Robert Harris - An Officer and a Spy

‘He did, most definitely. You can see it in his handwriting. I can show you, in fact.’ Gribelin goes once again to his filing cabinet and returns with a bulging folder, several centimetres thick. He opens it. ‘The first item is the actual document Dreyfus wrote down at Colonel du Paty’s dictation.’ He pushes the file over to me. ‘You can see how his writing changes halfway through, as he realises he’s been trapped and tries to disguise it.’

It starts like an ordinary letter: Paris, 15 October 1894. Having the most serious reasons, sir, for temporarily retaking possession of the documents I had passed on to you before taking off on manoeuvres. .

I say, ‘I don’t see any change halfway through. .’

‘Yes, there is, it’s obvious. Here.’ Gribelin leans across and taps the letter. He sounds exasperated. ‘Exactly here, where the colonel made him write the hydraulic brake of the 120 millimetre cannon — that was when he understood what was happening. You can see the way his writing suddenly gets larger and less regular.’

I look again. I still don’t see it. ‘Perhaps, if you say so. .’

‘Believe me, Colonel, we all noticed the change in his demeanour. His foot began to tremble. Colonel du Paty accused him of changing his style. Dreyfus denied it. When the dictation was finished, the colonel told him he was under arrest for treason.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘Superintendent Cochefort and his assistant seized him and searched him. Dreyfus continued to deny it. Colonel du Paty showed him the revolver and offered him the honourable course.’

‘What did Dreyfus say to that?’

‘He said, “Shoot me if you want to, but I am innocent!” He was like a character in a play. At that moment Colonel du Paty called out for Major Henry, who was hidden behind the screen, and Major Henry took him away to prison.’

I start to turn the pages of the file. To my astonishment, every sheet is a copy of the bordereau . I open it at the midpoint. I flick to the end. ‘My God,’ I murmur, ‘how many times did you make him write it out?’

‘Oh, a hundred or more. But that was over the course of several weeks. You’ll see they’re labelled: “Left hand”, “right hand”, “standing up”, “sitting down”, “lying down”. .’

‘You made him do this in his cell, presumably?’

‘Yes. Monsieur Bertillon, the handwriting expert from the Préfecture of Police, wanted as large a sample as possible so that he could demonstrate how he managed to disguise his writing. Colonel du Paty and I would visit Dreyfus at Cherche-Midi, usually around midnight, and interrogate him throughout the night. The colonel had the idea of surprising him while he was asleep — springing in and shining a powerful lantern in his face.’

‘And what was his mental state during all this?’

Gribelin looks shifty. ‘It was rather fragile, to be frank with you, Colonel. He was held in solitary confinement. He was not allowed any letters or visitors. He was often quite tearful, asking after his family and so forth. I remember he had some abrasions on his face.’ Gribelin touches his temple lightly. ‘Around here. The warders told us he used to hit his head against the wall.’

‘And he denied any involvement in espionage?’

‘Absolutely. It was quite a performance, Colonel. Whoever trained him taught him very well.’

I continue to leaf through the file. I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . I am forwarding to you, sir, several interesting items of information. . The writing deteriorates as the days pass. It is like a record from a madhouse. I start to feel my own head reeling. I close the file and push it back across the table.

‘That’s fascinating, Gribelin. Thank you for your time.’

‘Is there anything else I can assist you with, Colonel?’

‘I don’t think so, no. Not just at the moment.’

He cradles the file tenderly in his arms and takes it over to the filing cabinet. I pause at the door and look back at him. ‘Do you have any children, Monsieur Gribelin?’

‘No, Colonel.’

‘Are you married, even?’

‘No, Colonel. It never fitted with my work.’

‘I understand. I’m the same. Good night, then.’

‘Good night, Colonel.’

I trot down the stairs to the first floor, picking up speed as I go, past the corridor to my office, down the stairs to the ground floor, across the lobby and out into the sunshine, where I fill my lungs with reviving draughts of clean fresh air.

I sleep very little that night. I sweat and turn and twist on my narrow bed, corrugating the sheets until it feels as if I am lying on stones. The windows are open to try to circulate some air, but all they admit is the noise of the city. In my insomnia I end up counting the distant chimes of the church clocks every hour from midnight until six. Finally I drop off to sleep, only to be woken thirty minutes later by the hoarse horn blasts of the early morning tramway cars. I dress and go downstairs and walk up the street to the bar on the corner of the rue Copernic. I have no appetite for anything more substantial than black coffee and a cigarette. I look at Le Figaro . An area of high pressure off the south-west coast of Ireland is moving across the British Isles, the Netherlands and Germany. The details of the Tsar’s forthcoming visit to Paris have yet to be announced. General Billot, the Minister of War, is attending the cavalry manoeuvres in Gâtinais. In other words, in these dog days of August, there is no news.

By the time I reach the Statistical Section, Lauth is already in his office. He wears a leather apron. He has produced four prints of each of the two Esterhazy letters: damp and glistening, they still reek of chemical fixer. He has done his usual excellent job. The addresses and signatures have been blocked out but the lines of handwriting are sharp and easily legible.

‘Good work,’ I say. ‘I’ll take them with me — and the original letters, too, if you don’t mind.’

He puts them all in an envelope and hands it to me. ‘Here you are, Colonel. I hope they lead you somewhere interesting.’ There is an imploring spaniel’s look in his pale blue eyes. But he has already asked me once what I want with them, and I have refused to answer. He dare not ask again.

I take great pleasure in ignoring the implied question and wishing him a jaunty ‘Good day, Lauth,’ before strolling back to my office. I remove one print of each of the letters and slip them into my briefcase; all the rest go into my safe. I lock my office door behind me. In the lobby I tell the new concierge, Capiaux, that I’m not sure when I’ll be back. He’s an ex-trooper in his late forties. Henry dredged him up from somewhere and I’m not entirely sure I trust him: to me he has the glassy-eyed, broken-veined look of one of Henry’s drinking companions.

It takes me twenty minutes to walk to the Île de la Cité, to the headquarters of the Préfecture of Police, a gloomy fortress rising over the embankment beside the pont Saint-Michel. The building is the old municipal barracks, as dark and ugly inside as out. I give my visiting card to the porter — Lt Col. Georges Picquart, Ministry of War — and tell him I wish to see Monsieur Alphonse Bertillon. The man is immediately respectful. He asks me to come with him. He unlocks a door and ushers me through it, then locks it behind us. We climb a narrow, winding stone staircase, floor after floor of steps so steep I am bent half double. At one point we have to stop and press ourselves against the wall to let past a dozen prisoners descending in single file. They trail a stench of sweat and despair in their wake. ‘Monsieur Bertillon has been measuring them,’ explains my guide, as if they have been to visit their tailor. We resume our ascent. Finally he unlocks yet another door and we emerge on to a hot and sunny corridor with a bare wooden floor. ‘If you wait in here, Colonel,’ he says, ‘I’ll find him.’