Bruno excused himself and went to the kitchen. First, he heated a pan of sunflower oil for beignets. The he readied a bowl of spicy salsa, removed from the fridge a pot of Stéphane’s aillou (fresh cheese flavored with herbs and garlic), spooned it into a bowl and took both bowls out to the garden with some small plates and a pile of paper napkins. Back inside, he dipped the sliced zucchini into the light batter he had made earlier and then eased them into the hot fat. Once they were brown and crisp, he took the beignets out with a slotted spoon, sprinkled salt onto them and slipped in a fresh batch to fry. He took the first plateful out to his guests and left Pamela to show Valentoux how to hold the hot beignet in a paper napkin and then decide whether to smear it with salsa or aillou.
The sound of laughter greeted him as he emerged with the second batch, Valentoux deploying a range of voices to play various roles in the story he was telling. He broke off to applaud Bruno’s return.
“I never had zucchini like this, and adding this aillou makes a perfect couple,” he said. “It’s like oysters and champagne or caviar and vodka, heavenly twins.”
“Wait until Bruno introduces you to his foie gras and Monbazillac,” said Pamela.
Nothing like food to get a conversation going, thought Bruno, smiling as he went for the final batch of beignets. But he wondered at Yves’s surprisingly cheerful mood so soon after his lover’s murder. Was it the thespian style, Bruno wondered, the tradition that the show must go on? He’d never come across someone quite like Valentoux before, a man so deliberately theatrical that Bruno suspected he’d never be able to tell whether Yves was being genuine or just acting.
When Bruno returned to his guests, Valentoux had opened a bottle of Clos d’Yvigne, the dry white Bergerac that Fabiola loved. She must have brought it. Knowing Bruno’s fondness for Pomerol, Annette had brought a bottle of Château Nenin, which he had decanted at once so they could enjoy it that evening. Pamela had brought a Monbazillac from Clos l’Envège, which would go perfectly with the strawberries, and he’d put it in the fridge to stay cool. He put the marinated duck into the oven, sliced some ham from the haunch that hung from the main beam in the kitchen and put a plate of ham and his fresh radishes at each setting on his dining room table. He added some unsalted butter to each plate and sliced a big round loaf of bread from the Moulin bakery.
“À table,” he called from the kitchen window, “and bring your wineglasses with you.”
He steered Annette to the head of the table, he and Valentoux to her left and right and then Fabiola and Pamela, and explained to everyone how the ham on the plates came from a pig that had been treated since the previous summer to a regular diet of acorns and chestnuts.
“And I saw Bruno pick the radishes from his garden today,” added Valentoux.
Valentoux copied the way Bruno smeared a little butter onto each of the plump, red radishes, dipped each one in salt and then alternated a bite of bread, a radish, a piece of ham and then a sip of the white wine.
Pamela helped Bruno clear away the plates. She stuck a fork into the potatoes and declared them ready as he removed the duck from the oven using bright red gloves emblazoned with a white Swiss cross. Fabiola had given them to him for Christmas.
“Aiguillettes de canard au miel à la befre moutarde à l’ancienne,” Bruno announced as he and Pamela brought the dishes to the table.
“I thought that was honey I could smell,” said Annette as Bruno darted back into the kitchen to bring the carafe of Pomerol. “I never heard of that with duck.”
“It should go well with this wonderful wine you brought,” said Bruno, pouring it out.
“Tell us about the festival,” said Pamela, looking at Valentoux. “What can we expect?”
Valentoux described the mix of old classics and experimental new theater, French and foreign drama that he had planned. The plates were cleared away, the cheese and salad placed on the table, and then Bruno opened the Monbazillac.
“Do you know where you’ll be staying while you’re in Sarlat?” Annette asked.
“Not yet. I was going to look for an apartment in the next few days. I’m not looking for anything grand. It just needs to be fairly central.”
