable, though taken from the opposite side of the road to where he, Ari, had been standing. He took a magnifying glass from his desk drawer. In the background he could see a head protruding from around a building; it was his own face. He could not remember having seen Jacques with a camera, but Ari had been so gripped with the drama around his father and brother that he had not noticed much else. He turned it over. On the back was a precisely written legend in indelible pencil: ‘Jew from St Ouen.’ Ari put his head down on his arms and as he sat there, great rasping sobs wracking his body.

  After a while he sat up, wiped his eyes, blew his nose loudly and began looking at each photograph carefully. His stomach churned at what he saw. Image after image of heinous acts. Manacled, beaten men, some shot, lying in dark pools. He felt nauseous but the thing that kept him looking was that most of them included the grinning face of Jacques; posing with his foot on t
he neck of a prisoner, looking down, gun in hand at a pathetic pile of rags that had once been a man. Many bore a pencilled name on the back. After a gruelling hour he sat back in his chair, eyes closed. He realised he was wet with perspiration, as though he had run a long, arduous race. Limp and drained of all emotion, he could not even feel hate.

  It was after midnight when he finally slid the photographs into their envelope and closed the album before carefully replacing it in the old box. There was no sense of triumph or horror, just a deep peace that finally he had sure evidence to convict Dubois. Even the savagery he had sifted through could not disturb that.