“But wouldn’t they have to change it from dollars?”
“Yes, but remember how the Marshall Plan worked. The Americans gave dollars to the Europeans to buy food and goods and machine tools to restart their factories. They were repaid in local currency, which the Americans could do nothing with. There were no real exchange markets in those days. So the various American embassies suddenly found themselves sitting on this vast slush fund of French francs, Italian lire, Dutch guilders and so on. The money went to stop communism through funding election campaigns, subsidizing newspapers and student organizations and backing Socialist trade unions to undermine the Communist ones.”
“Two slush funds, the Neuvic money and the Marshall Plan, and who knows which was which?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Jacqueline. “That’s why my father’s memoirs are the key to all this. He was in it all the way through, from late 1945 to 1951 when the Marshall Plan became the Mutual Security Act.”
“And how much was the Marshall Plan?”
“Altogether? About thirteen billion dollars. But another thirteen billion had already been sent in aid to Europe between the end of the war and the Marshall Plan starting in 1947. So the U.S. pumped in a total of twenty-six billion, at a time when the American GDP was just over two hundred billion a year. Thirteen percent of the GDP is pretty generous if you ask me, but not too expensive to stop Western Europe from going Communist. And it was certainly a whole lot cheaper than a war.”
“I had no idea,” said Bruno.
“Not many people do. If you want to know what really happened in history, it’s like those two Washington Post reporters said in the Watergate scandal: ‘Follow the money.’”
“The mayor is right about your book having a big impact,” Bruno said. “I think you’ll be rewriting the recent history of France.”
“Oh, goody,” she said, an impish grin lighting up her face, making her look years younger and much more attractive. “And wait till you see what I’ve dug up on secret nuclear cooperation. Your French independent nuclear weapons aren’t nearly as independent as you think.” She said it as casually as if she were talking about the vegetables in her garden. She went to one of her bookshelves and handed him a slim paperback. He looked at the title: Le partage des milliards de la Résistance, the distribution of the Resistance billions.
“That will get you off to a good start; most of the background is in there. Let me have it back when you’re done. More coffee, or can I offer you something stronger? You look like you could do with a drink.”
Even as he was thinking that a stiff scotch would be welcome, Bruno’s mobile rang. It was Albert, head of the pompiers, the local fire brigade, which also acted as the emergency medical service.
“Got an emergency call from somewhere up in the hills by St. Chamassy about somebody badly hurt with head injuries,” Albert said. His voice was faint, the signal weak. “We’ve just got here and the gendarmes should be on their way if they can find it.” He gave Bruno directions. “And bring a doctor for a death certificate. The guy’s dead. I think we might have a murder.”
4
There was still no sign of the gendarmes when Bruno parked his van on the rough grass beside Albert’s red emergency vehicle. A battered silver Renault Clio stood beside it. In front of the cottage on a small patch of gravel was a blue Ford Transit van, its side and rear doors open to reveal an empty interior. It bore English plates and a small GB plaque on the rear bumper. Beside the van lay a lumpish shape, two men standing over it—one was Albert, and the other was a stranger, carrying a plastic bag.
The house behind them was like many others in the district, with a red tile roof in the shape of a witch’s hat and walls of light brown stone that in the sun turned to the color of honey. Wooden shutters hung on the windows, painted the usual pale gray that had become ubiquitous after the French navy sold off its vast stocks of paint very cheaply. To one side was a small barn and to the other a pocket-sized swimming pool, flanked by two cheap metal chairs that needed a new coat of white paint. A few empty flower pots were strewn about. The front door was open to show a floor of terra-cotta tiles. There were no personal touches, no patch of herbs or vegetables, no children’s toys. It was a gîte, a farmhouse cheaply restored and transformed into a holiday rental.
“Salut, Bruno,” said Albert. “This is Monsieur Valentoux from Paris, who called us. The silver Clio belongs to him. He was going to be staying here with the dead man.”
