Death on the Marais

by Adrian Magson

  There was a lengthy silence, then Massin said softly, ‘How could you know that?’

  He thought about lying, but decided against it. Lies begat lies and soon he’d be knee-deep in them with no way of explaining himself. And so far, for whatever reason suited him, Massin seemed to be giving him a fair degree of latitude and help. He didn’t know why, but neither did he want to push that too far. He explained about their search of Nathalie’s flat and the sudden arrival of the men in cars.

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘No. And we didn’t leave any traces, either.’

  ‘You trust this concierge woman?’

  ‘More than most. She’s an old friend.’

  ‘Very well. But if Berbier hears that you gained entry to his daughter’s flat, do not expect me to bail you out.’ He paused, then added, ‘As for the logo on the photo you found, it stands for Agence Photos Poitiers – APP. The shop closed during the war because of lack of chemicals for developing, but the owner opened up again afterwards before handing over to his son. He still has an interest, although he now lives near Rouen. His name is Ishmael Poudric. I told him you’d be dropping by and cleared it with the local police, so you shouldn’t run into any jurisdictional problems.’ He read out the address with directions, which Rocco scribbled on the reverse of the photo. He checked his watch. Nearly noon.

  ‘I’ll get right on it. Thanks.’

  The phone went dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Ishmael Poudric lived, according to the directions given by Massin, in a village called Saint-Martin, not far out of Rouen. His home was one among a small development of bungalows with precision-ordered gardens and scatterings of ornamental stone chips in place of grass. It was clearly a retirement community for those with means who preferred a degree of comfort without the harsh labour of upkeep to spoil their idyll, and Rocco wondered at the once ingrained custom among Frenchmen of having a house with a garden and a place to grow vegetables. Maybe that was dying, too, along with its ageing adherents.

  He knocked at the door and waited. Moments later a short, bearded man appeared and smiled in welcome.

  ‘You must be the police investigator,’ he said politely, and motioned Rocco to come in.

  Rocco ducked his head and stepped inside, where Poudric led him through to a disordered study with piles of folders, files and boxes on every surface. Books lined the walls, mostly on the history and craft of photography. Ishmael Poudric may have retired, but he’d clearly not lost any interest in his trade.

  ‘Is my being a cop that obvious?’

  ‘It is when you’re the only visitor I’m likely to get all week,’ Poudric said dryly. ‘Not that I’m complaining; after years of jumping to the requirements of others, I’ve got round to liking my own company.’

  Rocco had explained on the telephone his reasons for calling, and he was relieved to see that Poudric had a brown cardboard folder placed squarely in the centre of his desk, with a slip of paper attached and Rocco’s name scribbled across it.

  He produced the photo of the Resistance group. ‘As part of an ongoing investigation,’ he said, ‘I came across this photo. I wonder if you can shed some light on its origins?’

  Poudric glanced at the photo and nodded. ‘I remember it.’

  ‘After all this time?’

  ‘What – you think because I’m old that I’m senile? That an old man doesn’t have command of his faculties anymore?’ The response was quick but Rocco noted an amused glint in the old man’s eyes, as if he were harbouring a secret joke. Then Poudric smiled. ‘It’s OK, son, I’m just teasing you. You look like a man with a sense of humour. Now, before we get down to business, would you like a drink?’

  Rocco hesitated. Twice in quick succession could be interpreted in some quarters as a habit.

  Poudric was persuasive. ‘Join me, please. It’s not often I get a visitor, and I was given a bottle of fine whisky a few weeks ago which I haven’t yet opened. It’ll go stale otherwise.’ His eyes twinkled and he lifted his eyebrows expectantly, like a child waiting for a treat.

  ‘In that case, it would be impolite not to.’

  Poudric chuckled with delight and shuffled out of the room, returning moments later with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses. He poured two generous shots and raised his glass. ‘To your good health, young man. And death to all our enemies.’ He took a drink and sighed with pleasure. ‘My God, that’s good.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ echoed Rocco, and sipped the fine malt. It was as smooth as silk, and he enjoyed the warmth as it went down, regretting that he was here on business.

  Poudric smoothed his beard. ‘So, how can I help? You want to know about this photo.’

  ‘Yes. Where it was taken, who the people are … anything you can tell me.’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I’m investigating an attempted murder.’

  ‘Ah. In that case, let’s not waste time.’ Poudric took another sip of whisky, then put down the glass and rubbed his hands together. ‘The shot was one of several I took in a clearing near Poitiers in June 1944. There had just been a supply drop during the night from the British and this particular group had assembled to collect the packages. I had been in contact with them over several months, mostly through a neighbour of mine – who is not in that photo, I hasten to add.’

  ‘So,’ interrupted Rocco, ‘you were not part of this group?’

  ‘God, no! Nice of you to think so, young man, but I wasn’t courageous enough for that. I did provide certain … services for them and for other groups in the region, however.’

  ‘Photographic services.’

