by Pirate Irwin
There was no record of Marguerite possessing a gun, so the murderer must have brought it with him, and while de Chastelain remained number one suspect, it similarly didn’t rule out either von Dirlinger nor Bousquet.
Nor at a push, Mathilde, though he really couldn’t envisage a scenario where she killed her mistress and how did she get hold of a service pistol? Mistress being the operative word smiled Lafarge. No, he didn’t see Marguerite embarking on a sordid affair with her maid, there was certainly no indication from her past that she liked sex with both sexes.
However, there was definitely a link to Marguerite between von Dirlinger and Mathilde, for he had engineered the rendezvous with the victim and then procured the job for Mathilde.
Circumstantial evidence, but still a thread worth keeping in mind, although whether Marguerite really was going to end their relationship, he only had Bousquet’s word for and that was self–serving at best.
Maybe they were all embroiled in it, and de Chastelain was their convenient scapegoat.
Had von Dirlinger purposefully set up Marguerite to forewarn de Chastelain of his impending arrest, thereby conveniently releasing into the ether a bitter former lover, also implicated in the jewel theft, who frustrated at not being able to win back his former mistress and with the jewels missing decided to kill her?
Both arguments had weight. And then there was Bousquet.
He would not have been pleased at all had he learnt of Marguerite’s involvement in the incident that humiliated him in front of his adored German masters. Coming just days after he had received a personal visit from Heydrich, whose star was rising so fast that he seemed likely to replace Hitler should the Fuhrer be indisposed, had been a severe blow to his prestige.
God help humanity because should Heydrich replace Hitler, an already brutal regime would become even more vicious in its bid to subjugate those they felt were not worthy of sharing the same living space as they.
Thus Lafarge could imagine Bousquet’s fury and desire to seek out those who had made a mockery of his plan.
While he did not see him as being one who delighted in killing by his own hand, Lafarge wondered whether Marguerite, with her sometimes naïve belief that her charm and beauty could win anyone over, had perhaps driven France’s wannabe Heydrich to do just that.
Thus if there was one thing that drew them all together and made Lafarge indispensable for the moment was that he had to get de Chastelain. Lafarge too wanted de Chastelain, not from any personal vengeful point of view but because he knew he held the key to the whole scenario.
However, Lafarge also acknowledged that were he to bring him back to Paris, the case would be stamped solved and no matter who the killer was, both von Dirlinger and Bousquet had interests in the lawyer taking the blame.
There would be no argument, Lafarge would have to hand him over, he would be tried and he would be found guilty.
Probably alongside the unfortunate Lescarboura, as an accessory even if he had been banged up already, and then executed together. Both von Dirlinger and Bousquet had greater ambitions and were damned that they would be implicated in such a crime, what is more they had protection and scandal was not something either the Nazis or Vichy cared to have associated with themselves.
Then of course they would deal with Lafarge, and that he did not care to think about at the moment. He was entering the territory where having put both Bousquet and von Dirlinger on their guard, they had in their own way warned him that there was only one solution and that was catch de Chastelain, bring him back and all will be good between us.
Von Dirlinger may have been a delightful and generous host that night but as Bousquet said, each person has his own way of playing the game.
For instance, was it coincidence that Bonny had turned up that morning at Marguerite’s, supposedly on a tip off from his partner Lafont? Who had given them the information? And furthermore why choose a time and a day when the detective in charge of the case is sleeping one floor above, or perhaps that was part of the game, von Dirlinger's way of having a little fun.
However, whilst Lafont and Bonny were well known for their close relations with the SS and the Gestapo, ties with the Abwehr were less obvious. If that had been von Dirlinger’s warning, then it made Lafarge concerned as Bonny and Lafont played by no rules save self–aggrandizement, enriching themselves and their goons, and brutality especially against people that they disliked.
The trouble was, Lafarge was increasingly becoming sick of such political games, and never one to accept authority and its rules especially when it came to playing with the lives of others, he had not yet made up his mind what he would do if he did catch de Chastelain.
It depended of course on whether de Chastelain was innocent, and given the animosity between him and the lawyer, it would not be easy if he did find him to convince him to talk and subsequently return to Paris.
He sighed at the size of the task that confronted him and took a swig from his hip flask, lit a cigarette and swung his legs to the far side of the female passenger so he could stretch them out. She gave him a nod of appreciation and a faint smile.
“You seem very preoccupied,” she said, with an accent that Lafarge defined as coming from central France.
Lafarge smiled back at her.
“I think it would be a rare person who isn’t these days, madam.”
“Quite. Are you travelling far? Most people tend to when they get their hands on an Ausweis,” she asked in a friendly tone.
“Limoges is the extent of my trip. And you?” asked Lafarge.
“Same destination as yourself. I have family there,” she said.
“You are fortunate. I have family too but sadly, they are further away than Limoges,” he said.
“So it is business that is taking you to Limoges?” she asked in a manner that suggested little interest but was asking out of politeness.
“Yes, business. Will you be staying long in Limoges, madam?” asked Lafarge, wishing not to enter into too much detail of what his business was.
