There were eight prisoners in the wooden cabin, all handcuffed, chained to the benches and watched by armed guards sitting on the benches around the walls. These precautions were not excessive since all the prisoners were thugs sentenced for robberies involving casual violence. They had also been involved more recently in new episodes of violence and an attempted escape during a revolt in the prison of Lille.
Jean-Luc Benoit gazed absently through the little window of the cabin, watching the houses of the suburbs of Nantes as they inevitably fell behind, emphasising the imminent and definitive detachment between himself and his French homeland.
Jean-Luc thought about this land that he had loved so dearly, he had even been prepared to die for it when the War broke out, lying about his age, he had enrolled at sixteen, asking to fight in the front lines. By the end of the war, he had won a medal for bravery and valour, a few wounds and the rank of corporal and realised that his country no longer cared about him. The homeland had shaken his hand, sent a letter saying that he had done his duty and that after all he should be grateful that he had come home in one piece.
He had found himself alone and penniless, and since he had never been anything but a soldier, having previously kept body and soul together with a few minor robberies and casual work, he wondered how he was supposed to live. In the end, he found a job as a porter and since he was smart, they soon gave him the management, and given his experience with weapons, the custody of a warehouse for quality wool fleeces at Tourcoing.
His position allowed him to lead a comfortable life; he rented a modest house and married an attractive girl, despite her parents’ objections. However, he too was discontented, it seemed to him that he should have more and it made him angry to see all that wool pass before him, when he knew that it was worth a fortune and he only received a salary that he considered inadequate. Finally, his resentment led him to a double life: by day a guard, by night a thief.
Soon his activity was noticed, unfortunately for him, not by the gendarmerie, but by the local criminals who first threatened and then ensnared him. During a major theft organised in the warehouse where he was responsible for the surveillance, there was a shoot-out and one of his men was killed.
The Suretè did not take long to find out the truth and get him to confess. He was sentenced first for murder and later (the reason he did not go to the guillotine) his sentence was transformed into conspiracy to commit murder: ten years in the prison of Lille. It was the end of the month of January in the year nineteen twenty-two. He lost everything: his comfortable life, his freedom and above all his wife, who fled in shame and went to live elsewhere, hiding her tracks.
In the early days of September of this year, when he had only a little more than a year to go before his release, a revolt broke out in the Lille prison and Jean-Luc was wrongly identified as one of the leaders: he was tried immediately and sentenced to a further ten years, this time to be served overseas in Cayenne.
Through the window of the van, he could see the Loire as it wound towards the sea, the sea that would pursue him like a curse for the coming years, if he managed to survive. They were in the centre of the city and the traffic that he had never bothered to glance at before now seemed suddenly detailed and almost beautiful.
There was a sudden explosion and he was catapulted towards his companions, the world was upside down, the van had turned over and the wall was torn away, leaving a wide space right below him; he could see the paving stones.
He looked around blearily and saw all the other prisoners piled at the opposite end of the cage, unconscious and bleeding.
He pulled the chain that fastened him to the bench and realised that it had come away in the crash, he still had iron shackles on his ankles, but they allowed him to walk, all he had to do was keep them hidden. He quickly slipped out of the cage and slid under the van.
He looked around and was that he was in the railway junction of the port: the military vehicle had accidentally been hit by one of the small steam locomotives used for shunting wagons around the wharfs. The locomotive had also turned over and was leaking smoke and steam: it was a hellish scene that reminded him of certain moments during the war.
There were bodies on the ground and he could hear the shouts of the rescuers, the swearing and laments of the wounded, the sharp orders of the soldiers who had dismounted unprepared for this absolutely unforeseeable event.
He understood that he would never have another opportunity. Seeing a muddy puddle, he rolled in it to camouflage his prison garb as far as possible and pulled down his trousers to hide the shackles, then he got up and behaving as if he were a worker involved in the accident, he mingled with the crowd that was forming. The disorder and confusion helped him to sneak away and he took advantage to slip under a train of goods wagons that was slowly moving off: he noticed that the panel on the side indicated the journey as Nantes-Poitiers. He jumped into the first open wagon and hid under some empty canvas sacks.
Le Havre – November 6th 1929
The gendarmerie were hunting the escaped prisoner throughout the country; he realised that all the railway stations would be patrolled by the police and that his photograph would have been sent to all the stationmasters. Despite this, thanks to his caution and with a little luck, he had managed to cross France going north and reach the place he had chosen to start a new life.
He had arrived in the port of Le Havre and there he intended to stow away on a cargo ship sailing across the ocean: no one would come and look for him in America.
Also, while he was in prison in Lille, he had made friends with a lad from Le Havre and done him a few favours: Armel, who was doing five years for smuggling and had been released the previous year. He moved cautiously through the slums around the port, he went into the taverns to ask for Armel, the one who had lived in Lille for five years.
