The Tortured Detective

by Pirate Irwin

  On that note he made his excuses and left to round up his men and prepare them for the assault on the farm house. He left Lafarge to his own dark thoughts, and hoping that Gerland and de Chastelain would at least come through and ease his conscience ever so slightly, as he dearly didn’t wish to still be in Limoges if Aimée was brought back alive to headquarters.

  *

  Broglie, de Blaeckere and their men had been gone for a good hour, leaving Lafarge in the care of a young fellow from the Brigade Spéciale, Luc Barenthoen. He lounged around looking bored, not saying very much except to reproach Lafarge for being responsible for him not being able to go on the raid which would have allowed him to release all the pent up anger over the fiasco two days before.

  Lafarge shrugged his shoulders dismissively and flicked through an old copy of the newspaper Aujourd’hui, which was virtually unreadable as it had become a propaganda tool of the Nazis and Vichy under the editorship of the venal collaborator Georges Suarez. He had left the novel he was reading in his hotel room, having packed it with the rest of his things before he went to meet Aimee the day before, as he hoped that today would deliver him his prize asset. The bill was paid, so everything was set, just the phone call remained.

  He tossed the paper to Barenthoen, who reluctantly thumbed through it, and so it went on for another half hour, save the two of them downing a glass of wine from Broglie’s amply–stocked war chest.

  At last Barenthoen had to excuse himself for a call of nature and probably an opportunity to stretch his legs. Lafarge was relieved that he didn’t have to accompany him, although he asked him what should he do if the phone rang.

  Barenthoen replied that he could answer it for by this stage the police must have arrived at the farm so even a warning wouldn’t help his friends. Lafarge protested at the use of the term friends but Barenthoen merely sneered and said everyone knew he was soft on the terrorist elements.

  He was gone just 10 minutes but by happy coincidence the phone rang the moment he returned. Lafarge let Barethoen pick up the receiver, which resulted with him being handed the phone.

  “It’s your divorce lawyer Gerland, he wants a word,” leered Barenthoen revealing finely polished teeth, which made a nice contrast to Broglie’s rotten stumps but that was about the only thing better about him in comparison to the local policeman.

  “Yes, Gerland. What do you want?” asked Lafarge brusquely.

  “Hello Gaston, just to inform you that the papers you need to sign are indeed here, delivered this morning in fact as expected,” replied Gerland in a businesslike tone.

  “I wish I could say terrific, but in the circumstances its hardly worth celebrating. Do you want me to come round and sign them?” asked Lafarge.

  “Well I think that in order to rush this through and given the difficulties in the postal service it would be wise,” said Gerland.

  “Alright, I may be accompanied but I am sure he will stay outside,” said Lafarge eying Barenthoen.

  Barenthoen surprised Lafarge by shaking his head and mouthing that he could go alone.

  “Actually scratch that, young Barenthoen doesn’t feel like accompanying me on a strictly personal matter, he has a heart after all,” said Lafarge laughing.

  Barenthoen grunted as Lafarge put down the receiver and said that he may have been asked to play nanny for the day but there were limits.

  Lafarge slapped him on the back in jovial fashion and walked briskly out of the office, hoping that this was probably the last he had seen of the poky little office and he wouldn't be shedding any tears over that.

  Much that he cared about his welfare Barenthoen wouldn’t suffer unduly. If Aimée and the cell had been swept up, then de Blaeckere would be in such a good mood that letting an irritant such as him leave would be a bonus and besides he would now be Paris’s problem.

  Lafarge breathed in deeply as he left the building and felt for the first time in ages that things were now turning in his direction. He had the key about to be placed in his hands and the mystery surrounding Marguerite Suchet’s murder was set to be unlocked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  “I could at the very least arrest you for assault, de Chastelain, you hit me bloody hard,” griped Lafarge as the train chugged smoothly out of Limoges station.

