The Tortured Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  Lafarge sympathized with Broglie, relieved that his remark about the Jews and the stars appeared to be just to ingratiate himself early in their relationship, perhaps testing his Parisian colleague’s sentiments.

  His fury here was genuine and as he knew he was helpless to do anything about it. Of course, it could have been injured professional pride at being ridiculed by the arrogant de Blaeckere, but here Lafarge saw an opportunity for himself, a risky one but he was determined to take it.

  Lafarge ran down the corridor and descended the steps into the basement where the Brigades Spéciales spent most of their time, appropriately close to the sewers and the rats, for that was where they belonged.

  Here was where they did their brutal, savage interrogations, only legal because laws had been imposed that permitted them to go to any lengths to exercise their duties.

  On reaching the basement, he had to cover his nose such was the stench of sweat, human excrement and burning flesh, a smell he had got used to during the desperate days of fighting the Nazis.

  He brushed aside two of the blood spattered thugs brandishing his ID and demanded to know where de Blaeckere was. One grumpily pointed in the direction of a cell on the right, and Lafarge shoved open the door with full force.

  A scene of utter depravity greeted him. De Blaeckere and two more of his goons were standing against the wall laughing as another leant over the woman.

  Her pretty floral dress had been shredded, her pants were round her ankles and her bra was below her breasts, which were both now covered in cigarette burns while her face was turning purple, her nose a mix of blood and cartilage.

  One of the thugs was at that moment thrusting an object up between her legs, her moans issuing forth from lips that barely moved and were bloodied and swollen.

  They had left her eyes untouched, perhaps to let her witness the terrible things they were perpetrating on her, and in them Lafarge did not see submissiveness or terror, pain yes, but there was also a determined look, and that was the only consolation.

  “What the hell do you want!” shouted de Blaeckere at Lafarge.

  Lafarge didn’t hesitate and strode over to the woman, hauling the thug off her and retrieving the object, which he saw was a ruler, from within her.

  Lafarge pulled her up into a sitting position against the stone wall and turned to de Blaeckere, who hadn’t moved, although his men were edging towards him.

  “Tell your lapdogs to desist, de Blaeckere. It wouldn’t be wise to hurt an emissary from Paris, one who has absolute authority where Parisian fugitives are involved,” snarled Lafarge.

  De Blaeckere laughed, a totally humourless one, and took a drag on his cigarette.

  “Total authority! On whose say so?” smirked de Blaeckere.

  “As far as I am concerned, I have the authority here.

  “You are outside your jurisdiction my friend. In case you haven’t got accustomed to it, you are now in Vichy controlled France and we go by no–one else’s authority, least of all that of some plain clothes detective who chases ordinary criminals, not those who threaten the state’s existence,” he grinned smugly.

  Lafarge noted that despite de Blaeckere’s confident statement, he had halted his men in their tracks, though they remained like attack dogs on their toes, ready to pounce given the order.

  “I would suggest de Blaeckere that you place a call to Paris to secretary–general Bousquet’s office and ask on whose authority I am here,” said Lafarge icily.

  However, he knew he was taking a huge gamble as should Bousquet not be convinced the woman and the man, who was nowhere to be seen, were anything to do with the de Chastelain case, then they would be left in the hands of de Blaeckere.

  However, to his relief, his ploy appeared to have worked because de Blaeckere paused, not quite so sure of himself, and stroked his chin and then put a hand through his greased back blond hair as if deep in reflection.

  Lafarge eyed the three men around him and noticed they too weren’t looking quite so threatening as before, they turned towards de Blaeckere looking for guidance.

  “Well you can’t argue with that can you,” said de Blaeckere with a smile.

  “We’re done with her anyway. There’s not much more fun we can have with her, she’s all used up, and she’s just fit for the firing squad which as you know, detective, is where she will end up,” he added.

  Lafarge knew it was true, there was no alternative, as Broglie had said she and her accomplice had been caught red–handed with the printing press.

