An Officer And A Spy Part 33

The next evening I occupy the familiar corner table in the cafe of the gare Saint-Lazare. It is a Sunday, a quiet time, a lonely place. I am one of only a handful of customers. I have taken precautions getting here-diving into churches, leaving by side doors, doubling back on myself, dodging down alleys-with the result that I am fairly sure no one has followed me. I read my paper, smoke a cigarette and manage to make my beer last until a quarter to eight, by which time it is obvious Desvernine is not coming. I am disappointed but not surprised: given the change in my circ.u.mstances since we last met, one can hardly blame him.

I walk outside to catch an omnibus home. The lower deck is crowded. I climb up to the top, where the chill through the open sides is enough to deter my fellow pa.s.sengers. I sit about halfway down the central bench, my chin on my chest and my hands in my pockets, looking out at the darkened upper storeys of the shops. I have not been there a minute when I am joined by a man in a heavy overcoat and m.u.f.fler. He leaves a s.p.a.ce between us.

He says, "Good evening, Colonel."

I turn in surprise. "Monsieur Desvernine."

He continues to stare straight ahead. "You were followed from your apartment."

"I thought I'd lost them."

"You lost two of them. The third is sitting downstairs. Fortunately, he works for me. I don't think there's a fourth, but even so, I suggest we keep our conversation brief."

"Yes, of course. It was good of you to come at all."

"What is it you want?"

"I need to speak to Lemercier-Picard."

"Why?"

"There's been a lot of forgery in the Dreyfus case: I suspect he may have had a hand at least in some of it."

"Oh." Desvernine sounds pained. "Oh, that won't be easy. Can you be more specific?"

"Yes, I'm thinking in particular of the doc.u.ment mentioned in the Zola trial the other day, the so-called absolute proof that General Boisdeffre vouched for. If it's what I think it is, it consists of about five or six lines of writing. That's a lot for an amateur to forge, and there's plenty of original material to compare it with. So I suspect they must have brought in a professional."

" 'They' being who in particular, Colonel-if you don't mind my asking?"

"The Statistical Section. Colonel Henry."

"Henry? He's acting chief!" Now he looks at me.

"I'm sure I can get access to money, if that's what your man wants."

"It will be what he wants: I can tell you that now-and a lot of it. When do you need to see him?"

"As soon as possible."

Desvernine huddles down in his coat, thinking it over. I can't see his face. Eventually he says, "Leave it with me, Colonel." He stands. "I'll get off here."

"I'm not a colonel anymore, Monsieur Desvernine. There is no need to call me that. And you aren't obliged to help me. It's a risk for you."

"You forget how much time I spent investigating Esterhazy, Colonel-I know that b.a.s.t.a.r.d inside out. It sickens me to see him walking free. I'll help you, if only because of him."

For my duel against Henry I need two witnesses to make the arrangements and ensure fair play. I travel out to Ville-d'Avray to ask Edmond Gast to be one of them. We sit on his terrace after lunch with a blanket across our knees, smoking cigars. He says, "Well, if you're dead set on it, then of course I should be honoured. But I beg you to reconsider."

"I've issued the challenge in public, Ed. I can't possibly withdraw. Besides, I don't want to."

"What weapons will you choose?"

"Swords."

"Come on, Georges-you haven't fenced for years!"

"Neither has he, by the look of him. In any case, I have a cool head and a little physical agility."

"But surely you're a better shot than you are a swordsman? And with pistols there's a healthy convention of deliberately missing."

"Yes, except that if we use pistols and he wins the draw and chooses to go first, he may not try to miss. It would certainly solve all their problems if he put a bullet through my heart. No, that's too much of a risk."

"And who will be your other witness?"

"I wondered if you'd ask your friend Senator Ranc."

"Why Ranc?"

I puff on my cigar before I reply. "When I was in Tunisia, I made a study of the marquis de Mores. He killed a Jewish officer in a duel by using a heavier sword than was allowed by regulations-pierced him through his armpit and severed his spinal cord. I think it would be good life insurance for me to have a senator on hand. It might deter Henry from trying any similar tricks."

Edmond looks at me in alarm. "Georges, I'm sorry, but really this is madness. Never mind yourself-you owe it to the cause of freeing Dreyfus not to put yourself in harm's way."

"He called me a liar in open court. My honour demands a duel."

"Is it your honour you're trying to avenge, or Pauline's?"

I do not reply.

