Iain Pears - The Last Judgement

‘You know what’s in it?’

‘Not word for word, obviously. But occasionally if someone asks for something I have a quick look. We had an enquiry about six months ago about the Hartung family and I looked through the file. Unfortunately the man in question never contacted us again.’

‘What was his name?’

The director frowned. ‘I don’t know whether I should tell you.’

‘Oh, please do. After all, this man might be able to help me as well. You don’t like interference, remember. Nor do I.’

‘True. Just a moment.’

And he rummaged in his desk for a diary and flicked through the pages. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Here we are. His name was Muller. With an address in Rome. Have you heard of him?’

‘Oh, yes. I know him well,’ Flavia said, her heart beating a little faster at the news. So she wasn’t wasting her time after all.

‘And, as I say, I had a look at the file.’

She waited, and he smiled at her.

‘Well? Go on, then. Please tell me.’

Thuillier placed the tips of his fingers together in scholastic mode. ‘You must remember,’ he began cautiously, ‘that it is far from being a full account. For that you would need the judicial dossiers prepared in advance of his trial.’

‘Where can I get those?’

He smiled. ‘I very much doubt that you can. They’re classified. Not to be released for a century.’

‘I can ask.’

‘You can. All I can say is that I think you’d be wasting your time.’

‘I think you’re right.’

‘Tell me, how much exactly do you know about this period? Or about Hartung?’

Flavia confessed that she didn’t know much. What she’d learnt at school, mainly, together with what she’d found out about Hartung in the investigation.

‘Hartung’s son was trying to find out about him. I suppose that’s natural, but it did lead to his death. He was some sort of industrialist, wasn’t he?’

Thuillier nodded. ‘That’s right. Chemicals, mainly, but many other things as well. Very large family firm, founded about the turn of the century. He was the second generation and was the main figure who built it up. None of this, by the way, is in the files. It’s just what I know.’

‘The more the better. I think I may find out more by listening to you than I would have by reading. I’m quite glad now the file’s lost.’

Thuillier smiled and, suitably encouraged by her perfectly genuine appreciation, went on.

‘Well then. He was born in the 1890s and his family was a long-established part of the Jewish community in Paris. Even before Hartung et Cie took off they were wealthy, from various sorts of trade. Hartung was both a capitalist and a liberal. Workers’ housing projects, educational schemes, all the usual sort of thing you find in the more enlightened entrepreneurs of the day. He was one of the few employers to support the idea of statutory paid holidays for workers in the 1930s. He fought in the First World War and, if I remember correctly, was injured and decorated. I could find out the details if you want...’

‘No, no,’ she said, holding up her hand. ‘Perhaps later if it’s needed.’

‘As you wish. From the 1930s onwards, his career took on a new aspect. Like many French Jews, he had relations in Germany and, unlike many, he was perceptive enough to realize that the rise of Hitler was not something that would just go away if he kept his head down. So he appears to have embarked on a double-edged policy. On the one hand, helping Jews in Germany, and on the other keeping up contacts with the authorities there and with the French Right.

‘Now, with hindsight, it is clear that this was opportunism, playing the market both ways, so to speak. His lack of principle is obvious — now. Then, it was less clear. Lots of people were doing exactly the same; many were far more open in supporting the Right than he was. As in many crises, a lot of people merely wanted to keep themselves and their families safe, and would do whatever was necessary.’

‘But Hartung was different.’

‘Not really. He wanted to keep safe, and to keep his factories going. And he was successful; his factories were left surprisingly alone. He said, I believe, that this was due to his skill, the fact that they produced essential goods and his ability to pay vast bribes to fend off confiscation. Certainly he talked more and more about running out of funds.

‘He had a wife, very much younger than himself and very much more politically minded. I don’t think it was a close marriage, but they observed all the formalities. She was drawn more and more into the Resistance, and he inevitably got to know something of what she was doing. He was only on the fringes, mind; he was never allowed close in. But through her, he knew much more than he would have done otherwise. This, it seemed, was a fatal mistake.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Flavia said quickly, looking up from her note-pad, into which she had been writing as furiously and as fast as she could go. ‘His family. They got out?’

‘That’s right. His wife stayed, though. But his son was smuggled abroad at some stage.’

‘Yes. That checks. I’m sorry. I interrupted.’

‘That’s all right. Hartung’s wife was associated with a Resistance cell code-named Pilot. Do you know about those?’

‘A little.’

‘They were given code-names, mainly for radio identification purposes or for bureaucratic and security reasons in England. They were strictly isolated from each other to limit the damage if anything should go wrong. In this case, there was some overlap with another, bigger group called Pascal. In all, about a hundred and fifty people were involved.’

Thuillier rubbed his glasses and paused for a while to collect his thoughts. Flavia looked suitably sombre and encouraging. She was having a hard time imagining all this.

‘There were rumours of a traitor, of course. Perhaps that was part of the secretive life these people had to live. It was inevitable that suspicion and mistrust should thrive. But there was enough evidence that there was some basis to it. Operations went wrong; saboteurs would go out to find the Germans waiting for them. Supplies were dropped, and the Germans were there to catch them.

‘Eventually, as suspicion without proof mounted, they set a trap. A false operation was concocted, and news of it was given to Hartung alone. It worked: the Germans turned up again. Hartung fled, and the Germans responded fast. He’d told them more than anyone dreamed possible; within twelve hours, they’d swept up the whole of Pilot. Only a small handful survived; and they provided the damning evidence against Hartung after the war.’

‘And his wife?’

‘She was arrested and was presumably executed. He didn’t even try and save her. He had, apparently, made a bargain; he passed on what he knew and the Germans left him alone. When he fled, he told them and they swooped down before their information became too old to be useful.’

Flavia looked at him for a long time, nodding to herself and chewing this one over. ‘And most of what you’ve just told me came from the missing file?’

‘A lot of it, yes.’

‘Not from the material assembled by the prosecutor?’

‘Not directly. That was bound to be confidential until any trial — which of course didn’t happen. But I imagine it would have covered a lot of the same ground, and there were leaks and newspaper reports at the time.’

‘What happened to Hartung? I know he came back and was arrested.’

‘Perfectly simple, I think; he was interrogated by the prosecutor’s office. It must have become increasingly clear that the case against him was overwhelming, and what the verdict would be. He had a choice of waiting and being guillotined, or cutting short the agony and committing suicide. He chose the latter.’