Impure Blood (42 page)

‘Or this lady? Corinne Delage is her name.’

She repeated the performance.

‘No. As I said, no one at all has contacted me about… that period. Until now.’

Darac and Frankie shared a look. The news was a crushing disappointment.

‘Have you seen either of them in any other context?’

She obliged them by looking once more.

‘Not the young man.’ She handed it back. ‘Nor… Madame Delage, I think you said her name was. As far as I know, that is.’

Darac kept his eyes on hers.

‘Would you be surprised to hear that as an infant, the person in the photo you’re holding was known as Olivie Djourescu?’

Madame Laseige’s skin turned to parchment.

‘Water, madame?’

Without waiting for a reply, Frankie hurried into the kitchen.

‘No. No. It can’t be Olivie.’ The old lady’s hands closed around the arms of her chair like bird’s feet on a perch. ‘It can’t.’

‘Take your time, madame.’

She took a deep breath.

‘It’s not possible. It’s not!’

‘Not possible because they took her – the Nazis? Along with her parents?’

It was as if movie clips had begun to play in Madame Laseige’s head, scenes from a hellish past.

Frankie returned with a cup of water.

‘Take a sip, madame.’

Holding the cup to her lips with one hand, she felt the old lady’s pulse with the other. A look told Darac to be careful. He nodded. But they had only so much time.

‘I can see this is terribly difficult for you, madame, and I wouldn’t press you if time weren’t so short. The lives of two people might be saved
today
if we can leave here with a better picture of what happened back in 1943. So please, answer our questions if you can.’

Madame Laseige took another sip of water. Gaining some strength, she let go of Frankie’s hand and picked up the flyer.

‘This is Olivie, you say?’ Her forehead was crazed in doubt. ‘No. How?’

‘I assure you that it is. She escaped from the train that took her and her parents to Drancy.’

‘Escaped?’

Her damp eyes wide, she turned to Frankie.

‘It’s true, madame. Olivie was saved.’

‘She…
survived
?’ Overwhelmed with the joy of it, she looked more closely at the image. ‘I can see it
could
be her, I suppose, but…’ She blew her nose. And then smiling more freely than before, she shook her head. ‘Oh, I wish Albert were here. This would have made him so happy. After all this time, to learn that both children got away. It’s wonderful. May I keep the photograph?’

‘Of course.’ Frankie jetted Darac a look. ‘
Both
children?’

‘Yes – what other child was there, madame?’

The question seemed to restore something in her.

‘Ah. You don’t know.’

‘No, we don’t.’ Darac’s hopes began to reform. ‘Tell us.’

Frankie rejoined him on the sofa as Madame took a long, slow sip of water. When she began to speak, her words had the quality of a rehearsed monologue, one she hadn’t delivered in a long time.

‘There were two women in our block who were pregnant that summer – Elena, who already had Olivie, and Louise, who at that point was childless. Elena was spirited, earthy. Lovers by the string, I shouldn’t wonder. Not that I ever saw any of them. I rather liked her. Louise was altogether plainer. Quieter. Very determined though, in her own way. And rather clever. The two of them had been on no more than cordial terms before the pregnancies but being due to deliver within a short while of each other, they inevitably became a little closer. Not confidantes, I don’t think, but sharing that time can draw the strangest people together.’ In some distant echo of the phenomenon, she turned to Frankie and smiled. ‘Do you have children, my dear?’

‘No.’ She kept her gaze level. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, no. Please go on.’

There had been a further dimension to the trauma Frankie had gone through at the meeting? Darac had always assumed that she had simply not wanted children. Now it was absolutely clear to him that it was a source of pain to her that she didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t have them. His heart went out to her; but his head had to go back to Madame Laseige.

‘Our apartments were all on the top floor. I wasn’t particularly close to either of them but as a young mother myself, I was there as a sort of midwife’s help when Louise gave birth. It hadn’t been a difficult pregnancy but something went wrong towards the end and the baby came early. He was stillborn. Just a matter of hours later, Elena gave birth to a healthy little boy. I wasn’t present at that.’

Darac and Frankie shared a look. In the report Flaco had read, it was Elena Djourescu whose baby had been born prematurely and had died.

