The Compromised Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  Lafarge would like to have shoved the ‘voilà’ right back down his mouth, and as for the debt of gratitude to Chabrol, well even he could accept he owed him one but that it might have to be only to save him from the executioner and get him a prison sentence instead.

  If things worked out, of course, that is. For the moment they most certainly did not look to be going in his favour.

  “Now, gentlemen, I think that as our business is concluded we should allow the Chief Inspector a few minutes alone with his son because it may be a while before they see each other again,” said de Cambedessus.

  Lafarge raised his eyebrows and glared at de Cambedessus. He smiled coldly back but waited for the others, Chabrol smiling sympathetically at Lafarge as he extricated his neck from Pierre’s grasp, to leave the room before he explained himself.

  “Chief Inspector, I am all for families being reconciled with each other, the Liberation has seen many moving examples, but you must realise I am not going to pay out on the insurance now.

  “You can’t possibly have thought I was buying your fidelity through gratitude for bringing you back your son,” said de Cambedessus, for once seeming confused.

  Lafarge, too, suddenly felt stupid, having believed that was indeed the idea, but then he had forgotten how callous de Cambedessus was – sociopathic to be honest. His lack of empathy for anyone should not even have allowed Lafarge to entertain such a thought. No, he had gone for the most objectionable of options, one the Nazis and Vichy used liberally, keeping a family member hostage while the operation went ahead.

  “Very well, de Cambedessus, if you wish to tarnish your reputation as a gentleman aristocrat, be my guest. Don’t complain if after this is over you get little mercy from me. I have your wife remember,” said Lafarge, but he knew his voice carried little menace in it.

  “Dear me, Lafarge, there is a huge difference in the cases. You love your son, even if you left him to die, but I stopped loving my wife a very long time ago, so if anything unfortunate was to happen to her I would be in that person’s debt. I wouldn’t feel a thing,” he said.

  Lafarge felt a chill sweep through his body as he acknowledged this man was perhaps the most calculating and antipathetic person he had ever dealt with – that was saying quite something when it meant the Jew-chaser-in-chief Bousquet had slipped from top of the list.

  ****

  Lafarge spent an uncomfortable half an hour with Pierre after de Cambedessus left them. He went and sat on one of the sofas which were far more comfortable than sitting stiffly at the table. He hoped the more informal setting would encourage his son to at least come and sit, if not beside him, then on one of the others.

  However, Pierre sat at the end of the room on the chair Chabrol had occupied and remained silent.

  Lafarge decided against walking back down the room because it would only intimidate Pierre and he would flee. Having helped himself to another glass of the cognac he decided the best tack to take was to address the chasm which had opened up between them.

  He spoke for it must have been 10 minutes. He explained how he had hung around for a while hoping Pierre, Isadora and Isabella would also be brought to Bayonne, and he had left a note saying he would be God willing at the flat in Paris if they turned up after he left.

  Lafarge observed Pierre as he spoke and the signs were not positive. He could tell from his years of encountering all sorts of human behaviour and reactions that his explanation was not being accepted and the sense of betrayal and rejection were firmly embedded in his six-year-old son’s mind.

  It made him even sadder the father-son rapport he had re-established after he had retired from the Vichy police and spent time with his children in Nice, Madrid and then on the boat had evaporated.

  He could understand the bitterness and rancour Pierre felt. For his son had been deserted in an hour of need and when he was obliged to come to terms with what death and losing people close to you was for the first time. Prior to that he had been mercifully protected from the worst excesses of the war for Isabella had taken the children to Nice when Lafarge had returned from the POW camp.

  Lafarge mulled over whether he should broach the subject of death and the finiteness of life but he thought that would be too much for Pierre. It was something he could try and touch upon gently over the following days once tomorrow was over.

  He knew he could overcome the antipathy Pierre felt for him at the present moment. He just hoped he would be given the time to do so. He couldn’t bear to be robbed of the angelic-looking child, with his tousled, straw-colored hair and green eyes, again.

