The Statement (3 page)

The Commissaire seemed irritated. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’ve just left Salon, sir.’

There was a pause. Then: ‘I’m just about to have dinner. Well, all right. I could see you for a few minutes at, say, nine o’clock.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Nine o’clock meant driving in the dark. Shit! I must find a room somewhere close to his place, some tourist motel. I can use my Pouliot identity card if they ask to see one. They won’t. They don’t check on you nowadays, the way they used to. Still, staying in a hotel is never wise.

He arrived in Avignon shortly after seven. It was still light. He drove first to the Avenue Delambre, passing the Commissaire’s modest pink stucco villa, one street away from a big Leclerc supermarket in an anonymous suburb, just outside the medieval walls of the city. He had last been there, when? Eight years ago? In the street next to the supermarket he saw what he wanted, a motel on the edge of a roundabout. He went in and reserved a room. They did not ask him to fill up a form. He left a suitcase in the room then drove back up the Avenue Delambre. In the Leclerc supermarket there was a snack bar. He ordered
saucisses
,
frites
and a beer. He would have preferred the
steak-pommes frites
, the special of the day, but his dental bridge was loose again. It was endless the trouble his teeth had given him, not only in pain and discomfort, but also because he had to be careful about dental records. If you have no official identity you get no health benefits. It was only in the past few years, through the good offices of Dom Adelbert at Montélimar, that he had been at last getting proper dental treatment.

In the snack bar when he picked up his plate of food, he chose, as usual, to sit with his back to the passersby. Halfway through the meal, he felt sick and felt that he was going to throw up. It had been too much for one day. Not only the Jew and the excitement but then the other bad news. If I’d not gone in to see the Abbot this afternoon, would he have told me about this new ecclesiastical inquiry? Maybe not. Because now, no doubt about it, I’m an embarrassment, even to those who know true right from wrong. With this inquiry starting, more doors will close. Cardinal Delavigne is part of the post-war Church, Gaullist, resistant, reformist. And no one can stop him, he’s the Primat des Gaules.

The Commissaire would expect him to be on time. He left the meal half eaten, got into the car and drove along Avenue Delambre. He parked one street away from Number 129. It was already dark. He waited until his watch said nine, exactly nine, then got out, locked the car and walked up the little pathway that led to the front door. A dog began to bark. He was afraid of dogs. He looked around, hoping the dog was shut up inside.

When he rang the doorbell, someone called out to the dog. The barking stopped. The door was opened by Madame Vionnet. He saw that she did not remember him. Nor would he have known her, this white-haired old woman in running shoes and a purple track suit, she who had once sat behind a desk in the Commissaire’s private office, twisting her long legs into a lock, showing the tops of her stockings, smiling like a whore.

‘I have an appointment,’ he said. ‘Monsieur Pierre.’

There was no sign of the dog. It must be in the back of the house. When he entered the hall, he had to squeeze past some twenty cardboard cartons of wine, stacked almost to the ceiling. He saw the trademark on the boxes: Caves des Saussaies. Côtes du Ventoux. What did a top Parisian
flic
do in his years of retirement? The Commissaire had bought a small vineyard near Vaison la Romaine. The joke was in the trademark. Rue des Saussaies. Where they beat the shit out of me.

The whitehaired woman showed him into a small front parlour, also encumbered by cartons of wine. The dog barked again and he heard the Commissaire’s voice. ‘Balzar!’ The barking stopped. The Commissaire came into the parlour, picking his teeth with a wooden toothpick. He had aged in these past seven years. In his green cardigan and blue corduroys, his skin weathered by the sun and burned to a dark reddish colour, his fingernails black as a peasant’s, he could well be the humble winegrower of this latest deception. Only his eyes remained unchanged. They did not blink.

‘You were in Salon? Did you receive your envelope?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Something wrong, then?’

By his tone of voice, the Commissaire made it clear that this visit was not welcome.

‘Yes,’ he said. He had rehearsed his story in the car as he drove up tonight and now he told it succinctly. When he had finished, he took out the assassin’s passport and the sheet of paper. The Commissaire, who had been standing until then, gestured to him to sit, and sat himself, switching on a table lamp to examine the passport.