  ‘Yes. The Germans had closed down my shop but I was able to secrete enough supplies to carry on my work in a limited capacity. If anyone needed a photo for documentation, for example, I was able to help. It was a very small contribution, you understand, but … Anyway, the group in this photograph was a link in a somewhat fractured communist chain across central France. Most groups were part of the FTP – the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans – but this lot weren’t affiliated to others in the region, so I was interested in making a record of them. They argued a lot, as I recall, mostly about politics.’

  ‘And they didn’t mind you taking this picture?’

  ‘Far from it. They were delighted.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘They said they intended sending a copy to Moscow, to demonstrate how they were carrying on the worldwide fight against Fascism. Can you imagine it, the reaction of those ghastly boot-faces in the Kremlin receiving a photo like that? As if they would care!’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘They probably thought they’d get the Order of Lenin or some such bauble for sucking up to the Party.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t share their political views?’ Rocco said.

  Poudric shook his head. ‘We had our own problems – like a war being fought right in our front room – without trying to overthrow our own establishment for the sake of someone else. Bloody fools.’ He stared off into space for a few seconds, before saying, ‘So which one are you interested in, Inspector Rocco?’

  Rocco had thought about his approach on the way down. If Poudric had known the people in the shot personally, he might be reticent about divulging any information about them. He didn’t want to lean on the old man, especially given the background of the photograph. And who knew what sort of chain reaction it might set in motion, with old ghosts uncovered and memories disturbed that might be best left alone? But if this was the only lead he had, leaning might be his only option.

  He reached across and placed a finger on Didier’s face. ‘This man.’

  Poudric studied it carefully. ‘I remember him vaguely, but I must confess I didn’t take much notice of him as a subject. He wasn’t the most interesting character, you understand; always mouthing off, though, about the proletariat and the revolution – the glorious revolution, mind; funny how it’s never sordid or inglorious or ruinous. I thought he was a relentless little bore. As you can see from w
here his hand is resting, he seemed to think he had some degree of ownership over the woman, although I’m not sure the feeling was reciprocated.’

  ‘Do you recall his name?’

  ‘There were no names. It was the one stipulation: curiosity about backgrounds or origins wasn’t tolerated. It was tough enough getting this close, without pushing my luck too far. Especially with him.’ He tapped on Didier’s face, then pointed to another, the one face turned away from the camera. ‘And this one.’

  ‘What was so special about them?’

  ‘Well, your man just gave off an air, you know? Hot-tempered … like a mongoose on heat, ready for a fight with anyone. Unpleasant.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Ah, him. The enigma.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He didn’t want his photo taken, made that clear from the start. When I took this, in fact, I thought he was going to shoot me. It was only the intervention of the others that stopped him. Silly, really – it only made me more interested.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘We’re tarts for new subjects, we photographers.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I waited and took a shot when he wasn’t looking. Caught him full on, almost.’

  ‘Why an enigma, though?’

  Poudric hesitated, then said, ‘You’ll have heard of the SOE?’

  ‘Of course.’ The Special Operations Executive. Run out of London with a staff of British, French, Belgian and other volunteers, they fed, supplied and assisted the Resistance movement all over France and beyond. Dropping by parachute into occupied territory in the dead of night, creating havoc wherever they went, their exploits had reeked of romance, daring and excitement and had long passed into the stuff of legend.

  ‘I think he was an agent. He was passing through, organising supplies and distributing funds to the Resistance groups, one of the men said. French – I could tell that much by his speech – but definitely not a member of this lot.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Frankly? He was too clean. Too … correct. Officer class, at a guess.’

  Rocco glanced again at the man, but he couldn’t see how a glimpse of a half-face could tell him anything more about Didier Marthe. Even less if the man had been part of the shadowy world of the SOE. Their secrets remained buried deep. Still, you could never tell. ‘Do you have that other photo?’ Perhaps if he got a look at the full face, it might stir some memories among those who knew about such things. He was thinking about Massin; he’d been part of the officer corps once. Maybe he could ask around among old colleagues. It was a long shot, but it might help tell where Didier had gone after the war, and what he had become involved in.

  Links in the chain.

  Poudric looked regretful. ‘Not yet. It’s here somewhere, I know it. But not all the photos I took have remained where they should. Like I told the woman who called here not long ago on this very subject, these things have a life of their own.’

  Rocco felt a jump in his chest. ‘What woman?’

  ‘She came by a few weeks ago. Late one night, when I was in my study. She said she was a History student researching the Resistance in the war, and had read about my work building a wartime photo archive for the library. She asked if I had any shots of the communist groups around Poitiers. As it happened, I did.’ He opened the brown folder and took out a copy of the print Rocco had brought with him. ‘I dug it out when I knew you were coming.’

  Rocco stared in disbelief. ‘It’s the same shot.’

  ‘Correct. She asked if she could have it, but this was the only one I had. She was very insistent and asked me to make a copy, so I printed one off while she waited and kept a copy. She paid me, too.’ He turned over the photo and tapped the logo on the back. ‘Hah. I even used my old shop stamp on the back without realising it. Habits, Inspector; very hard to break, some of them.’

