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  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  They ordered breakfast sitting on a café terrace in the sunshine while it was still cool enough to be comfortable. Crunching his way through his first croissant from the pile of still-warm rolls served in a napkin inside a silver basket, Bonnefoye stopped chewing, wiped his mouth and spoke to Joe in a low voice.

  ‘I wonder if you’ve noticed. . will be surprised to hear. . that your niece is also taking breakfast at the Café de la Paix? And she’s not alone. She is accompanied by a gentleman. Odd choice of escort, I’d have said. They’re sitting four tables away, north-north-west.’

  Joe was alarmed and puzzled. He’d slipped a note under Dorcas’s door which clearly said he’d left instructions for breakfast to be brought up to her in her room and she was to stay there until he returned. He risked a quick look over his shoulder in the direction indicated. Dorcas caught his eye and waved to him. He identified her escort at once and turned back to Bonnefoye with a relaxed smile.

  ‘All’s well. I know the gentleman. Nice chap. He’s staying at our hotel. He’s a mayor from a small town in the Ardennes, I think he said. Poor fellow — I’d say he’s on his last legs. He had a heart attack or something very like it just after dinner the other day. I suspect there’s not much one can do for him. Don’t worry, he’s quite safe with Dorcas. The child has had a rather sparse and unsatisfactory family for the early years of her life and it’s my theory that she goes about collecting relations. She picked up an older brother in Georges Houdart and now she’s acquiring a grandfather figure, I’d say. They were both alone in the hotel — much better to have someone congenial to chat to over the café au lait in the sunshine. All the same, I don’t think we’ll ask them to join us.’

  ‘A mayor? What did you say his name was?’ said Bonnefoye.

  ‘I didn’t. But he’s called Didier Marmont and he’s an old soldier.’

  The telephone call came, as promised, exactly an hour later and Joe was able to infer from Bonnefoye’s responses that there had been results and the results were confirming their suspicions. After effusive thanks, Bonnefoye put down the receiver.

  ‘There we have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘A large amount of money was withdrawn from the account of Clovis Houdart in late August 1914. It was in the form of a cheque made out to one Dominique de Villancourt. Now we can’t get at his banking details but what’s the betting that this same sum of money made its way through agents and lawyers carrying the signature of de Villancourt and ended up paying for the purchase of a flat overlooking the Bois de Boulogne — it’s about the right price for such a property in 1914. The legal papers which, er — ’ Bonnefoye flashed a disarming smile — ‘you may possibly not be aware that I had seen. .’

  ‘Mademoiselle Desforges, at least, would appear to be the epitome of honesty and forthrightness,’ said Joe. ‘She told me you had them.’

  ‘Indeed. These papers, as she avowed, bear his signature and this I have been able to authenticate. The same signature also appears on the subsequent transfer of the deeds to the grateful lady. A good friend! A man happy to lend his name to a bosom pal anxious to hide his amatory activities from family and acquaintances — activities carried on within a few miles of the home he was determined to protect? Time to say hello to your elephant?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Joe. ‘Our Thibaud was a busy boy. Leading a life of danger on the battlefield and off it. . But I’m thinking, Bonnefoye, that from what I’ve perceived of the French way of going on over the years — and I know you’ll shoot me down if I’m wrong — keeping a mistress, in whatever state of luxury, is not held to be a cardinal sin or even anything out of the ordinary Not a reason for all these expensive manoeuvrings, surely? And he had, from the start of the affair, told Mireille that he was a married man.’

  Bonnefoye nodded his agreement and waited to hear more.

  ‘So why the rather desperate attempts at concealment? I think we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective. I don’t think Clovis was hiding his wife from his mistress. I think it was the other way around. Don’t you think that perhaps Clovis was all too aware of the strength of his wife’s emotional surges — her unpredictability? And was at pains to shield his lover from her,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Having seen the lady at close quarters, I must say, I’d rather face a charge of Uhlans than an Aline Houdart who’d just discovered that her husband was madly in love with another woman, intending to leave her for a nobody — a little seamstress from Reims. Or even worse — intending to send her back to her parents in Paris and retain his son and his life at Septfontaines. I’m just surprised that he managed to get away with his throat uncut. On that occasion.’

