Bernheim straightened up, surprised. “This is not the way you described the priest.”
Martin could hardly breathe. “Is there no cure?”
Bernheim peered into Martin’s eyes. “Is there someone else you are thinking of?”
Martin turned away, not wanting Bernheim to read his thoughts. He didn’t want to discuss Clarie. He couldn’t. So he prevaricated. “I was thinking of the many unfortunates whom I have interrogated. Women who’ve lost their children, men who’ve lost their homeland.”
“All right, then.”
Martin should have known that a man with Bernheim’s talents would immediately perceive a private pain, and, as an equal, respect it. But he was also kind enough to reassure Martin.
“Often,” Bernheim continued, “such madness is merely temporary. It passes with time.”
With time.
The doctor waited, as Martin could imagine him waiting with his patients. Finally, Bernheim said, “Is there more?”
The question broke through the trance-like pall that had fallen over Martin, snapping him back to the issue of the defrocked priest and his vile works. “Yes, there was a second reason I wanted to see you. I’ve read your work on suggestibility. Do you think books or sermons that spread hatred of the Israelites could inspire someone to kill?”
Bernheim traced his smiling mustache with his finger as he thought. “That’s a very good question, the kind I ask myself all the time. I suspect that a sermon, given with great flourish and emotion, would have more impact than the written page, but,” the doctor shook his head, “I don’t know. I know that a rousing speech to a crowd can make men act in abnormal ways. Rioting, marching off to certain death in times of war. Why would any rational man do any of those things? As for the Jews, from the time of the Crusades up until this very day in Russia, there certainly are instances of mobs being inspired to kill them. But whether a single man would be motivated to commit murder in secret because of a book, this I do not know.”
“And, if, as you say, he is insane?”
“If I find that he could not help himself, that the suggestion to do evil was so strong that he was forced into action by what I call irresistible impulse, then you cannot send him to the guillotine. He is sick.”
Martin did not know how he felt about this new way of looking at guilt and innocence. From his point of view, Hémonet had committed an unforgivable crime long before he had suffered a maddening loss. Martin opened his drawer and withdrew Nancy-Juif.
“There are some names and addresses in the book—”
“The victims?”
“No. At least not yet. We’ve taken the precaution of keeping the existence of the book out of the press. We don’t want anyone to go looking for it.”
“May I?” The doctor held out his hand.
“Certainly.” Martin watched as Bernheim flipped through the pages. He did not react, even though he was an Israelite.
“Unfortunately,” Martin continued, “this kind of writing is not a crime. If it were a newspaper column directed against one particular man, perhaps he could sue for libel, or even fight a duel for his honor. But this kind of libel that throws its poisonous net everywhere with hints and insinuations, there’s no good way to stop it.”
“Yes,” Bernheim murmured, still thumbing through the pages. “One of our great liberties, freedom of speech. Where would science be without it?” he concluded as he closed the book. “But if neither victim was named in it, we still don’t know why these two particular men were killed.”
Bernheim was raising the same question Martin had asked himself many times. Pierre and Antoinette Thomas claimed they had reason to hate her boss, and there may be others like them who felt exploited by the mill owner. But who had reason to hate both Victor Ullmann, the rich industrialist, and Daniel Erlanger, the presumably lovable old notary?
The doctor stood up. “If I may have this for a while, I’ll think about it, and I’ll show it to Liébeault before he sees your suspect. I’ll let you know what he tells me.”
Martin got up, ready to escort him out the door.
Bernheim waved him off. Charpentier jumped up to retrieve his cloak and bowler. “I can find my way,” he said as he reached for Martin’s hand and shook it warmly. Then, taking his things from Charpentier, the celebrated doctor thanked the wide-eyed clerk and left the room.
