The Statement (21 page)

He came out of the kiosk and went back to the zinc bar. A tall cool glass of beer had been placed at the end of the counter and, beside it, a paper napkin and a knife and fork. Max, marking his selection on the racing page, moistened the tip of his pencil with his tongue and said, as if to himself, ‘Athos.’

He sat down at the counter and said to Max, ‘Athos?’

‘Three o’clock at Auteuil,’ Max said. ‘I have a feeling about that horse. Clotilde?’

‘Coming.’

Madame Pellan, thin and stooped, came from the small kitchen carrying the
pan bagnat
sandwich on a plate surrounded by black olives.

‘I’ve been dreaming of that,’ he told her. ‘Yours is the best
pan bagnat
in all of Provence.’

‘Thank you.
Bon appetit
, Monsieur Pierre.’

He took a bite of the sandwich. Tuna, olive oil, tomatoes, in a hollowed-out roll. Easy on his dentures. I won’t get any
pan bagnat
if I move to some
métèque
country. Knab’s in Argentina now, under the name of Heller. Vatican passport. But that was in the days of Pius XII. This Pope’s a Polack, going around the world like a salesman, celebrating mass with bare-arsed savages and making cardinals out of niggers. Still, even if the Vatican can’t help now, Commissaire Vionnet has influence. He works for the Prefect. Ex-Prefect now. It’s all influence, who you are, who you were. They talk about justice but the charges against me and Monsieur le Préfet are exactly the same, crime against humanity, yet he’s never had to run, lives in a big apartment in Paris, invited to state receptions, sees his grandchildren every week, not to worry if you’re him, with
juge
after
juge d’instruction
putting his case aside, year after year.

‘
Salut!
’

A new customer pushed aside the beaded front curtain and waved to Max. Middle-aged, a regular, by the sound of him. He watched him sit in the banquette next to the alcoholics. Max, without being asked, took up a bottle of Ricard, poured a measure, then brought the glass and a carafe of water to the man’s table.

‘What’s new, Max? Got something for today?’ the man said.

‘Athos. Three o’clock. Auteuil.’

The customer shrugged. ‘
Boh!
’

‘Well, you asked,’ Max said. He went back behind the bar.

The
pan bagnat
was eaten and he was spitting out the stone of the last olive when he thought of the toilet. That kid never came out. All at once, he felt the hackle of danger. He asked Max.

‘Listen, is it possible to go out through the back way?’

Max shook his head.

‘You sure?’

‘Of course. If there was a way out, I’d be robbed blind. They’d go down to the toilet and disappear.’

It must be fifteen minutes or more since the kid went in. Too long. He turned and looked back down the corridor. What he saw there made him get off his bar stool. The toilet door was ajar. If it’s him, is he watching me now? Making sure I haven’t left? If it’s him, he lost me in Aix. He’ll be worried about that.

Relax, the Commissaire said. But how does he expect me to relax? He didn’t say they’d
caught
these Jews. Be sensible. There’s a kid in the toilet, maybe he’s taking a hit. But the door was closed when I came out of the kiosk. Why is it not closed now?

He knew what he must do. He said to Max, loud enough to be heard back there, ‘Give me a
jeton
, will you? I have to make another phone call.’

He put his hand into his blouse as he walked down the corridor towards the telephone booth. He looked, not at the booth, but at the toilet door lying slightly ajar. When he reached the booth he hesitated, then, as if changing his mind, turned and pushed open the toilet door. The toilet was old-fashioned, tiled, filthy, dating from fifty years ago, a hole in the ground, with no toilet seat. Standing with his back to him, pretending to piss into the hole, was the kid in the American baseball cap. He could not see the kid’s face.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You didn’t shut the door.’

‘No problem,’ the kid said. He did not turn around.

He stood, watching the kid’s back. There was no urine going into the hole in the floor. There was no sign of a needle. He slipped his revolver half out of his blouse.