  ‘But you tell me that Aline was herself conducting an affair. .’

  ‘The fact that she was betraying him would not weigh heavily with Aline. Charles-Auguste said it — “What Aline believes to be the truth becomes the truth.” He thinks his cousin may be a little. . there may be a slight cerebral. . not sure what the correct medical term would be. .’ Joe finished delicately.

  ‘Crazy?’ said Bonnefoye. ‘I had wondered! And if you were married to her wouldn’t you want a Mireille in your life? I’ve got to know Mademoiselle Desforges slightly in the course of this case and I have to say, Sandilands, that were she not so earthy, so worldly, so full of life and mischief we’d have to say she was an angel.’

  He sighed a very Gallic sigh.

  ‘But she’s about to be a disappointed angel, I’m afraid,’ said Joe. ‘Clovis and Dominique are one and the same and there’s no separating them. I suppose we could take a leaf out of King Solomon’s book in the matter of assigning possession but I’ve always thought that a very chancy procedure. In law the man must be returned to his rightful home and the bosom of his family. You’re going to have to make the decision, Bonnefoye. Sign the forms. Yours is the finger on the pen.’

  ‘Correction,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We’ll have to make the decision. I’m not bearing the weight of this alone. We will summon the good doctor to a conference and he as the medical authority in the case, you representing Interpol and I as the case officer, will come to a unanimous decision. This afternoon. This has gone on for quite long enough. We’ll do this at the hospital. Can you attend, let’s say after lunch at two o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Joe nodded. ‘So — we have an identity. The unknown soldier is unknown no longer. I wonder if the general public will remain enthralled by the story?’

  ‘Perhaps — if we were to tell them the whole tale. But I shall give out a severely edited version. I don’t know about you, Sandilands, but I got quite fond of the old bugger — Clovis, I suppose we should get used to saying. I’d like the rest of his semi-life to be as uncomplicated as possible. And I’ll deliver a strongly worded warning about patient-care to la Houdart before she takes delivery, don’t worry!’

  ‘Poor old Thibaud,’ said Joe sadly. ‘I shall always think of him as Thibaud, I’m afraid.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘I have the strongest misgivings about this. You may only come if you swear to stay in the background and not protest about the decisions taken. You know what you’re like. This is official business. A man’s life and future are at stake, to say nothing of three men’s reputations — I won’t have you sticking your oar in.’ He flicked open his napkin in a decisive manner.

  ‘Very well, Joe. Of course, Joe. If you’re going to be such a fusspot, I’d really rather not go at all. I’ll stay behind and do a little souvenir shopping. And your appointment’s for two o’clock?’ Dorcas looked at her watch and frowned. ‘If we have a quick lunch we’ll have time to pack up the car and get straight off afterwards and then we could be in Lyon by this evening.’

  He was pleased to be distracted by a practical arrangement.

  ‘Never sure you’re to be trusted. Going off on your own like that this morning! Marcus warned me to treat you like Carver Doone. .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His pet ferret. Rabb
iter. Half trained he was. Never lived to be fully trained. Nine times out of ten he’d do what was expected of him but on the tenth, he’d run away and go wherever the fancy took him. Gone for hours. One day, poor old Marcus was discovered shouting vainly down various rabbit holes one after another, ordering the villain to come out at once or else. Suddenly, there was the most awful scream and Marcus raised his head from the hole with Carver Doone attached by his fearsome little teeth to his nose. It led to a painful separation. Now, something light, I think you suggested. . And while we’re choosing, why don’t you tell me what you were talking about so earnestly with old Didier?’

