A Man in Uniform (34 page)

Arranging the sheet on the desk in the path of what light was coming through the window was simple enough; remembering how to unfold the tripod was another matter, and it took several minutes of fussing before Dubon had it in place. He mounted the camera on it and tried to calm himself enough to remember what the photographer had said about apertures and exposure times—one let more light in, the other less, or something like that. He settled on a combination and depressed the shutter, and then made a second attempt with a longer exposure, before he realized he had not even loaded film into the camera.

He got one of the metal plates out of the case, slipped it into the camera as the photographer had shown him and began again, remembering now to reload film each time he depressed the shutter. In the end, he tried every combination of apertures and exposure times he
could think of and, finally, he pulled out the flash. It was the last thing he would attempt. The windows in the building across the street were at the same level and he did not want to draw attention to himself with a burst of light. Certainly, the flash Dubon had seen the police photographer use was startling in its intensity.

Dubon pulled a small packet out of the suitcase and ripped it open with his teeth. He placed the trough on the desk and poured the powder into it, careful not to spill a grain. The photographer had warned him that once he had lit the powder, he had about one second before the flash would erupt. He had to be ready for it and depress the shutter in time. To make the job easier, the photographer had given him a cord that attached to the camera so that you didn’t have to lean over it to depress the shutter.

Dubon tested the pose: left hand with the trough of powder held aloft; right hand with the shutter cord. He put the trough back down on the desk and let the cord dangle while he readied his light. He lit the powder, grabbed the cord, and raised the trough above the desk just as the flash went off. Stunned, he missed his opportunity altogether; by the time he was ready to press the shutter button, the flash was over.

He would try again, but first he had to get rid of the used powder. He needed a bag—or an envelope. He opened the middle drawer of Picquart’s desk. It was empty, save for some paper clips. He tried the other drawers and found them bare but for a few scraps of paper. The colonel had cleaned things out. Dubon returned to his own desk, pulled out a document envelope, and returned to Picquart’s office. He disposed of the powder and then opened a new packet to fill the trough again. This time, he was ready for the flash and managed to depress the shutter just as it illuminated the room.

There was a third packet of powder in the suitcase, and he used that, too, before he set about cleaning up. He wasn’t sure how to get some spilled powder off the floor and finally resorted to licking his finger, daubing at it and then wiping his finger off on his handkerchief. Inevitably, he tasted some of the stuff; it had a bitter, metallic flavor. Probably deadly poisonous, Dubon thought to himself as he put his envelope of used powder away in the suitcase. Now that he had made his best efforts to photograph the bordereau and still had several
unexposed film cases left, he could not pass up the opportunity to photograph the secret file too. It would not do the captain much good if it were published as it was; indeed, with Rivaud’s improvements it was incriminating, but photographs of it might help him prove its very existence. He turned back to the top drawer of the filing cabinet but couldn’t see the file. He hunted through the entire top drawer, file by file, and then turned to the other drawers, but couldn’t find anything.

Perhaps Picquart had removed the secret file on orders. Perhaps it was now in Henry’s possession. At any rate, it was gone.

Just as he started to pack the camera back into the photographer’s suitcase, he heard the sound of the front door opening. Panicking, Dubon threw the tripod into the suitcase. Without bothering to strap anything down or lock the case, he tucked it under his arm and bolted down the corridor beyond Picquart’s office, slipping into the first door he came to. He was back inside the darkroom and would have laughed at the irony of it if his heart had not been pounding in his chest.

“Is someone there?”

It was Major Henry. He had heard the darkroom door close. Dubon paused, holding his breath in the dark and hoping Henry would assume it was just a door banging by itself and give up. But the major seemed to know where he had heard the sound, for a moment later he knocked on the darkroom door.

“Is someone in there?”

“It’s Captain Dubon, Major. Don’t open the door!”

“Why not?”

“I am … I am developing film, Major,” said Dubon, improvising madly. “You’ll expose it if you open the door.”

“Film of what?”

“Well. Well, of, of documents, of course, Major.”

“What documents? You’re photographing documents?”

“Yes, Major. That’s my job, Major. Standard procedure on the rue Saint-Dominique. Photograph every new document that comes in. I thought before I leave the section, I had better finish up all the recent stuff and develop the film for you.”

There was a pause. “I see,” said the major. “You have photographed all the files that have come in during the month you have been here, is that right?”

“Yes, Major. Just finishing up. May take me a bit to do the developing, though. Have to work in the dark, you know.” Surely, he would not stand outside the door forever.

“Don’t bother with the developing, Captain. Just leave the film with me. The next fellow can do it. I’ll take care of it.”

I bet you will, thought Dubon.

“Very well,” he answered. “I’ll just have to slip them all back into their covers. May take me a few moments here. There are a fair number. Don’t want to inadvertently expose anything.”

There was a pause. Dubon could hear the major’s heavy breathing through the door.

“Is this going to take long, Captain?” he asked after a few minutes. “I do have some other business to attend to.”

