“Now I have another job for you,” said the Saint, when the garagiste had finished the account of his labours.
He recited the essentials of his accident and gave its location.
“Bring it in as soon as you can and see if it’s good for anything but the scrap-heap. I’ll be back for the bad news after lunch.”
He asked directions for the post office, which had always been his second destination. It was near the centre of the old town, facing the Palais de Justice across the pleasant open square in front of the five-hundred-year-old cathedral of St.-Siffrein. He wrote the Paris phone number he wanted on a slip of paper and handed it in at the counter. It was, he reflected, a roundabout way to make a simple telephone call, but the chances of being overheard at the château had left him no choice, and it was actually the main reason for his trip to Carpentras.
He had absorbed most of the information on the official notices that lined the walls by the time the clerk announced that his call was ready and he went into one of the booths to take it. He heard the operator check the number, and then the gentle voice that brought the memories of a darker and more violent era flooding back.
“Do you still stock the works of Francois Villon?” the Saint inquired, and smiled to himself as he pictured Antoine Louvois in his small bookshop near the Odéon reacting to that simple question.
He could see the tall greying figure, the keen alert eyes, and the slender hands that held the receiver. And he remembered another day when those same artistic hands had grasped the plunger of a detonator and sent a score of Nazis instantly into the heaven of the Herrenvolk.
There was an appreciable pause before the answer he was expecting crackled along the line.
“We do not have much demand for those old works today.”
“Mais où sont les nelges d’antan?” sighed the Saint.
There was another pause before the other requested him to repeat his words.
“But where are the snows of yesteryear?” Simon quoted again, and laughed softly. “Do you forget so easily?”
“Simon! Where are you?”
“In Provence, in Carpentras, and it would take too long to explain why, but I’m going to bother you again.”
“It is so good to hear from you. You are coming to Paris?”
“Not right now, Antoine. But I need some information and you may be able to help me.”
“Tu n’as qu’à demander, cher ami.”
“I want you to think back to the war, to the Occupation. Does the name Florian mean anything to you? Philippe Florian?”
Again there was a pause and the Saint added: “Dark, stockily built, about forty-five. Apparently had links with the black market in Paris.”
Louvois chuckled.
“Ah, you mean Le Caméléon.”
The sobriquet seemed particularly inappropriate. Somehow the Saint could not imagine the portly figure of Philippe Florian merging into any background, but he remembered that members of the Resistance had used many strange nicknames to protect themselves. Louvois himself had been known as Colonel Eglantine.
“Alors?” Simon prompted.
“A brave and useful man,” said Louvois seriously. “He was big in the black market, it is true, but that was a good cover. The Germans thought he was a collaborator, so they tolerated his activities, but the information he gained he passed on to the Resistance. His connections helped us in many ways.”
“Then why did he run when the Allies took Paris?”
“He was in the middle. Not many people knew of his work. He had to go to ground until his name was cleared. Only a few collaborators ever got to trial,” Louvois added pointedly.
“You don’t know anything about what he has been doing since the war ended, I suppose,” asked the Saint hopefully.
“A wealthy man, I believe,” Louvois replied. “I think he has several successful businesses, but I could find out more if you like.”
“I’d be very grateful. Can I phone you again after lunch? Also anything on his assistant, Henri Pichot.”
“Bien volontiers. I will see what I can do.”
The Saint emerged from the gloom of the post office and went in search of sustenance. A stroll down the Rue de la Republique brought him to the only restaurant listed in his edition of the Guide Michelin, the Univers, a modest but comfortable hostelry overlooking the Place Aristide Briand, on the perimeter of the old town. He enjoyed an eminently satisfying meal of pâté maison followed by a robustly garlicked preparation of tripes for which he had an uninhibited affection, but in the interests of dental hygiene eschewed a toffee-flavoured dessert which paid tribute to the town’s traditional product. He took his time to finish the bottle of ice-cold rose which he had ordered at the beginning of the repast, until he estimated that it was not too soon for a leisured return to the Place d’Inguimbert and his second call to Antoine Louvois.
Again he wrote down the number and waited until the clerk announced that despite the efforts of the French telephone system his call had been connected.
“Any luck?” Simon asked as soon as he was put through.
This time he did not have to identify himself.
“A little,” Louvois replied guardedly. “Florian owns a couple of factories, light engineering. He started after the war with a small government contract and never looked back. Recently bought into a chain of American-style snack bars, they’re doing well too.”
“Quelle horreur!” said the Saint, with feeling. “But does anything shady seem to be involved?”
“Nothing you could be definite about. There was talk that his government contracts were payment for something someone didn’t want made public, probably to do with the war. And I’m told that some of his financial dealings have been pretty close to the borderline. He got into the snack business after a couple of fires almost bankrupted the company. There is always gossip when things like that happen.”
“And Pichot?”
“Apparently he handles the legal side for Florian. Very sharp and very ambitious, so I’m told. Lives well, too. An apartment near the Étoile, likes his nights out in the best places, and has a petite amie with expensive tastes.”
The Saint thought of Jeanne Corday and smiled.
“Thanks, that’s enough for now. Antoine, you have been a great help.”
“Are you in trouble, Simon?”
Simon laughed.
“Nothing I can’t handle, mon pôte. Next time I’m in Paris I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
“Moi aussi.”
He walked back to the garage with a new lightness in his step. The information he had gleaned was nothing substantial but it had been just enough to brush away some of the cobwebs of theories that had hampered him. He was in no hurry to return to Ingare. His next move was already decided upon, and that was not scheduled until later in the day.
The Mercedes was in the workshop, a pathetically crumpled appendage to the crane on the breakdown truck. After a long silent survey, the Saint was able to make his own painful prognosis.
“Maybe we could sell it to some art gallery as a piece of modern sculpture,” he said.
“It could perhaps be completely rebuilt,” the garagiste told him hopefully.
“You had better keep it until Monsieur Florian decides what is to be done with it,” said the Saint.
He paid his bill and added a generous tip, and pointed the Hirondel back towards Château Ingare.