  ‘He’s a wonderful man. A soldier. Something of a Bolshevik, I’d have guessed. He was telling me about his daughter Paulette and her American husband. He’s devoted to his family. He’s got a baby grandson called John. Only six months old. He knows he’s dying, Joe, and can talk about it as though he’s just going on holiday. So matter of fact. I expect it was the truly awful time he had fighting on the Chemin des Dames that ruined his health.’ She thought for a moment and then went on: ‘Have you noticed, Joe, that throughout this case that name has kept coming up like a chorus in a song? Everywhere we turn it seems someone’s whispering about. . what would you say in English? The Road? Path? Of the Ladies? Which ladies? And which road?’

  ‘The Ladies’ Way, ’ said Joe. ‘A pretty name for a blood-soaked piece of country. North-west of Reims. The ladies were the two aunts of Louis XVI — the one who was guillotined after the Revolution — and the way was their favourite coach-ride along a high bluff overlooking low-lying plains to north and south. A fearsome strategical position since the Stone Age. Any army wanting to defend Paris has to hold that height.

  ‘And — chorus, you say!’ Joe shivered. ‘Have you ever heard it, Dorcas, the song that came out of that battle? The song of Craonne? The song of the mutineers? It has the most haunting of choruses.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’ She looked around her. ‘We’re out of earshot and we’re English eccentrics anyway — why don’t you sing it? You can always stop if the waiter comes.’

  ‘I warn you — I rarely manage to get to the end of it, it’s so sad,’ he said and, self-consciously, but confident of his baritone voice, Joe leaned over the table and began to sing.

  Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,

  Adieu toutes les femmes,

  C’est Men fini, c’est pour toujours,

  De cette guerre infâme.

  C’est à Craonne, sur le plateau,

  Qu’on doit laisser sa peau.

  Car nous sommes tous condamnés,

  Nous sommes les sacrifiés.

  Unusually, Joe managed to get through the lilting song dry-eyed but hurriedly passed his handkerchief to Dorcas.

  ‘Sing it again slowly and I’ll translate as you go, if I can keep up.

  ‘“Goodbye to life, goodbye to love and goodbye to all women. . It’s all over — for ever, this terrible war. . It’s up there in Craonne, on the plateau, where we must all leave our skins?. . Die, does it mean?. . For we are all condemned. We’re all to be sacrificed.” They don’t sound like — what did you say? — mutineers, Joe. They’re saying goodbye, they know they’re going to lose their lives. It’s far too sad, too hopeless to be a song of revolt.’

  ‘It was a very strange revolt. And yet the army authorities were so afraid of the power of the song to move a whole army, a whole people perhaps, that they banned it and offered a huge reward to whichever soldier would turn in the man responsible for writing it. And, do you know, Dorcas, the money went unclaimed. No one betrayed the song-writer. And they all went on singing it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of this. But then I don’t know much about the war.’

  ‘No one knows very much about this part of it. Even the English army fighting on the flank were not aware that the French had downed tools and declared they’d soldier no more. And yet that’s not exactly right — they never surrendered. They were not traitors. They held the line but declared that they would not advance another inch until peace had been declared. They were holding out for a settlement.’

  ‘You say the English didn’t know about it? Did the Germans find out?’

  ‘Those of us in British Intelligence who knew conspired with the French to keep the lid firmly on. And — goodness knows how — it worked. The German trenches were only a few yards away from the French front line in places and no rumour reached them.’ He shuddered. ‘One man caught in no man’s land and made to talk, one man deciding to go over to the enemy, and it would have all been over for us. They would have called up forces from the east and poured everything they had on to the weakened French lines and broken through.’

  ‘Poor Didier. And poor Clovis. He was up there too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I believe he was. He killed Edward and then rode off into the night and back into battle as far as we know, expecting to leave his hide up there on the plateau with all the other sacrificial victims.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to the rebels? Do you know, Joe?’

  ‘I know. It’s very unpleasant and I’d really rather not talk about it, Dorcas. Not for your sake — for mine. Now — omelette do you? Or would you prefer steak-frites?’

  Varimont, Bonnefoye and Sandilands sat down together around the table in the doctor’s office as the hospital bell sounded two o’clock. Bonnefoye produced the papers to be signed and succinctly set out the case for assigning custody of Thibaud to Aline Houdart.

