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.’
‘So,’ interrupted Rocco, ‘you were not part of this group?’
‘God, no! Nice of you to think so, young man, but I wasn’t courageous enough for that. I did provide certain… services for them and for other groups in the region, however.’
‘Photographic services.’
‘Yes. The Germans had closed down my shop but I was able to secrete enough supplies to carry on my work in a limited capacity. If anyone needed a photo for documentation, for example, I was able to help. It was a very small contribution, you understand, but… Anyway, the group in this photograph was a link in a somewhat fractured communist chain across central France. Most groups were part of the FTP — the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans — but this lot weren’t affiliated to others in the region, so I was interested in making a record of them. They argued a lot, as I recall, mostly about politics.’
‘And they didn’t mind you taking this picture?’
‘Far from it. They were delighted.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘They said they intended sending a copy to Moscow, to demonstrate how they were carrying on the worldwide fight against Fascism. Can you imagine it, the reaction of those ghastly boot-faces in the Kremlin receiving a photo like that? As if they would care!’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘They probably thought they’d get the Order of Lenin or some such bauble for sucking up to the Party.’
‘I take it you didn’t share their political views?’ Rocco said.
Poudric shook his head. ‘We had our own problems — like a war being fought right in our front room — without trying to overthrow our own establishment for the sake of someone else. Bloody fools.’ He stared off into space for a few seconds, before saying, ‘So which one are you interested in, Inspector Rocco?’
Rocco had thought about his approach on the way down. If Poudric had known the people in the shot personally, he might be reticent about divulging any information about them. He didn’t want to lean on the old man, especially given the background of the photograph. And who knew what sort of chain reaction it might set in motion, with old ghosts uncovered and memories disturbed that might be best left alone? But if this was the only lead he had, leaning might be his only option.
He reached across and placed a finger on Didier’s face. ‘This man.’
Poudric studied it carefully. ‘I remember him vaguely, but I must confess I didn’t take much notice of him as a subject. He wasn’t the most interesting character, you understand; always mouthing off, though, about the proletariat and the revolution — the glorious revolution, mind; funny how it’s never sordid or inglorious or ruinous. I thought he was a relentless little bore. As you can see from where his hand is resting, he seemed to think he had some degree of ownership over the woman, although I’m not sure the feeling was reciprocated.’
‘Do you recall his name?’
‘There were no names. It was the one stipulation: curiosity about backgrounds or origins wasn’t tolerated. It was tough enough getting this close, without pushing my luck too far. Especially with him.’ He tapped on Didier’s face, then pointed to another, the one face turned away from the camera. ‘And this one.’
‘What was so special about them?’
‘Well, your man just gave off an air, you know? Hot-tempered… like a mongoose on heat, ready for a fight with anyone. Unpleasant.’
‘And the other?’
‘Ah, him. The enigma.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He didn’t want his photo taken, made that clear from the start. When I took this, in fact, I thought he was going to shoot me. It was only the intervention of the others that stopped him. Silly, really — it only made me more interested.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘We’re tarts for new subjects, we photographers.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I waited and took a shot when he wasn’t looking. Caught him full on, almost.’
‘Why an enigma, though?’
Poudric hesitated, then said, ‘You’ll have heard of the SOE?’
‘Of course.’ The Special Operations Executive. Run out of London with a staff of British, French, Belgian and other volunteers, they fed, supplied and assisted the Resistance movement all over France and beyond. Dropping by parachute into occupied territory in the dead of night, creating havoc wherever they went, their exploits had reeked of romance, daring and excitement and had long passed into the stuff of legend.
‘I think he was an agent. He was passing through, organising supplies and distributing funds to the Resistance groups, one of the men said. French — I could tell that much by his speech — but definitely not a member of this lot.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Frankly? He was too clean. Too… correct. Officer class, at a guess.’
Rocco glanced again at the man, but he couldn’t see how a glimpse of a half-face could tell him anything more about Didier Marthe. Even less if the man had been part of the shadowy world of the SOE. Their secrets remained buried deep. Still, you could never tell. ‘Do you have that other photo?’ Perhaps if he got a look at the full face, it might stir some memories among those who knew about such things. He was thinking about Massin; he’d been part of the officer corps once. Maybe he could ask around among old colleagues. It was a long shot, but it might help tell where Didier had gone after the war, and what he had become involved in.
Links in the chain.
Poudric looked regretful. ‘Not yet. It’s here somewhere, I know it. But not all the photos I took have remained where they should. Like I told the woman who called here not long ago on this very subject, these things have a life of their own.’
Rocco felt a jump in his chest. ‘What woman?’
‘She came by a few weeks ago. Late one night, when I was in my study. She said she was a History student researching the Resistance in the war, and had read about my work building a wartime photo archive for the library. She asked if I had any shots of the communist groups around Poitiers. As it happened, I did.’ He opened the brown folder and took out a copy of the print Rocco had brought with him. ‘I dug it out when I knew you were coming.’
Rocco stared in disbelief. ‘It’s the same shot.’
‘Correct. She asked if she could have it, but this was the only one I had. She was very insistent and asked me to make a copy, so I printed one off while she waited and kept a copy. She paid me, too.’ He turned over the photo and tapped the logo on the back. ‘Hah. I even used my old shop stamp on the back without realising it. Habits, Inspector; very hard to break, some of them.’