“Monsieur,” said Bruno as he shook hands with Valentoux, noting the pale, drawn face. He caught the smell of vomit, saw a patch of it by the rear wheel of the blue van. There were more spatters on the front of Valentoux’s jeans and on his shoes, leather sneakers that looked expensive. His hair was short with blond streaks, and he wore a dark blue scarf around his neck, tucked into a cream shirt that Bruno guessed was silk.
“I put a cradle over the head,” said Albert, looking down at the body. It was covered by a fireman’s red blanket. Bruno knelt down and lifted a corner of the blanket and saw a spindly metal framework, rather like the ones he put over his winter seedlings.
“It’s from my garden,” Albert explained. “I was picking it up from my sister, and it seemed like a good idea to cover him up. He’s been dead for some hours. It’s not a pleasant sight.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Valentoux. He raised his head to look at Bruno. “I couldn’t even tell you if it’s him.”
“Perhaps the fire chief could help you to your car, monsieur,” said Bruno, waiting until they left before uncovering the battered shape that had once been a human head. Blood had pooled beneath and behind the man’s head. Bits of shattered bone and teeth stood out from the pool. The face was unrecognizable as human, the features savagely, perhaps deliberately, obliterated.
Bruno closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, forcing himself out from shock and back into professionalism by trying to think what weapon might have done this. Perhaps an iron bar, he told himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the rest of the body. One hand was blood-smeared and swollen, as if the victim might have tried to protect himself. The other hand looked to have been professionally manicured, the nails buffed and polished. An open and empty black leather wallet with brass reinforcements on the corners lay between the dead man’s thighs.
The dead man was wearing khaki slacks and boat shoes without socks, a plain black T-shirt and a denim jacket. Only the jacket collar bore signs of blood, which suggested he had been knocked to the ground and then his head battered as he lay there. His attacker must have stood over him, probably straddling the body to apply backhand and forehand blows to the head. That was the only way Bruno could interpret the way the blood had spattered. They had experts on that, these days, at the Police Nationale.
He replaced the blanket over its cradle, rose and on his cell phone speed-dialed J-J, chief of detectives for the département. As usual, he got a recording, left a message and then sent J-J a brief text message.
On the floor by the passenger seat of the blue Ford was an empty bag of potato chips, some sandwich wrappings and a British newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, from the day before. Bruno took a pair of evidence gloves from his pouch. He noticed that under the seat was a magazine called Antiques Weekly, and some maps and other papers were in the door pocket. He examined one set of papers that seemed to be a rental agreement for the van for three weeks from a branch of Avis in a town called Croydon. The renter was identified as Francis Fullerton. Tucked into the Avis folder was a ticket stub from the 7:00 a.m. Eurostar train the previous day. Bruno checked that the registration number on the ticket matched that of the blue Ford. The other sheaf of papers was from Delightful Dordogne, the local vacation rental agency run by Dougal, a retired Scottish businessman. The gîte was rented to a Francis Fullerton for two weeks, starting on a Saturday, as usual with such agreements. So why had Fullerton arrived early?
The rest of the van was empty. Bruno went back to the body and found s
ome euros and British coins in a trouser pocket and a British passport in the denim jacket. He walked back to the Clio, where Albert and Valentoux were leaning against its side, smoking. Valentoux was still carrying his plastic bag.
“What’s in there?” Bruno asked, gesturing at the bag. In the distance, he could hear a siren. The gendarmes seemed at last to have found the place.
Valentoux lifted the bag and looked at it in confusion, as if he’d never seen it before. He handed it to Bruno. “I was going to welcome him with lunch.”
Inside was a baguette, a saucisson, cheese, fruit, tomatoes and a bottle of champagne, no longer cold. Nestling at the bottom was a small wrapped package. Bruno asked him to open it.
“I’d rather not, it’s a gift,” said Valentoux, and then caught himself. He took the package, tore open the silver bow and the gold wrapping paper. Inside was a gift box, which he opened to reveal a Laguiole folding knife with a wooden handle and corkscrew and a leather pouch. “Francis had always wanted one.”