The following evening, on my behalf, Edmond and Ranc call at Henry's apartment in the avenue Duquesne, directly opposite the ecole Militaire, to issue the formal challenge. Afterwards Edmond says, "He was plainly at home-we could see his boots in the pa.s.sage, and I could hear his little boy crying 'Papa,' and then a man's voice trying to hush the lad. But he sent his wife out to talk to us. She took the letter and said he would respond to it tomorrow. I get the feeling he's anxious to avoid a fight."

Wednesday pa.s.ses without any reply from Henry. At about eight o'clock in the evening there is a knock at the door and I get up to answer it, a.s.suming it will be his witnesses bringing me his answer, but instead standing on the landing is Desvernine. He comes in briefly without taking off his hat or coat.

"Everything is fixed," he says. "Our man is staying at a lodging house, the htel de la Manche, in the rue de Sevres. He's using one of his aliases-Koberty Dutrieux. Do you have a weapon, Colonel?"

I open my jacket to show him my shoulder holster. Since my service revolver was taken from me, I have bought myself a British gun, a Webley.

"Good," he says. "Then we should go."

"Now?"

"He doesn't stay long in one place."

"And we won't be followed?"

"No, I swapped s.h.i.+fts and made sure I'm in charge of your surveillance this evening. As far as the Srete are concerned, Colonel, you will be tucked up in your apartment all night."

We take a taxi across the river and I pay off the driver just south of the ecole Militaire. The remainder of the journey we complete on foot. The section of the rue de Sevres in which the hotel stands is narrow and poorly lit; the Manche is easy to miss. It occupies a narrow, tumbledown house, hemmed in between a butcher's shop and a bar: the sort of place where commercial travellers might lay their heads for a night and a.s.signations can no doubt be paid for by the hour. Desvernine goes in first; I follow. The concierge is not at his desk. Through a curtain of beads I can see people eating supper in the little dining room. There is no elevator. The narrow stairs creak with every tread. We come out onto the third floor and Desvernine knocks at a bedroom door. No answer. He tries the handle: locked. He puts his finger to his lips and we stand listening. A m.u.f.fled conversation comes from the room next door.

Desvernine fishes in his pocket and produces a set of lock-picking tools, identical to the one he lent me. He kneels and goes to work. I unb.u.t.ton my coat and jacket and feel the rea.s.suring pressure of the Webley against my breast. After a minute the lock clicks. Desvernine stands, calmly folds away his tools and returns them to his pocket. He looks at me as he quietly opens the door. The room is dark. He feels for the light switch and turns it on.

My first instinct is that it is a large ebony doll-a tailor's mannequin perhaps, made of black plaster, folded into a sitting position and propped up just beneath the window. Without turning round or saying anything, Desvernine holds up his left hand, warning me not to move; in the other he has a gun. He crosses the floor to the window in three or four strides, looks down at the object and whispers, "Close the door."

Once I am in the room, I can just about tell it is Lemercier-Picard, or whatever his name was. His face is purplish-black and has fallen forward onto his chest. His eyes are open, his tongue protrudes, there is dried mucus all down the front of his s.h.i.+rt. Buried deep in the folds of his neck is a thin cord which runs up behind him, tight as a harp string, and is tied to the window cas.e.m.e.nt. Now that I am closer I can see that his feet and the lower part of his legs, which are bare and bruised, are in contact with the floor but his hips are suspended just above it. His arms hang at his sides, fists tightly balled.

Desvernine reaches out his hand to the swollen neck and feels for a pulse, then squats on his haunches and quickly frisks the corpse.

I say, "When did you last speak to him?"

"This morning. He was standing at this very window, as alive as you are now."

"Was he depressed? Suicidal?"

"No, just frightened."

"How long has he been dead?"

"He's cold, but no stiffness yet-two hours; perhaps three."

He straightens and goes over to the bed. A suitcase lies open. He turns it upside down and shakes out the contents, then sifts through the pathetic little heap of belongings, extracting pens, nibs, pencils, bottles of ink. A tweed jacket hangs on the back of a chair. He tugs a note case from the inside pocket and flips through it, then checks the side pockets: coins in one, the room key in the other.

I watch him. "No note?"

"No paper of any sort. Curious for a forger, wouldn't you say?" He puts everything back in the suitcase. Then he lifts the mattress and pats underneath it, opens the drawer of the nightstand, looks in the shabby cupboard, rolls back the square of matting. Finally he stands defeated with his hands on his hips. "It's all been gone through thoroughly. They haven't left a sc.r.a.p. You should go now, Colonel. The last thing you need is to be caught in a room with a corpse-especially this one."

