Red rainbow, p.10
Red Rainbow, page 10
Scrambler still wasn’t having it. “Don’t downplay what she did. War is all about fucking numbers. Those 87 may be key during the Battle of Paris, the Battle of France. Even if there are reprisals, how many more lives would those soldiers have taken when it’s time to fight?”
“Plague could have made them ill, you could have jammed their weapons, I could have wandered amongst them and tried to distract them – none of them are as effective as what she did, I accept that. But we’ve never been a death squad,” the Love Phantom said, proud that they’d not taken that path. Was he really going to start now, use that gift to cause harm?
The Love Phantom found something that night back in his master home that offered a possibility amongst Patience’s notes. A lengthy paragraph from the same person. A farewell to his family and warning for the future. He sounded as though he were a member of the Milice who had come a cropper and feared for them. If any Frenchmen had to die – and the Love Phantom’s preference was for none – members of the Milice were the best option. Their actions during the Occupation doomed them anyway, once Paris was free, so all he would really be doing was bringing the inevitable forward to save others. He made plans to visit Patience for more, briefly confusing her abilities in his head. He wanted a different statement in this handwriting, something she could not help him with. She did not choose what she wrote. She could not forge for them as he wanted her to. She didn’t need to, Patience having played her part in providing this valuable resource, a long example of this dead man’s handwriting for a hired gun to work off. One problem solved, and finding a forger was already sorted in his head. The next challenge was drafting the statement. How could he set them up to appear, if not responsible, at least complicit with Florence? A strange and implausible alliance that, and hard to make appear convincing. A bit harder than a drinks campaign, that one.
Interlude I
Milice
Saturday lunch with their mother and sister was a tradition for the Varon brothers that lapsed a little during the war, the odd one missed now and again. The surviving brother, Boyce, observed this scrupulously since Beau’s recent passing. He brought a mutual colleague and friend with him each time, Faucher appreciative of the gesture and of Mrs Varon’s fine cooking. None of them were very expressive, grieving stoically, but being invited to fill the empty chair was an honour left unspoken. Faucher didn’t say much in general, confident with being silent for long periods. Boyce liked him all the more for this and wished that more people were like him. Faucher expressed himself better physically, instigating and breaking up rucks, Faucher always keen to wade in when there was trouble, always prepared to clatter heads together. He’d been kept busy these last few years.
Such was the lot of the Milice. It was not a popular or easy job, hence why those drawn to it were men cut from the same cloth as the Varons and Faucher. Patriots with a calling. They’d been there back in the SOL days, aiding the New Order, muscle for the Vichy administrators to count on, providing those administrators stayed aligned to the correct course for France.
They were not fair-weather fascists – these beliefs went back a long way. The Nazi invasion offered opportunities, their status elevated while remaining true to themselves. Politics had been an evening and weekend avid interest for the Varon brothers. The Occupation offered them the chance to work fulltime in a job they loved, doing something they fervently believed in, establishing the Far Right in France as something beyond the fringes and sidelines. The defeat by Germany was not a negative; it was transformative, reviving long-dead Gallic spirit, an opportunity for a new breed of Frenchmen to shape the future of their great nation.
The country had been going to the dogs for so long it was only something as drastic as invasion and occupation that could revitalise it. Liberal tolerance and conservative complacency were out of place in what was to come – they were not there yet, much more work was to be done, which was why Boyce and Faucher would only stay for the meal and then leave. It was a new dawn for those willing to embrace it (and only those that fit certain criteria) and dark days for those opposing it.
Mrs Varon asked the boys (Boyce was 35 but would always be her boy, Faucher turning 30 next week) what they were up to, meaning their work. Boyce would not tell her about Florence Pascoe – it was better she did not know about the theatre massacre, which they put down as macabre and misinformed gossip whenever they heard it mentioned elsewhere. They were looking for her and also for Patience Condeh. Boyce said contemptuously, “What does it say about our city that it’s so hard to find a Negress?”
“I see plenty of them,” Mrs Varon said, echoing his tone.
“That’s my point, Ma, they don’t stand out like they should.”
His mother understood. Father had been quieter, sharing the same views but much more private about them. Mother was less inhibited, thinking nothing of making her feelings clear out in public in ways that could not be misinterpreted that generally had both boys sniggering. The conflict, nearly always one-sided, was entertaining, watching their mother put interlopers in their place. Beaulene was different to the rest of the family. She was only 16 and still saw the good in everyone, a huge failing. Boyce teased her about this and just in general. As their mother went to sort out dessert, he said to her,
“Casimir still sniffing around?”
Beaulene half-smiled and rolled her eyes, as much of an answer as he was going to get to this oft-repeated question. He knew that she’d severed contact, which had been minimal in the first place. It had been over a year ago that word had reached them that their sister was seen walking to school with a boy with dark features. Dark hair and brown eyes were fine – this described most of the Varons, but they had white skin whereas Casanova Casimir had a dark complexion. Casimir was French, as it turned out, but the brothers decided it wasn’t a good look for her to be seen with him and let her know. Beaulene had assured them it was perfectly innocent, that they were simply headed the same way to school and that it would be rude not to talk to him. They gave her a choice: she could be rude by not talking to him, or they would be rude on her behalf and have words with him. Wisely, she picked the former.