  ‘She paid? That was generous, for a student. What was her name?’

  ‘Agnès Carre. No address, though. Actually, I thought she was a little old for a student – I have trouble telling, these days. But things are changing all over, aren’t they? As to where she lived,’ he shrugged expansively. ‘No idea. She didn’t say.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Plain. Smartly dressed, yet instantly forgettable. That is all I can say. Even her accent was neutral. Sorry.’

  ‘No matter. She never came back?’

  ‘No. I thought she might, being a student: they’re always after free stuff that nobody else has got. But she never did. I told her I had other photos somewhere, but she didn’t seem interested, not once she spotted this one. She said she was travelling, so I didn’t press her.’

  Rocco stood up. He’d got everything he was likely to get. ‘It might be helpful if you could locate that other photo.’ He handed Poudric his card. ‘Call me when you do, please.’

  Poudric took the card and studied it carefully, then looked up at Rocco with a faint frown. ‘You realise that none of the people in these photographs will be able to help, don’t you?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Poudric shrugged. ‘Simple. They were betrayed to the Germans. Every last one of them. They were captured in a raid one night when they met up for a group strategy briefing called by the SOE man. It was about a week after I took this photo.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ Rocco could guess the answer, but had to ask.

  ‘They were shipped directly into Le Struthof for questioning.’ He shook his head in sadness. ‘Like most who went to that place, they never came out again.’

  Rocco drove back to Poissons, feeling as if he had stumbled into one of those moments when time seemed to collapse in on itself. In spite of knowing Poudric was wrong – couldn’t possibly be right unless his own eyes had deceived him – hearing the blunt news about the fate of the faces in the photograph was like a body blow.

  He’d heard of Le Struthof. Natzweiler-Struthof, as it was known, was a Nazi concentration camp in the Vosges mountains, specialising in taking captured Resistance fighters from across northern Europe. Such was Hitler’s malevolence towards spies and saboteurs, many went into the camp and were never seen again, victims of its infamous gas oven, their brutal fate forever denied public knowledge by the camp’s poor record-keeping.

  He thought about what Poudric had told him. Many members of the Resistance fell into German hands, either by carelessness, chance or betrayal, and the stories and suspicions surrounding their fate were often open to rumour, some true, some entirely false, depending on perspective. The fact was, though, that whole groups had been broken up and killed, their numbers and organisations scattered to the winds.

  Was Agnès Carre, the mystery woman who had called on Poudric, a genuine student, anxious to redress some kind of balance, or was she someone with a far deeper agenda?

  And what was the explanation for Didier Marthe’s face appearing in this particular group photograph? Was it merely some luckless, now dead soul who happened to bear a passing resemblance – maybe even a family member? Or was it Marthe who, by an astounding twist of luck or circumstance, had escaped being scooped up by the Germans? There could be, Rocco reasoned, a darker explanation. If it was Didier in the photo, and not just a lookalike, then it could come down to one thing: someone had learnt of his escape and, for whatever reason they harboured, had finally caught up with him, seeking some kind of retribution. It would certainly explain the attempts on his life.

  The only question was, who was after him?

  It was gone five by the time Rocco arrived back in a deserted Poissons. The co-op was dark as he passed by, and when he got home, there was no sign of Mme Denis. He parked the car and climbed out, and was debating taking a long bath when the familiar rattle of a 2CV sounded in the lane. It was Claude, looking harassed.

  ‘Lucas,’ he called, clambering from his car and hurrying up the path. ‘I think Didier’s back.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘No.
I went back to the Boutin house earlier to secure the shutter we broke, and heard a noise from Didier’s place. I didn’t think much of it at the time: put it down to birds or the wind. When I’d finished at Boutin’s cottage, I went round to take a look. The cupboard by the back door was open. One of the guns is gone.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Two days later, with no further sign of Didier and no closer to solving the mystery of Nathalie Berbier’s murder, Rocco was growing twitchy with impatience. Stop-and-detain bulletins had gone out on Didier Marthe, with warnings that he was armed and dangerous, but he wasn’t about to hold his breath. Such bulletins often relied on the stupidity of criminals doing something to bring them to the attention of the police, rather than a thinly spread police force spotting a face in a crowd.

  He had twice driven down to the marais and sat staring at the lodge in impotent silence, aware that if he followed his instincts and broke in, he would probably have to suffer the consequences of discovering that Massin was no longer able to help him. Yet deep inside, he knew there was a connection somewhere that could propel the case forward, if only he could risk taking the plunge. Even so, he had driven away both times, aware that ending his career here through an act of impulse would solve nothing in the long run.

  He had relied on Claude to trawl the village for any snippets of gossip about Didier, but that had also proved unhelpful. The man had hardly set out to make himself popular since his arrival a few years ago and cared nothing about public opinion.

  In the end, out of a sense of frustration, he rang Michel Santer, seeking any information he could provide on Philippe Berbier. Santer had the nose of a true cop and picked up information almost by osmosis. If there was anything on the industrialist, he would surely know.