Jean Paul Claude had a small notebook and a gold pen. ‘I understand you gentlemen are anxious to leave Le Puy and continue your pilgrimage,’ he began.
Powerscourt nodded.
‘And I understand that you are anxious to secure the support of the Mayor in this enterprise?’
Powerscourt nodded again.
‘I am pleased to be able to tell you that under certain circumstances, the Mayor would be willing to back you in this matter.’
Powerscourt wondered if they had all learned their lines together, these lawyers, sitting in the Mayor’s parlour with the crossed French tricolours and the portrait of the President.
‘What circumstances?’ he said amiably.
‘I believe that there has been some discussion about a possible contribution to the Mayor’s office for the good of the town of Le Puy.’ Claude thought things were going well so far.
‘I think you’ll find’, said Powerscourt, ‘that our thinking has changed slightly on that.’
‘In what way?’ said the lawyer, looking anxious.
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘Mr Delaney here would like to bequeath something permanent to the town, something that would commemorate the name of the Mayor for generations to come.’
‘What is that?’
‘A fountain,’ said Powerscourt, ‘or rather two fountains. One at the north-east part of the town where the pilgrims enter, and one at the south-west end where the pilgrims set off for Compostela. Think how these pilgrims will bless the name of the Mayor in years to come when they can quench their thirst on arrival and have a last drink or fill their water bottles as they leave. It will be a lasting memorial. We envisage that they should be called the Jacquet Fountains with an inscription round the top with the name of the Mayor and the date of construction. Mr Delaney’s name would only be mentioned in much smaller type at the bottom. Is it not a good plan?’
Claude knew in his bones that the Mayor would like such a proposal. He stuck to his script.
‘Et encore?’ he asked.
‘Encore?’ said Powerscourt.
‘Et encore?’ Claude stuck to his guns.
‘Fellow’s turned into Oliver Twist, Delaney. He’s asking for more.’
‘To hell with his encores,’ said Delaney, ‘this is way out of order. Perfectly decent offer, two bloody fountains, if you ask me. Is the cupboard completely bare, my friend? Do we have anything we could throw at them?’
‘We do,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Throw it,’ said Delaney.
‘Mr Claude,’ Powerscourt began, speaking as reasonably as he could. ‘We are all men of the world here. I would remind you that we have in our party of pilgrims a young man who is a journalist on the Irish Times, one of the foremost newspapers in Ireland. Their articles are syndicated all over the world. He has nearly finished his story. He proposes to be highly critical of the police force here in this town. I’m sure you wouldn’t want him writing that the Mayor was greedy as well.’
Silence reigned in the corner of the dining room. The hotel clock chimed in the entrance hall. Outside the rain beat down on the pavements of Le Puy.
Jean Paul Claude turned the same colour as his tie, a rather disagreeable pink.
‘This article,’ he stammered, ‘this article . . . ’
‘This article need never see the light of day, Mr Claude. We have an element of control over its publication. The young man need never hear about our encounter this afternoon. Why don’t you go back to the Mayor and tell him about the fountains. “This fountain was given to the town and the pilgrims of Le Puy by Louis Jacquet, Mayor, in the Year of Our Lord 1906,” the inscription might say. “I was thirsty in the desert and ye gave me drink.” I’m sure we could find some such biblical quotation to give the thing resonance. Perhaps the Bishop would bless them once they’re in place?’
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Claude, trying to rescue some of his dignity. ‘I shall go back to the Mayor. Thank you for your time. We shall be in touch shortly.’
Delaney laughed when he heard what Powerscourt had thrown at them. ‘Didn’t know you had a newspaperman in your back pocket, Powerscourt. That should make the bastards sit up for a moment or two. If I want to give the damned place a fountain, why shouldn’t I give the damned place a fountain? Don’t see why I should hand over cash to the Mayor so he can build an extension to his butcher’s shop where he can hang a few more sides of beef and store the local pigs’ trotters.’
The gap between the departure of M. Claude and their next visitor was rather longer than the previous one. Perhaps the Mayor’s party were having a council of war. It was just after half past five when the next visitor arrived. This was Inspector Jean Dutour, who numbered among his many roles that of representative of the police federation for the widows and orphans of serving or retired officers. He too said he understood that Mr Delaney wished to make a contribution to the fund. The conversation followed exactly the same path as that with M. Berthon, except the Inspector did not have a movable eyebrow. He regaled them instead with piteous tales of young police widows with tiny pensions and numerous children, virtually unable to feed their families, of retired constables whose wives had passed away and were scarcely able to look after themselves. He too settled for twenty thousand francs. He had an important announcement to make before he left.
‘I am asked to inform you, gentlemen, that representatives of the police and the public prosecutor’s office wish to see you in the morning. They propose that the meeting should start at nine o’clock. A very good day to you, gentlemen, and thank you again for your contribution.’
Before Inspector Dutour could leave, there was a knock at the door. Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Frome, poked his head apologetically round the corner.
‘Forgive me, Lord Powerscourt, Mr Delaney, I saw our policeman friend here arrive a few minutes ago. I wonder if we could ask him to clear up a procedural point about the French legal system. I think it has bearing on our particular circumstances. I was taught this years ago in college but I only remembered it this afternoon. Could you ask the Inspector who decides whether to proceed or not in important cases like murder or corruption in France. Is it the police, or is it somebody else?’
‘Inspector,’ said Powerscourt, ‘could we ask you a general question about the working of the law in your country? You are perfectly free to decline, if you so wish. Mr Lewis here is a solicitor from England.’
‘I’ll try,’ said the Inspector, more than happy to sing the superior virtues of the French system to that of the Anglo-Saxons.
‘In important cases like murder or corruption,’ said Powerscourt, ‘who decides whether to proceed with a case or not? In our country it would be a matter for the police.’
‘Not so in France, Lord Powerscourt. Here we have a different system. The lawyers call your system adversarial because two lawyers end up fighting it out in court. The French system is better, I think. It’s called inquisitorial. In such cases as those you mention, the conduct of the case is in the hands of a judge called an investigating judge or an investigating magistrate. His job is to find out the truth. So it is he, not the policemen, who decides whether there is enough evidence to proceed with a case.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Powerscourt and escorted the Inspector to the door.
Delaney was in belligerent mood when he returned. ‘Do you mean to tell me, my friend, that we have been buttering up the wrong people? That we needn’t have bothered with shelling out for the police widows and orphans as the police won’t decide whether to let us go or not? Should we have gone after this investigating magistrate person instead? How do you fix them, anyway?’
‘Don’t think it would be easy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘fixing one of these characters, as you put it. They’re probably meant to be completely independent like the judges on your Supreme Court, Delaney.’