Martin sank back into his chair. He’d have to wait for more concrete results. He could bear the waiting, as long as no one else was hurt. He could even bear the thought of taking a closer look at the local garrison. After all, that perilous venture had loomed as a possibility ever since that first terrible confrontation with Didier. What he could not bear was the lesson that Bernheim had just imparted: loss can drive you mad.
32
Tuesday, December 11
JACQUETTE REPORTED EARLY ON TUESDAY, eager to make up for time lost because of the snow. He wanted to set out immediately to search the clogged, narrow streets between the canals and the river for the man who called himself Ehud the Anarchist. But Martin had other plans for him.
“The army,” Martin said, after summarizing his meeting with Bernheim. “How shall we proceed?”
Jacquette sighed, sat down and repeated his plaint: “We can’t do everything.” Then he shook a cigarette out of the sky-blue packet which occupied a permanent residence in his vest pocket.
“Bernheim will send us the name of the Israelite officer. If he’s been transferred, then all we have to do is nose around the edges, and only the edges.” Martin did not want anyone in the garrison to know that it was under judicial scrutiny.
“Umm,” Jacquette grunted wearily as he rubbed his eye with the palm of his left hand. “Close to home. That’s what I say.” He seemed too weary even to light up.
Martin could not repress an affectionate smile as he sat back, clasped his hands over his stomach, and waited. They were all over-stretched, which is why he had expected some resistance. But Jacquette would come around, not because Martin was his superior, but because in all the tough cases they had always been loyal partners. He watched as his stalwart inspector stuck the Blue Jockey in his mouth, lit it, sucked in, blew out, and sighed.
“All right,” he said. “If the Jewish officer is still around, we can ask him in nice and friendly-like. Make sure he knows we know he’s done nothing wrong. Then see if he’s noticed any particularly outspoken anti-Israelites among our warriors. If he’s out of the picture, we make inquiries about the off-duty rotation of the officer corps. Your man Charpentier can do that. A clerical inquiry, a civic matter. Nothing suspicious. As for surveillance, I could put Barzun on it. Good man. Watchful. Quiet. Discreet. Notices details. In his old bowler, he could fade into any crowd. He can keep an eye on the soldiers while they strut about town. If there’s a connection, Barzun will see it.”
To recover his strength after that lengthy disquisition, Jacquette took another long draw and waited for Martin.
“I’ll take care of the Singers,” Martin said, as he stood up, ready to send Jacquette on his way.
“Good,” Jacquette muttered. He had no desire to tangle with a judge or his family.
“Of course. Charpentier is waiting at the entrance to catch Singer as soon as he arrives.” Of course. So absolute, hiding all the uncertainties, as well as what he was not telling Jacquette: that the case had driven a rift between him and Singer, and that he hoped to get Noémie Singer to talk about matters that might go far beyond the criminal investigation.
As he bid his inspector good-bye, Martin also did not say that he had asked Charpentier to leave Singer and him alone. There was so much of that these days, clerks being sent out of chambers. By now the whole courthouse must know how politically charged and difficult the case had become, Martin thought with chagrin.
Moments later, Singer arrived, looking none the worse for wear after the mourning period, his beard, his fashionable fedora, his expensive tweed wool coat as neat and precise as ever. Martin immediate
ly walked over to greet him.
“David, good to see you back. I hope this last week wasn’t too hard for you.”
As their eyes met, Martin hoped that the anxious distraction that portends a mountain of unattended work explained the limpness of Singer’s handshake. “Sorry to catch you like this,” Martin continued. “I know you have a lot to do, but I need to talk about something.”
Singer neither removed his hat nor started to unbutton his long coat. He just stood there, forcing Martin to fill the space with banalities. Well, then, Martin thought, we’ll get to the point.
“I’m going to interview your wife.”
“What!”
“I need to ask her about her uncle and—”
“Why not ask me?”
Despite its curtness, Martin was grateful for the interruption. He realized at once that bringing up the tinker would set Singer off even more.