  However, he knew he couldn’t keep the information about the coup to himself just to save his son.

  In any case the thought of France being ruled by a puppet like the Comte with de Cambedessus assuming the role of Cardinal Richelieu or Mazarin was simply too loathsome and disastrous a prospect.

  France had already been brought to its knees economically by the Nazis. Vichy had managed to forfeit any sympathy due to its willing co-operation in perpetrating the Nazi crimes against not only Jews but also any French person who had dared disagree with their polcies.

  It was clear, too, the support of Roosevelt, to be implemented by Eisenhower, meant the Americans would really wield the power. The end result would see France enter into another Occupation with the only consolation it would be a bit more benign.

  However, Lafarge didn’t really feel the urge to have to swap French tobacco for American, nor chewing gum and Glenn Miller to become the staple diet of French people.

  He wanted to live in a France where he could sit down for a healthy helping of tête de veau washed down with liberal amounts of French wine, and for his son to be taught about the glorious conquests, and disastrous but heroic failures, of Napoleon and Charlemagne. Even more so that he should learn the French nation did once know how to stand up to an invader as the Gauls did to the might of the Roman Empire, not the history of how the United States won its independence and the West was won by gallant cowboys sweeping aside those red savages.

  No, he would just have to hope the counter-offensive the next day went so smoothly his son did not become another innocent victim of a war which had claimed far too many already. He reasoned that by doing his job properly and preventing a catastrophe he would be doing a greater good than by keeping silent and bowing to the lowest form of blackmail.

  He went towards Pierre and was reassured; he allowed him to place his hand on his shoulder, and he looked up and stared into his eyes.

  “I will be back for you tomorrow, Pierre, I promise and this time we will not be separated ever again. I understand your feelings but it can be worked out. I love you so much, my son, and I will make it up to you,” said Lafarge doing his best to keep his emotions in check.

  Pierre nodded.

  “Who knows, Papa, maybe we will all be reunited once again, that is what I would really like. Then we could be a happy family like we were on the ship,” he said, hope pouring from his eyes.

  Lafarge ran a hand through Pierre’s hair, gave him a peck on his cheek, and walked briskly from the room without looking back, swearing silently he would make good his promise. He had lost his wife, daughter and sister. His parents and his brothers were fate unknown, and he was damned if he was going to lose his son now the door was slightly ajar.

  He just hoped his deep hatred of de Cambedessus, wanting to see his total humiliation and execution, were not dictating his actions at the expense of his son’s safety. He was already building a self-justifying wall around him, if anything bad was to happen, by believing he was doing it for his country.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “It’s a fine thing to see the Bourbon family’s flag flying from the Hotel de Ville and the Quai isn’t it, Lafarge?” said de Cambedessus proudly.

  Lafarge, who was seated beside the colonel in the back of his staff car with de Miromanil in the front, grunted and lit a cigarette as they made their way past the Palais de Justice which was next
to the Quai des Orfèvres.

  All had gone swimmingly for the plotters so far.

  The look of astonishment on Palewski’s face when Lafarge had walked in while he was conferring with de Cambedessus, had turned to anger when Levau had clamped the handcuffs on him. They had escorted him unceremoniously out of the Crillon, drawing gasps from the various politicians and military officers gathered in the lobby waiting to have an audience with de Gaulle’s éminence grise.

  Now, Levau having gone ahead with Palewski, they were on their way to meet with Macaire at the Quai. Judging by the flag flying over the grand old building the police force was under new leadership for the second time within a matter of months.

  De Cambedessus had played his role perfectly, expressing outrage at the intrusion by Lafarge.

  Then, as the Chief Inspector read out the charge to Palewski, de Cambedessus had started to remonstrate in full view of his superior, interceding to say there must be some mistake and he would come with Lafarge to sort it all out.