‘And… then.’ Madame Laseige stiffened. ‘Vehicles braking hard in the street outside. Doors slamming. Hammering. Shouting. I will never forget the look on Adam Djourescu’s face as he ran past me on the landing, heading for Louise and Marcel’s apartment. He was carrying his newborn son in his arms, a little squirming bundle of life. The soldiers got into the building. They went to the stairs immediately. They knew where they were going. The sound of boots getting ever closer. Before they swarmed on to the top landing, Adam ran past me heading back to his own apartment. He was still carrying a bundle.’ Tears welled and spilled. ‘But this one wasn’t squirming…’

Frankie drew her hand to her mouth.

‘…And then they took them – the soldiers. To the trains. We never saw the Djourescus again.’

It was only as her monologue ended that Madame Laseige realised she had been clutching the picture of the grown-up Olivie to her chest. She held on for a moment longer, then with a flicker of a smile, set the flyer down next to her.

Darac stirred uncomfortably in his seat.

‘I’m afraid I need to make sure we’ve got this right, madame. The Djourescus exchanged their live baby son for Louise’s stillborn one?’

‘They did, the poor, poor things. And it worked, as it were. As far as the records showed, Elena had given birth to a stillborn son; Louise, a healthy baby boy.’

Darac nodded as if he were gathering routine information.

‘And that baby grew up to be called?’

‘Jean. Jean Florian.’

‘Jean Florian. I see.’

He gave Frankie a look. She picked up the baton.

‘Louise Florian went on to bear a son who did live, did she not?’

‘Indeed she did. But there was a lot of heartache in between. It must have been seven… eight years later that Emil came along.’

‘You gave Emil’s name a slight emphasis, there. Do I infer…?’

‘Emil was indulged. Spoiled rotten, in fact.’ She gave a sad shake of the head. ‘When I think of how they came by little Jean. And what a lovely boy he became – cheerful, full of life. But sweet also. Always helpful, always happy to run errands.’ She smiled. ‘I can see him now tearing off on his bike. But after Emil came along, he may as well have never existed as far as the Florians were concerned. He was their own, of course. A biological child.’

‘He was neither loving nor sweet – Emil?’

‘Oh, he seemed it. He could act it. But he was the sort of boy who enjoyed pulling the wings off butterflies when he thought no one was looking. Clever but cowardly. It was his parents’ fault – they ruined him.’

‘What become of Jean?’

‘I’m sure he realised even as a youngster that he wasn’t wanted. And of course, it changed him. In retrospect, one sees it as a classic progression. There was naughtiness at first. And then more extreme forms of attention-seeking. Finally, the situation having eroded still further, he sought escape.’ She lowered her brow suddenly. ‘Neither of you have touched your
gâteau mocha
.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Darac scooped a forkful. ‘What form did the escape take?’ He put the loaded fork back on to his plate.

‘Cycle rides. Oh, I don’t mean buzzing to the shops as he’d done as a little boy. I mean going off for days at a time.’ She leaned forward slightly, raising her eyebrows. ‘Jean left home as soon as he was able – when he was sixteen. That same summer, he cycled the entire route of the Tour de France. Sixteen years old! That is what neglect can do to a child.’

‘When was the last time you encountered any of the Florians?’

‘In about… 1961 or ’62, it would be, I bumped into Louise in Cours Saleya. She told me that Jean had never once written after he’d left home. To any of them. Do you know what I said to her?’

‘That you…’ Darac held back, realising he was playing over Madame’s solo. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said that I didn’t blame him for a second. Our conversation ended there and that was the last time I ever saw any of them.’

‘Madame, what you’ve shared with us is utterly invaluable. But I have to take you back to that horrendous day in 1943 just once more, I’m afraid.’

‘Very well.’

‘The Gestapo. Did anyone at the time, or later on, come to that, have any theories about who had tipped them off about the Djourescus?’

‘Theories? New ones by the day. But I doubt any had substance. My Albert himself was even suspected for a time – if
suspected
is the word. Whatever may be said now, not everyone shed tears over the destruction of the Jews. Many welcomed it. Shamefully.’