“There are things she might be able to tell me about Maître Erlanger’s domestic life. Besides, Singer, I’m only telling you as a professional courtesy. And,” he stressed, “as a matter of our friendship.” When Singer spurned this obvious appeal, Martin walked away and stood behind his desk, his lips grimly pressed together as he tried to quell his irritation.
When he looked up, Singer was tugging at the point of his beard and breathing hard. “You mean that there are no more anti-Israelites that you can talk to? No Dreyfus-haters, who now assume that we are all traitors? You have to disturb my wife during her period of mourning?”
“I’ve waited seven days,” Martin said quietly. “I’ve respected your customs.”
“Our customs! We are talking about human decency here.”
“You know I must treat your wife as I would anyone else,” retorted Martin.
Singer began to undo his coat, from top to bottom, with such violence that Martin expected a button to pop off. “So this is where you’ve come to. Two of our best men dead, and you have to invade our homes.” He stopped short. “I am assuming you are not intending to drag Noémie in here.”
“Of course not.” Martin waved the suggestion aside. Your customs, our best men, our homes. Hearing himself, listening to Singer confirmed how much they had grown apart since Erlanger’s death, since Singer’s unspoken accusations that he had not worked fast and effectively enough, since Martin had seen the double-sided gravestones. This is not what he wanted. Martin wanted to believe that Singer was like him, that they were colleagues who agreed on the most basic philosophical issues.
“I assume you’ve made no progress?” Singer was flattening out his mustache with one finger, even though every hair seemed pasted in place.
“Why would you assume that?” said Martin. Now they were both thoroughly in a huff and not doing anything to hide it.
“Because if you had, I assume you would have had the courtesy to tell me.”
Courtesy? When Singer had the nerve to imply that a colleague was not acting in good faith, doing everything he could? When he interrupted, refused to clasp the hand of friendship? The only courtesy that Singer seemed to recognize was the stiff, prissy attitude he marched around the courthouse, ever sensitive to what his colleagues might be thinking or saying about him.
Martin caught his breath and sat down. Before that fatal November evening, before the Thomas boy’s mutilation, before the killings, Martin had never noticed or, if he had, cared about these qualities in his friend. David Singer was an imperfect human being like every other. The question—one Martin had never given much thought to—was whether Singer’s particular imperfections stemmed from having suffered real slights and insults. Despite the growing feeling of being intentionally excluded from an important part of Singer’s life, in some ways Martin had become more sympathetic with his colleague. After all, Martin had suffered through the idiotic assertions of Rocher, had read and heard the testimony of scores of anti-Israelites, and, above all, had confronted Hémonet and his scurrilous book.
Martin took the risk of calling Singer by his first name again. “Look, David, we’ve both been going through a very difficult period. I’m working as hard as I can on the investigation. You must know that.” Despite Henri-Joseph. Martin was not going to debase himself and their friendship by having to remind Singer about his dead child.
He did not have to. “Sorry, I do trust you are doing everything you can. And I should be helping.” Martin was not sure what the sadness in Singer’s eyes meant. Was he aware of the wall that was separating them, or finally remembering Martin’s terrible loss?
“Then sit and tell me about the tinker. Why does he make you so angry?”
“I don’t know that this has anything to do with—”
“Neither do I. But we are looking at rifts in the Israelite community.”
Martin could see Singer bristle at that suggestion, and, at the same time, make every effort to control himself. When Singer took the seat in front of the desk, Martin felt that his colleague was relenting. After all, Singer was an investigating magistrate as well as an Israelite. He knew that when two murders are committed, no stone must be left unturned.
“If you must know, if you think you can understand, men like the tinker are holding us back. They look like,” Singer pursed his lips in distaste, “like our ancestors from the village, like people imagine we still are, despised wanderers and peddlers, homeless, landless, nation-less. Not citizens, Frenchmen, republicans, but,” Singer drew in a breath and let it out with exasperated force, “but superstitious peddlers living in hovels.”