  Still, that wasn’t the point, treated differently, she may have given them more information. As it was now, she was little use to anyone and the determined look he had seen in her eyes suggested that even if she was given time to recover she would never volunteer any pertinent information.

  It was pointless telling de Blaeckere this as he knew only one way to interrogate his prisoners and that was by fulfilling his sadistic fantasies, which didn't say a lot for his good education and aristocratic upbringing.

  “Well, at least my way she will be able to die with dignity and not in this hellhole surrounded by you and your brainless thugs,” snarled Lafarge.

  “The next time you interfere, Lafarge, you may not be received with such understanding. Our secretary–general is a great admirer of our work and our results, hence why we are allowed some fun from time to time,” said de Blaeckere proudly.

  “Fun, you call this fun! You really have betrayed your family, your class and stained our country’s reputation if you regard this as fun. I wouldn’t mind having a few minutes with you alone de Blaeckere and showing you what fun it is to be treated in such a way!” yelled Lafarge.

  “That I am afraid won’t happen. But please, tonight, when you are at peace with yourself and lying alone in your bed, why don’t you masturbate over that thought, because it’s the only weapon you are going to use against me,” chortled de Blaeckere, his brown eyes dancing merrily.

  His men too thought it hilarious, and with that they made to leave, rolling down their sleeves over their bloodied arms and picking up their pinstripe jackets from the chairs before making for the door.

  “Oi de Blaeckere, where is the man?” asked Lafarge.

  De Blaeckere turned and shot him a look of triumph.

  “He’s next door. However, you won’t really be able to tidy him up much, I think he would prefer to be buried alive the state he is in. What’s that saying, the cat got his tongue!” said de Blaeckere with a belly laugh.

  Lafarge was seething but resisted the urge to hurl himself at the sadistic brute.

  He waited until they had left before making the woman as comfortable as possible and checked her breathing, which reassuringly was returning to some form of normalcy, and then he went next door.

  There the scene was indescribable, the man’s face was a pulp, and as feared, his tongue was pinned to the door of the cell.

  His hair was soaked, a mixture of sweat and water, for they had ducked him into a cold bath not out of any compassion but to make him believe they were drowning him. He dragged him out of the cell and then went back for the woman, before charging up the steps to get some help in carrying the two broken bodies upstairs.

  *

  Lafarge was back at his desk after lunch, a whole new set of files had been delivered in his absence and these were the ones compiled of the doctors, lawyers and other bourgeois professionals who had drifted to Limoges from Paris since the Occupation had begun.

  The couple of wannabe William Caxton’s had been taken under guard to hospital, and he was waiting to learn from Broglie what their condition was.

  Truth be told, he hadn’t felt like eating anything but had gone along with Broglie and while his colleague had wolfed down a tete de veau and a healthy looking chocolate mousse, he had simply helped him finish two bottles of good red wine and downed a cognac to settle himself.

  He couldn’t really care less about upsetting de Blaeckere, why he had already accrued the powerful
enmity of Bousquet, but it had been the first time he had seen for himself how the so called elite Brigades Speciales operated.

  He had managed to successfully avoid them in Paris but here he had found it in his best interests to witness firsthand quite how sadistic they were.

  One bonus for his interfering, was that he had earned the eternal loyalty of Broglie.

  This Lafarge marked up as a victory, for further down the line, he could count not only on Broglie but his dozen or so detectives should he need to operate independently of de Blaeckere, no matter what Guillemot said to the contrary about inter service co–operation and all that rubbish.

  Thus it was a largely content Lafarge who sat back in his chair and started poring over the files, which he had to admit were of more interest and induced a feeling of admiration for Guillemot and his section for their research. Broglie had wandered off in a semi sober state to the hospital allowing Lafarge time on his own to absorb the information contained in the files.