  “You deserved it Lafarge, that was years of resentment and added to by your reprehensible decision to work for the Nazis. To be frank, you disgust me,” retorted de Chastelain.

  Lafarge sighed and reflected that what he had taken to be a blemish free record as a policeman had attracted enemies from both sides of the fence, though, he admitted de Chastelain’s punch was a good deal milder a punishment than what Bousquet would inflict on him.

  He was relieved they were even on the train. Events at Gerland's house had not gone according to plan initially as de Chastelain had signalled he was not going to honour his promise to return with him. He was keener to risk going his own way and trying to reach Spain, adding that he had no guarantee Lafarge would honour his side of the bargain.

  Lafarge had reacted furiously, barely restraining himself from blurting out that he had sacrificed a family, and the people who had given de Chastelain safe refuge, so as to fulfil hiis pledge about accompanying him to Paris and then facilitate his being taken to a safe haven.

  It was Gerland who rescued the situation. His emollient tones persuading de Chastelain that should Lafarge not honour his promise when they got to Paris there would be two of his acquaintances waiting at the Gare d'Austerlitz who would ensure he did.

  Lafarge had commissioned a first class compartment all to themselves. He made clear to the elderly guard that he was on official business and no one was to be given access to the compartment even if they had seats reserved in it.

  It was clear, though, that de Chastelain was only travelling back to Paris with him because he was the least worst option, and he needed to ease the atmosphere if he were to gain any useful information about what took place the night of Suchet’s murder.

  Thus he withdrew from his pocket his gun and laid it to the side, and pulled out a bottle of Armagnac from his suitcase, with two glasses he had purloined from Gerland. De Chastelain raised his eyebrows at this.

  “You drink too much Lafarge, you know that. You always did but now it must be to assuage your shame and guilt for having thrown your lot in with the enemy,” chided de Chastelain.

  Lafarge shrugged his shoulders and sneered back at him who, if he continued in this vein, would only find himself holed up in a cell alongside Lescarboura.

  “I think you would be better refraining from constantly making niggling remarks, for if you need reminding, it is you who is under arrest and not me,” said Lafarge coldly, and he was pleased that his remark appeared to have its desired effect as a look of resignation crossed de Chastelain’s face.

  Despite his protestations, he poured them both a glass, commenting he never liked to drink alone, which he knew was a bald–faced lie but nevertheless he felt it worth making, and sat back studying his prisoner’s face.

  De Chastelain looked tired, as one would if one had been on the run from a murderous regime intent on pinning a murder that two of their members may well have committed themselves. He could see also determination in his eyes and the firm set of his jaw suggested that it was not going to be easy to prise information out of him, especially given his evident dislike of his captor.

  The only thing he had going for him was that de Chastelain disliked Bousquet even more than he did Lafarge, and the threat of being handed over to him was a useful weapon to hold.

  He certainly wasn’t going to divulge any details of how he had managed to come alone to Gerland’s house and pick him up without anyone interfering. De Chastelain would probably go for Lafarge’s gun were he to learn that he had got such an easy passage out of Limoges because the Parisian cop had offered up the lawyer’s fellow Resistants as sacrificial lambs.

  “So you are Bousquet’s little poodle now, how endearing
Lafarge,” said the lawyer with a bitter smile on his face.

  Lafarge was stung by the comment but let it slide, hitting back with one of his own.

  “And you, de Chastelain, escape from Paris hiding in the trunk of the car of one of the most notorious collaborators and virulent anti–semitic writers of our generation, and that is saying something,” he said enjoying the moment.

  De Chastelain snorted derisively and looked out the window, which didn’t yield much of a view as they were rolling through a part of the journey where either side was overshadowed by steep rock faces.

  “Needs must when one is being wrongfully pursued by the law, for something that had nothing to do with me. Furthermore Drieu may have his faults but at least he remembers his friends when they are in deep trouble,” said de Chastelain quietly.