“You have to appreciate, Major, the work must be done entirely in the dark. Perhaps if you have work you need to do, you can give me a few moments here, and I’ll come and get you when it’s safe to turn the light on.”

“Very well. Come and see me as soon as you are done.”

Dubon waited until the footsteps had retreated and turned on the light. He took his last four unused metal cases out of the suitcase and put them in a pile before rifling through the drawers of the darkroom and scrounging up another dozen cases, as well as a leather pouch of a similar size. He thought about the situation for a moment and then snapped off the light. He reached his hand into the pouch to pull out a thin stack of film before carefully closing it again. Then he turned the light back on and started quickly loading a piece of film into each metal case. All the film would be exposed, worthless and foggy if anyone tried to develop it, but at least Dubon would not be presenting Henry with empty cases. He suspected that Henry would open each one to the light anyway, destroying every image in case any of them included his handiwork.

Dubon put the plates on the countertop, packed up the suitcase, and listened carefully for any sound of Henry. As quietly as he could,
he opened the door to the darkroom and, taking his precious suitcase with him, slipped into the water closet next door. His arms were full and grasping the door handle was awkward. He missed it, and the door made a
smack
as it swung shut.

Dubon heard rapid footsteps coming down the corridor.

The door was yanked open and the major stood there full of aggression.

“Just what exactly, Dubon, is your business?”

“Just the usual business, Major,” Dubon replied as calmly as he could, buttoning up his fly and leaning over to pull the toilet chain. “I’ll get you those plates. Be careful with them, won’t you? No light, right?” He slipped by the major’s bulk before the man had time to ask more questions and opened the darkroom door again.

“Here you go. That’s the lot. Three weeks’ work.”

“Good. Thank you, Captain.”

“Thank you, Major. May I say what an honor it has been to work for you. I regret having to leave so soon. I do hope they send you—”

“Yes, yes, Captain. Off you go.”

The major saw him out the front door and watched as he started down the stairs.

“Good-bye, Major.”

“Good day to you, Captain.”

Out on the street, Dubon did not wait. The major had come in the front door, but if for any reason he chose to leave through the water closet, Dubon was sunk. He hurried into the café and slunk past the barman and out the back door. From the ground, he could see the
photographer’s suitcase was still where he had left it, perched up on the fire escape outside the water closet door. He climbed the iron staircase as swiftly and silently as he could, reclaimed the case, and descended. Carrying his suitcase, he left the café as rapidly as he had arrived, glad to be gone. For good or for ill, he was done. His brief career as Captain François Dubon, temporary file clerk in the Statistical Section of the Administrative Bureau of the French Army, had now come to an end.

He made his way toward the river and gratefully hailed a passing hansom as he got to the bridge. Less than an hour later, he was inside
La Presse
’s darkroom.

“Uh … uh … uh … uh …” The photographer uttered a little series of encouraging sounds as though teasing images out of the pans of chemicals.

Looking over his shoulder, Dubon, his nerves finally settling, could barely contain himself. “Did I get it? Can you see it?”

“Ahh … there we go … yes, yes, looks nice and sharp. Congratulations, Monsieur Dubon. Perhaps you should consider a new career.”

Dubon leaned forward eagerly to see the image appearing. “It doesn’t look like much. Are you sure it’s clear?”

“Just wait until we’ve fixed it and can turn the light on,” the photographer replied. “Then we’ll see what we’ve got.”

Dubon was alone with him in the darkroom because Le Goff had no desire to be seen coming in and out of
La Presse
’s offices any more than necessary. Assuming he had the goods, Dubon was to meet Le Goff at his own office by three.

The photographer transferred the photo to another bath and after a few minutes announced, “You can turn on the light.”

Dubon found the switch and the orange glow of the darkroom light was replaced with the full power of a regular electric bulb.

“Damn.” The photographer prodded the image with a pair of tongs.

“What is it?”

“Did you use the tripod?”

“Yes, yes. I used the tripod. What is it?”

“It’s fuzzy. Something must have moved. I didn’t notice it on the
negative, it’s so subtle. It’s much worse at the bottom than at the top. Maybe there were air currents in the room wafting the paper. Or vibration? Any trains nearby?”

“Don’t think so. There’s construction on the quay. Is it usable?”

The photographer squinted at the image. “You are trying to identify the hand, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, the first few lines are clear, so you have a good sample of the handwriting, but you can’t read the bottom half. Monsieur Martin will have to talk to the boys upstairs, I guess.”

“Monsieur Martin?”

“Our correspondent.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Dubon said, realizing he was referring to Le Goff’s nom de plume.

“I wonder if there isn’t anything better here,” said the photographer, going back to the parade of negatives that hung on a washing line farther down the room. He got out a little magnifying glass, like a jeweler’s glass, and peered at them one by one. Earlier, when Dubon had looked at them he found it impossible to read these images in which dark was light and light was dark, but he was beginning to understand the process.

“Ah yes, you’ve done it. Good man,” the photographer said.

“What is it?”

“The ones you took with the flash. There are two images here; your shutter speed was so much faster, it didn’t have time to register whatever it was that was vibrating the paper. Let’s give these a try.”