  Lafarge was astonished at the talent that had opted to quit Paris and reside in what went under the name of Free France and as Guillemot had said in such a town as this. There were several judges, numerous state prosecutors and as for defence lawyers, it would have been a criminal’s paradise were these men and women still operating.

  Some were of course, but not at the rate that they would have been had they stayed in Paris or gone to Marseille, the city where crime proliferated and sometimes he thought it probably had originated there as well. However, what buoyed him was that there would certainly be someone here who had had close contact with de Chastelain and surely would have heard from him since he fled Paris.

  It didn’t take too long before he alighted on a surefire candidate: Henri Gerland, who had been a renowned defence lawyer before the war.

  He was not someone who was known to be an anti–Vichy rabble–rouser or indeed unfriendly to the Nazis. Perhaps, more pertinently, he was on good terms with Bousquet. Indeed, he would be an ideal lawyer to defend de Chastelain and yet, he had followed a mass of refugees to this unlikely destination.

  Lafarge knew him as well, and indeed, despite being technically on opposite sides, he respected him and they had also shared some convivial times together, unlike those he had spent with de Chastelain.

  His links with de Chastelain were plentiful, for they had teamed–up on several cases.

  The fugitive had usually played second fiddle to the baritone of the Paris bar, but on occasion, the master had allowed the apprentice to take centre stage and he had not been left disappointed.

  However, where Gerland deployed charm and wit, de Chastelain, merely harangued the victims or the witnesses, using sarcasm when he felt it necessary to resort to humour. Hence Gerland was still regarded as the better of the two advocates, and perhaps the reason why de Chastelain, had chosen Limoges as his initial destination.

  This was a stroke of luck and Lafarge could sense for the first time that he had not made a wasted journey. He noted down the address, for he didn’t want to forewarn Gerland of his interest in him, and waited impatiently for the return of Broglie, so he could drive him to the house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gerland looked surprised when he opened the door to find one of his old adversaries standing on his doorstep.

  However, he greeted Lafarge warmly and ushered him in. Gerland had fared rather better than the majority of the almost 200,000 refugees who had made their way to Limoges following the Nazi invasion, for he was living in a three storey Second Empire style house on the Rue Bonaparte in the centre of the town.

  Clearly too he had managed to ‘retreat’ in some order unlike Lafarge and his regiment, for on entering his drawingroom he noticed that the shelves were well–stocked with books, legal as well as literary, and it was not lacking in furniture.

  Gerland too had not lost his impressive shape, slightly overweight, but his face was finely–honed, a Romanesque nose with piercing blue eyes and topped by a mop of badger coloured hair. He gestured Lafarge to take a seat in a comfortable looking armchair, and offered him a coffee, a real one he added with a self–satisfied smile.

  Lafarge would have preferred a drink but as it was 10 in the morning decided even for him that was a bit much and readily accepted the coffee. He had decided to leave his visit till the morning as Broglie only returned to the headquarters near on six, having waited till the woman had been operated on.

  She would live to meet her executioner. She had a badly broken nose, a broken jaw and one of her legs had been all but snapped in two, but apart from that she was alright, Broglie had said in his matter of fact way.

  As she wasn’t going to be going anywhere fast with her injuries they were going to allow her to heal for a while, so at least she could stand on her own two feet when she was shot.

  The man, though, had not even made it to surgery, for despite doing their best to staunch the bleeding from his mouth he had passed away before the surgeon could get to him.

  “That’ll set the tongues wagging round town!” Broglie had joked, to which Lafarge had replied: “Let’s hope it doesn’t make them hold their tongues!” which had elicited a laugh from his colleague.

  Broglie and Lafarge both concurred that gallows humour was the best weapon to try and inure oneself from the ghastly goings on. Trouble was the fanatics in the Brigades Speciales didn’t see it that way, everything said was taken at face value and used against you later on or if they were drunk almost immediately.

  “So Gaston what brings you down to this pretty but overcrowded little town?” asked Gerland, who had come back into the room carrying a tray with the boiling coffee and several Madeleine cakes on it.