“I rent an old house with some friends on the rue des Consuls, just around the corner from the festival office,” Annette said. “We each have a floor to ourselves, two rooms and a small bathroom, and we all share the kitchen, living room and garden. One of the tenants leaves this weekend for summer school in Italy, so his floor is free until the end of August.”
“It sounds perfect. Can I come and see it tomorrow? And then take you to dinner?” The two of them agreed to meet at her house in Sarlat at six.
Bruno brought coffee, and as the dinner drew to a close, Valentoux proposed that he might cook and be their host at a similar event. Pamela was the first to agree, placing her foot firmly on Bruno’s beneath the table; as usual, she’d slipped off her shoes as she dined. When they all rose from the table, she made it clear that she intended to stay the night, so Fabiola and Annette said their good-byes. Valentoux declared his intention to do the washing up.
In the kitchen, Bruno said, “I meant to ask you, did Fullerton ever mention the name of Paul Murcoing, a young man from this area who seems to have been involved in antiques?”
Valentoux froze. “I never heard that name. Is he somebody who might be a suspect?”
“Could be. Did you meet any of Fullerton’s friends?”
“Only when we were in England, and none of them was French.” Valentoux was scrubbing at a pan that was already clean. “This Paul Murcoing, is he gay?”
“Yes, and he’s disappeared. We’re keen to talk to him. Can you help?”
“I do know some people down here in the gay community.”
“Frankly, I’d be grateful for any information about him. He’s a bit of a mystery to me, and that bothers me because I know everybody in a small commune like ours.”
“And you don’t know any gays?” All the dishes washed, Valentoux had turned and was leaning against the sink, looking at Bruno with a slightly amused expression.
“Don’t be silly. There are three thousand people in this commune. We get all sorts. But it tends to be very discreet, and Paul Murcoing doesn’t fit into any part of the closeted gay world that I know around here. He’s an urban type, an outsider to the countryside that I’m familiar with. I feel a bit lost in trying to track him.”
“I’ll do what I can. Where was this Paul based?”
“Bergerac mainly, but he worked for a while in Belvès, which is very like St. Denis. He seems to have worked mainly as a driver. Hang on, let me get a photo.”
“I’ll be outside. I need a cigarette.”
Standing on the terrace, moths beating valiantly against the outside light, Bruno handed Valentoux a copy of the photo from the security camera.
“Good-looking—with a smile like that he could be very popular in Paris. Can I keep this?”
“Yes, I have copies. Pamela and I are going to leave very early in the morning to ride the horses, but I’ll probably be in the café by the mairie by eight unless something comes up. I can recommend their croissants. Good night. And sleep well.”
When Bruno came in from the bathroom, Pamela was sitting on the bed draped in a large bath towel. She had applied some fresh perfume, and his bedroom was lit by only a single candle.
“That was a lovely evening,” she said as he started to unwind the towel. “I’m looking forward to its lasting awhile longer.”
11
Bruno was enjoying his croissant at Fauquet’s café when his phone rang just before eight.
“Have you seen the paper yet?” Isabelle asked, her tone of voice surprising him. She sounded sharp, almost shrill.
“I’m just looking at it.” He gestured to Fauquet to hand him the café’s copy of Sud Ouest. A story on the front page was headlined BRITISH SPYMASTER BURGLED.
“You’re the only one who could have leaked that, Bruno. The brig
adier’s furious and I don’t want him taking it out on me.”
“Not guilty. Check with Sergeant Jules. He told me that the reporter had simply looked up Crimson on Google.” He swallowed his irritation and scanned the story. It looked as if Delaron had transcribed the details of Crimson’s career from some official biography. On an inside page was Delaron’s photo of Crimson’s house and a file photo of Crimson receiving his knighthood at Buckingham Palace.
“Well, it’s building up. The BBC ran something on it, so now we’re getting inquiries from the British press. You know how my boss hates working while reporters start running all over the place.”
Why is this such a problem, Bruno thought, if she and her colleagues are simply making an effort to find Crimson’s burglar as a matter of professional courtesy?
“What are you up to, Isabelle?” he asked.
