of the past.
Jouvenaze told the inspector that his uncle Armand had died of cancer. The illness had dragged on, and he had spent his final days in a Libourne hospital. He was a bachelor his entire life and lived in a modest house. He worked as a farmhand on properties in Pomerol and Lalande de Pomerol. He had acquaintances at a bar in Catusseau, but as far as his nephew knew, the man didn’t have any good friends or other close relationships.
The man also admitted that this information was gleaned from what he had been told or had overheard as a child. He had never been allowed to speak to his solitary and taciturn uncle, even though they were neighbors. His parents, Antoine and Simone, both recently deceased, had given him, his brother, and his twin sister strict instructions to never talk to the man. Dominique’s parents had much earlier broken off all contact with certain family members.
As for Jean Sauveterre, Jouvenaze had never even met him. He had died in a plane crash in 1959. The DC7 flight from Paris to Abidjan had crashed in a pine forest just outside Bordeaux. It was the biggest plane crash France had ever known. There were fifty-three charred victims, and the blaze had destroyed a good part of the woods.
When the inspector questioned Jouvenaze about the two men’s political ties, he said he had no idea why the word Nazi and the SS insignia were left on the tombstones. He had never heard any talk of Nazis or the elite guard when he was growing up, other than what his parents told him about the war. It had to be random graffiti left by some delinquent kids from Libourne, Jouvenaze told the detective.
“All said and done, I’m left to take care of this whole thing, even though these two guys were perfect strangers to me,” he wearily concluded. “I have to tell my brother and sister, who live in Paris, and figure out what to do about the graves. And then there’s the matter of Uncle Armand’s house, which we inherited when our parents died.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father died of a heart attack a year ago, and my mother died three months later. When they inherited Armand’s house in 1998, they didn’t even open it or put it up for sale. It’s been closed since then, and we intend to get rid of it.”
“And you’ve never taken the time to go and look at it?” Barbaroux asked.
“I’ve been waiting for my brother and sister to come down. This may sound odd to you, but I have qualms about going in there all by myself. My parents pounded it into my siblings and me that we weren’t supposed to have anything to do with my uncle. Even now I feel like I’m going against their wishes.”
“According to the information I got from the city, it’s in the town of Pomerol, right?”
“Yes, in a place called Petite Racine, at the crossroads of Libourne, Pomerol, and Catusseau. It’s not very hard to find.”
Large drops of rain were beginning to pelt the cemetery. With a handshake, the inspector ended his meeting with Jouvenaze. Benjamin saw the man grimace as he extracted his hand from Barbaroux’s grip. The man had an unpleasant handshake. His palm was sweaty, and his grip was strong enough to break fingers. Jouvenaze promised to give his official statement as quickly as possible. He opened his umbrella and started walking away. A few seconds later, a heavy gust of wind ripped through the cemetery, flipping Jouvenaze’s umbrella inside out. Virgile shivered and pulled his collar even higher as he watched the man struggle with his umbrella in the distance. When Virgile turned back to the grave, rainwater was running down his forehead. He wiped it dry with the back of his hand.
Benjamin told Barbaroux that he would meet him at his office on the Allées de Tourny the next day, late in the morning, to take stock of the situation. It was time to cross-check the information each one had gathered, compare the viewpoints, and reflect on the mysterious links that seemed to connect the victims.
Jouvenaze told the inspector that his uncle Armand had died of cancer. The illness had dragged on, and he had spent his final days in a Libourne hospital. He was a bachelor his entire life and lived in a modest house. He worked as a farmhand on properties in Pomerol and Lalande de Pomerol. He had acquaintances at a bar in Catusseau, but as far as his nephew knew, the man didn’t have any good friends or other close relationships.
The man also admitted that this information was gleaned from what he had been told or had overheard as a child. He had never been allowed to speak to his solitary and taciturn uncle, even though they were neighbors. His parents, Antoine and Simone, both recently deceased, had given him, his brother, and his twin sister strict instructions to never talk to the man. Dominique’s parents had much earlier broken off all contact with certain family members.
As for Jean Sauveterre, Jouvenaze had never even met him. He had died in a plane crash in 1959. The DC7 flight from Paris to Abidjan had crashed in a pine forest just outside Bordeaux. It was the biggest plane crash France had ever known. There were fifty-three charred victims, and the blaze had destroyed a good part of the woods.
When the inspector questioned Jouvenaze about the two men’s political ties, he said he had no idea why the word Nazi and the SS insignia were left on the tombstones. He had never heard any talk of Nazis or the elite guard when he was growing up, other than what his parents told him about the war. It had to be random graffiti left by some delinquent kids from Libourne, Jouvenaze told the detective.
“All said and done, I’m left to take care of this whole thing, even though these two guys were perfect strangers to me,” he wearily concluded. “I have to tell my brother and sister, who live in Paris, and figure out what to do about the graves. And then there’s the matter of Uncle Armand’s house, which we inherited when our parents died.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father died of a heart attack a year ago, and my mother died three months later. When they inherited Armand’s house in 1998, they didn’t even open it or put it up for sale. It’s been closed since then, and we intend to get rid of it.”
“And you’ve never taken the time to go and look at it?” Barbaroux asked.
“I’ve been waiting for my brother and sister to come down. This may sound odd to you, but I have qualms about going in there all by myself. My parents pounded it into my siblings and me that we weren’t supposed to have anything to do with my uncle. Even now I feel like I’m going against their wishes.”
“According to the information I got from the city, it’s in the town of Pomerol, right?”
“Yes, in a place called Petite Racine, at the crossroads of Libourne, Pomerol, and Catusseau. It’s not very hard to find.”
Large drops of rain were beginning to pelt the cemetery. With a handshake, the inspector ended his meeting with Jouvenaze. Benjamin saw the man grimace as he extracted his hand from Barbaroux’s grip. The man had an unpleasant handshake. His palm was sweaty, and his grip was strong enough to break fingers. Jouvenaze promised to give his official statement as quickly as possible. He opened his umbrella and started walking away. A few seconds later, a heavy gust of wind ripped through the cemetery, flipping Jouvenaze’s umbrella inside out. Virgile shivered and pulled his collar even higher as he watched the man struggle with his umbrella in the distance. When Virgile turned back to the grave, rainwater was running down his forehead. He wiped it dry with the back of his hand.
Benjamin told Barbaroux that he would meet him at his office on the Allées de Tourny the next day, late in the morning, to take stock of the situation. It was time to cross-check the information each one had gathered, compare the viewpoints, and reflect on the mysterious links that seemed to connect the victims.
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