by Pirate Irwin
As ever Massu preferred not to hear the details and didn’t ask Lafarge about his time in Limoges.
Massu had told him that Lescarboura had disappeared to some camp in Germany, as part of the workforce the Germans had demanded the French supply. As ever they had acquiesced without receving anything in return except for some prisoners of war coming home.
With regard to von Dirlinger, Massu had chanced upon him once at the Lutetia where they had exchanged pleasantries, though, Lafarge found it instructive that the Abwehr officer hadn’t apparently asked for his news.
Either he didn’t care, which Lafarge doubted, or else he knew perfectly well he was still in Limoges and that information could only have come from Bousquet which suggested that maybe a common interest had brought them back together again.
He shuddered at the thought that he would remain their unifying force once they learnt that de Chastelain had slipped from their grasp, hopefully from his point of view for ever.
He would have to hope that his father could help him one more time by preventing him from being tortured and shot or worse sent on one of the trains to the east. Lafarge had toyed with the idea of seeking out Mathilde to confirm de Chastelain’s story but refrained from doing so.
He was not certain where her loyalties lay and that she would repeat her conversation straight back to von Dirlinger should she see him at Solidor’s club that evening. He needed time to get de Chastelain on his way and running the risk of having an Abwehr officer after them would not help their chances of succeeding.
Besides he reasoned to himself his instinct told him that de Chastelain was innocent of the murder and that was all he was really interested in.
The burglary he was complicit in. However, it was a minor offence in the greater scheme of things and he wasn’t about to deliver a scapegoat into the hands of the two people who were more than likely responsible for the death of Marguerite.
Thus he had taken Massu’s advice and returned home where he had washed, taken a nap and now felt refreshed enough to aid de Chastelain’s second effort at escape.
Truth be told he hadn’t seen the man who held the fugitive’s future in his hands for several years, but if he was anything as effective in getting the people out as he had been as his and his wife’s doctor then de Chastelain was in very good hands.
Lafarge had been surprised that the good doctor had become the head of an escape ring but then lots of people had assumed roles that one would never have suspected them capable of performing.
Indeed ‘Doctor Eugene’, or Doctor Petiot which was his real name, appeared to have adapted really well to his second occupation judging by the paperwork that he demanded, though, he did not come cheap with 200,000 francs cash the going rate.
Of course Lafarge had nothing like that amount of money and de Chastelain’s account could not be touched so the reliable Gerland had vouchsafed for it.
Lafarge had picked up the cash when he collected de Chastelain, other arrangements such as passport photos of de Chastelain had been furnished by associates of Gerland’s to Petiot at his medical practice in Rue Caumartin near Gare St Lazare.
Departure, though, was to be from a far more respectable address up in the 16th arrondissement on Rue Sueur where Petiot had a townhouse. Such riches didn’t surprise Lafarge as the prices he was charging he could easily afford a smart address.
However, he thought it was uncomfortably close to Gestapo headquarters on Avenue Foch but then perhaps the unimaginative types that seemed to dominate the ranks of the Gestapo could never think the respectable 16th would be the epicentre of such a huge escape operation.
Why the majority of the people who lived in the 16th had been very welcoming to the Nazis. Those who hadn’t been, the rich Jews for example, were for the most part now housed in far less salubrious surroundings and their apartments had been taken over by German officers or French people favoured by either Vichy or the Nazis.
By coincidence Petiot used an Argentinian diplomat to get him the fake papers and visas and it set Lafarge wondering whether this pliable diplomat, admittedly no doubt having his palm greased by the doctor, was his father–in–law.
Lafarge was in a much better frame of mind once he swung by the safe house to pick up de Chastelain. His passenger wasn’t ready and it was Huariau who greeted him, and listened to his description of what he had seen after they had parted that morning. He smiled sadly and told him he expected there to be a repeat the next day.
Lafarge couldn’t believe it, hoping that after one day of this disgusting work that older heads like the one he had come across at the café might protest and say this type of action was not what the police were meant to do.
However, Huariau reproached him for his altruistic view of the uniformed police, saying they had even less brains in general than those in plain clothes, Lafarge excepted of course.
Huariau added that in any case what they lacked in brains they made up for in animal instinct. They were not going to risk their jobs for a group of people they didn’t have anything in common with, for the majority of those picked up were foreign Jews.
Lafarge shook with rage at this.
For in a way this made it even more reprehensible. People who had sought refuge from persecution in their own countries were now being hunted down for the same reasons by French policement, and without a German present as far as Lafarge could see from what he had witnessed that morning.
Their sombre discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a refreshed looking de Chastelain. He looked the way he had been when he wooed the Parisian courtrooms, clean-shaven with a fashionable haircut and dressed dapperly in a well-cut grey suit.
Lafarge doffed his hat and sarcastically bowed before ushering him out the door and into the car. Huariau said to him as he was leaving that if he ever needed similar help to just call him to which Lafarge nodded and felt good that there were still people around like his former colleague. Sadly they were all mainly like Huariau now outside the force.