“The brigadier is on the warpath and coming down here with Crimson when he flies in tomorrow. I’m not exactly sure why he’s coming, but I need his backing to get that new job, so I’m doing all I can.” Her voice softened. “Have you made any progress?”
“Maybe,” he said, leaving the café to speak in private. “At least I’ve got a suspect. His name is Paul Murcoing. He has a low-grade criminal record, and his last-known address is in Bergerac. J-J has a team looking for him. Where are you?”
“I’m at Crimson’s house, babysitting the place till he gets back. We’ve had forensics crawling all over it. If Murcoing’s been arrested, we’ll have his prints and DNA on file. Meanwhile I’ll see if we can round up some gendarmes. The brigadier wants to keep the press away from the house. The question is whether this is a just a straightforward burglary or whether there’s something more to it. Does this Murcoing have any British or American connections?”
“He’s a suspect in the murder of the British antiques dealer,” he said.
“Jesus, this gets worse.” She hung up, leaving Bruno unexpectedly holding a dead phone. She, like him, suspected this might not be a straightforward burglary, but why had she asked about American connections? Apart from a retired New York lawyer, a widower, and two old ladies who had taught French in California high schools, he didn’t know any Americans in the area. Jacqueline Morgan had an American parent, but she was a French citizen. Suddenly he remembered why she had looked familiar when he’d visited her. He had seen her at Crimson’s garden party the previous summer. He remembered she wore a black cocktail dress. They hadn’t spoken; there must have been forty or fifty people present.
Jacqueline knew Crimson, and she was writing a book that could make a big splash in the media about American money influencing French politics. But that was sixty years ago, the dawn of the Cold War. It wasn’t the kind of issue that would have much political impact now. Most of the old parties had disappeared or merged into new ones; only the Socialist and Communist Parties remained from those days. He shook his head; that couldn’t be it. However, there had been that cryptic remark Jacqueline had made about the French nuclear deterrent not being really independent.
Now that could have an impact. Nuclear weapons were the crown jewels of France’s defense system, and since de Gaulle’s day it had been a cornerstone of national pride that, unlike the British, France had developed its own warheads and missiles. The prospect of a scandal about dependence on the Americans was likely to worry the brigadier and his minister, particularly if a retired British intelligence chief was involved. Isabelle had said earlier that Crimson had just been in Washington for some high-level meetings. And the French elections were coming up. This was all way above his pay grade, Bruno thought. He’d better talk to the mayor.
His phone rang again. It was Monique, asking if he was still looking for Yvonne Murcoing. Indeed he was, he replied. Monique had just checked Yvonne’s room to see if she might have returned, and on the notepad by the bed she’d found a phone number with the words “camper van.”
Bruno scribbled down the number in his notebook, thanked her and dialed the number. The woman who answered said Yvonne had rented their camper van the previous year, and she’d recently asked to do so again. But she and her husband were about to take a week off themselves, so the camper wasn’t available. When had Yvonne called? Bruno asked. In the evening, three days earlier, he was told. That would have been the day of Fullerton’s murder. Bruno rang J-J and left a message asking if his team could start checking rental agencies. As he put his phone away, it gave the little ding that meant a call had come in while he’d been talking. The number showed it had come from Paris. He checked the voice mail and listened.
“Salut, Bruno. Gilles here from Paris Match. I’m interested in this burglary of your British spy chief. I thought I might come down to your part of the world, interview Crimson and see what I can turn up on other important Brits in Périgord. Please call me back, ciao.”
Bruno knew Gilles from his time in Sarajevo, during the siege, and they’d renewed their friendship recently when Gilles had been more than helpful in the case of the Red Countess. Gilles was no fool. Once he learned that Isabelle, whom he also knew, was on the case, he’d know that there was more to this burglary than met the eye. Bruno would have to handle this with care.
The mayor looked cheerful when Bruno knocked and entered his office. The delay with the new sewers, Bruno now learned, had apparently been resolved, and the mayor asked Claire to make two fresh coffees. Bruno described his talk with Isabelle. Could her sudden interest in the Americans be somehow connected to the revelations in Jacqueline’s book?
