Mister Memory

  Yet Cavard knows it is his best bet. So he has not only briefed his three inspectors, he has briefed them to take the utmost care that they in turn are not being watched. Only to make contact when they know they can safely do so. Further, Cavard himself is practising the same care; he believes he will catch Delorme out, sooner or later. He already has the photograph that Petit gave him that day by the bridge, and he could take it to the Minister of the Interior right now or, better yet, he could take it to the press. But something tells him that there is more to play for, and that he should not show his hand too soon. And in the meantime, Cavard must keep Després alive in that cell, and do anything he can to stall his trial.

  So yes, placing a gardien of his own choosing in the commissariat to ‘help’ watch Després was a risk, but one he knows he can defer slightly – he has let it be known that it was the Commissaire’s decision. Nothing to do with the Chef of the Sûreté.

  So a kind of stalemate endures for a week or so.

  Cavard hears that a date has been set for Marcel’s initial hearing, in three days’ time, otherwise all is quiet. A thought occurs to him. Before, when Marcel was accused of the murder of his wife for adultery in their own home, his punishment would have been much less severe. The most he would have received would have been a short prison term, possibly with labour, but in either case, one that could have been commuted for good behaviour in a few years. Now that he is charged with the rape and murder of someone other than his wife, and without the ‘excusing’ factor of adultery, the sentence will be very different: it could mean the guillotine, though more likely transportation to the penal colony of Devil’s Island, the ‘dry’ guillotine. For death there is almost as inevitable as with the falling blade, if without the same quantity of flowing blood.

  And so the stalemate would have continued when, one day, Cavard receives a communication from beyond the grave.

  DR MOREL

  Sunday, 10 December. The city freezes. Ice has encased the river with a tight grip, and here and there skaters take their chances, as they do also on the lakes of the Bois de Boulogne. Along the boulevards, wooden stalls have been set up and brought Christmas with them; from the outlying quarters families have come to gaze at colourful presents and toys for sale, drink hot wine and eat chestnuts, hot from the brazier.

  At every street corner, itinerant musicians play their music and sing songs, and are joined by the rough crowds that gather round; these are not songs for the drawing room but they are popular and bring cheer to everyone.

  Down the Rue de Rivoli, Chef René Cavard spends some rare time with his family. His wife has her hand tucked behind his arm; their three children skip on ahead and hurry back when they get too far away, then start again, for they are eager to see what is for sale, and Christmas is not so very far off.

  Madame Cavard leans her head against her husband’s shoulder and smiles, watching her two girls and their little boy all in a good mood for once, and René seeming as calm and happy as he has in a long while.

  Cavard is far from quiet inside, however. Yes, if he stopped to notice, he would see that on the outside he seems less irritable than has been usual the last few years, but that is only because he has found something that is giving him purpose and direction. Only now does he realise what he has been missing. So he is happy to play the contented husband, and at this moment, it is more than play. He is content. But he is not unwatchful, and even as they stroll along the street, Cavard keeps an eye out for Delorme’s men. Just because it is Sunday does not mean they will take the day off, but Cavard has seen no one who he really suspects of being a policeman, and no one seems to be following them, except that for the last fifteen minutes he has noticed an old man shuffling along not far away. He has stopped when they stop and moved on again when they have. He could be a beggar, waiting for the right moment to stretch out his palm, but he is well dressed. He moves with a strange, shuffling walk, with his feet turned out, and on three occasions he has made eye contact with Cavard, with pale, watery eyes.

  Cavard stops looking at him.

  ‘Justine,’ he says to his wife, ‘will you see to the children for a moment?’

  Madame Cavard frowns. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Far from it, but Christmas is coming. For everyone, not just for the children.’

  Justine Cavard laughs, and smiles, and walks on ahead to the children, telling René as she goes not to spend too much on her.

  Cavard stops walking, and turns. As he expected, he finds the old man at his side immediately.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Cavard?’ says Dr Morel, and when Cavard nods, the old man holds out his hand.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ he says.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I have been following you. I was told where you lived; I followed you here by cab.’

  Cavard looks up and down the street. Justine is looking at toys with the children, but really, this place is too public. He nods at a café in the arches that line the north side of the Rue de Rivoli.

  ‘Meet me there in ten minutes,’ he says, without looking again at the old man.

  Dr Morel does as he is told. Even he has now understood the need for caution. He was very careful to check that he was not followed out to Cavard’s house, and he told the cab driver to keep his distance as they made their way back into the city this morning.

  He finds a table for two in the café, which since it is so cold outside is very busy, and sits facing the door, waiting for the policeman to return.

  When Cavard does, he is in a very different mood.

  They are interrupted briefly as a waiter comes with Morel’s coffee and takes Cavard’s order.

  The waiter gone, Cavard takes control, speaking quietly, but in as relaxed a fashion as he can muster.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Dr Lucien Morel. I am—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Cavard says. ‘Forgive my interruption, but I don’t have long. I do not wish to keep any more secrets from my wife than I have to. I presume this has to do with the case of Marcel Després?’