“Oh, I would think a month. I was working in the theatre, but the play has finished and we are yet to hear if our next production meets with the censor’s approval. So I decided to take the opportunity to visit my family and should the censor approve the play the theatre will send word to me,” she said her tone somewhat lighter.
“Theatre, that’s interesting. Actress, dressmaker, director...” Lafarge said slipping in the last role as a dry joke.
She laughed, politely Lafarge thought at his lame effort.
“Actress, I have been appearing at the Theâtre de la Madeleine with Guitry. Normally, there is no problem with his plays as he is in favour with the censors, so I am confident I will be back treading the boards soon,” she said smiling.
“What is your name, perhaps I have heard of you? Although I admit I am more prone to going to the cinema when time allows than the theatre,” asked Lafarge, the name Guitry having exercised his interest given the French showman’s closeness to Bousquet.
“Aimée de Florentin, but I doubt you have heard of me. My name is not lit up on the front of the theatre, mind you, wherever Guitry is playing it is hard to get space beside his name as it is written in such large letters!” she said laughing.
Lafarge too laughed for it was well known that Guitry’s ego walked way ahead of him, indeed he appeared to have hijacked Oscar Wilde’s famous phrase ‘I have nothing to declare but my genius!’
She was correct too, because he hadn’t heard of her, but he wouldn’t mind getting to know her better as she was proving to be excellent company. Aside from apparently possessing a good sense of humour, self–deprecatory as well, she was also extremely becoming to the eye.
Long blonde hair curled round her thin face, while she also had striking hazel brown eyes and full lips.
Limoges is starting to take on a more fun hue, thought Lafarge, although, he reprimanded himself, just platonic dinners of course when he had the time. That depended t
oo on her accepting his invitation in the first place.
“You are right, I am ashamed to confess I have not heard of you. However, we are equals in that matter as you will never have heard of me. I am Gaston Lafarge,” he said extending his hand.
She smiled warmly, her eyes twinkled, he noted with some surprise, and took his hand briefly in hers.
“There you are wrong, Inspector. I do read things apart from plays you know! I saw your name in the newspaper the other day, with regard to investigating the murder of my fellow Thespian Marguerite Suchet. So sad,” she said sighing regretfully.
Lafarge nodded, quietly happy that his work did not go unnoticed, though with the caveat that the reputation of the French police force never very high was probably at its lowest with the silent majority of French people that it had ever been.
“It’s always good to put a face to a name,” she said cordially.
“Quite. I always like it when I can put a face to a criminal,” he said humourously.
She laughed, this time Lafarge was happy to see for longer and more genuinely than at his first lame attempt at humour.
“Did you know the victim?” he asked, more out of instinct which he cursed himself for as it threatened to ruin the atmosphere in the compartment.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that, I never seem to be able to put my job aside,” he said apologetically.
“Don’t worry, I’m not offended. It’s not as if I am a suspect! Yes I knew her, not well for the worlds of theatre and film are pretty separate apart from a few of the big stars who transcend both. However, I had met her on several occasions at social events. She seemed very charming, and fun too,” she said.
“It would be very sad if she had been killed just because she was sleeping with a German. I mean, God, if that were to become a habit, there would be a whole spate of them. Mind you, it would help my career, a few of them falling by the wayside!” she said, giving out a deep rasping laugh.
Lafarge too laughed, then stopped and looked nervously to his right where the stern looking passenger had been sitting but saw thankfully that he was not there.
“The undertaker got out at Vierzon, while you were deep in thought, we are now in what remains of independent France” she said laughing again.
“Yes, he was rather serious looking, wasn’t he? So I must have been locked up in my little world for rather a long time then, not even aware we had crossed into Vichy,” he said apologetically, whilst firing a warning shot across her bows with a reminder to her he was part of the Vichy apparatus lest de Florentin start revealing facts about herself he would feel uncomfortable with.
“Yes, I think we must only be 30 minutes from Limoges, though with trains these days you never know,” she said.
“Don’t worry, though, inspector, I won’t spread it around that you are in Limoges. Your secret is safe with me!” she added teasingly.
He grinned and shook his head.
“I don’t think you need worry about that. I would think I will be met by a mixture of police and resistants when I arrive. Information such as my movements have a tendency to travel ahead of one, these days,” he said.
“Yes, that is true. Where are you staying in Limoges, if that’s not a state secret?” she inquired.
“I honestly don’t know. I imagine a hotel, where I will be taken when I arrive. What about yourself? Does your family live in Limoges itself or are they in some farmhouse or chateau in the countryside?” asked Lafarge.
“Chateau? Hardly! But yes, in a farm house about five kilometers outside Limoges, near a village called Oradour–sur–Glane. It’s very pretty. If you have a free afternoon you should come out and visit it,” she said with a gleam in her eyes.
Lafarge could feel himself getting rather excited at this invitation.
“I would be delighted to, though I have no idea how long I will be kept here. Similarly I would very much like to invite you for dinner one night in Limoges, if there is such a thing as a proper restaurant,” he said.