‘It seems genuine,’ he said. ‘But I’ll keep it and make a proper check. You’re a lucky man. You might have been at the bottom of that ravine this evening.’

‘Not lucky, sir. I first spotted him yesterday afternoon when I came out of a patisserie.’

The Commissaire put the passport into the hip pocket of his overalls. ‘So, what do you make of this, Monsieur Pierre?’

He knew that when the Commmissaire addressed him as Monsieur, he intended no politeness. The title was a code name. The Commissaire’s tone was contemptuous.

‘That’s what worries me, sir. Whoever this group is, they knew I would be in Salon. They knew I would be in the Montana. They may even have known that I was waiting to pick up that envelope. What do
you
make of it, sir?’

‘I don’t know this group,’ the Commissaire said. ‘They’re not the usual. They may be a Jewish student group, or relatives of the Dombey people. I’ll look into it.’

‘But how would they know about the envelope? No one knows that, not even my friends in the Church.’

The Commissaire discarded his toothpick, placing it delicately in an ashtray. ‘By the way, you were staying at St  Cros, were you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you told them you were leaving this evening. Did you tell them what happened?’

‘No.’

‘Good. This is something that shouldn’t be talked of outside this room.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So, what are your plans now? Where will you stay?’

‘I think, Aix, sir.’

‘You
think
?’

‘I’m sorry. It was just a manner of speaking. I’m going to spend a couple of weeks in the Prieuré St  Christophe, outside Aix.’

‘You are expected?’

‘No, but I’m always welcome there. The Prior is a friend of the Chevaliers.’

‘Write down the address. And the telephone number, if you have it.’

The Commissaire took a ruled exercise book from a drawer in a side table. ‘The Chevaliers,’ he said. ‘Good. From now on, as you know, you’ll have to be doubly careful. You’re losing friends.’

‘I know.’

‘And after Aix?’

‘I’ll move on to Villefranche, sir. And then to Nice. There, I have no doubt of my welcome.’

‘Friends of the ex-Archbishop of Dakar?’

‘Yes, sir.’

At that moment, Madame Vionnet put her head around the door. ‘Did you want coffee, Henri?’

‘In a moment,’ the Commissaire said. ‘My guest is leaving now.’

He stood up. Monsieur Pierre stood also. The Commissaire led him out into the crowded hallway. Monsieur Pierre pointed to the wine cartons.

‘How was the
vendanges
, sir?’

‘Good. Bit crowded in here at the moment. I’m shipping these cases out tomorrow.’

‘Caves des Saussaies,’ Monsieur Pierre said and smiled. ‘I remember.’

The Commissaire opened the front door and turned his unblinking eyes on his visitor. ‘Of course you do. You did a lot of singing there.’

Monsieur Pierre did not answer.

‘Good-night,’ the Commissaire said.

‘Good-night, sir.’

As the Commissaire closed him out into the darkness he looked back and saw Madame Vionnet at the window of the front parlour, pulling down the blind. He waved to her. She gave him a small polite wave in return. Her name is Rosa. Does she remember me? Was that why she asked about the coffee?

He had kissed her once. In that selfsame Rue des Saussaies. It was on the day she told him that he could go and that no one would interfere. The Commissaire and his two assistants were out to lunch. A police orderly had brought him from his cell, delivering him to the Commissaire’s office for a further interrogation. The orderly then, surprisingly, left him alone in the office with the Commissaire’s sexy secretary, she who later became Madame Vionnet. She had taken dictation at some of the previous interrogations. He had heard the
flics
call her Rosa. Rosa it was who told him the Commissaire was out to lunch, then settled back at her desk, locking her long legs in a sexy pose, smiling at him, rearranging a small bowl of flowers on her desk. He had been arrested six weeks earlier. Denis, who had been arrested some days before him, had given him to the police. They had come for him, finding him in a maid’s room in the Rue Monge, folding and unfolding counterfeit banknotes to make them seem used.

