Page 81 of Whispers At Dawn
She rushed forward at the sight of him. ‘Good morning, Monsieur Abadie, I have important information for you.’
‘You bother me on a Sunday? It must be urgent,’ he said, huffing. Armand had fallen into the habit of coming into his office on Sundays because he had the place to himself. The others were with their families and not being a family man and not having close friends, he found Sundays dull. Instead of sitting at home alone, he would come in and study his suspect notebook and check out the informer notes he had collated during the week. Now this woman had interrupted his reflection time, and it irritated him.
‘Forgive the intrusion, I would not have come if it wasn’t important,’ she said, touching the brim of her hat with a nervous gesture.
‘Very well, you’d better come in,’ Armand said, and she followed him inside. It was a sultry morning and his office was humid.
‘Take a seat, madame.’ Armand waved at the chair on the other side of his desk. He extracted his notebook, and with the solemnity of a detective, he opened it and located the page marked with the informant’s name. ‘Here you are. Last time we spoke, you agreed to bring me information about anyone suspicious frequenting your shop in the village.’
The woman nodded.
‘What do you wish to tell me?’ Armand waited, his pen poised, hoping it was something worthwhile and not the usual dreary nonsense people came to him with, hoping in exchange to get preferential treatment and extra rations.
‘It’s about the man you asked me to keep an eye out for.’
Armand’s head snapped up. Now she had his full attention. ‘Go on,’ he said, his tone commanding.
‘I knew I’d seen him before and was trying to think where I recognised him from,’ said the woman slowly, relishing the telling of her tale.
Armand clicked his tongued. ‘Yes, and presumably now you know?’
She raised her face to the ceiling as she spoke, as though acting out the revelation. ‘It came to me in the middle of the night.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Armand. ‘I don’t have all day, madame, please get to the point.’
The woman’s lips pursed, and lines of annoyance creased her brow. ‘Well, you see, the man is the spitting image of Monsieur Saint-Clair’s nephew, who used to spend summers at the château. It must be at least twenty years since I saw him last. He and his brother used to buy sweets in our shop. Well, it was my father’s shop then, God rest his soul.
Anyway, a few days ago, he came in for cigarettes. It took me ages to place him, but I’d know his eyes anywhere. They’re so dark, they’re almost black. He’s grown into such a handsome man. Mind you, they were good-looking boys then too. Us village girls used to trail about after them. Quite a stir they caused, but they kept themselves to themselves. You know what those posh types are like.’
Armand sighed. The woman was determined to draw the story out. ‘I fail to see why this concerns me. A handsome boy with dark eyes visited every summer aeons ago, so presumablydark eyes run in the family. But the man I want information about isn’t Monsieur Saint-Clair’s nephew. He’s a distant relative from St. Malo.’
‘I haven’t got to the best bit yet,’ the woman said, clutching her handbag and staring at him with her chin thrust out. ‘What do I get when I tell you what you want to know?’
These informants were all the same. All they cared about were their own selfish desires. Armand couldn’t resist taunting her. ‘But madame, is being of service to France and a thank you from the government not enough to satisfy you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, monsieur. A thank you, whilst pleasant, won’t put food in my belly.’
‘Very well, so it’s food you want?’
‘Triple rations and increased supplies for my shop,’ she said, a cunning expression on her face, as though she knew she’d got him.
Armand reined his irritation in, eager to hear what information she had about Luc’s relative she deemed so important that he would reward her so generously.
‘Done. As long as the information pertains to the man in question and is not just village gossip from when you were a girl. There is, after all, nothing sinister in Luc Saint-Clair having hosted his nephews for the summer.’
‘I haven’t made myself clear,’ she said, her eyes gleaming.
‘Now is your moment, madame. Please reveal what you know and let us both get on with our day.’
‘A glass of something strong might help me recall the details in sharper focus,’ she said.
Armand groaned, before turning to a tray on the sideboard where he kept a bottle of brandy. He poured the amber liquid into two glasses and passed one to the informant.
She drained it in one shot and resumed talking. ‘The boys were Monsieur Luc’s sister’s sons. To my knowledge, the familywould travel from England every summer to stay at the château. She and her husband had emigrated there, you see, and the boys were born in London and grew up there.’ Now the woman leaned back in the chair, looking pleased with herself.
‘I still don’t see how this applies to the distant relative and his wife. Are you saying he is directly related to the English boys?’
The woman licked her lips and pushed her glass forward on the desk for a top up. When Armand followed her cue, she took a sip and then paused dramatically.
