The Blood of Lorraine

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  If the inspector thought his sarcasm would lighten the mood, he was wrong. Martin pressed two fingers against his temple, hoping to relieve the building tension. He was not accustomed to so much resistance from his inspector.

  Jacquette continued: “I listed a few big army men, but my guess is that if we scratched the surface we could include half the officers in the garrison. And God knows how many priests, although not the bishop.” The inspector spread out his arms in mock despair.

  “The Thomases, their associates,” Martin insisted.

  “I put a few names at the bottom. I’ve already talked to them. Again, if you go down to one of the cafés off the rue des Tanneurs and press hard enough, you’ll always find a couple of louts who will bleat out some nonsense about the Jew boss and the Jew banker. They might have known about the mill owner, but I can’t imagine that any of them knew the notary. There’s a lot of poison just under the skin, ready to ooze out. But no one’s said anything about killing.”

  Scratch the surface. Poison under the skin. At least the good Jacquette seemed to know what they were dealing with: a disease. Martin was beginning to realize how easily one could be infected with it.

  “Sir?”

  “And the bookstores?” Martin recovered quickly. He did not want to give off even a hint of what had been lurking under his skin.

  “One of my men took a little stroll. He picked out three that most prominently display Drumont’s books and newspapers.”

  Jacquette let his cigarette dangle beneath his tawny bristle mustache for a moment. Then he took it out of his mouth and held it, clasping his hands in front of him.

  Martin prepared himself, knowing his inspector was stalling. “Go on.”

  “Sir, the more I think about it, the more I worry that we’re going about this in the wrong way. Or at least looking in only one direction. Why look only for those who hate men of the Mosaic faith? Why not someone who was close to the victims?”

  “Do you mean a family member—”

  “Or someone in their community.”

  Even Jacquette used that word, as if he were quite aware of what it meant. “Are you saying that we should interview all of the Israelites?”

  “No, sir.” Jacquette screwed up his lips as he often did when preparing to deliver a drollery. “Although I’ll warrant there are fewer of them in Nancy than there are anti-Israelites.”

  Martin did not find this amusing. “Then what are you saying? What do you mean by their ‘community’?” If the tone was sharper than he intended, it was because he wanted to make it absolutely clear that he was not about to disturb the Singer household during its mourning period. Or worse, force the best friend he had in the courthouse to feel compelled to stop the police at his door. It was bad enough that he had betrayed Singer in his thoughts; he was not about to do so in his actions.

  “Sorry, sir, I was talking in the old way. In the village where my grandfather lived, there were only two communities, theirs and ours, the Israelites and us. Now I suppose it’s different. We’re all in the city. We’re all divided in so many ways. So what I’m thinking is that there are two avenues to pursue. Either those close to Ullmann and Erlanger, professional men and the rich, who form a kind of clan around the synagogue, or those who might feel left out of it.”

  “Left out?”

  “You know, the poorer types. Bumpkins just arrived from the old villages, foreigners. Like the stragglers yesterday.”

  Pursuing the poor, the enthusiasts who had been bobbing up and down at the gravesite. Or the tinker that Singer had so disdained. No, that wasn’t the way that Martin was going to expend his energies.

  “You want to investigate the Israelites, for a crime committed against them? A crime that followed the false report of a ritual murder?” A crime against a people, a community. After all, that’s what Singer believed it was; so did Didier.

  “Well, as we would do with any other—”

  “The Singers cannot be disturbed.”

  “I know that.” Jacquette took a long pull from his cigarette. This was the first real disagreement in their two-year relationship, and it was the first time that Martin had gotten Jacquette on the defensive. “Look, sir, my family’s from around here. In the old villages, everyone lived cheek by jowl. They knew each other’s customs. As a little boy, visiting my grandfather, I knew not to enter their homes at certain times, during their holy days or when they were in mourning. But at other times, I played with them and the grownups helped each other out. My grandfather said we wouldn’t let them starve, they wouldn’t let us starve. He even said he was saved by a Jew, the one who sold him two cows after his died, and loaned him the money, and then didn’t collect until he knew my grandfather could pay. That saved his farm. Now that’s all changed. The banks loan the money. And they don’t wait. Believe me, me and my family have nothing against the Israelites.”

  “Yes, but with the Dreyfus treason case, don’t you think those who do—?”

  “That’s exactly the problem,” Jacquette broke in. “How do you investigate all of them?”

  “You start.” But how? That was the question. And what if Jacquette was right: what if there was something more personal in the motive of the killer? Martin rubbed his hand hard against the side of his beard. Two murders. There could be more. Should they leave any avenue unexplored? “Charpentier, are you done with those lists?” Martin barked, directing all his frustrations toward his clerk.

  Charpentier jumped up, handed Martin two copies of Jacquette’s report, and immediately retreated to his desk.

  Martin glanced at Jacquette’s report. The names swam in front of him, as if they had been written in foreign language, like the gravestones. He could not absorb them all now, in front of Jacquette. But he could move forward.