‘Indeed.’ Darac gave Frankie a glance. ‘Did you ever meet any of Adam Djourescu’s brother officers?’

‘No, no.’

‘Or just see any of them around the apartments, perhaps?’

‘Very occasionally. You have to remember that one seldom entertained one’s work colleagues in that way, back then.’

Darac flipped his mobile and selected the photo album.

‘I’m thinking of one in particular.’ He showed her Vincent’s warrant card photo from 1942. ‘I know it’s a lifetime ago but do you remember this man? Vincent Dantier is his name.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She performed a double take. ‘Vincent, though, you say?’

‘You recognise the name – perhaps in connection with the tip-off?’

‘Not in connection with that. And as I said, anyone and everyone was named as the informant at one time or another.’

‘Then?’

‘I remember it in a slightly different context. I was always puzzled by something Adam shouted as he ran back from the Florians’ apartment carrying the… in that awful situation. I haven’t thought about it in years, but now I do, I realise I may at last have the answer.’

‘Go on.’

‘He shouted: “Thank you, Vincent.” Shouted it most vehemently. But Louise’s husband was Marcel, not Vincent. But now I know that this Vincent was Adam’s friend, do you think that he was there at the time? Do you think it might even have been his idea to exchange the living for the dead?’

Darac answered as neutrally as he could.

‘I think that was exactly his idea, madame.’

‘Ah.’ She smiled. ‘All these years and I’ve finally got it.’ She looked exhausted, suddenly. ‘All these years.’

They had got what they had come for. And more.

‘Paul? I think we should leave Madame in peace, now.’

‘Yes indeed.’ He gathered up the crockery. ‘I’ll take the tray back to the kitchen.’

Her mind elsewhere, Madame Laseige tacitly granted the indulgence. She turned to Frankie.

‘Why are you asking these questions? And whose lives may be saved as a result of what I’ve told you?’

Kneeling next to her, Frankie took her hand.

‘Would you allow us to return when the case is over, madame? We will be in a position then to explain everything.’

‘Alright. Thank you.’

Darac returned from the kitchen.

‘You’ve broken the case for us, madame – a case that goes all the way back to 1943.’

He bent and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘Goodbye.’

They left her staring into space, as if the whole of her life since that day in 1943 were playing on a screen in the corner of the room. As Frankie closed the door behind them, Darac flipped his mobile.

‘Granot? Get on to Paris again. We need to find and question Jean Florian. Immediately.’

The smell of their waste would have made them throw up had there been anything left in their stomachs. The Dantiers had had no food or water since their incarceration began.

‘Where are they?’ Vincent’s voice was barely audible over the trains thundering above. ‘Your precious Darac and his people?’

‘That’s not helping us, Papa, is it?’ Agnès was feeling weak now and even the slightest movement sent sharp, penetrating pains through her body. But she wasn’t finished yet.

‘“Is it?” I said.’

Vincent didn’t answer. Agnès closed her eyes.

‘Let’s go through it again.’

Vincent looked across at her.

‘What’s the use? We’ve been over and over it. And what good will it do us if we do come up with the culprit? Supposing it is Cyrille Monceau? Or one of the Brosses? Or that stupid idiotic bitch? What are we going to do – radio the info into the Caserne? Look at me! When they come in here to kill us, it won’t matter who it is, will it?’

Agnès opened her eyes and turned her head slowly towards him.

‘I’m sorry!’ He wept. ‘Forgive me. It’s the uncertainty. It’s not knowing when these bastards are going to come.’

Another thought had occurred to Agnès. Perhaps the bastards would
never
come. Perhaps they were going to leave them to drift into unconsciousness and death. It was the outcome she feared most. A confrontation, however summary, offered at least some hope of bargaining with their captors. One reason for compiling a list of suspects with her father had been to ensure their minds kept active and focussed on something positive. Selecting the most likely candidates from that list had had another purpose. If a showdown did come, Agnès wanted to be ready with arguments, entreaties and promises geared specifically to those people. There might be seconds to say something that would hit home. And even if it delayed the inevitable by just a few moments, it might be within those few moments that Darac and the team arrived to save them.

She realised she needed to work on her father once more. It seemed that he was at last beginning to come apart, and that she couldn’t bear.