“What time did you get here?”
“About one-thirty, maybe a bit later. I left Paris before seven this morning to avoid the rush.” He tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushed it with a violent twist of his foot, then took a pack of Marlboro Golds from his jacket pocket to light another. Then he offered the pack. Bruno shook his head, but Albert took one.
“Did you come by the autoroute? You should have a receipt.”
Valentoux went around to the side door of his Clio and took a piece of paper from the well between the front seats. It was an autoroute péage receipt for that day from the exit at Limoges, stamped at 11:28 a.m. that morning. That would be consistent with his arrival at about 1:30 p.m. Bruno nodded and put it in his notebook.
“His call to the emergency service was made at one forty-three p.m., and he was transferred to us. He sounded panicked, said he thought his friend was dead,” said Albert. “I got here about twenty minutes later and called you.”
“What brings you down here?” Bruno asked Valentoux.
“I’m going to be working here for the summer at the drama festival in Sarlat. We were going to start with a couple of weeks together, just the two of us.” His French was educated.
“How long had you been friends?” The approaching siren was louder now, distracting Valentoux.
“We were more than friends. I met Francis in London in January.”
“How did you meet?”
“I was guest director at a small theater in Islington. He came to the opening-night party with one of the actors.”
Bruno showed him the photo in the passport, and Valentoux confirmed that it was Francis Fullerton. He took a quick glance at the blanket-shrouded body and shuddered.
“What do you know about him?”
“We spent a lot of time together in London, and then he came to visit me in Paris last month. He’s in France quite often.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s an antiques dealer. He buys British antiques, mainly furniture, and brings them here to sell at French brocante fairs. Then he buys French furniture here to take back to England. He seemed to do well out of it, never short of money and always generous.” Valentoux’s voice caught as he said this.
Bruno was about to ask why the blue van was empty and where Fullerton’s clothes might be when his phone rang. It was J-J, returning his call. Bruno turned away to give J-J a briefing and directions, and then a familiar Twingo came in sight at the end of the lane, followed by the flashing blue light of a gendarme van.
“Wait here,” Bruno said, and advanced to greet Fabiola for the second time that day.
“They were lost, so I showed them the way,” she said, gesturing at the van, its siren finally silent. She took her medical bag from the back of her Twingo and walked across to the body.
Two young women in uniform climbed from the front of the police van, and a young male recruit unfolded his long limbs from a seat at the back. Ever since Capitaine Duroc had been suspended, the St. Denis gendarmerie had been run by a series of temporary commanders, all of them women.
The new one, Yveline Gerlache, had just arrived that week from Lorraine. So far, Bruno had met her only for a brief courtesy call and coffee at the mairie. They were to have been guests at a dinner party thrown by the mayor, but then his wife had been taken ill. Bruno reminded himself to organize a replacement dinner as they shook hands. In her late twenties and armed with a law degree, she had graduated the previous year from the officers’ training academy in Melun. She was solidly built but with delicate features and unusually long eyelashes and her grip was as firm as a man’s. Beside her was Françoise, a gendarme whom Bruno knew well. Ordinarily he’d have kissed her on both cheeks, but Françoise held back, offering him her hand.
The lanky young male recruit was weighing himself down with a forensics bag, a camera and other equipment that he took from the rear of the van. He tried to add a roll of crime-scene tape to his burden, and some of the materials slipped from beneath his arm. He glanced nervously at Yveline, who looked at Bruno and rolled her eyes.
“You might not need all that,” said Bruno. “The Police Nationale are sending a full forensics team. Their head of detectives is on his way. It seems that the dead man is a foreigner, an Englishman.”
“So it’s too sensitive for us clodhoppers from the gendarmes,” Yveline said with a grin, but her eyes were not smiling.
“And much too serious for a country bumpkin like me,” Bruno replied, and told her what he had learned. She heard him out and then asked: “What’s their relationship? Lovers?”
