by Mark Pryor
Hugo smiled at the thought, especially because he planned to do some snooping of his own before visiting Roussillon. Snooping from the comfort of his office at the embassy.
He began with the databases of France's foreign intelligence agency, the DGSE, and got no hits. He then tried the domestic intelligence network, the DCRI. A new screen came up, one he'd not seen before. It contained the name “Alain de Roussillon,” several addresses including the house Gérard lived in now, and his dates of birth and death. After the general information page, the Notes tab was the only one Hugo was able to see, which puzzled him. He clicked on it and all that came up was what looked like a reference number: OIM-67892-01946. Hugo sat back and wondered.
He turned to his computer again and cleared the screen. He tried a general Internet search on the Roussillon family, but after half an hour was coming across the same information over and over again, none of it useful.
He then went to the website of Le Monde and typed in “Anton Dobrescu.” He paged through the articles but didn't learn anything new. He was interested to see a picture of the man, though. It looked like a surveillance photo, a good one. He stood taller than the man he was with, unidentified in the caption, and he had a full head of black hair. Thick, dark eyebrows sat over a heavy nose and his cheeks were pale but looked like slabs of meat. A strong, healthy Romanian, Hugo thought, who might have been a farm laborer or dock worker.
As he looked at the picture, a thought tugged at him, a question, and he called Garcia to try and get it answered.
“Merde, are you serious?” Garcia hesitated. “You really need that?”
“Yes. And he won't know.”
“I suppose it's not like we're actually bugging his phone, right?”
“Right,” Hugo said, giving the capitaine the reassurance he was seeking. “And all I want are the records from one day, just one day. I promise.”
“D'accord. I'll get my lieutenant to e-mail instructions. If you're in a hurry he can call you, he's good at this stuff, gets all kinds of records for me.”
“I'm in a hurry. You sure we don't need a subpoena or court order?”
Garcia snickered. “I don't know. But my lieutenant does, and he also knows if he doesn't do it by the book he'll feel my boot up his behind.”
Hugo grinned. He liked a by-the-book policeman. Especially because, every now and again, he had a tendency to push the bounds of what one former boss had called “procedural acceptability.” Working with a straight-shooter like Garcia was a healthy reminder of the rules and what might happen if he pushed too hard. They rang off and Hugo wondered if that was how Tom saw him, the rock of propriety in his ever-shifting world.
Hugo brought himself back to the present as he closed his office door behind him, an idea growing in his mind. His immediate need, though, was a taxi.
Traffic clogged the main arteries leading out of the city center, forcing the taxi driver to duck down smaller streets where they were at the mercy of stop lights and pedestrians lingering in the crosswalks. At each turn Hugo checked his cell phone, willing it to ring, checking the signal and battery strength. It took almost an hour to reach Roussillon's house from the embassy, and the lieutenant finally called just as they were pulling into Roussillon's tree-lined street, as tranquil in the day as it was at night. Hugo sat in the idling taxi while he got the information he needed, then got out and tipped its driver more handsomely than was customary in Paris.
“Merci,” said the cabbie, eyeing the bills. “You would like me to wait?”
“Non,” Hugo said. “I'll manage.”
As Hugo walked up the front steps the door opened and Hugo recognized Jean, his driver from the night of the party. “Monsieur Marston, bienvenue. Please, come in, le Comte asked me to show you to the library.”
Jean led him past the large table in the reception hall, its oversized vase brimming with a new crop of fresh flowers, and Hugo nodded his thanks as the driver held open the door to the library.
The room still smelled of wood smoke and cigars, but Hugo could smell the books now, too, that familiar and comforting mustiness. If peace had a smell, he thought, it would be the smell of a library full of old, leather-bound books. He looked around but didn't see Roussillon, so he walked over to one of the shelves and began to look for familiar titles. He spotted a row devoted to the history and practice of hand-to-hand combat, judo, and the other grappling arts. Not Hugo's area of interest, but above it were two shelves filled with the works of Arthur Conan Doyle and his finest creation, Sherlock Holmes. Hugo paid particular attention to a three-volume set of books covered in gray cloth, with black and gilt lettering on their spines.
He pulled the first volume out, A Study in Scarlet, and admired the gilt embellished pictorial cover plate depicting Sherlock Holmes smoking a pipe.
“First edition, published in 1903,” said a voice behind him. Roussillon. Hugo hadn't seen him slip into the room. He wore dark blue jeans and a white collared shirt. A pale blue sweater was draped around his shoulders.
“You are a fan?” Hugo said, indicating the many Holmes books.
“Oh yes, the finest detective ever created. By far. Brilliant but flawed, a nuanced character that you so rarely see these days. Can you imagine a heroin addict as the hero in a modern novel? Of course not, it would never happen. They are all tall and strong and handsome and shoot like Wild Bill Hickock.” Roussillon ran his fingertips over the spines. “I can say I have read every single one of his adventures, several times, and they still delight me.”
“I agree completely. You have a fine collection.”
“Thank you.” Roussillon straightened a book and then offered a manicured hand to Hugo. They shook and Roussillon thanked him again for saving Claudia's life.