‘Will you be long?’ he asked.

He saw the kid stiffen and pretend to shake his prick dry. He saw the kid’s right arm go up, not to zip his fly, but into the anorak. That was it. He knew, although he’d not seen the kid’s face. At the moment the kid reached into the anorak for his gun, he shot him twice in the back. He watched him fall on his knees on the urine-soaked tiles. The kid’s gun made a clatter as it dropped beside the toilet hole. He went closer, pulled up the head and saw the dying face. It was the one from Aix.

The noise of two shots had been loud in the bar. Max’s footsteps, coming, running. He stuffed his own gun back in his blouse and went to the toilet door.

‘I was in the phone booth,’ he told Max. ‘I think it’s a suicide.’

Max, shaken, went into the toilet. Within seconds Max would know the truth.

He ran down the corridor, through the café, and into the Rue Obscure. His heart hammering in his chest, he ran down the street, then down the flight of steps that led to the waterfront, coming out into an anonymity of strolling tourists, out to the sunlight, the silver glitter of the sea.

26

It was an official jeep, unmistakably gendarmerie: its driver, Sergeant Picot, armed with an automatic weapon, as was the corporal who sat beside him. In the rear, alone, his impeccable uniform clearly showing his rank as lieutenant-colonel, Roux sat, a briefcase on his knees, his overnight bag at his feet. He had arranged to be picked up directly at Nice airport and driven straight to Villefranche. Now, as they rounded the last bend on the Haute Corniche road, he could see the heavy gates of the priory of St  Michel des Monts ahead, its rusted iron cross slightly askew to the right of the entrance. Where was the stakeout?

And then he saw a gendarmerie jeep parked in the little circle of the Vista point. In its front seats a sergeant and a corporal, both in uniform.

‘Those our men?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Dammit, I asked for a stakeout, not a roadblock!’

‘Sir?’

‘Uniforms! Army vehicle! If the suspect saw that when he drove up here, he’s long gone by now.’

‘Sir.’

‘Call them. Bring them here.’

When the stakeout jeep drove alongside, he leaned out. ‘When did you men arrive?’

‘Fourteen-ten hours, sir.’

‘All right. Follow us in.’

The
père hospitalier
answered the gate telephone. ‘Priory. Yes?’

‘Gendarmerie. Will you open, please?’

As the two vehicles drove up to the
porte cochère
, the
père hospitalier
telephoned Father Joseph in his office.

‘The police, Father. Two jeeps.’

‘Where is our friend?’

‘He went out a few hours ago. He hasn’t come back yet. What will I say to them, Father?’

‘Wait. I’ll be down in a moment.’

The
père hospitalier
, Father Francis, went out on to the drive. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

‘Is there a rear entrance, Father?’

‘Yes. At the other end of the grounds, past the chapel.’

‘Sergeant, get down there. Corporal, you come with us.’

The stakeout jeep, accelerating, drove off in the direction of the stables. Roux, followed by Sergeant Picot and the two corporals, entered the main hallway of the mansion.

‘Who’s in charge here, Father?’

‘Father Joseph. He’s just coming.’

Descending the pink marble staircase was an elderly monk. He nodded politely in greeting as he crossed the ornate chequerboard tiles of the hall. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

‘I am Colonel Roux. This is a search warrant for these premises.’

Father Joseph took the typewritten sheet of paper and read it slowly. ‘Pierre Brossard?’ he said, at last.

‘Yes. Is he here?’

‘No, he is not.’

‘But you know him?’

‘Indeed, I do. We were boys at school together.’

‘Then you know that he’s wanted on the charge of a crime against humanity.’

‘Yes.’

‘He has stayed here in the past?’

‘Our Prior, Dom Henri, is in Rome at the moment. I am acting for him in his absence, but because I am not the Prior, I don’t feel it’s within my competence to answer your question. As you know, Colonel, the Church’s law of asylum supersedes, in the minds of my superiors, the laws of the civil authority.’