  As they drove along Lafarge stared out the open window, admiring the beauty of the city basked in early November sunshine, observing the streets were virtually deserted, even the queues to the bakers and butchers they passed seemed shorter.

  Of course that was not a sign things were improving. Perhaps they were just too depressed and weary to carry on going down flights of stairs from their apartments, with all their wooden furniture, if they were fortunate enough to possess some, cut up and ready to be fed to the fireplace to keep them warm through the winter days and nights.

  Once outside they would go through the ritual of queuing for hours while engaging in conversation with people some of whom, only a few months before, were happy to inform on them or their families just so they could get a little cash for an extra piece of bread.

  He didn’t think it was down to the coup either for there had been only what he could term ‘sporadic’ bursts of gunfire. These were a daily occurrence, even now, as the authorities uncovered some hideaways of desperate former collaborationists or even diehard Nazis, who had either left it too late to leave or stayed behind to cause enough trouble so as to keep the inhabitants on edge.

  Both parties, who had tried and failed to spark pandemonium on the day of de Gaulle’s victory march down the Champs Élysées with a series of co-ordinated attacks, were determined to continue to resist as they had not given up hope of a successful counter-attack being launched.

  The only thing that had not gone to plan was the radio broadcast by the Comte de Paris, de Cambedessus explaining the future head of state preferred to wait till he got the signal from the Quai that all was under control.

  Hence the colonel’s feigned concern for Palewski’s wellbeing, for it gave him the opportunity to see for himself Paris was indeed under control. He was confident of there being little resistance down south as Chabrol was a hero in the region and even the communists felt, albeit reluctantly, a debt to him.

  Lafarge, though, ventured that once news leaked out over the coup in Paris the communists would not be quite so submissive. They believed, with some justification, it was they who had been responsible for beginning the uprising that had fatally undermined the Nazis rule in the city.

  Their bitterness at being ignored by de Gaulle on his return was simmering below the surface and if not treated would, Lafarge believed, be a serious threat to whoever governed the country.

  All well and good, Lafarge thought, but the only thing that interested him now was that the double game he was playing would not be exposed and put the life of Pierre at risk. He already had enough on his conscience, and he didn’t want another life to be added to the list.

  He didn’t raise the topic with de Cambedessus.

  The car pulled into the Quai, and was ushered through into the central courtyard where Luizet and Pinault were standing waiting to greet them.

  There were also several uniformed gendarmes, unarmed Lafarge observed, and rather more plain clothes men who lined the walls. Levau was among them as was Ruffier. Two friendly faces at least.

  “Colonel, welcome to our humble abode. We are at your service,” said Luizet stepping forward to shake de Cambedessus’s hand.

  Pinault followed suit, Lafarge acknowledging the arch-Gaullist and his immediate superior as he, too, descended from the car.

  De Cambedessus, spruce as the peacock he was in his finely starched uniform – his moustache Lafarge had noticed had been finely waxed overnight – gave them a curt response before looking round the courtyard searching for something.

  “I thought I might see a colleague of mine, Macaire here,” he said his eyes narrowing.

  Luizet smiled.

  “Macaire is here. He is presently enjoying our hospitality upstairs in Pinault’s office with several of his men. He preferred the taste of cognac to coming down to greet you.

  “With regards to Palewski, he is in rather less aesthetically pleasing surroundings – a cell next to Petiot’s. I hope for his sake he survives that lunatic’s ramblings,” said Luizet in an effort at humour.

  However, with de Cambedessus failing to find it amusing Luizet looked embarrassed and nervously cleared his throat before speaking again.

  “You are probably wondering why a Gaullist loyalist like me should surrender so meekly. Well it is very simple.

  “I do not wish to see another bout of bloodletting. The General should have been our future, as he has done so much to keep our pride and our hopes alive, but you have decided otherwise.

  “While I disagree heartily with your actions I do not have the heart to obstruct you and waste more lives. So let us go and finish the affair,” he said grimly.

  De Cambedessus nodded courteously.