“Come,” Roussillon said. He moved away from the fireplace toward the back of the library, and Hugo followed. A glass cabinet had been built into the wall, rows of shelves from floor to ceiling protected by thick glass. De Roussillon rapped on the glass with his knuckles. “Bulletproof,” he said. “For the stars of my collection.”
Hugo studied the books behind the glass. “L’Étranger, by Camus. Very nice. Softcover?”
“Yes. So only valued at about fifteen thousand of your dollars.”
“Only?” Hugo shook his head. “Paradise Lost, too.”
“I got that for twenty-five thousand. A steal. It's first edition, from 1668. Print run of just thirteen hundred copies. And did you know, Milton himself was paid just ten pounds? Amazing.”
“It is. Clearly the Rimbaud fits into such esteemed company.”
“Oh yes.” Two armchairs had been placed near the cabinet, their backs to it and a low table between them. Hugo now noticed that two glasses of water sat on the table. “Please sit. I will show you the Rimbaud.”
“Wait. Let's talk first, if you don't mind.”
Hugo moved around to the chairs and played host, gesturing for Roussillon to sit. The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then went to the empty chair and lowered himself into it, eyes on Hugo. “Is this about Claudia?”
“No,” said Hugo. “It's about your father.”
“My father?”
“Yes.” Hugo had thought he'd seen a shadow pass across Roussillon's face, but now the eyes and mouth were smiling.
“What about him?”
It was Hugo's turn to smile. “I think you know, Gérard.”
Roussillon spread his hands. “Non, I'm sorry I don't.”
“Then let me ask you about another book, before we talk about the Rimbaud. It's called On War, and it's by…well, you know who wrote it, don't you?”
“Yes.” There was the shadow again, there and gone in a moment. “Carl von Clausewitz. But then, any respectable book collector can tell you that.”
“I suppose so. Do you own a copy, by any chance?”
“No, I don't. What exactly is this about?” Roussillon's tone was harder now.
“I'm curious about a copy of the book, an early translation,
owned by a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“A man called Max Koche.”
“I don't know him. Is he German?”
Hugo smiled. “Sort of. You're sure you don't know him?”
“I said I didn't. And what does this have to do with my father?”
“To be honest, Gérard, I don't have all the answers. I'm here to get some of those. But you told me before that you prefer plain speaking, so I hope you will excuse me if I am blunt.”
“I do prefer it, yes.”
“Then I'll tell you what I think. I think that your father was a collaborator. I can't prove it, not right now, but I have several reasons to think this. First, your government's research tools have closed up his file, a file that once existed but has since been erased, moved, or hidden. All I know is that it was closed in 1946. That's just one year after the end of the Second World War, a time when scores were being settled, people were being held accountable. If I remember my history, young women who collaborated with the Germans had their heads shaved in public, am I right?”
“Yes,” said Roussillon, his face impassive.
“I suspect the penalty increased the higher up the social ladder you were. Or maybe not—public damnation is more ruinous to the aristocracy than to the common man. Or woman. Anyway, what I know for sure is that your father's file existed and was shuttered up in 1946. I also know that you received a call from my friend Max two weeks ago, the same day he got his hands on a book called On War. I know, too, that Max was a Nazi hunter at one time, but had moved on to looking for collaborators. And he looked for them in the books that came to his stall. I think, Gérard, that he found such a book and that when he looked through it he found your name, your father's name. I think he found it, called you, and then…” Hugo's voice was soft now, and he shrugged his shoulders. “And then what, Gérard? That's the bit that needs filling in.”
Roussillon was staring at him, eyes unblinking. His face had paled noticeably and he reached slowly for his water glass. He began to raise it to his lips, but his hand shook and he put it down, a rattle of glass on glass.
“Can you prove any of this?” Roussillon's voice cracked. “Can you?”
“Just the phone call. But if I get my hands on the book, and if I can access that closed file…” He smiled. “And I know all sort of tricks to get through red tape.”
“I'm sure you do,” Roussillon said, surprising Hugo with a smile of his own. “In any case, I don't intend to lie to you, Monsieur Marston. The truth is that you are right about my father. Everything you said, it's true.”
“OK,” said Hugo. “Tell me.”
“First, let me ask you this. Do you believe in God? No, wait, let me be more specific. Do you believe in the Christian God and his Bible?”
“No, I don't. I don't believe in any God. Or any collection of them, for that matter.”
“I see. Well, many do, as you know, and I have come around to their way of thinking in recent years. Anyway, the Bible speaks of the sins of the father being visited on the son. Are you familiar with the concept?”
“Only as a cliché.”
“You know, even the Bible isn't sure about the answer. Exodus says, ‘I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children.’ Deuteronomy I like, it's very cheerful, listen: ‘Fathers shall not be put to death for their sons, nor shall sons be put to death for their fathers; everyone shall be put to death for his own sin.’ Much better, but then one is left wondering, which is it?”
“No clue.” Hugo shook his head. “And I'm not sure I care all that much.”
“I do.” Roussillon stood. “And I'll tell you in a moment, but first you wished to see this Rimbaud book, so you will see it.” He pulled a key from his pocket and Hugo twisted in his chair to watch as the Frenchman unlocked the cabinet, reached in, and retrieved the Rimbaud. He stood there for a moment staring at the cover. “It's not an irony, I suppose, that I would go to such lengths to get this book.”