"What about you?"

"I'll lock the door and leave everything as we found it. Maybe wait around outside for an hour or two, see who shows up." He gazes at the corpse. "This'll be booked straight through as a suicide-just you wait-and you won't find a policeman or a crook in Paris who'll say anything different, the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d." He pa.s.ses his hand tenderly across the contorted face and closes the staring eyes.

The next day two colonels turn up at my apartment: Pares and Boissonnet, both noted sportsmen and old drinking companions of Henry's. They inform me grandly that Colonel Henry refuses to fight me on the grounds that I, as a cas.h.i.+ered officer, am a "disreputable person," with no honour to lose: therefore there can have been no insult.

Pares gives me a look of cold contempt. "He suggests, Monsieur Picquart, that you seek satisfaction from Major Esterhazy instead. He understands that Major Esterhazy is anxious to challenge you to a duel."

"No doubt he is. But you may inform Colonel Henry-and Major Esterhazy too-that I have no intention of stepping down into the gutter to fight a traitor and embezzler. Colonel Henry accused me in public of being a liar, at a time when I was still a serving officer. That is when I issued the challenge, and in those circ.u.mstances he is bound by honour to give me satisfaction. If he refuses to do so, the world will note the fact and draw the obvious conclusion: that he is both a slanderer and a coward. Good day, gentlemen."

After I close the door on them I realise I am trembling, whether from nerves or fury I cannot tell.

Later that night Edmond comes round with the news that Henry has decided to accept my challenge after all. The duel will take place the day after tomorrow, at ten-thirty in the morning, at the indoor riding school of the ecole Militaire. The weapons will be swords. Edmond says, "Henry will automatically have an army surgeon in attendance. We need to nominate a doctor of our own to accompany us. Is there anyone you would prefer?"

"No."

"Then I'll find someone. Now pack a bag."

"Why?"

"Because I have my carriage outside and you're coming home to practise fencing with me. I don't want to be a witness to your being killed."

I debate whether or not to tell him about Lemercier-Picard and decide against it: he is anxious enough as it is.

Friday is pa.s.sed in Edmond's barn, where he puts me through my paces for hour after hour, relearning the basic principles of compound attack and circular parry, riposte and remise. The next morning, we leave Ville-d'Avray soon after nine to drive back into Paris. Jeanne kisses me fervently all over my face as if she doesn't expect to see me again. "Goodbye, dearest Georges! I shall never forget you. Farewell!"

"My dear Jeanne, this is not good for my morale ..."

An hour later we turn into the avenue de Lowendal to find a crowd of several hundred waiting outside the entrance to the riding school, many of them cadets from the ecole Militaire-the sort of young men I used to teach but who now jeer me as I emerge from the carriage in my civilian clothes. A line of troopers guards the door. Edmond knocks, a bolt is drawn and we are admitted into that familiar grey-lit chilly s.p.a.ce, with its stink of horse s.h.i.+t, ammonia and straw. Trapped birds beat their wings against the skylights. A trestle table has been set up in the middle of the vast manege against which Arthur Ranc rests his bulky frame. He comes over to me with his hand outstretched. He may be nearer seventy than sixty but his beard is full and black and the eyes behind his pince-nez are bright with interest. "I've fought plenty of duels in my time, my dear fellow," he says, "and the thing to remember is that two hours from now you'll be sitting down to lunch with the keenest appet.i.te you'll ever enjoy in your life. It's worth the fight just for the pleasure of the meal!"

I am introduced to the adjudicator, a retired sergeant major of the Republican Guard, and to my doctor, a hospital surgeon. We wait for fifteen minutes, our conversation becoming increasingly strained, until a burst of cheering from the street signals the arrival of Henry. He enters followed by the two colonels, ignores us and strides directly to the table, pulling off his gloves. Then he removes his cap and sets it down and begins unb.u.t.toning his tunic, as if preparing for a medical procedure he is anxious to get over with as quickly as possible. I take off my own jacket and waistcoat and hand them to Edmond. The adjudicator chalks a thick line in the centre of the stone floor, paces off a position to either side of it and marks each with a cross, then summons us over to him. "Gentlemen," he says, "if you please, unb.u.t.ton your s.h.i.+rts," and we expose our chests briefly to prove we are wearing no protection; Henry's is pink and hairless, like the belly of a pig. Throughout this procedure he looks at his hands, the floor, the rafters-anywhere except at me.