  “You needn’t worry on that score, for we were never friends before the war and this is certainly not going to change that. But let us at least try and enjoy a professional relationship on the journey, for your future as much as mine counts on it,” said Lafarge, offering a small olive branch.

  De Chastelain shrugged and took a sip of his Armagnac. Evidently it was to his liking because he quickly took a bigger slug, lit a cigarette and laid back stretching his long slender legs across the compartment, blocking off Lafarge from doing a similar thing.

  “Ok, I guess I don’t have much choice here, given you have the gun and I am in your charge, so let us begin the interrogation, no rubber saps, though, please,” he pleaded sarcastically.

  Lafarge smiled, pleased that at least his prisoner was showing a hint of willingness to co–operate with him.

  “I heard your version of events from Gerland, so all I really need to know is did you hold any information back from him? If so, I would like to know what it is,” said Lafarge

  De Chastelain appeared relieved that Lafarge had taken his story as being the truth, and letting his guard down as the detective had hoped, he visibly relaxed by topping up his glass.

  “I didn’t hide much from Gerland, but what information I did hide was only to protect him,” said de Chastelain, staring straight at Lafarge for the first time since their journey had started.

  “Very considerate of you, and that was?” said Lafarge.

  “I saw Bousquet leave her apartment, my inquisitiveness got the better of me, or perhaps my lack of patience did and I came down the stairs as he was leaving,” said de Chastelain.

  Lafarge groaned inwardly, seeing the nightmare scenario unfolding before his eyes and lessening the chances of his being able to let de Chastelain go. For how could he appear before Bousquet firstly without his much sought after prisoner and secondly then accuse him of being the murderer himself.

  “You are sure about this?” said Lafarge, knowing it was a stupid question.

  “Of course I’m bloody sure, I’m hardly likely to mistake him, am I?” replied de Chastelain forcefully.

  “Yes, but it is in your interests to implicate him and, apart from anything else, suits you very well that the man responsible for wanting you arrested should be the very person you turn round and accuse of the crime. Were you the only witness to this?” asked Lafarge, hoping there had been someone else who had seen Bousquet.

  “Yes, the maid,” replied de Chastelain, taking Lafarge aback with his answer.

  “What, Mathilde Langlois?” asked the detective, seeking confirmation as if he needed it.

  “Yes, her. Funny one she is, extremely attractive but frigid as an igloo, more’s the pity as she could have been an interesting replacement for Marguerite,” sighed de Chastelain regretfully.

  Lafarge did not feel like filling in his prisoner on why she was as she was, and pursued his line of questioning.

  “Funny she didn’t mention that to me, she said the last time she saw Marguerite was at nine that evening before being told she would not be needed any further that night,” said Lafarge.

  De Chastelain shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Well, she was with me, or rather just behind me when Bousquet exited the apartment, maybe she preferred to keep her own counsel. I mean upsetting Bousquet is only a thing a fool or fools like us would do,” smiled de Chastelain.

  Lafarge nodded, for once finding common ground with de Chastelain, though not ground either of them could feel comfortable treading on. However, something troubled him about Mathilde, the air of mystery surrounding her, how von Dirlinger had got her the job with Marguerite, all seemed too down pat, contrived even.

  “You know that she came to be taken on by Marguerite because of your replacement von Dirlinger,” said Lafarge.

  “Yes, I am painfully aware of that, but I don’t really see the relevance of it,” said de Chastelain truculently.

  “No matter, it’s just an observation. I mean her reticence may have more of an edge to it than simply not wishing to make an enemy of Bousquet, that’s all,” said Lafarge.

  A look of alarm flitted across de Chastelain’s face before once again his stony expression returned, but Lafarge was satisfied that his remark had hit home and his prisoner was suitably discomfited.

  “Bousquet, I take it, didn’t see you?” asked Lafarge.

  “Lord no. Do you think I would be sitting here now if he had? He would have had the gendarmes around in no time,” replied de Chastelain, all but sneering at the stupidity of the question.