He had risked being on the receiving end of a few punches, but finally someone told him to go to the first street on the side of the Vauban dock at nine that evening. It was dark and no one was around, at first he thought he had been taken for a ride, when he suddenly saw four brawny thugs appear before him. He heard a noise behind him and realised that he was surrounded, they were all armed, some with docker’s hooks used for impaling and carrying jute sacks on the shoulder, others with long knives that glinted in the light of the streetlamps.
“Well, well, who would have thought it: a ghost!”
Armel approached Jean-Luc, stared into his eyes and poked him in the chest with his forefinger.
“No, it’s not a ghost! It’s really him! Put your irons away!”
Then he grabbed Jean-Luc and embraced him roughly. As he released him, he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Jean-Luc stared at him. “I don’t really know. It’s a long story.”
“Well, come on inside and we’ll have a drink, then you can tell me all about it.”
“Haven’t you got anything to eat? I haven’t eaten for three days.”
“All right, come on, we have all the night before us.”
He had not eaten and drunk so well for almost ten years. He had spent the night with Armel, telling him about the revolt at the prison, that he had nothing to do with it, but that he had been accused and sentenced spend time in the Cayenne island prison.
He told him about the crash with the steam train and how, hiding on the wagons of the goods trains and constantly changing trains, he had managed to get as far as Le Havre and why he had gone there: he wanted to go to America.
Armel said that he was crazy, that America was going to the dogs, and that all the Americans were moving to Europe.
Then, in the end, Armel said, “I will do anything you ask me, I owe you for all the favours you did me that allowed me to get out early. There is a cargo ship leaving in a week’s time, I will get you on board without anyone knowing because the captain… works for me. You know what I mean? Good! Keep your mouth shut. Now go and sleep. Tomorrow I will f
ind you some decent clothes, a bit of money and everything you need for the journey. I will get rid of the cuffs you had on your ankles.”
“No,” said Jean-Luc, “leave one with me, I will put it in my bag and take it with me as a souvenir.”
Le Havre – November 7th 1929
Armel accompanied him to the ship, where he introduced him to the captain, then he hugged him. “Adieu ghost. Perhaps we will meet again one day.”
He turned and slipped away. That was the second time Armel had called him ‘ghost’: what was that about?
Waiting for the cargo ship to weigh the anchor, he asked the captain if it would be dangerous to go for a walk round the port and was told that there was so much activity that if he took care not to attract attention he would be all right.
That morning a large steamship had docked nearby, the Île-de-France. She was truly enormous and he mingled curiously with the onlookers and the relatives waiting for the passengers to disembark.
From the style of their clothing, it looked as though the second-class passengers were disembarking; there were plenty of beautiful women… one of them struck him particularly. It can’t be, he thought to himself. He followed her discreetly until he saw that a porter was accompanying her to the exit with her baggage. He looked around, saw a boy with an intelligent air and said to him, “Can you read?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Then go near to that lady down there with the light blue dress…”
“The old one?”
“Nooo! The tall young lady. The one with the white hat!”
“All right.”
Then he gave the boy a piece of paper and a pencil stub.
“Write done on here the name and address on the luggage label on the trunk. Can you see it?”
The boy nodded but did not move; Jean-Luc looked at him and showed him a twenty-centime coin.
The boy tried to snatch it, but he said, “When you come back with the note!”
The boy rushed away and was soon back; Jean-Luc read the note and gave the coin to the kid, who wandered away with a brief thank you.
Now he had a clear idea of what he was going to do, and where to find his wife and get her back, whether she wanted to come or not.
Paris – November 9th 1929
Thérèse Milaud had arrived from in Paris from Le Havre the previous day and was staying at the Hôtel Angleterre, a decent Hôtel, but certainly not the first class establishment she had stayed at last time. The financial situation had changed and Nick, Mr van Buren, had apologised that he could not afford anything better.
Van Buren hoped that he could sell the coin for at least half the price he had paid for it. With one hundred French francs, he would be able to plug a few holes and maybe that one of the banks would once again grant him credit.
Thérèse had received Carlo’s telegram and they had made an appointment for lunchtime: the taxi stopped in front of the Hôtel Angleterre and Carlo, asking the driver to wait for him, entered to ask for Madame Milaud.
Thérèse was already waiting in the lobby: Carlo recognised her immediately, perhaps her concerns had made her lose a little weight, but this just made her even more alluring.
“Signor Fantone, do you remember me?”
How could I forget, thought Carlo to himself, trying to keep his calm, and with a forced smile he came out with a banal, “Of course I remember Madame Milaud, one never forgets such a charming lady… and one so capable in the world of numismatics.”
“You flatter me, Signor Fantone.”
I know what I would like to do, thought Carlo, but fortunately, he only managed to say, “It is only the truth, Madame.”
Then, offering his arm, he said, “The taxi is waiting for us, let’s go and have lunch, so that we can speak in peace about our business.”
The got into the car and Carlo said to the driver, “Au Gran Café des Capucines, s'il vous plait.”