Our weapons are weighed and measured. The sergeant major explains, "Gentlemen, if one of you is wounded, or a wound is perceived by one of your witnesses, the combat will be stopped unless the wounded man indicates he wishes to continue fighting. After the wound has been inspected, if the injured man desires, the fight may resume." He gives us our swords. "Prepare yourselves."

I flex my knees and make a few practice thrusts and parries, then turn to face Henry, who stands about six paces away, and now at last he looks at me, and I see the hatred in his eyes. I know at once he will try to kill me if he can.

"En garde," says the sergeant major, and we take up our positions. He checks his watch and raises his cane, then brings it down. "Allez!"

Henry rushes at me immediately, flas.h.i.+ng his sword with such speed and force that mine is almost knocked from my hand. I have no choice but to retreat under the flail of blows, parrying as best I can by instinct rather than method. My feet become entangled, I stumble slightly, and Henry slashes at my neck. Both Ranc and Edmond cry out in protest at such an illegal stroke. I sway backwards and feel the wall behind my shoulders. Already Henry must have driven me twenty paces from my marker and I have to duck and twist away from him, darting to the side and taking up a fresh defensive posture, yet still he comes on.

I hear Ranc complain to the adjudicator, "But this is ridiculous, monsieur!" and the adjudicator calls out, "Colonel Henry, the purpose is to settle a dispute between gentlemen!" but I can see in Henry's eyes that he hears nothing except the pumping of his own blood. He lunges at me once again and this time I feel his blade on the tendon of my neck, which is as close as I have come to death since the day I was born. Ranc calls out, "Stop!" just as the tip of my sword catches Henry on the forearm. He glances down at it and lowers his weapon, and I do the same as the witnesses and doctors hurry across to us. The sergeant major consults his watch. "The first engagement lasted two minutes."

My surgeon stands me directly beneath a skylight and turns my head to inspect my neck. He says, "You're fine: he must have missed you by a hair."

Henry, though, is bleeding from his forearm-not a serious cut, merely a graze, but enough for the adjudicator to say to him, "Colonel, you may refuse to continue."

Henry shakes his head. "We'll carry on."

While he is rolling back his sleeve and wiping the blood away Edmond says to me quietly, "This fellow is a homicidal lunatic. I've never seen such a display."

"If he tries it again," adds Ranc, "I shall have the thing stopped."

"No," I say, "don't do that. Let's fight it to the end."

The adjudicator calls, "Gentlemen, to your places!"

"Allez!"

Henry tries to start the reengagement where he left it, with the same aggression as before, driving me back towards the wall. But the lower part of his arm is braided with blood. His grip is slippery. The slas.h.i.+ng strokes no longer carry the old conviction-they are slowing, weakening. He needs to finish me quickly or he will lose. He throws everything into one last lunge at my heart. I parry the blow, turn his blade, thrust, and catch the edge of his elbow. He bellows in pain and drops his sword. His seconds shout, "Stop!"

"No!" he shouts, wincing and clutching his elbow. "I can continue!" He stoops and retrieves his sword with his left hand and attempts to fit the hilt into his right, but his bloodied fingers won't close on it. He tries repeatedly, but each time he attempts to raise it, the sword drops to the floor. I watch him without pity. "Give me a minute," he mutters, and turns his back to me to hide his weakness.

Eventually the two colonels and his doctor persuade him to go over to the table to allow the wound to be examined. Five minutes later Colonel Pares approaches where I am waiting with Edmond and Ranc and announces, "The cubital nerve is damaged. The fingers will be unable to grip for several days. Colonel Henry must withdraw." He salutes and walks away.

I put on my waistcoat and my jacket and glance across to where Henry sits slumped on a chair, staring at the floor. Colonel Pares stands behind him and guides his arms into the sleeves of his tunic, then Colonel Boissonnet kneels at his feet and fastens his b.u.t.tons.

"Look at him," says Ranc contemptuously, "like a great big baby. He's completely finished."

"Yes," I say. "I believe he is."

We do not observe the usual custom following a duel and shake hands. Instead, as word filters out into the avenue de Lowendal that their hero has been wounded, I am hurried away through a rear exit to avoid the hostile crowd. According to the front pages the next day, Henry leaves to the cheers of his supporters, his arm in a sling, and is driven in an open landau around the corner to his apartment, where General Boisdeffre waits in person to offer him the best wishes of the army. I go out to lunch with Edmond and Ranc, and discover that the old senator is indeed correct: I have seldom had a better appet.i.te nor more enjoyed a meal.