A Man in Uniform (33 page)

“The safe light?”

“The amber light. When you are working with the film, I mean loading the plates or developing it, you have to work in total darkness.
When you are making prints you can use the safe light, because the paper doesn’t read that amber light.”

“Ah,” said Dubon. That explained the odd orange light in the Statistical Section darkroom. “What did you do before you had electricity?” he asked, indicating the gas nipple that had not been removed from the wall.

“Oh, we muddled through in the dark or used a candle. The old glass plates were much less sensitive so you could let a bit of light in under the door in those days. So, what’s your subject?” he asked.

“A document.”

“Ah, well, that’s easy, then—it’s stationary. What’s the light like?”

“Depends a bit on tomorrow’s weather, I suppose.”

“You are photographing a document outdoors?”

“Oh no. In an office, but there’s a window with good light.”

“Be careful about that. If you shoot looking toward the window, the sunlight will overwhelm the image. Stand with your back to it, so its light is cast on to your subject. But look out for shadows. Our eyes tend not to read shadows; we know to ignore them. The camera, on the other hand, reproduces them faithfully. You’ll probably have better luck if it’s overcast; the light will be consistent. I’d try a few shots without the flash, and a few with.”

“The flash?”

The photographer produced a metal trough of the type that Dubon had seen the police officer use to take the pictures of Rivaud’s body and began to explain how the powder was lit. Dubon didn’t like the idea; the flash of light might alert someone outside to his presence, and the trough seemed cumbersome.

“Do I have to use it?”

“Well, not if you’ve got a tripod; then the camera is so steady you can risk a long exposure. In fact, if you are shooting a document, that’s probably your best route.”

The photographer produced his tripod; Dubon paused when he saw the size of the thing. How was he going to be able to sneak all this equipment into the Statistical Section the following day without someone noticing? But the photographer also produced a leather suitcase; inside, it was cleverly outfitted with a series of straps to anchor the
camera, the flash, and the tripod, which collapsed down to a quarter of its full height. It wasn’t a bad size. If anyone asked, he could say he was on his way to visit a cousin in the country right after work.

No one was about when he arrived at the Statistical Section and slipped the heavy case under his desk. Peeking down the corridor, Dubon saw that the doors to both Gingras’s and Hermann’s offices were open, and he sat there in an agony of uncertainty, wondering whether he could risk going into Picquart’s office, shutting the door, and getting to work. He was still debating the wisdom of this move when Major Henry pushed through the front door and marched past Dubon’s desk on his way into the colonel’s office.

Dubon sprang to his feet and offered a salute. “I wasn’t expecting you this morning, Major.”

“Just thought I would pop in and sort a few things out now that the colonel has gone,” Henry said as he passed.

About ten minutes later he called for Gingras and questioned him about various files. The conversation seemed of little consequence, but Gingras kept repeating “Yes, Major,” in a tone so obsequious that Dubon was surprised Henry had not found him guilty of insubordination.

A few minutes after Gingras left, Henry called in Hermann for the same kind of talk, before finally summoning Dubon. The major was sitting behind his desk with his beefy arms stretched across its width and a satisfied expression on his face. He tapped the fingers of each hand lightly on the desk surface as though he were exploring the boundaries of his new territory. He had come in that morning only for the pleasure of feeling his new authority, Dubon realized.

“I am told you are leaving us, Captain.”

“Regrettably so, Major. Recalled to headquarters on Monday.”

“They need you in intelligence, do they? Got some hot work they need to set you on right away?”

“Apparently so, Major.”

“The colonel tells me I have to do all the bloody paperwork again, is that right? Ask for a replacement for you?”

“Yes, Major. The rue Saint-Dominique requires an entirely new request for a temporary clerk.”

“Perhaps they will even send us a permanent clerk this time.”

“Yes, Major. I have done my best to understand the operation, but you really need a permanent person who you can spend some time training.”

Henry bristled. “Are you suggesting we didn’t train you, Captain?”

“Not at all, Major. You and the colonel were most helpful.”

Henry peered at him as though he detected sarcasm.

“We shouldn’t have that much trouble replacing you,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Major.” Dubon saluted and left the room.

The major left the office a short time later, having spent less than an hour there. As soon as he was gone, Gingras emerged and said exactly what Dubon had been thinking.

“So, the major just popped in to remind us all that he is now boss before he goes home to a good lunch. What happened to the colonel, do you figure, Dubon? You were getting very chummy with him. Did he tell you what was going on at headquarters?”

“Only that he was needed for some special mission in Algeria.”

Gingras snorted. “Special mission in Algeria. How convenient these colonial enterprises are. I suspect that the colonel has been asking awkward questions about the Dreyfus file, and nobody on the rue Saint-Dominique wants to hear them. The captain was found guilty and he’s going to stay that way.”

“But what if he isn’t guilty? What if he didn’t do it?” Dubon asked.

“That’s dangerous talk, Dubon. It has become increasingly important that he remain guilty. France’s honor demands it.” Gingras said these last words with some note of irony. “The major understands that. He will protect the Statistical Section. He will protect the military and he will protect France.”

“And who will protect us from the real spy?” Dubon asked.