  “Have you come here because you need a good defence lawyer? There are still some in Paris you know, although they get even less of a hearing these days than in the pre–War years,” said Gerland with a chuckle.

  “Ha ha, no Henri, I am not in need of one yet, although, that may not be the case before too long,” said Lafarge not altogether untruthfully.

  “However, a former associate of yours is in more immediate need of one, well that is when I catch him he will need the best there is.”

  Gerland raised his bushy eyebrows, which looked like a pair of otters wishing to meet in the middle and copulate, and steepled his fingers together waiting for Lafarge to divulge the name.

  “De Chastelain is the man I am after. I have sound information that he came here after fleeing Paris. Knowing how close you were and on hearing you were here, well, naturally I thought you would be someone who he would contact in a town that to my knowledge he has no ties to,” said Lafarge crisply, keeping his eyes on Gerland to register his reaction.

  Gerland had unsteepled his fingers and put one of them to his mouth and brushed it along his full lips. His eyes hadn’t even flickered in surprise when Lafarge had informed him the name of his quarry, which told the detective that he was at the very least aware of something.

  The lawyer would have known that Lafarge was in charge of the case, for if Aimée de Florentin knew from the newspapers then Gerland, who liked to know everything that was going on, especially now being in voluntary exile from Paris, would have certainly heard about it.

  However, de Chastelain’s name had been specifically withheld from any connection to the enquiry in the newspapers, Lafarge and Massu both agreeing that if he read he was the number one suspect then that might provoke him to flee further south.

  “Pierre–Yves has been here Gaston, indeed he spent a few nights sleeping in the guest room,” said Gerland in an even tone.

  Lafarge felt a mini surge of excitement and relief that Drieu had not been telling a tall story to set him off the trail, however, he knew there was a but coming.

  “However, he left a week ago, to where I do not know, although, I have a feeling he has not gone far,” said Gerland.

  “How, Henri would you come to that conclusion?” asked Lafarge.

  “Well, he left some of his belongi
ngs here, and being a man of some fastidiousness and who takes pride in his appearance, I would venture that he would have need of fresh clothes, his own that is, soon enough,” replied Gerland.

  “Very good. However, my informant didn’t mention anything about him travelling with luggage, he was in quite a state apparently and was desperate to leave Paris.”

  “Quite so, Gaston. However, a friend of his delivered a trunk and various other items a few days after he deposited himself on me. I was mildly surprised and not a little annoyed as I came to Limoges to avoid these sort of problems. Lord knows I have defended some scoundrels in the past and some totally innocent people too I might add, but I seldom took my work home with me,” Gerland chortled.

  “However, having kept a relatively low profile since I arrived here, a few minor cases apart, I decided that the less I knew the better, but I wouldn’t turn my old colleague away,” he added.

  “Do you know this friend?” asked Lafarge, although he pretty much guessed who it was.

  “Drieu La Rochelle. He explained that he could not cut all ties to his old friends and furthermore he believed that he was totally innocent.

  “As usual with Drieu he couldn't keep his anti–Semitism out of the conversation for long, commenting that as 30 percent of lawyers before the war had been Jewish and were now stripped of their power to practise, France could ill afford to lose another lawyer,” said Gerland.

  “Ah so you did discuss the problem, de Chastelain's I mean not Drieu's concerns about the sudden lack of lawyers,” interjected Lafarge, who recalled the unwelcome experience – police detectives were obliged to – of having to visit the disgusting exhibition of 'Le Juif et Le Francais' in Paris the year before where the Jews were exhibited as being greedy, overly ambitious and controlling certain professions and so on and so forth.

  Gerland nodded, looking totally unflustered by his betraying a confidence.

  “How deeply did you discuss this problem, Henri?” asked Lafarge, not wishing to allow Gerland a moment to cover his tracks.

  Gerland sighed and thought for a minute.