The trip wasn’t going to take long and for the first part of it they travelled in silence, Lafarge hoping there weren’t too many checkpoints while de Chastelain seemed apprehensive at stepping into the unknown, in handing his future to a man he did not know.
Lafarge tried to lighten the atmosphere by whistling some old tune which had been popular before the war, even for once unifying the different political factions, and offered de Chastelain a cigarette and some cognac from his hip flask.
“Bloody hell Lafarge, do you ever go anywhere without a drink?” asked de Chastelain, who nevertheless seized the flask and gulped down a large portion of the contents.
“Easy tiger. You want to be conscious and at your sharpest for the journey ahead. You are not going to have a decent cop like myself after you the next time. Chances are if you do fall into the wrong hands they will just shoot you. I would say your last chance at a trial – fair or not – disappeared the moment I handed you over to Huariau,” said Lafarge.
De Chastelain sighed and stared out the window cracking his knuckles at the same time and Lafarge wished he would stop because his nervousness was having an effect on him.
“Look you have nothing to fear from the guy who is going to help you. Not for the fee he charges, it wouldn’t be worth his while to get on the wrong side of me. I could have his operation closed down within minutes,” said Lafarge trying to reassure de Chastelain.
De Chastelain remained silent, absorbed in his own thoughts, it dawning on him that this was the point of no return. He could of course change his mind still and risk being put on trial, but there were few judges who would contradict the will of the government now.
Besides de Chastelain hadn’t made too many friends among the judiciary during his barnstorming days at the bar, his acerbic humour having ridiculed many of them. That was something, being extremely self–important to a man, they often didn’t forget. Turn the other cheek was for other people, not for them.
Lafarge tried once ag
ain to boost his passenger's morale.
“You won’t be gone forever de Chastelain, and when you are able to return, why you will be feted as a hero, not as someone who escaped the guillotine after murdering your former mistress. I will see to that, even if I too have to disappear. I will write it all down and leave it with someone I can trust. It will be the official record,” he said.
“To be truthful Lafarge, I don’t see myself returning here, and I’m not being fatalistic,” replied de Chastelain.
“I can feel that this is my last ride across Paris, it’s a pity it is in the dark, for this truly is the most beautiful city in the world and where I have experienced my happiest and most successful moments.
“But like those experiences I now will put Paris into a locker marked ‘the past’ and see where life takes me,” he added.
Lafarge said nothing, simply grunted and inwardly praised de Chastelain for his pragmatic outlook.
They were making good progress, hardly a uniformed policeman was to be seen, obviously sleeping off their hard work of today and preparing for more of the same tomorrow Lafarge guessed.
Eventually they entered Rue Sueur and Lafarge purposefully slowed the car so he could get one last word in with de Chastelain before he handed him over.
“Look Pierre–Yves,” he said using the lawyer’s first name which was the first occasion he had done so in the entire time they had known each other.
“This must be serious Lafarge, or perhaps I too should enter the spirit of the moment and address you as Gaston,” said de Chastelaine smiling.
Lafarge gave a short genuine laugh.
“Yup it’s funny when old habits get thrown aside, but hey there’s no need for formality or indeed hostility between us now, for I’m achieving a lifetime’s dream…I’m finally seeing the back of you.
“No more de Chastelain style minute dissections of my evidence, nor character assassinations of me and my colleagues. I should have brought champagne,” joked Lafarge which he was glad to see de Chastelain too saw the humourous side.
“However, on a more serious note I swear to you Pierre–Yves that I will go as far as I can to bring either or both Bousquet and von Dirlinger to justice, for what that is worth these days. I will get the utmost pleasure in doing so, as much good it will ultimately do me,” he said taking his hand off the wheel and patting de Chastelain on the shoulder.
De Chastelain seemed moved by Lafarge's promise and gulped.
“Listen not that I am hopefully going to my death but this old warrior wouldn’t mind a last smoke and a final gulp of cognac if you don’t mind.
“Where I’m going cognac may be in short supply and Argentinian liqueur I am not terribly au fait with,” he said.
Lafarge willingly provided both, then gestured that they were at journey’s end as his eyes having got used to the dark alighted on number 21 and the large double doors that served as an entrance to de Chastelain’s temporary haven of safety.
They both climbed out of the car and Lafarge helped de Chastelain with his three suitcases, a number he thought was hopelessly optimistic if the lawyer thought he would be able to take them all on his travels.
Anyways that was for him to debate with ‘Dr Eugene’ for his role in the escape was now at an end.
He rang the bell and waited until the door swung open creaking on its hinges, and he half expected Bela Lugosi or Boris Karloff to appear out of the darkness.
In the end rather disappointingly in terms of drama it was just the dark bearded dapperly dressed figure of ‘Eugene’ who emerged and shook both their hands.
“Ah Chief Inspector, good to see you again, although of course in rather unusual circumstances,” said a smiling Petiot.
Lafarge smiled too and offered him the case he had been carrying which he took, and rather strangely, to the detective's mind, opened it and looked inside, his face registering disappontment.