“I doubt it,” the mayor said. “Her book won’t be published until well after the elections.”
“Bits could leak,” said Bruno. “Has anybody seen it but you?”
“I don’t know, and I haven’t read all of it. I imagine she has sent most of it to her editor. And I know she’s given talks to a couple of historical societies. This is history, Bruno, old stuff; most of the old passions have died.”
“Not when it comes to nuclear weapons cooperation. And I got the impression this was much more recent.”
The mayor nodded thoughtfully. “I know Jacqueline has been working with some newly declassified documents. Our officials involved have kept it quiet so far, so if the American archives are being unsealed there’s probably a reason for that.”
“Presumably Crimson would know about this,” Bruno said. “The Americans and the British usually work closely on intelligence and on nuclear matters.” He put down his cup and sat forward. “Maybe I’m adding two and two and coming up with five, but you know politics. This looks like a pretty close election we have coming up. Could something like this make a difference if it blew up?”
“Any little thing can make a difference in a tight race. The economy is in bad shape and there’s this whiff of scandal around the interior ministry. A new row about the government mishandling nuclear matters could be just what the opposition needs,” the mayor replied. “Let me think about this. After all, I’m involved.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them to look out of the window. “I signed the paper that secured Jacqueline special access to our Senate archives. My name will be on the paper trail.”
Both men sat staring ahead for a moment. Then Bruno said, “How’s Cécile? I hope she’s not in too much pain.”
“They give her morphine. I’ll see her again this afternoon.”
“And dinner?”
“Jacqueline is doing something with last night’s leftovers. She’s a good woman.” Bruno took the cups and left the mayor staring out of the window.
After an hour searching on toutypasse.com for ads offering campers for rent in the region, Bruno had made more than twenty calls but with little to show for it. His labors were interrupted by a call from the curator he knew at the Centre Jean Moulin in Bordeaux, to report that nothing embarrassing had been found in Murcoing’s war records. He had joined the Maquis in late 1943, after the Germans had occupied southern France and begun the STO, Service du Travail
Obligatoire, the compulsory roundup of men and young women to work in labor camps in Germany. He’d joined the Groupe Valmy in early 1944, fought at Terrasson in June and took part in the battle to liberate Périgueux in August.
“Some of this we have confirmed by Marcelle Murat, a real Resistance heroine known as Le Caporal. She used her pharmacy as a mailbox and informal hospital and acted as a courier between the various groups. I’ll draft something you can use in a press release or have read at the funeral,” said the curator. “I’ll miss Murcoing. He used to come and see us once a year, always to ask if there was anything new about the money he’d helped take from the Neuvic train. Do you know about that?”
“Yes, I even found a couple of banknotes he must have taken from the train. He had one clutched in his hands as he died.”
“We’d love to have one for the museum, if you could ask his heir. That would be young Paul, I suppose.”
“You know him?” Bruno sat up with a jerk.
“Yes. He’d normally come along with his grandfather. I remember he sat in when we interviewed the old man for the oral archive. He was just as bad as his grandfather, railing against the thieves and crooks who stole the Neuvic money. It was all a capitalist plot, he said. Of course, Murcoing was in the FTP, the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, the Communist wing. I don’t know if Paul is in the party, but he certainly sounds just like the old man. He’s a regular on the bulletin board we set up on the Internet, and he’s always cropping up on the various history websites. The Neuvic train seems to be an obsession with him.”
“That’s interesting because we’re trying to find Paul to talk with him about another important case. It’s one so serious I’m beginning to doubt that he’ll show up at the funeral. Can you give me details of these websites?”
“I’ll send you a list. There are a lot. And I’ll look up some of Paul’s postings, ravings more like. I’ve got your e-mail address at the mairie, and anyway I’ll see you at the funeral. There aren’t many of the old veterans left, and I’d like to attend.”
The Resistance Man Page 10