A Man in Uniform (25 page)

“Why would you bother destroying the original? Why not just pass the original to the Germans?”

“It made no sense to me, and the rest is just character assassination by superior officers who happened to dislike him.”

“And who put this secret file together?”

“A Major Henry,” Dubon said. “Authoritarian and plodding. Very loyal to the higher-ups.”

“I’ve heard of him: he was the hero who provided evidence at the court martial.”

“Yes, he swore they had the right man.”

“But does he believe that?” Le Goff asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The Statistical Section fingers Dreyfus; Dreyfus goes to court martial and Henry helpfully puts together this extra file of evidence. Because he believes they have the real culprit and he wants to secure a conviction? Or because he knows he has fingered the wrong culprit and wants to hide his section’s incompetence?”

“Dreyfus was a convenient scapegoat,” Dubon agreed. “But as to whether they knowingly framed an innocent man …”

“Ah, falls into one of my two categories. Venal or stupid …”

“Venal or stupid?”

“Yes, covers most of the foul-ups in life. Is the perpetrator venal or merely stupid? Never underestimate the stupidity of the military, Dubon. I speak from personal experience. The Statistical Section wasn’t smart enough to find the real spy so they picked someone who fit the broad description and happened to be unpopular, and they handed him over.”

“Certainly if somebody was framing him, you would expect them to do a better job.”

“And yet, however flimsy, the evidence was enough to secure a conviction,” Le Goff mused. “Who does Henry report to?”

“Colonel Picquart. But he’s new. Indeed, I suspect Major Henry feels he was passed over for the promotion.”

“Probably working on his own initiative, then.”

“Why do you say that?” Dubon asked.

“If someone had ordered him to compile that file or swear at the court martial that Dreyfus was guilty, he would have got his reward, not been left where he was. So, maybe the higher-ups don’t realize how flimsy his evidence was. What is Picquart’s attitude? He has a good reputation.”

“Probably deserved,” Dubon replied. “He’s reviewing the evidence and he isn’t impressed. He’s called Henry into his office several times.”

“And where did Henry get his evidence in the first place?”

Dubon explained about Madame Bastian and the wastepaper baskets.

“Those stupid Germans!” Le Goff guffawed.

“Apart from the cleaning lady, Henry seems to have various unsavory contacts,” Dubon continued. “Scruffy characters who come and go from his office. I suspect they sell him information.”

“There is a veritable network of these so-called spies,” Le Goff explained. “Pretty low level; I wouldn’t know how much to trust them. They’d lie and fabricate stuff if they thought they could sell it. Occasionally, they offer it to the newspapers; nobody with any professional integrity would print it.”

“Integrity among journalists? Didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Ha ha. Still, Henry’s spies might know something. They would be able to tell us whether or not they believe in the case against the captain.”

“Should I try to talk to one? My man has the address of one of these characters.”

“No harm in it. You could start by asking him how many colleagues he has whose names begin with D.”

Dubon looked at his watch. It was past seven.

“I must be going,” he said, glancing about for the waiter.

“But we haven’t talked about my story yet. My editors are getting
impatient. I’d like to give them a piece about the secret file—that would certainly get people’s attention. Can you give me more details about the documents? You did actually see them?”

Dubon drew back in some alarm. The last thing he wanted right now was somebody hunting around for a leak in the Statistical Section.

“You’ll have to wait, Le Goff. Just wait a bit. I need more information from my contact before we risk exposing him. Maybe we could meet again Saturday afternoon?”

“No, tomorrow evening. If I’m going to make Saturday’s paper, I need Friday to write it up. And I warn you I’ll be trying to get the existence of the secret file confirmed by other sources in the meantime.”

Dubon was late for dinner—again. He found Geneviève eating a solitary meal at the dining room table.

“I held dinner half an hour,” she said coldly as he seated himself.

“I’m very sorry, my dear. Very sorry. Where’s André?”

“He is at Pierre’s house working on his recitation.” She continued eating without looking up, and Luc appeared beside him with a plate.

Dubon put a fork in the food and found it was cold. Clearly, his household was united in its disapproval of his tardiness.

“Luc,” he called out before his servant could leave the room. “My apologies for my lateness. I know it inconveniences the kitchen. This, however, is cold.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Luc said impassively as he took back the plate.

“It’s work,” he said to Geneviève as soon as Luc had left, “and my work covers Luc’s salary and just about everything else around here.” It was a harsh reminder, but Dubon felt his authority slipping.

“Well, you
say
you are working—”

“I
am
working, very hard as a matter of fact.”

“That’s not what Madame de la Roche says. I met her at my sister’s
this afternoon and she complained that you are not attending to her business.”

Dubon scowled. Madame de la Roche was a client of long-standing, a young widow engaged in a lengthy dispute over the division of her late husband’s estate with his children from a previous marriage. She had left a message the week before, though Dubon had already advised her she was unlikely to get any more money.

“I will make time to see her next week,” he said.

“One hardly wants to discuss one’s husband’s business at a party,” Geneviève continued. “It was already most embarrassing that she brought it up, and then the baron piped in with some remark about how I should advise you to attend to your knitting.”

