A Man in Uniform (21 page)

“Good evening, Captain. Did you enjoy your drink?”

“I noticed you in the bar,” the lady explained. If she was aware that he was following her, she did not show it. Her approach seemed genuinely friendly.

“Is this your usual route home?”

“Well, no. I … um … I am on my way to a friend’s,” Dubon stumbled.

“I see. I’m off home for supper. I live out near the place Monge. Have to turn around and come straight back again to go to work, but the major pays me handsomely for my time, so I don’t mind. Not a bit.”

She seemed to assume all this would make sense to Dubon.

“And, uh, where do you work?” he ventured. At this, she looked askance.

“Don’t tell you much there, do they. I work just down the street,” she said, nodding in the direction they had come from.

“On the rue Saint-Dominique?” he asked.

“No, on the rue de Lille, at the German embassy, of course.” Dubon had forgotten the Germany embassy was so close by, in the midst of
the government quarter along with that of several other nations. All very cozy.

“And what do you do there?”

“I am the cleaning lady. Where did you think I get the papers?”

So, this lowly cleaner was the source of the section’s intelligence on German activity in France. She emptied the Germans’ trash and delivered it to French counterintelligence down the street. No wonder they needed a secret door.

“I’ve worked there for years,” she continued. “And with the major too. Can’t think how long now, at least six, oh, it would be seven now. They call me ‘the usual route’—did you know that?” She smiled, evidently pleased with the notion she was valuable enough to have earned a nickname.

Dubon recalled the colonel had used exactly that phrase that afternoon.

“So were you involved in catching that Jewish spy?” he hazarded.

“Oh yes,” she agreed proudly. “Major gave me a bit extra that month.”

“I understand that it was some sort of …”

Dubon hoped to prompt her into revealing what exactly the evidence was, but she wasn’t helpful in that regard.

“No idea. No idea what was in the packet.”

“I suppose it was in German …”

“No, the papers were in French. I can read, you know.” She said this somewhat defensively. “Don’t think I am illiterate. That’s what the Germans think, just some old lady who doesn’t know her
ABC
’s, and I let them believe it. But I can read perfectly well, French at least.”

This disdain for their cleaning lady perhaps explained why the German diplomats were so lackadaisical about the wastepaper, Dubon thought, as the woman continued.

“But I haven’t got time to go reading all that I sweep up. Besides, the major always says I must leave the papers as they are, not to even uncrumple them, you know, or try to glue the ripped bits together. Just bring them over to the office as soon as possible—usually that’s the next day since I don’t finish up at the embassy until past midnight—and that’s what I do. I used to meet the major off the premises, all
hush-hush like, but since they caught that spy, he wants me to bring everything over right away. Lets me use that back door, so nobody knows what I am about. Two deliveries this week.”

Dubon wondered why, if he had caught the real spy, Major Henry was in such a rush for German documents: did he think there was another spy at work, or was he looking for more evidence against Dreyfus? Meanwhile, the fat lady, who clearly liked an audience, kept talking, boasting of her importance without revealing much more to Dubon about the contents of the German wastepaper baskets. He finally decided he had better get off the omnibus before he was forced to travel all the way to the place Monge, and as they approached the boulevard Saint-Michel, he saw his opportunity.

“My stop, here. So nice to talk with you, Madame.”

“Why, we have never even been properly introduced, have we, Captain.”

“Er, Dubon, Captain Dubon, Madame.”

“And I am Madame Bastian. I’ll see you next week, I’m sure.”

“Good-bye, Madame. Until next week, then,” Dubon said as he walked toward the stairs.

Hopping off the bus, he turned toward the river, crossed the Île de la Cité on foot, and soon found himself on the Right Bank, now waiting on the quay for the electric tram that would take him back the distance he had traveled on the Saint-Germain omnibus.

One showed up soon enough and he got on. As he rode along he found himself turning the encounter into a story he could tell the widow.

When he arrived at his office, still in full uniform because he had not happened to pass any urinals after following Madame Bastian, he found Lebrun at his post with the week’s files.

“Will I see you tomorrow morning, Maître? Perhaps we can review things then.”