“You mean the content?”
“The content, the author, yes. In some ways, being homosexual back then was more acceptable than it is now.” He frowned. “Especially for those who worship a Christian God.”
“There are gay ministers,” Hugo said. “And it's not just Christians who judge homosexuality a sin.”
“Oh, I know that, of course.” He looked up and his eyes twinkled for a second. “But it's amusing to hear you, the atheist, defend them.”
“Defend? No. I've just found bigots in every walk of life, no more and no fewer in churches than anywhere else.”
“As you say.” Roussillon walked around his chair and sat down. “There are other sins of the flesh, Monsieur Marston, I alluded to them earlier.”
“The sins of the father.”
“Yes.” He looked up from the book. “You seem to know your history, Monsieur Marston, I mean your Second World War history. For Americans, I suspect that war takes up only a few pages in your schoolbooks, but maybe you know that here in France, and also in Germany and England, the war is very much alive in the memories of the people. To deny the Holocaust is a crime in some places. In Germany, you may not name your son Adolf. And we, the French, endure jokes about surrender from the British and Americans, even sixty years later.”
They shared a smile and Hugo said, “I've told a few of those myself.”
“Ah yes, how quickly you Americans forget that without the French, you would still be a British colony. History isn't just written by the victorious, you see. Sometimes it's rewritten by them. You already know where I am going, and that it's somewhere painful, which is why I am talking around the subject.” He cleared his throat. “You are right that my father was a collaborator. There, now the truth is out. He confessed it to me before he died. And as deathbed confessions go, it was a difficult one for both of us, as you might imagine.” Roussillon smiled sadly and looked at Hugo. “I had of course suspected something like that; it's hard to keep such an enormous secret even in so large a house. But it was easy to look the other way, to ignore my suspicions.”
“I'm sure,” said Hugo.
“He was not a bad man, you understand, but he was far from a brave man. He couldn't stand the idea of losing this house, our other homes, his fortune.” Another sad smile. “Perhaps he and I are not so different. Anyway, as the war began and then progressed, like so many Frenchmen he was forced to choose sides. He chose the losing one. He sided with the Germans to save our lands and property, and save them he did. He also managed to save our name, but only by keeping his collaboration a secret.”
Hugo said nothing, but nodded for him to continue.
“His collaboration could be excused as bad luck,” Roussillon said, “or so I have often thought. You have to bet on a game when you don't know much about the teams.” He shrugged. “Maybe the one you pick wins, maybe it loses. There's no shame in bad luck. No, the shame doesn't lie in the side you choose, but what you do for that side, how far you go. Do you provide food? Shelter? Money? Or do you do more than that?” Roussillon shook his head, and his shoulders sagged. “The saddest truth is that my dear father was worse than a mere collaborator, much worse than a café waitress who served coffee to, or even slept with, some grubby soldier. My father was a spy. Every month or two the Wehrmacht, or sometimes the SS, would come in and smash a few worthless pieces of furniture so that he could protest his treatment in public, protect his name. But when they left, those soldiers would have a list of names or safe houses or whatever else they could use against the Resistance.” He looked up at Hugo. “It is my lifelong shame that my father sacrificed others so that he might live in comfort. He was a traitor.”
“Maybe he did it to protect you,” Hugo said.
“I'm sure he would say so, yes. But from what? Living in a smaller house? Being called Gérard by my teachers instead of Monsieur le Comte? I think I could have survived that better than the shame of knowing what he did.” Roussillon looked down at
the book, his fingers caressing the cover.
“Forgive me, but this has something to do with the Rimbaud?”
“No, actually. It is you who asked to see it, and I am showing it to you.” He passed the book to Hugo. “Look through it if you wish, you will see only a valuable book, prized by a gay man as old as the author.” Roussillon's eyes twinkled for a moment. “Or almost as old.”
“The story of your father's collaboration was written in the Clausewitz.”
“Yes. You see, the Nazis and the collaborators were not the only ones passing notes. The Resistance did, too.”
Hugo thought again about the conversation he'd had with Ceci and silently thanked her for solving this part of the puzzle. “So I understand.”
“Bien. After the war my father spent all his time looking for the book, but never found it. He said it would be our undoing. I don't know how he knew, I never questioned him on these matters. All I knew was that as long as the book remained hidden away on someone's shelf, I was safe, my family name was safe. But I also knew that if it ever came onto the market, I would have to buy it, no matter the cost.”
“What does it say?”
Roussillon smiled sadly and shook his head. “Not much, but more than enough. The words, at least as my father relayed them to me, are not easy to forget. For a Roussillon, anyway.”
“Tell me.”
“The message is contained in a microdot in the lower right corner of the endpaper, and it is short and to the point. Here.” He reached into the coffee table drawer and pulled out a pen and notepad. He scratched a line on the paper and handed it to Hugo.
C. de Auvergne—collab. avec Nazis. Traître. Tuez-le.”
“Kill him,” Hugo translated the last phrase aloud. “Short and to the point.”