‘The search warrant you are holding is a legal document. It has nothing to do with the right of asylum. We are trying to find and arrest a criminal wanted on a capital charge. We are going to make a search here.’

Father Joseph nodded. ‘In that case, Father Francis will show you through the house. Good day to you, gentlemen.’ He turned to Father Francis. ‘If you need me I will be in my study.’

‘Yes, Father.’

The search began in the large ground-floor reception rooms. Roux saw half a dozen robed figures pacing the loggia outside, heads bent in prayer or meditation. The loggia with its stone pillars could have been the cloister of a monastery, had it not faced a large Riviera-style swimming pool surrounded by poolside beach umbrellas and plastic lounging chairs. As the search continued through the dining rooms and the mansion’s kitchens, he was struck by the incongruity of a monastic community living in this setting of worldly affluence. And yet, the very presence of these monks had transformed and humbled the luxurious furniture, the ornate tiles, the wall sconces, the
boiserie
. The stone flower urns were empty in their niches, the walls were marked with yellowing spaces where paintings and mirrors had been removed. Affixed to the great bare wall of the landing leading to the first-floor rooms was an ugly modern statue of Jesus on the Cross, the Christ head hanging down as though in shame at being found in these surroundings.

Quickly, Roux directed his forces, each man moving along a different corridor as door after door was opened on empty bedrooms. They moved up to the small servants’ rooms on the third floor which were now monks’ cells. He noticed that, during their searches, Father Francis did not behave like a man who had something to hide. When they had finished in the mansion, the priest led them out to the stables that had been converted into the priory’s chapel. Roux, from habit and respect, dipped his hand into the Holy Water font and made the sign of the cross as he entered the nave. Two monks were kneeling in a vigil at the main altar. He gestured to Sergeant Picot who quickly made a tour of the sacristy and returned, signalling that he had found nothing.

When they came out of the chapel into the sunlight, one of the corporals came down from the loft above the old stables. Again, nothing.

‘Any other rooms?’ Roux asked and saw the
père hospitalier
hesitate.

‘There are some sheds at the other end of the vegetable garden. Tools, pesticide, that sort of thing.’

‘Let’s have a look.’

Again, he saw the priest hesitate.

‘This way, then.’

Ahead, as they walked quickly down through the rows of vegetables, Roux saw, near the toolsheds, a building that seemed to be a small cottage. ‘What’s that, Father?’

‘It was the gardener’s cottage. We use it now and then during retreats when we have an overflow of guests.’

At the end of the garden, beyond the cottage, Roux saw the stakeout jeep guarding the gate of the rear entrance. He went up the path to the cottage. The door was locked. ‘Do you have a key, Father?’

‘I – I’m afraid one of the other monks must have it. Father Paul has been using this place to store potting soil.’

‘Can you get the key from him?’

‘I’m afraid not, not at the moment. He’s the one who would have it and he’s in Nice today, buying supplies for tomorrow’s retreat.’

Roux looked at Sergeant Picot who nodded, and went to the window of the cottage. Picot took out a knife, slid it under the window catch, then lifted the sash. He turned to the youngest corporal. ‘René, you can get through here, can’t you?’

The corporal wriggled through the narrow space. A moment later the door was open and Roux stood in the small living room, looking at three heavy suitcases and a small, worn leather trunk.

‘Whose are these, Father?’

Again, he saw Father Francis hesitate. ‘I’m not sure. Father Paul looks after this place.’

Roux signalled to Sergeant Picot. The suitcases were not locked. The first two contained male clothing, some prayer books, holy pictures and a much-used missal. And then Picot opened the largest suitcase. ‘Sir? Look here.’

Roux bent over the suitcase, then glanced back at Father Francis. The priest seemed astonished. Roux lifted out an SS deaths’ head insignia, then a Waffen SS motorcycle flag. ‘Whose are these?’