  “Admirable, selfless sentiments, Luizet, that will serve you well in whatever direction your life next takes you,” said de Cambedessus as pompous as always.

  Luizet looked at him anxiety flitting across his eyes.

  “Well, you can’t possibly stay on in your present function with your loyalty still with de Gaulle. No, sir, you and Pinault here will be replaced forthwith. I will be appointing myself as prefect and Lafarge here will take over Pinault’s post while Macaire can fill Lafarge’s vacancy,” he said.

  Lafarge was as stunned as both Pinault and Luizet, who stared at their subordinate with barely disguised antipathy.

  “So, Lafarge, you effortlessly rise up the ladder, skipping as nimbly as possible from one toadstool to the next not minding what colour it is or poison it might possess,” said Luizet.

  Lafarge shrugged.

  “I am as surprised as you by this appointment, sir. However, the benefit of not being tied to any party or any faith means I have no trouble in realigning my loyalties in the best interests of our country,” said Lafarge, sounding he regretfully admitted almost as pompous as de Cambedessus.

  De Cambedessus laughed mirthlessly. He brusquely ordered them to escort him to Macaire so he could put his call through to the Comte’s entourage enabling him to make the broadcast which would set the seal on the success of the coup.

  There being no lift Lafarge, Luizet, Pinault, de Miromanil and de Cambedessus took their time to climb the steps to the office, the colonel allowing the soon-to-be former prefect to lead the way as he performed one of his last official duties.

  However, Luizet stood aside as they reached journey’s end, signalling de Cambedessus was now the man in power.

  “After you, Colonel,” said Luizet as he opened the door to Pinault’s office.

  De Cambedessus smiled a brief triumphant smile and drew himself up in military fashion, and with de Miromanil, just a step behind him, entered.

  He didn’t get very far before he wheeled round on his finely polished boots, with an angry look on his face, a slight flush coming to his pale features. He then turned back into the room and pointed as the others entered at Macaire.

  Far from ‘enjoying the hospitality’ of Pinault the former Vichy thug was slumped in a chair. His eyes star
ed lifelessly towards the large bay window, the one which gave out onto the Seine, while below his outstretched hand lay the empty cognac glass. Some of the spent liquid was soaking into the expensive Louis XIV rug which had been given to Bousquet by his grateful German colleagues who had themselves looted it and which Pinault had purloined subsequently.

  For once de Cambedessus looked flustered. He ordered de Miromanil to go over and take Macaire’s pulse, although it was clear he was dead. De Miromanil confirmed this and then looked nervously at de Cambedessus, whose forehead began to show beads of sweat popping up.

  He put his hand to his mouth as he realised his overweening self-confidence had allowed him to be lured into the trap.

  Lafarge stepped forward with his gun drawn and gestured to de Cambedessus and de Miromanil to hand him their service revolvers.

  De Cambedessus complied. However, de Miromanil made a run for a door that was situated at the rear of the office and tugged at the handle. There was to be no escape for him. His face dissolved into one of despair as on opening it instead of being greeted by a passageway and a potential escape route all he saw was a small bathroom.

  He turned to the onlooking group, scowled, saluted de Cambedessus, and walked into the bathroom shutting the door behind him just as Lafarge reached it. The Chief Inspector shot out the lock, but it was too late. Another shot rang out from within. On opening the door Lafarge staggered back as de Miromanil’s bloodied body fell on him.

  He let the officer’s corpse collapse to the floor and turned towards de Cambedessus, who looked sadly down at his adjutant. Then, just as quickly, he fixed Lafarge with a piercing gaze and some of his old confidence returned.

  “Well, Lafarge, I should have gone with my gut instinct about you and not listened to McLagan,” he said, his voice steady, his contempt for everyone but himself clear.

  “However, I really believed the ace of holding your son, the one you left to drown, would prick your guilt – and shame – to such an extent you wouldn’t dare lose him a second time.