“Thank you,” he said simply. “It might be important.”
That night I was alone at my house. Saturday was Fritz’s night off, and Tania had left, I imagine, sometime during the day. I was somewhat surprised by Fritz’s absence-normally he stayed at the house even on Saturdays-but of course he was perfectly free to go out. Perhaps he’d met a girl while shopping, though he was very shy with women and seemed not to like them particularly. It had taken him some months to be natural with Tania, who was the mildest of creatures.
Beset with a certain heaviness, I wandered about the large and empty house. I felt I should know more, that enough had happened to form some conclusions, but the problem was that-much as I hated to admit it-the actions of everyone involved invited suspicion. I lit a cigarette and sat on the darkened stairs. The house itself had an eeriness clinging to it. Something was making me nervous, possibly a sagging belief in my own competence. I felt I should file a report to Paris, but somehow, even with Marcel’s death, there seemed nothing to report. It all seemed so parochial now, a personal matter having nothing to do with the war or with France. I felt out of touch with any national effort, and trapped in a tightening circle of local intrigue.
After a small supper of reheated stuffed bell peppers, endive salad, and several glasses of beaujolais, I tried to read, but found I couldn’t shake this feeling of unease. I checked the doors to see that they were locked and then, turning off all the lights save one, went upstairs to my room for the first time since I’d left it that morning.
I had nearly finished undressing before I noticed something on my desk. I crossed over to it, sat down, lit another cigarette. It was a familiar bit of folded paper, probably left for Fritz earlier in the day with instructions to deliver it to me. Opening it, I saw several columns listing farm produce with asking prices in various locations. Wearily, I pulled the tattered code book from where I had it taped under my desk. Smoke from my cigarette burned in my eyes, and I stubbed out the butt on the desk top, impatiently brushing the ashes to the floor. In a few minutes I had the message entirely decoded.
Paris had taken the initiative. They were transferring me to Bordeaux, again for what I interpreted to be desk work, since there was no active theater there. I went downstairs and poured myself a cognac. I’d been moved many times in my career, but I’d never been dismissed from a case before it had been solved. Apparently Paris had decided that I was useless here, or that my usefulness in general was at an end. I paced.
Finally I sat down and pulled my pad in front of me, beginning the even more complicated process of composing a detailed response in code. I would not go to Bordeaux, even if it meant resigning. With that thought, I sat bolt upright and crossed out what I had begun to write. Sometimes a course of action seems impossible until it is defined; once defined, it becomes inevitable. I leaned back in my chair and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
The carefully worded response was completed just as I heard the lock turn in the front door. I came to the head of the stairs and saw Fritz enter. He took off his coat and hung it neatly on a peg in the hall. I called out his name.
He looked up. “Sir?”
“Pleasant evening?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care for a cognac?”
“I believe I would, thank you.”
I came down and we went into the sitting room. He naturally refilled my glass, then poured his own drink. I handed him the note I’d written and asked him to mail it for me the next day.
“Certainly.” He paused, sipping at his drink. “Madame Chessal took me to dinner this evening. Perhaps it’s none of my affair, sir, but she seemed quite worried about you. She said to remind you that you were picnicking tomorrow. I’ve already planned a lunch,” he added.
“Yes. I remember. What did she say?”
“Only that she was afraid you were in some special danger. I assume relating to Monsieur Routier’s death. I confess that I’ve been concerned about your appetite recently. Did you read that one of the men investigating his death was killed last night?”
“Yes.”
“Well, madame seems to think there is a kind of plot, and that you’re somehow deeply involved.”
I shook my head slowly. “Well, you know women, Fritz. They worry about little things. I’m not sure that Marcel’s death was not suicide, and that investigator may simply have been robbed. I assure you I’m in no plot. Marcel’s death did upset me, and business has been weighing me down-unnecessarily, I think-for several weeks. In fact, that note you are holding is a letter of resignation. I’ve decided to stay here in Valence and live out my days in what peace I can hold on to. God knows I don’t need the money, and I do need a rest.”
He nodded. “I think that’s a good idea, sir.”
“Well, fine,” I said. “I think I’ll be going to bed now. Would you again wake me early?” I raised my glass. “To victory, France, and peace.”
We drank the toast and retired.
10
The next morning, I picked up Tania at nine o’clock, and we took her carriage into town for Mass. It was a grand morning, and when I told Tania of my plans to stay in Valence, she threw her arms around me and laughed like a schoolgirl.
“Jules, that’s wonderful!”
We sat happily through the service, and I resolved to forget my business for at least a day. Though I had resigned, I had no intention of giving up the investigation of Marcel’s death. It was a matter both of pride and survival, for I entertained no doubts that all of us were indeed in some special danger.
I wondered whether Paris would respect my reply or whether they would be difficult. I had worked for them for over thirty years and undeniably knew many secrets, codes, and strategies. The situation might become very sticky. They could be most persuasive if they had to be. I put the thought out of my mind. I would have to deal with that later. For the time being, Lupa might not have been convinced of Tania’s innocence, but I was. It was a good feeling.
We returned to my home and picked up the basket lunch Fritz had prepared: a cold roast chicken, hard-boiled eggs, several bottles of beer, and some dried fruits. He’d even managed to find a bit of brick chocolate for dessert.
We left the house and followed the brook across the road and down into the meadow beyond, where a few field horses grazed peacefully. I carried the small folding table and chairs, and Tania the basket. About two kilometers downstream, the brook widens into a placid pond, dotted here and there with fowl and surrounded by a rather dense woods. We picked our way into one of the several clearings and set up the table, which Tania covered with the plain white cloth Fritz had given us. Then she took off her bonnet and shoes and went to wade in the pond. I sat and watched her, absentmindedly shelling an egg.
I called to her, and she came back to the table. We drank beer and ate slowly, talking of food and books. She had just finished War and Peace (in Russian!) and contended that it was the greatest book ever written.
“It says everything about everything,” she gushed. “I only wish this war would end with a spirit of rejuvenation.”
“I’m sure it will,” I said, taking her hand. “We’re not so old, you know.”
“That’s easy for you to say. A woman at forty, especially if she has grown children, can’t expect much rejuvenation. She gets older, that’s all.”
I laughed heartily. “And a man in his midfifties? What about him?”
“Men are different,” she replied.
“Et vive la…”
Her eyes twinkled. She was half teasing. “Have you read Darwin?”
“A little.”
“Do you know he says that humans are the only species whose females live beyond the age of childbearing? Why do you suppose that is?”