  Morel nods. ‘I have something for you,’ he says, and from inside the depths of his large woollen overcoat he pulls out a large envelope. ‘I received this almost a week ago. I confess I was afraid to know what to do, when you read it you will see why, but then I decided . . .’

  Cavard is no longer listening. As casually as he can, he opens the lip of the envelope and peers inside. He slides out a letter, folded in half, and sees that there is a collection of photographs as well. Even the most cursory glance shows him that the pictures are better left alone for now.

  He reads the letter instead.

  My dear Dr Morel,

  You will have to forgive me, but I do not know who to turn to. You and I have each concerned ourselves with the case of Marcel Després, and though we started from different positions, I think we have moved closer to each other in our appreciation of the man in your care. I am sending this to you because I do not know whom I can trust within the police, even within the Sûreté. I ask that you hold on to these photographs, and this letter, until I return to collect them from your care, but if I do not, if you have not heard from me in any way by the 5th of December, then we will have to take our chances. I am not certain whom to trust because I know there are enemies within the Sûreté offices, but if you take this envelope to the top, it will prove one of two things. If nothing happens, we will know that Cavard belongs to the enemy camp. Or perhaps he is a good man, in which case you will soon know . . .

  At this point, Cavard looks up sharply at the old doctor, who stares back at him expectantly, with a mixture of confusion and hope on his face. His eyes water, and he dabs at them with a handkerchief. He says nothing, and Cavard keeps on reading.

  I am about to escort the two persons of whom I spoke to you from Lyon back to Paris. This has been arranged by the chef here, Guérin, with Cavard directly; he is sending men to meet me in
Dijon. This in itself has given me hope that we can trust Cavard, and gives me the courage to urge you, if I do not return to Paris, to go to him yourself and show him the enclosed photographs. The girl is the supposedly dead wife of Marcel Després. Cavard will know who the man is, even if you do not recognise him yourself from likenesses in the press.

  You must give these to Cavard, the photographs and this letter, for they are proof that I have stumbled across some hideous business that the man in the pictures will do anything to conceal. He has had Marcel declared insane in an effort to prevent his case coming to court, for that might well lead to an investigation that would prove more than awkward. I do not know exactly what these facts are, as yet, but I suspect they are something more than the lurid scene in the pictures, though that alone is probably enough to have him removed from office. Tell Cavard these photographs were in the possession of the ‘dead’ woman. They are dangerous. Now that Ondine is found, it is my task to make sure she, and I, reach Paris alive.

  I’ve written Cavard’s home address on the back of this letter. Do not go and find him at the Quai des Orfèvres – you must find him at home. And if I do not return, and you are forced to act on this letter, then you will know that you must take extreme care, at all times.

  Yours in good faith,

  Laurent Petit, Inspector de la Sûreté

  Cavard reads the last lines over again, and then, carefully, slides the top photograph a short way out of the envelope. What he sees makes him nearly gasp out loud, and he slides the picture back hurriedly. There is Delorme, once again, clearer in this photograph.

  ‘Well,’ says the old doctor, but not as a question. It is a statement of the fact that Petit played his last cards, and now, so has Morel. Everything therefore depends on Cavard now.

  ‘Well,’ says Cavard. ‘So you knew my inspector?’

  Morel nods. ‘An impetuous young man, but I liked him well enough. Does this really mean . . . ?’

  ‘Inspector Petit was killed in an incident on the train returning from Lyon. So was the woman of whom he spoke. This now only leaves Marcel Després for the man concerned to take care of.’

  ‘Who is this man? I didn’t recognise him. I do not read the newspapers so very much.’

  ‘Maybe it’s better that you don’t know,’ says Cavard, but Morel shrugs.

  ‘I suspect innocence is not going to help me now, should danger come.’

  Cavard sighs, and hangs his head. ‘Delorme,’ he whispers.

  The doctor blinks, twice, forcing water from his eyes, which he dabs away.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘There are the dossiers,’ Cavard says, more to himself than to Morel. He is thinking things through. ‘The dossiers blancs – we hold a file on everyone in the Sûreté archives, and when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Every public figure, every politician, every Chef of the Sûreté itself. Even the Prefect. If there are any rumours about him at all, that’s the place to start. I have to go. My wife . . .’

  Cavard makes to stand up, then, before he is even halfway out of his seat, sits down again, acting unconcerned.

  ‘Maybe I will finish my coffee first,’ he says, looking over Morel’s shoulder.

  The old doctor is not a trained policeman. He sees Cavard’s gaze and cannot help but turn to see a table on the other side of the room, where three men catch his eye, then look away. They are all in their thirties, and all three look as if they were built for action and movement.

  ‘How long have they been there?’ Cavard whispers into his cup.

  ‘They came in when you were reading the letter,’ Morel says.

  ‘And you didn’t think to warn me?’