“Masson was there?” Dubon asked in surprise. “His career must really be suffering if he has time to take afternoon tea with the ladies.”

“It wasn’t afternoon tea. I told you we were going to my sister’s to hear that young pianist. She wanted the baron’s opinion. He has serious cultural interests, you know.”

Geneviève glared at him, from which he concluded she did not consider his cultural interests sufficiently serious.

“I did say I would go to that art show with you. And I read novels …” he replied to her unspoken criticism.

“I never suggested you were illiterate.”

They sat in silence until Luc returned with the food, which looked as though it had been baked onto its plate. Dubon pushed aside some dry-looking beef with his fork and tried piercing a potato croquette; it released a little funnel of steam.

Geneviève waited until the servant had withdrawn and then asked in a more conciliatory tone, “What is this case you are working on?”

He could hardly tell her the details, let alone where he was spending his days.

“You wouldn’t be interested. Let’s talk about something else.”

“No, I am interested. I’m always interested in your work.”

This was not, Dubon knew, particularly true but perhaps he kept too many secrets from her. She was his wife; if he couldn’t trust her, whom could he trust?

“You know the case that has been in the papers recently, that man who was accused of spying. We were talking about it at lunch Sunday.”

“That Jew?”

“That’s right. I have been approached by a client who is interested in proving his innocence. I am doing some preliminary research into the court martial to see if it can be appealed.”

Geneviève looked stunned. “But you can’t do that.”

“Why not?” He hadn’t expected her to like the idea of his taking on such a file, but he hadn’t expected blanket condemnation either.

“You can’t appeal a court martial. That’s not your area. You can’t just change the kind of law you practice.”

“Well, I am not a litigator, but there is no rule that says I can’t undertake some preliminary investigation for a client. If I found evidence—and, I have to say, I am finding some evidence—”

She interrupted him. “François, you have got to drop it. You have to stop.”

“Really, my dear, I can take on what cases I see fit.” Dubon was starting to feel aggrieved.

“Not this case. What would our friends say? What would my family think? You haven’t made any effort to help the Fiteaus, but you can take on—”

“Dreyfus is innocent, Geneviève.”

“François, the man is a spy. The newspapers say so. The baron has told you he is guilty. He said so at dinner the other night. You can’t defend a traitor. Do you think the Fiteaus or Madame de la Roche, or the baron, for that matter, would ever come through that door again”—at this she gestured toward the front hall—“if they knew you had taken on a traitor to France as a client?”

“Calm yourself, Geneviève. Everyone has a right to a lawyer.”

“He
had
a lawyer and he was found guilty and that’s the end of it. We don’t need to go poking about in something that doesn’t concern us.”

She paused and then started up again, her tone sounding less angry and more worried now. “Is the client offering you a lot of money? Is that what this is about? I noticed you still haven’t paid the couturier for
my new dress. The bill is sitting on the hall table. Can’t you find some other case that would pay well?”

For a moment, Dubon saw in her uncharacteristically troubled face the young woman he had married, the convent girl half terrified by her own rebellious streak. The naive enthusiasms that had once so charmed him had now given way to mere stubbornness and her idealism had evaporated. He loved her in his way; he provided for her; he supposed he had also promised to protect her—he must have said something to that effect in their wedding vows, but she never seemed to require much protection these days. Suddenly she looked vulnerable and he realized that, for all her snobbery, she was as fearful for their security as for anything else.

“My dear …” he said tenderly. She looked at him with some puzzlement, waiting for reassurance. “I am not taking the case for the money. I have no idea when or how much the client might pay.”

“Then why are you taking it? You are all riled up about it. It’s unsettling the household.”

“When you met me I did work like this—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, François,” she said, her anxiety swiftly giving way to exasperation. “That was years ago. You aren’t a teenager playing at revolution anymore. I will not tolerate you gambling with our social position. You are to give this case up. Drop the client. I insist.”

She scraped back her chair and left the room.

He slept the night on the divan in his library and awoke the next morning feeling anxious, and then heartsick as the memory of Geneviève’s reaction the previous evening came back to him. In the adjacent bathroom, he washed and shaved as quietly as he could. Once dressed, he tiptoed to the dining room, where breakfast was waiting. Luc had noticed Dubon’s early departures and now made sure the coffee was ready and some bread was on the table as soon as it was delivered to the kitchen, often still warm from the baker’s oven. Dubon had actually started to savor these early meals; they were the only moments in the day when he did not have a knot of fear in his stomach.

But now he had come under attack at home. Geneviève might be
wrong about the captain’s guilt, but she was right about one thing: this wasn’t his kind of law. He was sticking his nose into business where he had no place, and he could all too easily be exposed. And what would Geneviève do if she discovered just how deeply he had become embroiled? He was not merely risking his career with this escapade but also his marriage.

When he arrived at the Statistical Section just after eight, the front door was unlocked but no one seemed to be about. He sidled up to the door of Picquart’s office. He needed to get his hands on the secret file somehow, just long enough to make a copy for the widow, and then he could happily return to his former life.