After dessert, Boyce ordered Beaulene to go to the shop and buy him some cigarettes while he sat and waited for his food to digest. She complied without question. After she had gone, Mrs Varon said, “Go easy on her. She’s been having a hard time lately.”
“We all miss Beau. She’ll feel worse if I don’t give her a hard time, if I start acting differently. We’ve just got to keep going.”
“Some boys have been picking on her about Beau’s death. They say you’ll be swinging when the Yanks come marching in.”
“Who?”
“She won’t say.”
“Yes she will,” Boyce asserted.
“Don’t press it,” Mrs Varon said. She knew it was too late for that, surely realising that mentioning it to him guaranteed that he would sort it out. He was not having that, nobody would talk to her like that.
Beaulene returned, smiling upon her return, telling them as she took her jacket off, “Every time I buy them, he thinks they’re for me.”
“Tell him to be grateful for my money and to mind his business. Who’s been lying about me then?”
“Sorry?”
“Which little shits have been worrying you about me swinging from a lamppost.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. Come on.”
“I don’t want any trouble for you or them. It’s just one really, the others are just around.”
“I’ll wait outside,” Faucher said. “Thank you for that lovely meal, Mrs Varon.” He drummed his full belly, which made her smile – she may have laughed if not for the situation developing with Boyce and Beaulene.
“You’re always welcome here,” Mrs Varon said, accepting his kiss on her cheek as he left, Faucher knowing better than to kiss Beaulene upon arrival or leaving.
Boyce stared at Beaulene, who asked her mother if she could go to her room. He warned her that he’d follow her there. A worse threat followed, that he’d go and ask questions himself if she didn’t answer him.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” Beaulene said.
“Never mind what he said about me. He said it to you. That’s reason enough for a slap. If you don’t care about yourself, what about Beau? He disrespected your dead brother. You’re going to let that go?”
“Everybody’s crazy right now.”
“Don’t make excuses. I guess me and Faucher are going to see all of your classmates today,” Boyce said, fully prepared to reschedule his afternoon to root out every teenager that said anything about his brother. And every one that laughed too.
“Promise me you won’t do anything. I’ll tell you the name if you promise not to do anything,” Beaulene said, rolling over quicker than most of his interviewees. She knew fine well that he didn’t make idle threats, that not complying would only escalate the problem.
“I promise.”
Boyce stored the name and plotted how to deal with the brat who disrespected Beau. Beau would not have let anyone speak so of Boyce had their positions been reversed, and he was no less proud. He’d had nobody to blame for Beau’s death, which had left him lacking someone to lash out at. Beau had died during sex with his lover. She was above, or perhaps below, suspicion. Her breast size was bigger than her IQ. At least he went out on top doing something he loved, if not someone. Boyce could make jokes about the manner of his passing, but Olivier Marvel was not permitted to even say any of their names. As hangings were on Marvel’s mind, a mock hanging was a potential avenue. Boyce and Faucher had to go to prison first to see a forger about a letter. The letter could have been very dangerous. It had been sent to the Gestapo. The sender was anonymous, stating that the attached letter was from a prominent member of the Milice, whose name was also omitted. It was written to seem like it was from one Milice member to another.
It’s time to remove the yoke. The Germans have scourged our land of many undesirables and set ideas in place we may build upon and adapt. We must be instrumental in toppling them. Their downfall is imminent. If we do not take the lead in this, and be seen to be doing so, our end will follow theirs and swiftly...
The letter repeated the same material over a page and a half, keeping the same belief system while portraying them as poised to turn on the Nazis like rats deserting a sinking ship. The letter referred to a woman called F. P. and how her unique abilities could speed up the process. It didn’t go into detail. It didn’t need to, it was so on the nose. The Gestapo thought so too, it seemed, showing them the letter and asking them if they recognised the handwriting. They all claimed not to, but Boyce asked to take the letter and promised to get to the bottom of it. He had to for it was personal.
It was also completely fake, Boyce challenging its authenticity from the off. The sentiment was wrong, the personality was wrong. This was a fake, no question. Beau knew fine well that they could take out Hitler himself and they’d still be held to account for their actions the previous years. There was no forgiveness from the general public towards them for their collaboration. Everything they had done had been tallied up by their silent, patient enemies.
Plourde was not a suspect due to his incarceration. Telling him this in the warden’s office (commandeered for their use) at the prison relaxed him. They did this to loosen his tongue – sometimes persuasion worked better than bullyboy tactics, though this was always in their back pocket. Boyce hoped he might recognise some personal signature to the forgery that might reveal which of his fellow forgers was likely to have done this. Failing this, a list of all of his contemporaries would do.