  “All right. Keep a man on Thomas and the cafés he and his wife frequent. Talk to some of the people in the Ullmann factory. And here,” Martin picked up one of the newspapers lying on his desk, “find out who this Titus is. He’s filling the local La Croix with one story after another about evil Israelites.”

  Jacquette took the paper.

  “And,” Martin continued, “I’ll go to the bookstores.” Martin had made a decision. He had to be part of the action. He needed to confront a living, breathing anti-Israelite as soon as possible.

  Jacquette’s bushy eyebrows went up in surprise.

  “I don’t think they’ll take me for a cop,” Martin explained. “Perhaps they’ll take me for one of them.”

  Jacquette pressed his lips together as he stubbed out his cigarette. Martin suspected he was holding back his glee at the notion of his superior becoming an undercover agent. That didn’t bother Martin, as long as Jacquette did not argue against him.

  When Jacquette had restored a serious and respectful mien, he asked, “And I assume it would be all right with you if I talked to Mme Ullmann?”

  Tit for tat. “Yes,” Martin conceded. “But be gentle.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. Jacquette knew how to deal with every class of suspect or witness, but he had not yet met the flinty fierceness of the little widow. She would be his match. The thought made Martin smile for the first time that day.

  An hour later, when Martin strode into the bustling, bright Librairie de la Gare, the big bookstore in the railroad station, he still believed that he could ferret out the political sentiments of the proprietor better than Jacquette or his men. After all, Martin did not look like a detective. With his trim beard, long gray coat and bowler, he would be taken for an ordinary, moderately well-off customer, distinct only for his interest in the works of anti-Semitic authors. He was even a little sorry that he had not borrowed a walking stick to complete the image.

  In the end, even this appendage would not have helped. The middle-aged proprietor, sitting atop a tall chair near the cash register, declared he did not know who regularly bought La Libre Parole and had no interest in discussing its contents. When Martin asked him if he carr
ied Drumont’s books, the man gestured toward a pimply-faced young clerk, who then proceeded to dog Martin’s path, staring at him, mouth half-open, every time he picked up a book. Martin had no idea whether he was simply hoping for a sale, or curious about a customer who had so effectively irritated his boss. In any case, he was breathing down Martin’s neck, which had become increasingly hot and prickly under his scarf. Unable to carry on the charade, Martin made a quick exit, determined to do better at the next stop.

  The unfortunate Royale, on a crooked medieval side street in the oldest section of the city, was one of those dark, dank stores higher than it was wide or long, with books, new and old, piled everywhere. The shelves, with their jumbled contents, reached up to the ceiling. Even the newspapers, sitting on rusty tin frames at the front of the store, seemed old and musty. Among them were several unsold back issues of La Libre Parole. As soon as Martin asked about them, the bent-over almost toothless owner clammed up, making Martin wonder whether the old man had ordered them for his own pleasure, of which, it would seem, he had very little. Had the man been younger or stronger, had he been able to employ even one assistant, Martin might have questioned him further. Instead he left him alone to tend to his failing shop. He could not imagine anything as vigorous as a killer emanating from it.

  After the moldy smell of the Royale, the cold mist clinging to Martin’s face relieved and refreshed him as he headed to La Librairie de Bonne Politique. His path took him north on the Grande Rue and through the bulging round towers of the Porte de la Craffe. When they first arrived in Nancy, Martin and Clarie had visited this famous city gate, which hundreds of years before had served as both a sentry post and a prison. But Martin had seldom gone north beyond the fortress-like gate to a section of the city that had little to recommend it beside wider streets and newer buildings. Still the name of the bookstore held out a certain promise. Martin did not know what the “good politics” of the title were, but he suspected that they were not his, and if he was careful, he’d find out.

  This time, after delivering a polite “bonjour” upon his entry, Martin refused any help in finding what he wanted. He spent some time in front of the newspaper stand, perusing the headlines of La Libre Parole and La Croix de Lorraine, before searching on the shelves for the latest edition of Drumont’s La France Juive. When he found it, he took the second volume down from the shelf and carried it to a table, where he loosened his scarf, unbuttoned his coat, and laid down his hat. With an air of profound engagement, he began to thumb through the thick paper-bound volume, which listed on the back cover all of Drumont’s many works.

  After a few minutes, the owner sidled up behind him. “A fine book, Monsieur, don’t you think.”

  “The finest,” Martin murmured keeping his gaze fixed upon the pages. “I have the first edition at home. I was just wondering if he’s added more.”

  “Hmmm. Not much I believe. But he does have some others. You’ve read The Last Battle, of course?”

  Martin turned to his interlocutor. Looking a man straight in the eye as you were lying to him was a ploy he had learned to use during his interrogations. “Of course.”

  “A good one,” the proprietor continued, “one of his best.” He was shorter than Martin, with a balding pate, covered by a few strands of neatly combed and oiled hair. He was clean-shaven and gave off the sweet, sharp scent of a cheap cologne. Everything about him was fastidious. The dark blue vest buttoned over the starched white shirt, a gold-rimmed pince-nez hanging on a thin chain over his chest, the paper wound around his cuffs to keep them clean. And, he was Martin’s last hope.