  “Hardly if there was a corpse lying in the apartment he had just come out of,” interjected Lafarge incredulously.

  “How did he look, was he flustered, was he rushing away or was he just his normal arrogant self?”

  De Chastelain paused before replying, running his bony hands through his black hair.

  “To be honest, he looked as he always does, relaxed, usual erect gait, not a hair out of place, cigarette in his hand, clothes unruffled, yes not a hair of that slicked back oiliness out of place,” said de Chastelain bitterly.

  “Did he close the door behind him?” asked Lafarge.

  De Chastelain looked at him bemused.

  “Well, yes of course he did. He was well brought up, you know. Also he’s hardly likely to leave the door open to an apartment where he has just murdered the owner,” he replied dismissively.

  “Really Lafarge, you should reduce the old alcohol intake you know. It may do wonders for your guilt trip but it doesn’t for your grasp of the matters in hand,” added de Chastelain disparagingly.

  Lafarge once again waved aside the needling remark, and as if to spite de Chastelain, he poured himself another glass.

  “Did he say anything as he left the apartment?”

  De Chastelain scratched his head.

  “Yes he did, but it was in German so I didn’t really understand it. I just thought he was being ironic referring to Marguerite’s present lover’s native language. Although of course he is quite an admirer of all things Teutonic himself as we know,” said de Chastelain darkly.

  “Quite. But it’s interesting he should speak in German, for it suggests that there was someone alive inside the apartment when he left. I mean, it may not have been Marguerite, but it could have been someone else.

  “Also Bousquet didn’t know he had an audience. So there is no reason for him to go through some Agatha Christie type scene of pretending he is addressing someone who is already lying dead inside,” said Lafarge.

  De Chastelain for the first time nodded his approval at Lafarge’s line of thought.

  “Of course that largely depends on at what stage you entered Marguerite’s apartment,” said Lafarge.

  “Well I didn’t go in there immediately. I went back up to Mathilde’s shoebox of an apartment and decided it was best to lie low there for an hour or so,” said de Chastelain.

  Lafarge puffed out his cheeks in some relief, for a time lapse such as that would have enabled someone else to murder Marguerite and make good his escape.

  Mathilde had told him that her employer had said she was expecting von Dirlinger for dinner and perhaps that was why Bousq
uet had spoken in German on leaving the apartment.

  Obviously, de Chastelain still remained a suspect but the manner in which he told the story was convincing and it would just take asking Mathilde one direct question to clear that up. Whatever, de Chastelain had earned himself a reprieve from Bousquet’s clutches for the moment.

  He just hoped that Gerland had organised the welcoming party at the other end and that Bousquet had not been apprised of the likelihood that he was on this train with him. For despite him saying he had higher matters of state to deal with he could probably spare two of his most trusted men and send them to the station.

  Anyway, they still had several hours remaining before he had to confront that situation, maybe even longer if the Allies launched a bombing raid and delayed the train. So he returned to his questioning of de Chastelain, who he noted with some satisfaction had refilled both of their glasses.

  “Did both you and Mathilde go down to the apartment?”

  De Chastelain shook his head.

  “No, it was just me. I think you know all about this part because Gerland would have told you,” said de Chastelain, somewhat exasperated with having to repeat his version of events.

  “I’m sorry if this is irritating you but I need to check the statement or rather the account you gave your friend Gerland with the version you are giving me. It’s equally important for you as it is for me, because it will decide in whose hands you are placed when we get to Paris,” retorted Lafarge sternly.

  De Chastelain looked surprised at the way in which Lafarge had couched his reply.

  “Hey I thought you assured me there would be no double cross?” he asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

  Lafarge smiled, enjoying his prisoner's moment of discomfort, and told him to answer the question.

  “Ok well, I found Marguerite lying on the sofa, I called out to her and when I received no reply I went over to her and found her unconscious. She was still breathing, I leant over her and tried to revive her and that must have been when my shirt became covered in blood,” said de Chastelain confidently.