The Gran Café was a restaurant on the Boulevard des Capucines, not far from Opéra. The furnishings were in an opulent Art Nouveau style, very fussy and perhaps this was precisely why Carlo, who was normally moderate and reserved, considered this restaurant one of those little excesses that he sometimes granted himself.
Between courses, Thérèse explained to Carlo the dramatic situation in which the American economist found himself and his state of almost total bankruptcy since the value of half a dozen companies in which he had invested heavily had been reduced almost to nil in the last couple of weeks.
“Nick, that is to say Mr van Buren, had to sell his office at a ridiculous price, however, unfortunately that will only cover part of his debt and has begun to sell off his coin collection and I don’t know if he will be able to keep his house on Park Avenue much longer. That is why I am here, I wondered if you might be interested in purchasing, at a reasonable price, the coin we both bid on a few months ago.”
Carlo waited a moment, sipping his coffee before he answered, “Madame Milaud, or may I call you Thérèse?”
She nodded.
“Well Thérèse, there are a number of reasons why I can see various obstacles to your plan. The first is myself. Not because I don’t want to oblige you, but because I can’t. The sum that I had originally set aside to invest in the coin was only twenty-five thousand francs, I actually offered thirty thousand, hoping to put off any competitors, but your offer of two hundred thousand absolutely amazed me. I am sure that you were following the instructions you had been given, collectors tend to become overwrought and compulsive, but I am not a collector, and in any case, my interest was… different. Given the sum you paid, I certainly can’t make you an offer without offending yourself and Mr van Buren.”
Thérèse sighed. “That was the answer I feared, after all, it is true. I personally told Nick that the sum was way over the top. Nevertheless, would you help me to find a buyer?”
Carlo looked at her for a moment and to gain time he asked,
“Forgive me Thérèse, do you mind if I smoke a cigar?”
“No, of course not, Carlo, no problem, Nick smokes them all the time.”
The continual reference to van Buren as Nick was beginning to irritate Carlo, was she his fiancée or his mistress? He was beginning to suffer from a curious form of jealousy.
“As far as the possibility of selling the coin is concerned, believe me Thérèse, but this is the second point that I mentioned before. I think it will be very difficult, almost impossible to sell it and you will find it equally difficult to believe the reasons.”
Carlo puffed on his cigar and told Thérèse of the sequence of curious deaths and mishaps that had befallen the owners of that and the other coins over the years.
At first, Thérèse listened in amusement, and then as the story unfolded her mood changed from impatience to anger.
“Oh come on, Signor Fantone, do you really want me to swallow this… this…”
“Tomfoolery?” asked Carlo. “No, Thérèse, I don’t ask you to believe in something that even I don’t believe in. The fact is that there are people who believe in these superstitions and want nothing to do with that coin! Go and ask Monsieur Janowski at the Hôtel Drouot, or anyone else who deals in coins at a certain level, here in Paris: you will get the same answer.”
“Then why did nothing happen to Monsieur Janowski, who handled the coin, or to myself, since I transported it?”
“Because, and this is the answer that Mr Janowski gave me personally when I asked the same question, it does not belong to you.”
Carlo paused, then gathering his courage he said, “It would seem, however, that there is an exception…”
“What is that?” asked Thérèse
“With regard to my father, who has for some time owned one of the coins, without suffering any harm.”
He began to tell her the story of the book and the discovery of the hidden items. “According to my father, our immunity could depend on the fact that we are closely related t
o the person who minted the coin.”
Thérèse stared at him, her eyes narrowed, unsure whether to laugh or scream.
“No, please, Thérèse don’t look like that, it is a theory that even my father who brought it up does not believe. The point is not to convince ourselves, but others, those who could afford to buy it and do not want to do so.”
Thérèse asked him how long he would be staying in Paris and he said that he would be there for a fortnight and gave her the visiting card of his Hôtel, so that she could call him if she needed.
Paris – November 10th 1929
Thérèse was upset by her meeting with Carlo Fantone the previous day. She had imagined that it would not be easy to sell the coin back to him, but she certainly would never have imagined that he would try to bamboozle her with all that nonsense. He wanted to buy the coin for a song, that’s what the gallant Signor Carlo was up to!
She left her Hôtel determined to find a solution, but first she would phone Monsieur Janowski at the Drouot auction house to fix an appointment for the afternoon.
She spend the morning visiting the main numismatic dealers, saying that she was representing an American collector who wanted to purchase a coin like the one sold at auction on April 13th.
A couple of the dealers, who had been present at the auction, recognised Thérèse, preventing her from playing her cards.
Another three made witty remarks about the legend that surrounded the coin, but that they did not know anyone who had one to sell. The last one was more categorical.
“Certainly, there is no one here in Europe. You could try in America, Madame. Perhaps the van Buren heirs will want to sell the one he purchased recently, because it would seem that it didn’t bring him much luck!”
“Why do you say that?” asked Thérèse worriedly.
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