“I would love to accept your invitation inspector. Don’t be too down on Limoges for there are two or three relatively good restaurants, though, like everything these days if you want something of quality you pay above average,” she said.
Lafarge thought to himself that he was more than willing to pay above average to have dinner with Aimée de Florentin. Anyway, he was on expenses down here and he could write it off as dinner with a person of interest to the case. Well, she had met Marguerite at least, that was more than anyone else, apart from de Chastelain, will have done in Limoges.
She wrote out in neat handwriting, having removed her black velvet glove, revealing elegant thin fingered hands, her phone number and told him to ring anytime and leave his contact details.
He said he would do so as soon as they were to hand.
He wasn’t doing anything against regulations he insisted, it was true that once he was settled in his hotel that word would leak out anyway, so there was no point guarding his whereabouts and Aimée didn’t appear to be anything but genuine.
He had been a policeman for so long now, and met enough people down the years, that he could tell more often than not when people were being genuine.
The conductor passed by at this point to tell them they were five minutes from Limoges, so they gathered their baggage together and walked down the corridor to the carriage door. Lafarge dutifully helped her down onto the platform with her two suitcases and carried one to the end where they were met by their respective reception committees.
De Florentin introduced him briefly to a middle–aged couple, Bernard her brother and Lisette her sister–in–law, both good looking and certainly not, to Lafarge’s eye, typical farming stock, and then bade them farewell so he could introduce himself to his colleagues.
There were two of them, one stocky with a friendly face, the other leaner with an intelligent face, and a humourous glint in his eyes.
“Welcome Inspector Lafarge, I’m chief inspector Paul Broglie from the Police Judiciaire and this is our colleague Inspector Bertrand Guillermot of the Bureau of Anti–National Activities (BMA),” said the squat one, taking his suitcase from him.
“Delighted and thank you for being here to meet me. BMA? Any particular reason?” asked Lafarge, wondering why it was necessary to bring along a member of the internal intelligence services.
“Well, down here, in what remains of France and where there is, shall we say, much more terrorist activity, we liaise together as it is impossible to work properly without mutual co–operation, there is no point competing against each other,” said Guillermot amiably.
Lafarge nodded in agreement at that, for in Paris, it was a nightmare where different services all but hijacked some cases and in others openly sabotaged them if they felt that the suspect was useful to their own investigation.
“It is particularly the case now. For we are on a higher than usual alert after the news we received today from Paris,” said Broglie in a hushed tone as they walked towards the exit of the station.
“News, what news?” asked Lafarge.
“Reinhard Heydrich has been wounded in an assassination attempt in Prague and we have been told to reinforce all our barracks and offices in case the terrorists take heart from this and launch widespread attacks,” said Broglie.
Lafarge was stunned by this news, for it struck at the very heart of the Nazi hierarchy, their golden boy targeted in his ‘hometown’ of Prague.
That would shake not only the rulers in Berlin but also it would surely destabilize the paladins of Vichy and most notably Bousquet, who had been so proud of the person to person meeting with Heydrich. He may well recover but it would have rattled the overweening confidence of Bousquet and that, for Lafarge, was a decided plus, both personally and professionally.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lafarge declined the offer of sleeping in the austere–looking barracks, preferring to take up residence in a hotel in the town.
They took him to
the Hôtel des Faisans, where he was greeted by a friendly, rather overweight middle aged lady, who gave him a simple room, decorated with brightly coloured floral wallpaper, though with the bonus of a tiny en suite bathroom, overlooking the street.
Broglie and Guillemot then escorted him to the police headquarters, a typical non–descript greystone building in the centre of town – Limoges itself could be best described as an ordinary run of the mill medium sized town largely made up of two storey houses on small streets – where it became apparent that his two colleagues had not been exaggerating about the state of alert.
There was a massive group of civilians in the hall, sitting looking miserable and confused on the wooden benches guarded by uniformed gendarmes awaiting their turn to be registered and then taken to be interrogated.
When Lafarge asked who they were, Broglie replied that they were people of interest with links to the terrorists or were communists and some were Jews, who had not observed the law brought in in May that they were obliged to wear yellow stars on their clothing.
France is all but Germany in name, mused Lafarge. It made a mockery of the term Free Zone, for Vichy had cut a deal where effectively just for being able to hold onto some land they had surrendered themselves to imposing every law and wish of the Germans.
“I hope we have a good reserve of yellow cloth,” said Lafarge sharply.
Broglie and Guillemot eyed him warily but then burst out laughing along with Lafarge, who felt it best to turn it into a sick joke so as not to arouse suspicion from his companions.
“Well, we supply and they pay for it, it’s beautiful isn’t it?” grinned Broglie, revealing chipped dark stained teeth.
Lafarge nodded, though he felt more like removing some of the disgusting teeth from Broglie’s mouth.
The trio moved on past the wretched crowd and through the doors where the noise level was no less as mostly men in plain clothes scurried around looking busy and shouting orders at, it appeared to Lafarge, nobody in particular.