‘Condemned to death
in absentia
, former Chief of the Second Section in Marseille, you know what’s going to happen,’ Commissaire Vionnet had said. ‘You’ll be transferred back to Marseille and, about three months from now, you’ll be taken out and shot. Well, what else can you expect? That’s the way things are today.’

What choice did he have? First they beat the shit out of you. Then the announcement about Marseille. And then the question, ‘Tell me. What do you know about the clergy’s political activities at present?’ He had to tell them something and it had to add up. He had named names, some of those who had hidden him, some who belonged to the MAC. But Commissaire Vionnet wanted more.

‘Abbé Feren, you knew him?’

‘Of course. He was the almoner of the
milice
.’

‘But after the Liberation, when he went into hiding you met him, didn’t you? He hid you?’

He had to say yes. It sounded as if they had arrested the Abbé. They had been looking for him ever since his condemnation
in absentia
.

The Commissaire was blunt. ‘It will be a great help for your case if you can tell us where we might find him.’

Of course it was a sin to tell, it was a sin he would never forgive himself for committing. He wasn’t sure where the Abbé was, but he made a guess. It pleased the Commissaire. It was an accurate guess. The Abbé was arrested a week later in Sanary. He was sentenced to seven years. Of course, seven years was only seven years. He was supposed to be living in Italy now.

Yes, there was no doubt about it: the police found him a co-operative witness. Commissaire Vionnet was pleased, more than pleased. Other questions came up. Discreetly. Only when he and the Commissaire were alone. A question about deportation orders signed by someone very high up in the
préfecture
in Paris. Orders he had helped to carry out. He had told the truth. What had he to lose?

The Commmissaire said nothing. He offered no hope. But his manner changed. And then, two days before he was due to be transferred to Marseille, he was brought up from his cell and taken to the Commissaire’s office at an hour when everyone was out to lunch. Left alone with the Commissaire’s secretary, who called him a
beau mec
and locked her legs in that sexy way. Smiling, showing her bare thighs. She winked at him. She opened a drawer and took out a belt and a pair of shoelaces, things they took away from you when they brought you in. ‘Fix yourself, so you won’t look like a prisoner.’ He got the point. When he had laced up his shoes she told him, ‘Wave to the guards. You’re going to lunch. Now, give me a kiss goodbye.’

She wanted to be kissed, so he had kissed her. He walked out of the office, along the corridor, down the staircase and out into the yard, passing the guard house, taking care to wave to the guards, as she had told him. He was wearing a clean shirt, a belt around his trousers and there were laces in his shoes. He looked like an employee. And then, a moment later, he was walking down the Avenue Marigny, a free man. And what did he do? He went straight into the nearest church and, on his knees, thanked God for his deliverance. God had helped him once again. God who loved him, who understood him, who protected him from his enemies.

It was dark outside. The street lamps were not working properly. Nothing worked properly any more. What could you expect? A country full of foreigners, ignorant
beurs
shacked up in slum bidonvilles on the edges of every city, filthy
noirs
fed and cared for by our government while honest French people can’t find work.

He drove back to the motel. It was only when he had undressed and knelt to say his prayers that he remembered. Now that his enemies had found him in the Bar Montana, he could not pick up his envelope in Salon when his next payment came due. He should have asked the Commissaire about that. Still, the next payment was two months away. Plenty of time to find out. He made the sign of the cross, closed his eyes and again thanked God for His protection. God had not wanted him to die today. God had warned him, had given the gun into his hands. It was self-defence, but still he had, once again, taken life. A Jew could not go to heaven. He remembered a discussion with Monsignor Le Moyne, his confessor. The Monsignor advised him that it was a Christian action to give money for a mass for the dead Jews of Dombey. He did not understand the Monsignor’s point of view. But still . . . a mass had been said on his behalf. Monsignor Le Moyne was a saint, of course. But practical. It was he who decided: ‘Yours is a special case. The State has taken away your right to live a normal life. It has forced you to become a fugitive. It has judged you without hearing a word in your defence. As I see it, you have been obliged to do some of the things that you have done.’