Authors: Brian Moore
‘I am not quite sure, sir. We are almost certain that he is under the protection of an “
intégriste
” group of clerics in Nice.’
‘You are not quite sure,’ the old man said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The Commissaire hopes to hear from him tomorrow morning at the latest. In the past, he has always informed the Commissaire at once, when he changes his address.’
‘The past is no criterion for judging how he will act tomorrow,’ the old man said. ‘He must be frightened. Or perhaps that is not the right word. He is a cunning criminal, with a criminal’s sense of danger, as he has proven clearly in the past two weeks. Now, I have two questions for you, Inspector. The first question is: Have you dealt directly with Brossard? Does he know you by sight?’
‘Yes, sir. I worked with him in the days when you yourself were in the
préfecture
. Because of his past, he was trusted by right-wing groups in the days of the OAS. We used him as a paid informer.’
‘The Algerian years were a long time ago. Have you, personally, kept in touch with him since then?’
‘Yes, sir. I talked to him, in person, some five years ago.’
‘Then he knows you. Good. He would not see you as a possible assassin.’
And, at once, Pochon knew why he had been brought here.
‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’ Rosa said.
‘In a little while,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be in, in a little while.’
It was after eleven. He knew there was no point in his waiting up for Brossard any longer. He’ll never call this late at night. But where
is
he? Surely he knows that I’ve heard it on the news?
And then, at eleven-twenty, the phone did ring. He ran out into the hall to get it. It was Paris, again. He listened carefully.
‘No, I haven’t heard from him yet,’ he said. ‘He’ll call, but I don’t think it will be tonight. I’ll ring the priory in Nice first thing in the morning. He’s got to be there. Where can I reach you in the morning?’
‘They have me booked on a flight that gets into Nice at ten. That’s the earliest flight. All they said was, it’s up to you and me to finish it. By tomorrow night, if possible. Shit! Why me?’
‘You have no choice,’ he said. ‘They’re right, of course. He knows you. He’ll not run away from you. But first we’ll have to think how to get him out of that priory.’
‘If he’s there.’
‘He must be there,’ the Commissaire said. ‘Wait. I have an idea. The last time I spoke to him he asked if I could get him a passport. If I reach him tomorrow, I’ll tell him you’re going to arrange it for him. That way we can set up a meeting between the two of you. When do you land in Nice?’
‘The flight’s due in at ten.’
‘Call me then.’
The lamp, lit for so many hours over Colonel Roux’s writing table, now cast its yellow beam against a new cold light cutting into the room in long strips through the half-opened shutters. The worn leather trunk sat at his feet and, on his left, methodically stacked, were fifteen children’s exercise books, and a dozen folders, filled with copies of letters, newspaper clippings, official forms, most of them yellowing and stiff with age. Several of the folders contained typewritten copies of letters written over a thirty-year period by the indefatigable Monsignor Le Moyne, letters of exquisite courtesy, filled with sycophantic phrases, devout injunctions and elaborate salutations, letters to the President of the Republic, to ministers of state, to the former Cardinal Primate of France, to the Secretary of State of the Vatican, to the Auxiliary Archbishop of Paris, to
juges d’instruction
, to prefects of police, to criminal lawyers, to former Resistance workers, to mothers superior of a dozen convents, to abbots of great monastic orders and to humble country priests.
Almost forty years of pleadings, of legal manoeuvrings, of delays and disappointments, from the early years when the subject of these letters was an unknown and unimportant wartime collaborator who, his supporters insisted, had suffered and atoned for his sins and now deserved to be forgiven for reasons of Christian charity and national reconciliation, a steadily persistent campaign which led to the triumph of a presidential pardon in 1971 and, one year later, because of the publicity given by
Le Monde
to that pardon, to a sudden interest in his case and the grave shock of a new charge of a crime against humanity, a charge that escalated and magnified the manoeuvres, the pleadings, the level of debate. The man who owned this trunk had not only kept copies of all letters and newspaper clippings relating to the affair, but had, in children’s exercise books, listed names and addresses of important religious and civil figures, the location of convents and abbeys throughout France. In a separate book, Roux found the names of certain abbeys set out, twelve or more to a page, accompanied by tiny hieroglyphics which, towards morning, he began to study, hoping to break their code. He was weary and confused for his reading had begun that evening, the moment he boarded the plane from Nice to Paris, and continued after a hurried supper with Claire. Now, in the grey light of dawn, despite the urgency of his task, he felt he must admit defeat. In this labyrinth of paper, there was no biography, no clear record of Brossard’s movements, no hint of why so many influential religious and lay figures had devoted so much time and effort to protect this criminal hiding from his fate.
And then, as he stared dully at the last entries in the exercise book that contained the lists of abbeys and priories, he noticed, among the tiny notations, the letters CSM and, beside them, a stroke accompanied by a single letter. The letters varied M/ J/ J/ A/. Suddenly, he turned back to the previous page and saw ten addresses of abbeys and convents, marked each with the letters CSM and then a single letter. CSM. Chevaliers de Ste Marie. The payments! And the single letters could denote the month of payment. Again he turned back. The abbeys on an earlier page were listed in slightly different order, initialled for different months. But, for the most part, the places were the same. He turned back again and found a similar list of abbeys on the page before that. Again the order had been changed and the months of visitation, if that was what these letters meant, changed from year to year. Suddenly excited, he turned to the latest entries. This page had not been completed. The letters CSM had not been filled in beside the names of the last two religious establishments. The penultimate entry was the Prieuré St Christophe. The monthly initial had been filled in. It was M. Today was May the 10th. The last entry was Prieuré de la Fraternité Sacerdotale de St Donat. There were no CSM initials, no monthly initial.