  “Oh yes, that came out a few years ago,” Martin said, nodding sagely, grateful he had skimmed the back cover.

  “Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it, that he predicted the whole Panama Scandal. The whole thing. And their role in it.”

  Eager to latch onto something he knew about, Martin demonstrated his agreement by reciting the slanders that had become commonplace during the Panama Company’s calamitous failure. “Think of it. First, they mismanaged the whole thing, then they bribed the Chamber of Deputies to shore them up, and when it all collapsed,” Martin pursed his lips in disgust, “they almost brought the country down.”

  “And, worst of all, think of what happened to the little men who they got to invest in the scheme. That’s who our Drumont cares about. The little men. I hope you weren’t one of them.”

  Martin shook his head. “I keep my money in the bank, and I chose my bank wisely.” As soon as he winked, he feared that this exaggerated gesture had given him away. He was relieved to hear the other man react with a chuckle.

  “Wise man. Especially since there are more and more places they control. They are everywhere. Just look in our streets. Have you noticed the Russian invasion, those beggars?” he said with vehemence.

  “Surely there must be something we can do about it,” Martin whispered, hoping that his nervousness at playing a part was not showing. He could feel the sweat under his armpits, but did not want to remove his coat, in case he had to make a swift exit.

  The owner’s eyes grew large. “Yes. We should do something about it. Especially when we know that they meet all the time, planning, plotting.”

  “The Rothschilds, yes,” Martin murmured, giving the most obvious response he could think of.

  “No, sir. Not just in Paris or in the great boardrooms, or on the international scene. No, sir, oh no. Right here in Nancy.” The man began to punch one of the books on the display table with his finger.

  Martin swallowed hard. This could be it. An entrée into a conspiracy. He had to find a way to keep egging the bookseller on.

  “You haven’t noticed?” The man stepped back and opened his arms in disbelief.

  “Well, yes, you see them on the streets and in the shops.” To his chagrin, Martin realized that ever since his involvement in the case, he had been seeing more foreign peddlers and noticing more Israelite names on storefronts. Is this how one comes to see “them” everywhere? Was this a symptom of the disease?

  “Not only the selling and the cheating. Our cafés. They’ve taken some of them over, you know. And our theater, too.”

  “The newspapers, the Chamber of Deputies. It doesn’t take many.” Martin held Drumont’s book to his chest and nodded vigorously, grasping for other familiar slanders.

  “Yes, yes. But don’t you think it is particularly dangerous, right here, in Nancy? Right on the border,” the man insisted.

  “Yes,” Martin agreed with alacrity. “You’re right. If only I could find a place or men of like mind, but I’m only a clerk at the courthouse—”

  The owner interrupted Martin’s lie. “But, my man, talk to Rocher. He’s in here all the time,” he said in a reassuring singsong voice.

  This, of course, did very little to reassure Martin. Rather it confirmed everything he thoroughly disliked about his senior colleague. But he had to keep on playing a role. “I can’t talk to him, he’s a judge, and I’m just a greffier—”

  “But you’re at the courthouse. Then you must know the latest.”

  Martin shook his head slowly. He prayed that he was not about to hear a reprise of Antoinette Thomas’s lies. But he had to find out what the “latest” was.

  “You mean they’ve suppressed it there, as well as in the press!” the man stuttered a few steps away from Martin as if jolted by an electric shock. A happy shock. The man was eager to tell all.

  Martin took in a short breath and held it. He dare not move, lest he give himself away. What should a greffier know about courthouse gossip? How far did rumors travel through the halls and cloakrooms? Martin had no idea.

  Having built up the suspense, the proprietor drew nearer, suffocating Martin in the aura of his cheap cologne. “A boy. A Christian boy. Just across the river,” he whispered. “Killed and drained of his blood. For one of their diabolical rites!” Since he had spit out the last words, Martin had leave to move away from the bookseller and his smell.

  �
��When?” All the moisture had evaporated from Martin’s mouth, which he had left slightly agape, as if a willing vessel of the other man’s confidences.

  “Just last week.” The man paused. “Or the week before. Does it matter?”

  “No, of course not,” Martin sputtered with false anger, even as he reached down to the display table support. How many people had that idiot Rocher told?

  “I see you’re as shocked as I was.” The vile proprietor had the nerve to lay his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I guess Rocher has kept it under his hat.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Martin mumbled, as he thought, hardly.

  “Imagine, not even knowing at the courthouse,” the man said, shaking his head in wonder. Suddenly, he clicked his fingers. “Why don’t we show those big shots like Rocher. I’ve got exactly the thing that will bring you up to snuff and really impress him. We ‘little men’ have to stick together, don’t you think?” he said as he moved toward the counter and the cash register.

  Martin left La France Juive on the table and watched as the proprietor reached under the counter and pulled out a book bound in the soft beige paper that was the innocuous covering of hundreds of cheap editions. “I only have a few of these,” the bookseller said, proudly holding it up. “I’ve been waiting for the final edition to come out, but somehow it’s never happened.”