The last thing Boyce expected was a full confession. Plourde babbled after admitting to this, spotting that the atmosphere changed in an instant. He claimed to have been coerced into writing the note by a crooked guard, who had given him a strange chunk of text to base his forgery on. Plourde said he’d made a copy too – he didn’t reveal why, Boyce taking this to be an insurance policy. They had a guard escort them and Plourde through the prison back to his wing. They had to wait at the gate here, Plourde returning to the other side of the gate where he had the note. The guard allowed him to pass it over but was clearly annoyed with Boyce – and he wasn’t even the guard who Plourde had named. He’d be more pissed if what Plourde claimed was true.
“Remember what we said,” Plourde said as he watched them leave. They’d promised him nothing, and he hadn’t dared ask for much. Plourde had cooperated through fear. This comment now came from fear too, fear of reprisals from the guard he’d ratted out – maybe the guard at his side too. This fear was pleasing as it made his story more plausible.
So yes, Boyce did recall some meek variation on ‘I’ll help you regardless, but can you please see what you can do for me after’. He also remembered one of the 21 points of the SOL. Against the forgetting of crimes, For the punishment of the guilty.
Boyce secured the address of Officer Alarie from the prison record personnel files. The guard who allowed them access did so reluctantly and had to be reminded, verbally, of the pecking order. Boyce and Faucher made sure to drive straight to Alarie’s home to prevent him from being warned that they were coming. The look he gave upon seeing them at his door in full uniform showed he had not been warned. Guilty conscience or just the general fear they engendered? An interrogation would reveal that.
“Yes?” Alarie said, civil yet bewildered.
“Inside would be better,” Boyce said.
“That’s difficult. My wife is present...”
“Is she immobile?” Boyce sniped.
“No, no. I’ll ask her to leave.” Alarie left them at the door and returned after a short time, his wife apparently having left by the back door. “Come through.”
Boyce and Faucher declined the proffered chairs. As they did not sit down, Alarie did not either, the three men standing in his living room as Boyce relayed the accusation. He had both of Plourde’s forgeries in his hand, the letter he had been ordered to write and the copy he had made of the original text. That was a truly queer message. Those words seemed more in keeping with the brother he knew, but it was still worded strangely. It wasn’t quite a suicide note for it was written as though he’d already gone.
Alarie was more predictable than Plourde. He denied the allegations, calling into question Plourde’s character. His claim that Plourde pleaded innocent in court every time was likely true, but Boyce didn’t care if he lied under oath to God. Crucially, Plourde did not seem to be lying to him. Alarie was a different matter. He was a big man and didn’t give any outward sign of feeling intimidated by them, but Boyce’s gut told him he was lying. They did some digging on him straight away. The first anomalies were discovered Monday afternoon. Alarie had received large cheques at three different times in the last 12 months from César Vadeboncoeur.
Vadeboncoeur was an easy man to find. He was well known in Paris, the national managing director of Escolico, a company that made tooth-rotting beverages. Boyce took Faucher with him to Vadeboncoeur’s office to see why he was paying Alarie and what for. This proved to be a dead end. César was not involved. He explained the payments satisfactorily, asking that they keep it off the record. He had a friend who was incarcerated who he wanted to see comfortable. He apologised, admitting he knew it was wrong, but he knew his friend would do the same for him. He asked if he could have a day to get his affairs in order, Boyce telling him to forget about it. They weren’t going to send him down for looking out for a friend. César asked for a favour too far when he asked if they could keep quiet about Alarie, for they would go down together. Boyce made no promises about this. Alarie’s innocence remained in question.
César gave Boyce and Faucher parting gifts in the shape of a case of a new test product that wasn’t on the market yet. Faucher told Boyce he could give his share to Beaulene, fizzy drinks not to his taste, especially not orange and lime. Boyce popped by to the family home in the early evening. Beaulene was in her room, Mrs Varon warning him that she wouldn’t want to see him. Boyce knocked on her door and entered when he realised she wasn’t going to tell him to enter.
“I’ve got a gift for you that money can’t buy.” He held up a bottle of orange and lime and crouched down opposite her as she sat on the bed, Boyce holding it out for her to take from him. “The packaging on the finished product will look better. This isn’t on the market yet. I have more if you like them.”
Beaulene took the bottle from him and placed it on her bed. “I’m not angry with you. I’m angry at myself. I knew you’d do something even when you promised, and I still told you. It was so stupid of me.”
Boyce knew fine well what she was talking about. “You’re being stupid now. I told you I wouldn’t harm him and I haven’t.”
“He vanished off the streets the same day I told you about him. Don’t you see you’re making it worse? We’re finished and everybody knows it. We picked the wrong side.”
“The family picked one side. You sound like you’ve picked another.”
“Just let him go, please.”
“Try the drink. If you like it, I can get you a tour of the place.” César seemed a pleasant chap – his handshake proved he’d never done a day’s real graft in his life, but he could afford to have soft hands in his job, where only his arse was likely to be callused from sitting down all day, if the comfy chair and silk boxers didn’t protect his derriere.
Boyce left her to it and joined his mother. He asked her if she wanted to try any of the drink, her gurning face as she said, “Maybe,” showing she wasn’t thrilled at the thought. “I was thinking of sending her to stay with Flore and Jacques.”