“No. I won’t be here tomorrow morning—I’ll leave you to hold the fort again, I’m afraid.”

The next day was Saturday; Dubon assumed the Statistical Section would not keep working much past noon and that he would at least be able to get home for lunch on time. His absence from Saturday lunch
would not be appreciated; it was a cheerful meal that marked the end of the working week for both him and André, and Geneviève always tried to ensure there was some treat for them both, his favorite Roquefort or cream puffs for his son.

“Perhaps I’ll come in sometime tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll catch up on things if you just leave them for me.”

In fact, after their surprising kiss, he and the widow had agreed, in as businesslike a manner as possible, that they would meet again Saturday afternoon—but there was no particular need to tell Lebrun of this.

“Very good, Maître. I will see you Monday, then … in the evening? Same routine as this week?”

“Maybe so. I’m not quite sure how long this will take me. Another day or two, I guess.”

After Lebrun left for the day, Dubon changed back into his civilian clothing. It was past six thirty when he finally locked up, so he went straight home without making his promised stop at Madeleine’s. He really must see her on Monday, Dubon thought to himself, but in truth he was already fantasizing about the next day’s meeting with the widow as he walked home looking forward to another glass of the Giscours, a good meal, and time alone with his thoughts in his study.

The excitements of his day, however, were far from over. He pushed open the door of the apartment to find his household in crisis: Jean-Jean stood in the front hall in muddy battledress expostulating as Geneviève and Luc circled him making pacifying noises. For a moment, Dubon could not think what the matter might be.

“You’re sure you didn’t take it with you?” Geneviève was asking, but Jean-Jean was adamant.

“I tell you I left it in the armoire right beside the other one. And now it’s gone!”

That Saturday morning did not begin well. The colonel, usually affable, was in a foul mood. He was there already when Dubon arrived at eight, working at his desk, and when he heard his clerk enter he got up and pointedly shut his office door. About half an hour later, he stuck his head out and called for Captain Gingras, who had not arrived yet. When Dubon informed him of this, he swore, muttered under his breath about lack of discipline, and asked that Gingras be sent to him immediately upon his arrival. When Gingras did arrive at nine, Dubon sent him in. Gingras left the door to the colonel’s office partly open, and Dubon could hear the senior officer harshly asking his underling where the papers might be.

“Pages seem to be missing, Captain. This can’t be all there is. I came in early Saturday morning to get a bit of quiet to work on the file, and I find it contains nothing more than these!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where do you think the rest of it might be, Captain?” His tone now sounded sarcastic.

“It’s really the major’s file, sir. I haven’t had much occasion to use it. Perhaps you should ask the major.”

“So, all this is the major’s problem, is it? Well, he isn’t here this morning, so that’s convenient.”

“He doesn’t usually come in on Saturday morning, Colonel.”

“No, I am aware of that, Captain Gingras.”

“Perhaps if you consult the log,” suggested Gingras, who sounded uncharacteristically subdued.

“I
have
consulted the log. The last date I could find was two years ago. Do you think these papers have been missing for two years?”

“I really don’t know, Colonel. It’s always possible that pages, well, that pages got mixed in with other files. I have known that to happen.”

At this, the colonel shouted for Dubon and informed him he would need files.

Dubon entered the office, saluted sharply and replied, “Yes, Colonel. Which files?”

The Colonel pulled a ledger toward him; it was similar to the one Dubon had found on top of the filing cabinets by his desk, and apparently served the same purpose, for the colonel produced a string of dates covering almost three years.

“November 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16, 1894, and December 3 through 8. Write that down. Goodness, man, do you not have a pencil on you?”

“Ah no, Colonel, er … yes, Colonel …” Dubon ran back to his desk, grabbed pencil and paper, and starting jotting down the long list of dates Picquart read out to him. The file the colonel was looking up in his log had been used practically every day in the fall of 1894.

“Look up in your log all the files that were used on those dates, and pull them out and bring them to me. Now.”

“Colonel.” Dubon saluted, since Picquart’s tone seemed to demand it, and returned to his desk. He was standing at the filing cabinets pulling the ledger toward him when Gingras left Picquart’s office, closing the door behind him.