“I don’t know but I’ll tell you one thing; if there is another spy, he
will be dealt with a lot more quietly than the captain was. The higher-ups can’t stand the way this has got into the press. I don’t know if you have been reading
Le Figaro
or
Le Soleil
lately …”

Gingras was in one of his talkative moods and now seemed prepared to spend the rest of the morning gossiping. Unusually, the taciturn Hermann emerged from his office too and joined them, listening intently as Gingras speculated on the reasons for Picquart’s sudden removal. There was something of a holiday atmosphere in the absence of both the colonel and the major, and Gingras grew increasingly boisterous, offering more and more outlandish suggestions.

“I hear the Socialists have hooked up with the captain’s family,” he said, as Dubon wondered if he was trying to goad Hermann into some kind of response. “Maybe Picquart is in their camp and was leaking information to them to launch an appeal.”

“No,” Hermann replied in a disapproving tone. “The colonel would never do that.”

“How do you know, Hermann? I mean, it’s clear he doesn’t believe in Dreyfus’s guilt anymore.”

“The evidence at the court martial was conclusive,” Hermann replied quietly but emphatically. “Dreyfus is guilty. Speculation otherwise is unwise.”

“Conclusive! Don’t you read the papers, Hermann? They are full of speculation. Did you read
La Presse—
”

“It’s all just talk,” Hermann interrupted him, showing an uncharacteristic bit of choler. “It will pass. The dogs bark but the caravan moves on.”

The old proverb echoed in Dubon’s ears. It was the same one Masson had used.
The dogs bark and the caravan passes
. And the same argument, for that matter. Masson had said Dreyfus was guilty; the evidence was definitive. This would all blow over. He had repeated it at the art gallery on Sunday. How could Masson be so sure? And how could a low-level officer like Hermann, who reported only to Picquart, know anything about it at all? Just how far did this shadowy world of counterintelligence extend?

Dubon had to get into Picquart’s office, photograph the bordereau and get out of this hall of mirrors. Gingras was still prattling. Would
he never stop? Eventually, although it was not yet eleven, Gingras suggested he’d lock up and the three of them would go for lunch. Hermann begged off, as did Dubon. Since nobody had seen his suitcase under his desk, he now invented a demanding wife waiting with his Saturday dinner.

“All right. On my own, I guess,” said Gingras. “I’ll go over to the mess on the rue Saint-Dominique and see if I can scare up some better company.” He laughed and tossed the keys to the section’s front door up in the air and caught them again.

Dubon felt his stomach turning with anxiety; Gingras was about to usher them all out of the office. As the three men moved toward the front door, his gastrointestinal distress provided inspiration and, clutching at his stomach, he said, “I just have to go to the
WC
before we leave.” He hurried down the corridor.

Out of sight of both Gingras and Hermann, he passed the darkroom and opened the door of the
WC
. He picked up the wooden ruler that was sitting in the same place beneath the sink and slid it into the panel that he had opened before. The outside door sprang open and Dubon looked back around the small room. There was nothing on the washstand that might help, but behind the radiator he noticed a short plank of wood, probably used as a doorstop. He pulled it out and jammed it in place. The door held. He left the water closet and hurried down the corridor to rejoin Gingras and Hermann, his stomach troubles forgotten.

Hermann looked at him oddly. “I told you never to use that closet,” he said under his breath, as Gingras led them out the door.

It took Dubon another half an hour to get rid of Gingras, who insisted it was not yet lunchtime and the two could surely share a good-bye drink in the café next door to the section before Dubon had to get home to his wife.

Inside the café, Dubon found himself in a quandary. He was sitting exactly where he needed to be to make his next move—to the toilets at the back of the establishment and then out into the alley and back into the Statistical Section through the door he had propped open. But he couldn’t go until Gingras did, and the man seemed to have no inclination to leave. Finally, Dubon pulled out his watch and made noises preparatory to departure, saying he hoped he and Gingras would cross paths again.

“Sure to,” said Gingras. “Surprised I didn’t know you already. I know most of the other fellows in intelligence.”

“I have to run. Saturday lunch. Sacrosanct, you know.”

“I’ll come with you. Which direction are you walking?”

Dubon indicated his usual path toward the quai d’Orsay, knowing it was the opposite direction from the one Gingras would take to reach
the rue Saint-Dominique mess, and after they had paid the bill and emerged on the street, with great relief he parted company from his sometime colleague.

Dubon walked slowly up the rue de Bellechasse, away from the rue Saint-Dominique and toward the river, looking back occasionally to see if Gingras was still in sight. When the other man finally disappeared from view, Dubon retraced his steps to the café, and as the barman looked up at him, waved a vague hand toward the toilets, indicating he had forgotten to relieve himself. There was no one in the back corridor of the café, and he slipped easily out into the alleyway. At the top of the fire escape, his doorstop was still in place; he pushed open the door, kicked the plank of wood ahead of him, and stepped back into the
WC
. He closed the panel behind him and then pushed the real door open, sticking his head out into the corridor before he moved forward. There was no sound of anyone about. Dubon took a deep breath to steady himself and walked firmly down the corridor to his desk. He pulled out the leather suitcase, carried it into Picquart’s office, and shut the door.

Picquart had always pulled the captain’s files from the first drawer in his filing cabinet. Dubon tried the drawer, praying Henry had not already discovered it and locked it, but it was open, and Dubon found what he was looking for soon enough: the document in which an officer offered his correspondent various military documents.