Rocco told him, and the man relaxed, nodding at Claude. ‘That’s a stroke of luck. Commissaire Massin says to get you to call in if we see you.’
‘You came all the way here for that?’ He wondered what could be so urgent, and whether Berbier had found another way of firing a shot across his bows, this time for good.
‘Hardly, no. It seems the owner of this place – Didier Marthe? – did a runner from the hospital. He’s wanted on charges of using unauthorised explosives … and now theft and criminal assault with an offensive weapon.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He smacked a male cleaner with a metal tray. Took out a row of teeth and damn near caused him to choke to death. Then he stole his clothes, wallet and car keys and locked him in a cupboard before going on the run. It took an hour for the cleaner to be missed, so Marthe could be almost anywhere. Detective Desmoulins said we should try here in the village first in case he heads back this way. Other units are checking the roads. What’s the story?’
‘We’re not sure yet. But you can probably add phone fraud to the charges, with more to follow.’
The man lifted his eyebrows. ‘Sounds like a real one-man crime wave.’ He looked around the room with distaste. ‘Christ, what a dump.’ He signalled for his colleague to return to the car. ‘We’ll head back, see if we can spot him on the way.’
Rocco nodded and watched them go. He didn’t give much for their chances: wherever Didier Marthe had disappeared to, he would be making sure that the car he’d stolen stayed well hidden.
As they left, he saw an old, mud-encrusted shoe on the floor. He nudged it so that it was touching the cellar door, then followed Claude out into the yard.
They made their way back to the main street, Claude looking perturbed. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t know Didier that well, but all this seems so …’ He stopped, lost for words.
‘Unbelievable?’ Rocco suggested. ‘Out of character?’ He shook his head. ‘People are never quite what they seem. It’s always the quiet ones, the loners, who come up with the big surprises.’ He stopped and looked back towards the house, a ramshackle place tucked away down a side street in the middle of nowhere. Like so many other houses on the outside, yet with a big difference on the inside. Something told him that so far, they had not even come close to knowing all there was to know about Didier Marthe.
Back home, he found another card from another journalist, this time a radio station. The vultures clearly hadn’t tired of trying to find a story. He tossed it aside and rang Massin to fill him in on what he and Claude had discovered about the telephone switch. ‘I can’t fathom out yet where it all fits, but the number assigned to Boutin was written down in Nathalie Berbier’s flat alongside the name Tomas Brouté.’ The moment he said it, he remembered too late that he had not told Massin about his visit to the Félix Faure address.
There was a lengthy silence, then Massin said softly, ‘How could you know that?’
He thought about lying, but decided against it. Lies begat lies and soon he’d be knee-deep in them with no way of explaining himself. And so far, for whatever reason suited him, Massin seemed to be giving him a fair degree of latitude and help. He didn’t know why, but neither did he want to push that too far. He explained about their search of Nathalie’s flat and the sudden arrival of the men in cars.
‘Did they see you?’
‘No. And we didn’t leave any traces, either.’
‘You trust this concierge woman?’
‘More than most. She’s an old friend.’
‘Very well. But if Berbier hears that you gained entry to his daughter’s flat, do not expect me to bail you out.’ He paused, then added, ‘As for the logo on the photo you found, it stands for Agence Photos Poitiers – APP. The shop closed during the war because of lack of chemicals for developing, but the owner opened up again afterwards before handing over to his son. He still has an interest, although he now lives near Rouen. His name is Ishmael Poudric. I told him you’d be dropping by and cleared it with the local police, so you shouldn’t run into any jurisdictional problems.’ He read out the address with directions, which Rocco scribbled on the reverse of the photo. He checked his watch. Nearly noon.
‘I’ll get right on it. Thanks.’
The phone went dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ishmael Poudric lived, according to the directions given by Massin, in a village called Saint-Martin, not far out of Rouen. His home was one among a small development of bungalows with precision-ordered gardens and scatterings of ornamental stone chips in place of grass. It was clearly a retirement community for those with means who preferred a degree of comfort without the harsh labour of upkeep to spoil their idyll, and Rocco wondered at the once ingrained custom among Frenchmen of having a house with a garden and a place to grow vegetables. Maybe that was dying, too, along with its ageing adherents.
He knocked at the door and waited. Moments later a short, bearded man appeared and smiled in welcome.
‘You must be the police investigator,’ he said politely, and motioned Rocco to come in.
Rocco ducked his head and stepped inside, where Poudric led him through to a disordered study with piles of folders, files and boxes on every surface. Books lined the walls, mostly on the history and craft of photography. Ishmael Poudric may have retired, but he’d clearly not lost any interest in his trade.
‘Is my being a cop that obvious?’
‘It is when you’re the only visitor I’m likely to get all week,’ Poudric said dryly. ‘Not that I’m complaining; after years of jumping to the requirements of others, I’ve got round to liking my own company.’
Rocco had explained on the telephone his reasons for calling, and he was relieved to see that Poudric had a brown cardboard folder placed squarely in the centre of his desk, with a slip of paper attached and Rocco’s name scribbled across it.
He produced the photo of the Resistance group. ‘As part of an ongoing investigation,’ he said, ‘I came across this photo. I wonder if you can shed some light on its origins?’
Poudric glanced at the photo and nodded. ‘I remember it.’
‘After all this time?’
‘What – you think because I’m old that I’m senile? That an old man doesn’t have command of his faculties anymore?’ The response was quick but Rocco noted an amused glint in the old man’s eyes, as if he were harbouring a secret joke. Then Poudric smiled. ‘It’s OK, son, I’m just teasing you. You look like a man with a sense of humour. Now, before we get down to business, would you like a drink?’
Rocco hesitated. Twice in quick succession could be interpreted in some quarters as a habit.
Poudric was persuasive. ‘Join me, please. It’s not often I get a visitor, and I was given a bottle of fine whisky a few weeks ago which I haven’t yet opened. It’ll go stale otherwise.’ His eyes twinkled and he lifted his eyebrows expectantly, like a child waiting for a treat.
‘In that case, it would be impolite not to.’
Poudric chuckled with delight and shuffled out of the room, returning moments later with a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses. He poured two generous shots and raised his glass. ‘To your good health, young man. And death to all our enemies.’ He took a drink and sighed with pleasure. ‘My God, that’s good.’
‘Hear, hear,’ echoed Rocco, and sipped the fine malt. It was as smooth as silk, and he enjoyed the warmth as it went down, regretting that he was here on business.
Poudric smoothed his beard. ‘So, how can I help? You want to know about this photo.’
‘Yes. Where it was taken, who the people are … anything you can tell me.’
‘Is it important?’
‘I’m investigating an attempted murder.’
‘Ah. In that case, let’s not waste time.’ Poudric took another sip of whisky, then put down the glass and rubbed his hands together. ‘The shot was one of several I took in a clearing near Poitiers in June 1944. There had just been a supply drop during the night from the British and this particular group had assembled to collect the packages. I had been in contact with them over several months, mostly through a neighbour of mine – who is not in that photo, I hasten to add.’