  ‘I am not a policeman, sir, I do not know the rules.’

  There is a silence for a long while, during which Cavard sneaks another look across the room.

  ‘Delorme’s men, no doubt,’ says Cavard.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Morel says, making Cavard look up at him, despite his best sense.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They were speaking Russian. There was a lull in the conversation in the room. I heard them speaking Russian, just for a moment. I presume the Prefect doesn’t employ Russians in the Paris police?’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Morel thinks of Miskov, and of the experiment with Marcel and the dictionary. For a moment he almost mentions that there were Russians calling at the hospital, claiming to be relatives of Marcel’s, but he is not a policeman, and he does not think that it is relevant.

  ‘Quite sure,’ he says. ‘Who are they?’

  Cavard doesn’t reply at first. He cannot help but take one more look across the room before he answers.

  ‘Okhrana, I suspect. Tsarist secret service.’

  Morel’s eyebrows rise. ‘Here? In Paris?’

  ‘There are many things of which the people of this city are unaware,’ Cavard says, smiling. ‘The presence of the Tsar’s agents is just one of those things.’

  ‘But why are they tolerated? Why are they not stopped? Removed?’

  ‘Stopped from what?’ Cavard says. ‘Their presence here is tolerated for very good reasons. They can be useful. At times.’

  And at other times, Cavard thinks, they can be difficult customers. He himself has had little to do with them, but there are some stories that make his hair stand on end.

  ‘And their presence here today only proves what we have been discussing. There is something bigger going on here than the private perversions of powerful men, which I do not believe are enough to bring Delorme to kill. Not because he’s above that sort of thing, but because it’s messy, can lead to all sorts of other problems. No, I think Petit was right. There’s something bigger in his past, something he fears Ondine knew, and who knows what she told Marcel . . . ?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So now I must go or it will be my wife who I am afraid of.’

  He stands, and places his hat on his head.

  ‘But . . .’ begins Morel, with a wild look of panic in his eyes.

  ‘You will be fine. It is broad daylight. Wait fifteen minutes. If they are still here, pay and leave as normal. Take a cab straight back home. You live at the hospital? Very good. See your guard is doubled on every gate. Good day.’

  Cavard leaves, realising he should have added one more thing.

  Thank you, Doctor, he thinks. Thank you.

  There is one more matter for him to think about now. The Russians. Were they really Okhrana men? Or just tourists, who by chance happened to find the conversation of an old man and an overweight policeman very interesting?

  Cavard knows the truth. It’s time to move a little faster. It’s Sunday, but he can send Justine home in a cab, and he can get into the archives with no one seeing him apart from the weekend watchmen, who will defer to his rank. He is convinced the answer lies in Delorme’s dossier blanc. Cavard knows he must hurry, for Monday morning will bring Després’s initial hearing, and after that, time will be very short indeed.

  He dispatches his wife and children back to safety, and then finds a quiet street corner to look through all the photographs. As he does, he is horrified to see well-known faces in the pictures. Among them, quite undeniably, is the Minister of the Interior.

  MAY AMONG THE VINES

  It is May 1884. Marcel walks down from the road, cutting through the vineyards to take a more direct route to the village. He has been to Montmort-Lucy to speak to the ironmonger about some work for his father. He left early, when a frost was still biting the ground. Now it’s midday, and though it’s early in the spring, the sun is strong and the vines are dripping with dew, their leaves steaming as the sun moves overhead and catches them. There is nothing more fresh on the whole of the earth, thinks Marcel. The vines show the very first sign of their fruit: tiny green dots the size of pinheads that will become heavy clusters of grapes by the early autumn. He has seen it many times, but still it delights him. How things grow. He is seventeen years old.


  As he walks, he thinks. He counts every time he has walked down between the rows of vines like this, and is over a hundred before he loses interest and remembers that he is supposed to stop at the boulangerie and collect bread before coming home. His mother is unwell, a rare occurrence, and has not gone to work, though it is a Saturday. Somewhere out in the endless vineyards, sounds of people working drift over to him.

  Something white flutters at the corner of his vision and he turns his head as he keeps walking. There is someone in the row next to him, though he cannot see who it is; just a pair of bare feet and the bottom of a white skirt. He can guess from the way she moves and from the design of her dress that it is Ginette, and he guesses that she knows he is there, for he realises that she has been keeping pace with him.

  The row of vines end, and they step out, on the edge of the vineyard, at the edge of the village, on the border between the two, and meet.

  ‘Hello, Marcel,’ says Ginette. ‘I thought that was you walking there.’

  Marcel nods. ‘Hello, Ginette,’ he says. He looks down at her feet. ‘You don’t have any shoes on.’

  ‘The soil is so cool and wet. And the vine leaves are wet, too. You know?’

  She shifts on her feet, and her cheeks are tinged with pink.

  Marcel says nothing, because he doesn’t know what to say. He remembers the boulanger will be closing soon. He looks at Ginette again.