Roux looked at his watch. It was 6 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the operations room of the gendarmerie.
When Rosa Vionnet woke at 7 a.m., Henri was not in the bed. She knew at once that it had to do with last night’s phone call. When she went downstairs to make breakfast, he was sitting out on the porch, staring into the car-park of the big Leclerc supermarket opposite. He did not look at her, or speak.
‘Have you had your coffee?’
He did not answer. She went into the kitchen and turned on the gas. As she did, she heard him push his chair back and go into the parlour. He picked up the phone then replaced it on its cradle, without using it. He went back out on to the porch.
When she brought him his coffee and a
tartine
he spoke for the first time. ‘Go up to the bedroom and wait till I call you. I have to use the phone.’
That probably meant he was going to call Paris. He never wanted her to hear his Paris calls. He told people that he was retired, but she knew he still worked for the
préfecture
. Sometimes he took calls from an Inspector Pochon. And talked to Pochon as if he was still Monsieur Le Commissaire and Pochon worked for him.
Anyway, she told herself, it’s none of my business. But I don’t like him getting upset. His blood pressure, those pills he takes, it’s a worry for me. After all, he’s seventy-five years old.
In the parlour, the Commissaire picked up the telephone and dialled the Nice number. Monks rose early.
‘Prieuré St Donat, good morning.’
‘Good morning, Father. I know this is early and I know it’s unusual, but I am a friend of a guest who may be staying with you. A Monsieur Pouliot.’
‘I am sorry. We do not have any guest staying with us at present.’
‘But you know Monsieur Pouliot? Monsieur Pierre Pouliot. It’s very important that I reach him. My name is Saussaies. Henri Saussaies. He told me he would be coming to visit you at this time. So, if he does turn up, would you tell him to telephone me at once. It’s urgent. He has my number.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but we are not expecting anyone and I’m afraid we don’t know anyone by that name.’
‘Well, thank you anyway, Father. And if, by any chance, he does turn up?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. Thank you. Good day.’
Of course they are not going to tell me he’s there, or admit they know him. But Monsieur Saussaies. If they tell him that name, he’ll know.
The priests of the Fraternité St Donat ate all of their meals in silence. The refectory was a bare whitewashed room furnished with two rough tables and benches and a Romanesque crucifix that dominated the main wall. The kitchen monks brought in a large basket filled with thick chunks of
gros pain
bread baked that night in the priory ovens. The coffee was bitter as chicory and served in soup bowls. It was, he knew, a penance to stay more than a week or two in this retreat, for Dom Olivier, as part of his crusade against the venality and false doctrines of the modern Church, had established here an almost medieval routine of prayer and mortification, humble food and strict adherence to the old religious rules of fasting and abstinence.
He looked around him. No one spoke. He reached for and began to eat one of the hunks of bread, but his dentures could not manage to bite through the crust. He saw Dom Olivier enter the refectory and take a seat at the head of the table, bowing his head to say a long private grace. When the Prior had finished he raised his head, looked down to where his visitor sat and pointed his index finger in his direction, in a sign which might be interpreted as some sort of warning, but was, more likely, a silent salutation.
Newspapers, other than those religious tracts published in Econe, were not available in the priory, nor was there any television. He would have to go outside to learn what the press said about yesterday’s shooting. He planned to do that before ringing the Commissaire. The coffee was not only bitter, it was tepid. He put down his bowl and ostentatiously made the sign of the cross, to show that he had finished, a tactful gesture in a religious house such as this one. But when he rose to leave the table, Dom Olivier again caught his eye and again raised his hand. He’s signalling me that he wants to see me. He nodded obediently to Dom Olivier then went outside into the hallway and stood waiting before a painting of St Sébastien, transfixed by arrows.
A few minutes later Dom Olivier came out of the refectory, walking with the too-certain step of the half blind. He nodded, indicating that he was to be followed, and led the way along the hallway and into a small parlour used as a waiting room when visitors came to speak to one of the resident priests. Then, surprisingly, from the deep lap pocket of his robe, Dom Olivier produced a newspaper.
‘I did not want to alarm you, Pierre. Poor man, you have troubles enough. But have you seen this story?’ He looked at the paper,
Nice Matin
, Front Page:
mysterious murder in villefranche
armed canadian shot dead in bar
Leaflet found on body – link to Brossard Affair
He moved quickly to the text of the leaflet, which was printed in full in the newspaper report. The same message as in Salon. So I didn’t make a mistake. I killed the killer.
But as he read, he was aware that Dom Olivier was watching him. He looked up at the Prior. ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Who
was
this man?’
‘A Canadian passport was found on the body,’ Dom Olivier said. He pulled a chair out from under the parlour table and sat down as though exhausted. A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. ‘Do you believe in the Devil, Pierre?’
What is he talking about?
‘The Devil, Father Prior?’
Dom Olivier produced a large red cotton handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘Pierre, one of the reasons we have lost the true path is because the Devil, more than at any other time in history, has managed to conceal his ways and works. The people have forgotten that the Evil One exists. And, alas, the Church, the Papal Church, has not seen fit to remind them of his existence. If, indeed, the Papal Church
believes
that the Devil still exists. I am not sure of that, as I am not sure of anything in connection with present-day Rome. But the Devil is behind this attempt to kill you. Do you not see that?’
‘The Devil, Father Prior?’
‘Yes, the Devil, Pierre. We know, and we have always known, that the Jews do not have the interests of France at heart and that they are still willing to sow dissension and feelings of guilt and blame, more than forty years after the German Occupation. I see that lust for vengeance as inspired by the Devil. Don’t you?’