“Get to it, Dubon,” he hissed as he walked by.

“I don’t really understand what we are doing,” Dubon confessed. “Why are there two logs? What are we cross-checking?”

Gingras laughed. “You don’t think we keep our files out here in
the front office just hidden away behind
Elephant
and
Hippopotamus
, do you? My code is just a lark, really. These are only the intelligence files, and you’ll have to forgive us a little joke at the expense of your service, Captain.”

“My service?”

“The intelligence service.”

Dubon still wasn’t following, but Gingras continued.

“Maybe we feel the rivalry more acutely than you fellows over at headquarters. These are the intelligence files from the rue Saint-Dominique, or at least those files that the intelligence branch sees fit to share with us. To be honest, we don’t take this stuff too seriously. We’re in the business of counterintelligence, Dubon.”

“Of course, of course.” Dubon tried to sound jovially aware of the rivalry between the two sections. “Thought we were all working for the same nation. My mistake.”

“And the counterintelligence files are locked up in the colonel’s office,” Gingras went on. “Nobody signs them out without his permission.”

“So he is looking up dates in a counterintelligence log and …” Dubon’s voice trailed off, and he waited for Gingras to fill in the blanks.

“He has got a file on his desk that he believes may be missing pages. The dates he has given you are dates that his log, the
counterintelligence
log, shows that the file was used. Look up those same dates in your log, the
intelligence
log,” he said, mockingly stressing the words, “and pull the files that were used on the same dates. Maybe we’ll find the missing pages were tucked into the wrong file … or maybe not.”

“You don’t think we’ll find them?”

“He’s got the Dreyfus file on his desk. It was always, in my opinion, a bit slim. But don’t ever tell anyone I said so, especially the major.”

And with those cryptic remarks, Gingras saluted jauntily and returned to his office, leaving Dubon with the same kind of jittery feeling in his stomach that he got when he suspected he was holding a winning hand in bridge. He had finally figured out where the section kept the Dreyfus file.

Trying to suppress his excitement, he sat down with the intelligence log, dutifully looking up the dates the colonel had given him and
jotting down the files that had been used those days. They had been in heavy use in those weeks in 1894. After a quarter hour’s work, he had a list of about fifty files, which he began to pull from the cabinets and accumulate in cumbersome piles. In the space of another quarter hour, his desk was covered, and he had pulled only half the list. To clear some space, he walked down the hall to the colonel’s office with a first load.

“Ah, Dubon. Well, that’s not too bad,” he said, looking at Dubon’s armload.

“This is only about a quarter, Colonel,” Dubon said, and stood there waiting for instructions. “There are more on my desk, and I haven’t finished pulling all the ones that were used on those dates.”

The colonel, whose desk was already littered with stacks, sighed deeply. “Only a quarter? I’ve only just started on the counterintelligence files; there must have been several hundred used during those weeks. Paper. We drown in it, Dubon. You join the army to fight battles and win wars, and instead you find yourself stuck at a desk.” He sighed again, looking at the heap in front of him. “I suppose you were hoping to leave in time for a nice Saturday lunch, eh, Dubon?” he asked.

“Yes, Colonel,” Dubon said.

“Me too. You’re going to have to help me search. I haven’t seen your orders, but obviously you are at least cleared for your own intelligence files.” He looked up, waiting for confirmation.

Dubon grasped for the right response.

“Yes, Colonel,” he said as blandly as he could manage. “Clearance for the intelligence section’s classified documents.”

“Right. Take those back to your desk and start on them. Once you’ve gone through all of them, you can refile them and go home.”

“What am I looking for, Colonel?” Dubon asked.

“Bit of a sensitive file here. It seems to be missing documents. It’s the file on the Dreyfus case—the spy, you know. You’re looking for any documents relevant to the case or that bear his name. Not the court-martial transcripts or the official exhibits from the trial. I’ve got those. But I have another file of extra evidence. That is what seems to be missing paper. So just see if you spot anything that got tucked into the intelligence files by mistake.”