“Maybe he wasn’t a writer.”
I appreciated what Paul was doing. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. Who’s the first person you contact if you’re in Jean’s shoes?”
Paul hesitated. “His commanding officer, friends he enlisted with, parents of friends who didn’t make it back.”
I waved my hand across the pile before us. “There’s nothing like that here. What’re the chances of writing letters to… how many do we have?… thirteen survivors in your own son’s old outfit and not finding a single one who was at the right place at the right time?”
“What’re you suggesting?” Paul asked cautiously.
I sensed what was behind the question. “Not a military conspiracy. I’m not that paranoid. This has to have been picked over. I don’t think Jean couldn’t accept his son’s death-from what we know, he wasn’t the hysterical type. I think he either got a letter or a telegram or a phone call, or maybe met someone, and that’s what got him going. I also think he found something tangible that kept him on track, and which isn’t in this pile. How do you explain his actions otherwise?”
But Paul kept to his role of devil’s advocate. “How do we know about those actions in the first place?”
I stared at him and then repeated Willy’s comment from the day before. “You mean the old secretary?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe we should do our own interview.”
Marie Chenin lived in a modern apartment building on the fringes of Sherbrooke, in a section I suspected had been farmland not long before. It was an expensive building, clean cut and tidily maintained, as neatly placed next to its neighbors as a brand-new domino. Approaching it from the parking lot with Paul, I couldn’t help superimposing a sense of sterile imprisonment where only luxury and comfort had been intended.
We took a quiet, plastic-walled elevator to the fifth floor and walked down the hallway, striding through an invisible haze of new-carpet odor and disinfectant.
Madame Chenin met us at the door, looking old, bent, and frail, except for a pair of intelligent, calculating eyes.
Paul did the translating.
“Gentlemen, how nice to see you. Please come in. It’s not often I get so many visitors in such a short time.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” I answered. “I was afraid we might be imposing.”
She led the way to a small, richly decorated living room with a sweeping view of distant mountains across miles of dazzling white, snow-covered countryside.
“Make yourselves comfortable. I prepared tea. Would you like some?”
She placed herself in an armchair facing a silver service matching the plush setting, if not the financial image, of a long-retired secretary. Paul and I had no choice but to sit like schoolboys on a small sofa opposite her. The windows ran the length of the wall across from us, their curtains wide open, and the snow-brightened light coming through them was enough to hurt our eyes. Despite her seemingly impeccable manners, Marie Chenin made no offer to ease our squinting at her.
For the moment, I decided to play along.
She smiled cheerfully as she passed us tiny cups and saucers. “I’m afraid the pleasure of your company will be all mine, since I can’t imagine what I can add to what I told the other young man.”
I took the time to sample my tea. “Actually, Madame Chenin, it’s your helpfulness then that brings us back now. There aren’t many people left from those days who have your sharp memory.”
Her smile remained, but I could tell she was slightly irritated. “You haven’t said if you like your tea.”
I placed the cup on the low table between us. “Wonderful. We’re not here to bother you about those papers you took from the Deschamps, by the way. That’s ancient history.”
She cut me a quick look and then offered us a small bowl. “I should have offered you sugar. I’m becoming forgetful.”
We both passed. “We’d like to know more about Antoine,” I explained.
She was visibly surprised. “Antoine? Why?”
“We think his death may have had something to do with Jean’s disappearance. I understand you knew Antoine, before he went off to Italy?”
“Yes, of course I did.” But she still seemed confused by my approach.
“Tell me about him-how he was, how he worked with his father, how he got along with his brother.”
A change came over her then, and she settled back in her chair, abandoning the role of hostess. I sensed a burden slipping from her and remembered the intel report about her first interview-how merely mentioning Antoine had changed the tone of the conversation. I tested this theory by slowly rising, closing the curtains to quell the glare, and silently returning to my chair, all without protest from her.
She spoke softly. “Antoine was a wonderful boy-strong, handsome, intelligent, and graceful. Very much like his father. I used to think they worked together more like brothers than as father and son, they joked together so.”
“That must have been tough on Marcel.”
Her face hardened slightly. “Who could tell? Marcel wasn’t like Antoine at all. He was withdrawn, unathletic, given to moods. And he was devious, always working behind your back. I don’t think Antoine’s friendship with their father struck him as anything other than stupid.”
“Did they fight?”
“The two brothers?” She shook her head. “They barely had anything to do with one another, and there was enough money so they could pursue different interests.”
“Like what?” I asked, struck by this very different family portrait.
“I wouldn’t know about Marcel. Probably money management. He always had the soul of a banker, even though Antoine was supposed to take over the business.”
“We heard they both were, as a team.”
She waved one hand dismissively. “That was the story later, after Antoine died. Marcel might have played a role in money matters, but the operational head was supposed to have been Antoine.”
I was struck by her language-very business-oriented, as if she’d also been involved in the family’s commercial affairs. I thought Lacombe might find it interesting to check the finances of this supposed retiree.
“Legend has it,” I continued, “that Jean was a bit of a pirate in the old days, building an empire out of nothing, hard on his enemies and loyal to his friends and family. Was Antoine like that, too?”
She smiled sadly. “He had many of those qualities.”
“Why did he go to war?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “Everyone did. Patriotism meant something back then. Our country called and we responded en masse. It was the right thing to do.”
“Marcel stayed in Canada.”
“Yes,” she said sourly. “Still managing his affairs.”
“With Jean’s connections, he could’ve secured Antoine’s safety, too. Fighting isn’t the only useful thing that can be done in wartime.”
But she was adamant. “Antoine wouldn’t hear of it, and I doubt Jean even brought it up. Jean would have gone himself if he’d been accepted, but he was considered too important to the war effort.” Her tone abruptly turned bitter. “Both he and Antoine thought the fighting would be a grand adventure, so it was up to the son to live vicariously for the father. And die.”
I added fuel to the fire, suspecting that Marie Chenin’s affection for Antoine-and perhaps his father also-went beyond that of a loyal employee. “All to the benefit of the son who stayed behind.”
“Yes,” she admitted darkly. “He made out well.”
“We’ve also been told Jean was so distressed after Antoine died that he made up the murder story to rationalize an otherwise senseless death.”
She bristled at that. “Nonsense. Jean Deschamps was not some mental cripple. He had good reason for believing what he did.”
“What was that?”
She stopped dead in her tracks, obviously at a loss. “I don’t know. He never told me,” she finally said.
“You must have had some idea, working with him so closely.”
“He was told about it by someone he believed, but I don’t know if it was by letter or in person.”