Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

‘Telephone?’ said Joe morosely. ‘Do they have the telephone down there?’

‘They certainly do. Halfway between Paris and Reims, you’d expect it. Things have changed, Sandilands, since you were dodging German shells over there eight years ago. No one like the French when it comes to reconstruction. Still, when you come to think of it — they’ve had a lot of practice, poor souls. Look at it this way — sorting out Charles-Auguste’s little problem is the teeniest bit of last-minute reconstruction. Least we can do, wouldn’t you say?’

At this point Joe, mystified and discouraged, sighed and surrendered the pass.

‘Now. To business!’ At last the file was opened and Redmayne pretended to riffle through it. He had clearly made himself familiar with the contents and barely needed to refer to it during his briefing.

‘Know anything about shell-shock? Or the condition we must now call “neurasthenia” or “war psychosis”?’

‘I’ve encountered cases, sir. I can’t say I’ve made a study of it.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to. We have, naturally. In fact I’ve managed to put together a few papers here outlining the very latest thinking on the condition. Make yourself familiar with them. It may help you in your enquiry.’

‘My enquiry? And does it have a subject, my enquiry?’

‘Of course. But not what I gather to be your usual kind of subject. No rotting corpse on offer, no member of the aristocracy done to death in mysterious circumstances. No, the reverse, in fact. You’ll be helping to solve the mystery of someone who’s decidedly (and rather inconveniently) alive. ’

He produced from the file a cutting from a French newspaper. The article occupied the whole of the front page and carried a large portrait photograph. Joe took it and translated the headline. ‘ Do you know this man?’ He studied the photograph for a few moments and looked up. ‘Of course I know him. Doesn’t everybody?’

‘What! Are you serious?’

‘But his face is everywhere in London at the moment. On billboards ten feet high. It’s Ronald Colman.’

Pleased to have puzzled his boss he added kindly, ‘The film actor, sir, but a Ronald Colman after a heavy night out on the tiles, you’d say. Looks rather beaten up. You haven’t seen him in Her Night Of Romance? . . Lady Windermere’s Fan ? And most recently Beau Geste ? Oh, an excellent film! I do recommend it. I’m sure Lady Redmayne could tell you all about him. The gentleman is English by birth, wounded in the war and now making a name for himself on the silver screen in America.’

‘Do be serious, Commander.’

Joe smiled. ‘The resemblance is, actually, quite striking.’ He looked again at the finely drawn, handsome face with its neat moustache.

‘Interesting. Ramble on, will you. First impressions are usually worth hearing. When they’re not flippantly delivered.’

‘No, I agree, sir, this could not possibly be a screen actor. This man is unaware of or indifferent to the camera. He’s not seeing the photographer, you’d say. He’s not looking in that slightly embarrassed way we have to the side or past the lens or narcissistically into it. His expression is impossible to read. A mask. There are signs of a wound along his jaw and I’d say he was about two stones underweight.’ He began to read out snatches from the accompanying text. ‘The man of mystery was found wandering around a railway station. . It’s thought one of a batch of late-release prisoners from a German prisoner-of-war camp for the mentally ill. . Poor chap. That would account for his vacant expression. The man cannot speak, has lost his memory and has been passed along from one asylum to another, fetching up at Reims where he is thought to have originated. The director of the asylum. . um. . from a swift perusal of this report I’d say he would seem to be a splendid fellow. . has interested himself in the stranger’s case and taken this unusual step to try to establish his identity and locate his family.’

Joe looked up more cheerfully. ‘Well, I can’t see a problem there. A man with such striking looks must have been instantly identified, wouldn’t you think?’

Redmayne sighed. ‘And there’s our problem, Sandilands. Would you believe — over a thousand families from all over France have claimed him! They’ve mobbed the asylum demanding to take him home with them. And, as you might guess, most of the claimants are female! Mothers, wives and sisters by the dozen. All desperate to get their man — or perhaps any man — back from the front after all these years. Poor devils.’

‘Easy enough to rule out most of the candidates, I’d have thought. Just a matter of process. Now I’d have — ’

‘Yes, yes. Whatever you can think of, the French authorities have already done. Height five foot eleven, fair hair, blue eyes. Well, in a country of largely dark-haired, dark-eyed inhabitants, those facts ruled out ninety per cent of the bidders for a start. He didn’t feature in their Bertillon files so — no criminal record. Unless he went uncaught during his career of course. There’s always that. The French police only record the sportsmen they’ve actually apprehended and put behind bars.’

‘Fingerprints, sir? Have they explored the possibilities? I know the system hasn’t captured the French imagination — so much invested in the Bertillon recording method — but surely a comparison would be possible and most revealing? I understand their police laboratory in Lyon to be in advance of anything we can supply ourselves here in London.’

Joe heard the touch of eagerness in his own voice and sighed.

Redmayne hurried on, playing his fish with confidence. ‘Other physical details like limbs broken before the war. . presence or absence of. . eliminated a few more candidates and the upshot is — the authorities were left with a solid core of four claimants who will not be discouraged. They are all perfectly certain that the man belongs to them. Here’s a list.’

Joe took the sheet of paper and read out one by one the names and addresses of the claimants. ‘Number one: Madame Guy Langlois. A grocer’s wife — or widow, do you suppose? From a village near Reims. Claims to be his mother. Her son, Albert, disappeared during the first battle of the Marne.’

‘“Missing in action. Presumed to be dead,”’ supplied Redmayne. ‘But no body was ever found and no identification medallion handed in.’

‘Number two: a Mademoiselle Mireille Desforges of Reims, claiming a “certain relationship” with the mystery man from before the war, vows she can identify him to everyone’s satisfaction by particular physical characteristics not yet revealed to the public. “A certain relationship”? Rather coy phrasing from our confrères?’

‘Yes. Family newspaper. Probably means he was her what d’ye call it?. . her pimp? And the “satisfaction” she promises would undoubtedly be her own. Chap probably made off with her money in the way of those gentlemen and the lady wants to retrieve some of it.’

‘Number three: a whole family, evidently. The Tellancourts. Small farmers from the Reims area. Brother and sister adamant that this is their older brother Thomas.’

‘Some urgency to their claim. Sad case. Lost almost everything in the war. Father and mother are still alive and equally certain of their identification. They present a strong claim. Whole village has come out in support. Papa Tellancourt is very ill and not expected to last much longer. They are vociferous in their cries for an early decision. They were actually caught in the act of smuggling the chap out of the institution,’ he smiled, ‘in their eagerness to acquire him.’