  Joe intervened at this point to voice his concerns about the welfare of the patient if such action were followed, and this was seriously considered by Varimont who questioned and evaluated his information. ‘This is indeed a cause for concern as Sandilands says, Bonnefoye,’ said the doctor. ‘Look here — there is a third way of doing this which perhaps in the light of Sandilands’ insights we ought to consider. Don’t assign him to anyone. I’m perfectly willing to hang on to him here if, truly, no better situation is available to him but — well, you’ve seen it. It’s not ideal. I am however very interested in Thibaud and his condition — and neurasthenia of war as it affects other unfortunates — and I’m making something of a study of these cases. It would be interesting to see how he reacts if transplanted into neutral surroundings.

  ‘Look — I would be quite prepared to tell the press and anyone else who’s interested that his identity remains unproven and he is being lodged with a third party, nominally under the control of the hospital, so that our experiments may continue and observations be made. Should this type of care prove successful the government will be only too pleased. Too many such cases clogging up the public health system.’

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Joe. ‘Find and register a caring townsperson willing to liaise with the hospital.’

  ‘He’s Aline’s husband,’ objected Bonnefoye. ‘He’s Clovis Houdart. We can’t get around that. We have the widow’s identification, which I would now declare to be incontrovertible.’

  ‘But an identification which is stoutly questioned, let’s not forget, by his son and his cousin,’ the doctor objected. Then, startled, he looked at his watch and exclaimed: ‘Oh, great heavens! I have to tell you — I have a further appointment this afternoon. No, don’t be concerned — we won’t be interrupted. I’m intending to run it alongside this one. I had a most insistent call from a witness the other day. A man who claims to know Thibaud. An old army colleague. He’s only just recently come across the photograph apparently but is one hundred per cent certain — aren’t they all? — that he knows our man. As he was able to give me a name and rank — Clovis Houdart, Lieutenant Colonel — I thought it might be worth giving him a crack at it, bit of extra weight in the scales, one way or another. I wouldn’t see him right away — Thibaud has been disturbed by all the comings and goings and I thought I’d give him a weekend off. But now — he’s due in ten minutes’ time — we could all go with him to Thibaud’s room and chalk up one more positive identification. Or not. You never know!’
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br />   Joe could not be certain that Didier Marmont was pleased to see him. The one short flash of uncertainty was so soon followed by a warm and gracious recognition that he thought he might be wrong. He had clearly not been expecting a reception by two policemen as well as the doctor but took the introductions in his stride.

  Approaching Thibaud’s cell he showed signs of nervousness but made a joke and entered following Varimont.

  Eyes turned immediately on Thibaud. He was sitting, exactly as before, forlorn, on the edge of his bed, staring into the wall. His hair had been freshly washed and trimmed and he was looking smart, slender and almost waif-like in white pullover and black cord trousers. Joe’s eyes however were fixed on Didier. He wanted to catch his first reaction. What was he hoping for at this late stage? A derisory ‘What’s this? No — that’s never Clovis Houdart!’ Yes, he could not deny that was his hope.

  But Didier knew the man at once. His eyes widened, he caught his breath. He strolled over to Thibaud and looked carefully into his face. Putting out a finger, he gently traced the line of Thibaud’s broken jaw and nodded.

  He turned to the assembled company. ‘This is Clovis Houdart. Lieutenant Colonel Houdart of the Fifth Army, last encountered serving under General Pétain. Summer of 1917. Soissons-Auberive sector.’

  ‘You served in the same company?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I was just a corporal, called up as a reservist. My age, you know. By that stage they were using even old wrecks like me. There were three generations shoulder to shoulder in the trenches.’

  ‘But it wasn’t the first time you’d soldiered?’

  ‘No, I fought at Sedan. Experience was a help, in fact. I tried my best to calm the troops. Father-figure, you know. “Think this is bad, lads? You should have seen. .” You know the sort of thing.’