“Is there a problem Doctor?” asked Lafarge, who glanced at de Chastelain and saw he was shifting from foot to foot.
Petiot looked glum and a little angry, his brown eyes had lost their warmth.
“I don't see the money,” his voice a whisper, but the tone glacial.
Lafarge sighed and gestured at de Chastelain's midriff, the lawyer helping him by lifting up his shirt to reveal the cash strapped round his body, a precautionary measure they had taken with Huariau.
Petiot laughed, Lafarge thought rather hysterically, before leafing through some of the notes attached to de Chastelain. The lawyer didn't look best pleased at having his honesty questioned, quite apart from the fact he was a fugitive standing out in a street in the middle of Paris and with curfew due to come into force soon.
“Very good, very ingenious. Right well then everything is in order, best to get you inside,” said Petiot, his air of bonhomie fully restored.
De Chastelain picked up his suitcases and moved inside the courtyard, Lafarge made to follow but Petiot stepped in front of him barring his way.
“No need Chief Inspector, the less you are implicated or know about my operation the better,” he said.
“Yes, you are right Doctor.” said Lafarge stepping back.
“Please do not worry I will be in touch once he is safely arrived, or at least he will send you a postcard to let you know,” smiled Petiot.
“Just one thing Doctor, I was wondering whether you could give me the name of the Argentinian diplomat who is helping you. As you know my wife is the daughter of the Ambassador and I had a mad thought it might be him,” said Lafarge grinning.
“I am afraid again I cannot reveal such information, too dangerous for all concerned. Please pass on my regards to your delightful wife, and of course if ever you or she need anything medically please feel free to call on me at my usual address,” said Petiot before stepping back to make to close the door.
Lafarge called after de Chastelain, who turned and put down his suitcases before striding back to him and giving him a hug. Then just as quickly he was gone and the door swung back leaving Lafarge staring at it with a strange feeling of loss.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Lafarge awoke from a fitful sleep, which had been dominated by the sad, shocked and tearful faces of the Jews on the buses the day before, to hear loud banging and screams coming from within his apartment building.
At first he thought it was a continuation of his dream, then that it was a fire that had taken hold but he couldn’t smell any smoke. He got out of bed and wandered to the door passing a table that bore the evidence of a hard night’s smoking and drinking which would have done justice to two people rather than just himself.
He winced as he passed it but it was nothing to how he felt once he opened the door.
Stepping out he peered over the banister, his apartment being on the third of five floors, and looked down to see a family of five, the Berkowitz’s, being forced down the stairs by uniformed police, while plainclothes detectives climbed the stairs towards his floor.
He withdrew towards the sanctuary of his flat but it was too late as the detectives were already on the top step and looking at him. He didn’t know either of them personally, but he’d seen them around Orfevres and thought they were from the Brigades Speciales.
Both were mid–30’s Lafarge reckoned, smartly dressed but with a mean look, one had a bulbous nose, like a boxer turned to heavy drinker, the other was an athletic looking type. The bulbous–nosed one approached him, surprising Lafarge as he looked more like the muscle than the lead cop of the two.
Lafarge told himself to keep cool and not react as he had yesterday because these two looked like they would gladly throw him over the banister and claim he had drawn a gun on them.
“Good morning Chief Inspector Lafarge, I’m Chief Inspector Roland Dumont. Sorry for the noise but some of them get unnecessarily anxious and argumentative when we ask them to come with us,” he said smiling revealing a surprisingly good set of teeth.
Lafarge noticed they both had folders in
their hands with a list of names hence how they had known who he was, although perhaps too they had taken more care than he had about putting a name to a familiar face at Orfevres.
Lafarge was repelled by the terminology Dumont had used.
He made it sound as if they were being asked gently to go off with their local friendly policeman and answer questions about a run of the mill matter when they were being illegally and brutally thrown out of their homes. Still Lafarge felt it better to hold his hands up and smile amiably before turning his back and going inside his apartment.
He was about to close the door when Dumont’s large foot intervened stopping it from doing so.
“Sorry Lafarge, one more thing,” said Dumont softly.
Lafarge could barely contain his annoyance, but displaying uncommon patience he swung the door open and stood on the threshold waiting for Dumont to speak.
“Listen we have just three families listed here as being foreign Jews, I was just wondering, you living here and being one of us, you knew whether that was correct or not,” said Dumont.
Lafarge kept his composure and did try and rack his brains as to whether there were any others in the building, but truth be told he didn’t know. Most of the inhabitants of his block apart from saying hello kept their business to themselves, especially these days, afraid as they were of being denounced for the mildest of slights.
“I have to say I haven’t made it a habit of asking someone’s religion before conducting a conversation with them, or as a means of vetting them before they took an apartment here, so my answer is I don’t know” he replied.
Dumont stepped back, whether it was because of surprise at his colleague’s unwelcome disinterest in his neighbours’ religious convictions or the smell of stale alcohol Lafarge didn’t know and he cared even less.