Martin thought back to the old Jew with tears in his eyes. For him, homelessness was having left the place that Singer scorned.
“And when,” Singer pushed his collar out a little, “and when one of them tries to influence your own wife and bring her back to the old superstitions, then any man has a right to be angry.”
“Yes,” Martin nodded, listening, thinking of Clarie, and Madeleine’s growing influence over her. He began to turn his ink bottle round and round very slowly. “Superstition, going backwards,” he murmured, “I do understand.” He hated thinking about what was happening to Clarie while he was away, investigating, trying to understand other people’s lives.
“Good! We are both modern men, who want modern wives.” Singer caught himself, as if he had suddenly perceived Martin’s drift away from him. “How is Mme Martin?”
Martin shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about her.
“Sorry.” Singer got up to leave. He picked up his fedora and fingered the rim, allowing a moment for Martin to recover. When Martin met his eyes, Singer said, “Can you believe it, we have one of those modern contraptions, a telephone. Let me call Noémie and tell her you are coming. And if you could give her time to put the house together, arrive around two?”
“Of course.” Martin stood up. Joining with Singer to lighten the mood, he remarked, “A telephone. That is modern.”
This time the handshake was warm and firm.
The Singer apartments occupied the first and second floors of a building only four blocks away from where the Martins lived. Yet it was a different world. As he approached the building, Martin wondered where the money had come from, his family or hers, or both. A telephone. He had to smile. A very modern and very expensive contraption. He was not at all surprised when a maid in a black dress and starched white apron and cap answered the bell. She took his coat and hat and led him into a large salon to wait for “the Madame.”
Alone, Martin took the opportunity to warm his hands above the white tongues of flames leaping from the fire in the impressive pink marble fireplace. Then he turned his back to the heat and perused the intricately woven Persian rug that ran along the center of the rectangular room. Around it on three sides were sofas and chairs in the curved, ornate Louis-Fifteenth style, their cushions and backs covered in silken, brocaded pastels. At the other end, a grand piano was on display. Moving away from the fire, he made a quiet survey of the mahogany side tables. Their gas lamps bore cloudy globes decorated with
delicate rose patterns. Martin scrutinized the small photographs: Singer, his wife and their children. On the walls, in oil, were sterner portraits, ancestors.
Martin sighed as he gingerly took a seat on the sofa. The Singers had healthy children and wealthy parents. They did not, like the Martins, live three flights up a narrow staircase above a drygoods store on a busy street in a cramped apartment. They lived in a muted, spacious residence appropriate to the office of a juge d’instruction. Who, then, was the odd man out at the courthouse? Martin thought ruefully. Was it the Israelite held in contempt by a few bigots, or the son of a watch-maker married to the daughter of an immigrant blacksmith? Or both, by people who considered themselves their betters?
“Monsieur le juge Martin, how good to see you.”
Martin stood up as Noémie Singer entered the room in a rustle of taffeta. She wore a skirt and waist-length matching jacket in mourning black that, in the light of the fire, gave off a silvery luster as she moved toward him. Her blouse was made of a soft, white accordion-pleated material and topped by a large bow. Her elegant outfit would have been very solemn, if it were not for the jacket’s sleeves which puffed out in the whimsical leg-of-mutton fashion of the day. She brought with her the smell of spring, of flowers that Martin could not identify but found pleasingly feminine. Her heavy chestnut-colored hair was pulled back into a chignon, but not too tightly, and not without license to leave a frame of little curls around her face.
“Madame Singer, please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.” Her eyelids fluttered downward, as she sat in the chair across from the sofa. She was a very beautiful woman. Shorter and rounder than Clarie. Softer too. Soft enough, he hoped, to allow him to probe into matters that caused tension between her and Singer, and perhaps between other Israelites. In order to lead her into that dangerous territory, he would have to proceed very carefully. So he began where she might expect him to begin.
The Blood of Lorraine Page 27