Bruno shrugged. “I haven’t asked, but I imagine so. The Englishman’s an antiques dealer. His French friend Valentoux is a theater director. They were planning a vacation here together.”
“A lovers’ quarrel?”
“It’s possible. But there’s no blood on him. If he left Paris when he says he did, the timing of the phone call he made reporting the murder suggests he wouldn’t have had time to kill the victim and then clean up. The autoroute receipt fits his story.”
Yveline glanced across at Valentoux. He had at last put down his plastic bag and had a large white handkerchief pressed to his face.
“He’s dead, sure enough,” said Fabiola, shaking her head as she returned from the body. “As brutal a killing as I’ve ever seen. Jaw, teeth, cheekbones and skull all shattered by something cylindrical and almost certainly metal. An iron bar, maybe one of those things you need to change a tire. Time of death was probably between six and ten yesterday evening.”
Bruno still had his gloves on, so he opened the small hatch at the side of the Ford where the spare tire and tools were kept. Nothing seemed to be missing. Yveline had donned her own gloves and was looking in the back of Valentoux’s Clio.
“Still, our theatrical friend could have killed him last night, washed and changed and driven away and then given himself an alibi on the autoroute this morning,” said Yveline.
Bruno nodded thoughtfully and was about to follow her determined stride back to the body when Fabiola caught his arm.
“You’re going to be stuck here with the body until they take it to the forensics lab in Bergerac. That means you won’t be able to pick up Pamela at the airport. I can do it. Five o’clock, isn’t that when her plane lands? But we’ll expect you for dinner.”
5
Bruno knew he would not quickly forget the expression on Yves Valentoux’s face when J-J said he would be detained overnight at the gendarmerie for questioning. He had cast a look of hopeless appeal at Bruno before Yveline pushed the Parisian into her van. Already devastated by the death of his lover, Valentoux was now being treated as the prime suspect on what Bruno thought was thin evidence. J-J had brushed aside Bruno’s discreet suggestion that he was being too hasty. Bruno acknowledged to himself that Valentoux’s alibi deserved further probing and that his theatrical experience meant he could probably play the role of innocent with enough conviction to fool Bruno. But there had been
something pathetic in the way he carried his plastic bag with the lunch ingredients, something genuine in his look of shock. And much as Bruno liked and respected J-J as a policeman, he was an old-fashioned type who made little secret of his dislike of homosexuals.
Bruno, by contrast, felt guilty about them. This stemmed from an incident that he recalled uncomfortably as one of his most notable failures as a policeman. It was a memory that kept returning, a frustrating and ugly event that he remembered as the swimming-pool affair. It had been in his first year as a municipal policeman, when he was still limping slightly from the bullet he had taken in his hip in Bosnia. He’d been part of the French contingent in the UN peacekeeping force, and the wound had led to his honorable discharge.
He had been summoned by a phone call late on an August afternoon when the heat had begun to subside, the time when people begin to rise from their after-lunch naps and the bakeries reopen for the evening trade. A voice he did not recognize, slurred with drink, had informed him there was a mess to be cleared up at a remote farmhouse at the far end of the commune. The phone had then been slammed down with a burst of laughter.
Bruno had checked the map of the commune on the wall of his office and phoned Géraldine, who ran the bar at the local tennis club and lived in that area. A disused farmhouse had been restored and turned into a gîte over the winter and a pool installed, she told him. It was mainly rented by British visitors, some of whom she’d persuaded to take out temporary membership at the club. Géraldine gave him directions, which he traced on the map with his finger and then set off.
It took twenty minutes to get there, a pleasant drive along country lanes, fields of sunflowers giving way to grazing cows in the meadows and then to sheep as the road climbed and the grass thinned out. As he rounded the last bend on the dirt track that wound up the hill, the scene appeared to be peaceful. The stone farmhouse had a new roof of red tiles, and the gravel forecourt was so new and white it almost hurt the eyes.
The Resistance Man Page 4