The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

this Jacqueline Morgan. ‘Murcoing had just over five thousand of those old francs in his chest. Not a lot to show for such a haul.’
    ‘The lads who took part were promised ten thousand each, but a romantic young lieutenant called Gandoin said that for his men of the Groupe Valmy, duty was its own reward. His men would take no fee. But at least one of the sacks of cash disappeared that night when they were moving the money.’
    ‘Whatever happened to him?’
    ‘No idea. Perhaps I should have asked Murcoing but it’s too late now. I remember my father telling me of the brave and selfless Lieutenant Gandoin. A lot of those young heroes died that winter, once they were re-formed into the French army and sent up to liberate Alsace and then to invade Germany.’ The Mayor looked up, forcing a briskness into his voice. ‘I suppose these banknotes now belong to Murcoing’s heirs.’
    ‘Yes, I signed a receipt.’ Bruno leaned over and took the banknote from the Mayor’s hand.
    ‘I’d like to have one framed and hung here in the
Mairie
with a suitable plaque of explanation.’
    ‘You might ask Murcoing’s daughter Joséphine if you could buy it from her. She struck me as the kind of woman who’d do a lot for twenty euros. You should have seen her perk up when I said the state pays for Resistance funerals. I’ve got her phone number here.’
    The Mayor reached for his phone.
    *
    Bruno took the back road to Les Eyzies, a drive that always stirred him with memories of cases and incidents past, as wellas for the stupendous limestone cliffs that rose to each side of the river. Off to his left up the hill was the
Grotte du Sorcier
, the cave with one of the very few prehistoric engravings of a human face, and a place dear in his memory as the spot where he had first kissed Isabelle. Further up the valley was the site of the archaeological dig where the body of a young man wearing a Swatch had been found alongside a grave dating from thirty thousand years ago.
    He drove through the narrow main street of Les Eyzies, tucked between the cliff and the river, and mentally doffed his cap to the giant statue of Cro-Magnon man that loomed above the town. He took the sharply curving road that led along the Vézère valley to the Lascaux cave, and then at Tursac followed the Mayor’s directions to the small house of Jacqueline Morgan. A white BMW convertible with Paris number plates, its roof down, was parked beside a well-tended vegetable garden. Bruno noted with approval her choice of cherry tomatoes, aubergines, courgettes, haricot beans and some sweetcorn.
    Wearing jeans and a Columbia sweatshirt, clogs on her feet and a headband holding back a mass of iron-grey curls, Jacqueline Morgan took the cigarette from her mouth to extend a hand and greet him. She looked vaguely familiar – perhaps he’d seen her shopping in the market or standing in line at the Post Office. Behind her on each wall of the passage were loaded bookshelves. Bruno explained that his Mayor had suggested she might be able to help him learn more about the Neuvic train, and showed her Murcoing’s banknote.
    Her eyes widened. ‘I’ve never actually seen one of the notes before,’ she said. ‘Come in, come in, you’re very welcome. The Mayor has told me a lot about you.’
    Off to the left he saw a small sitting room with old furniture that looked comfortable, although hemmed in by more bookshelves that lined all the walls. She led him to the room on the right, again filled with bookshelves but with a large round table in the middle that contained a laptop, boxes of index files and several books. They were held open at certain pages by pens, a pepper mill and a handsome silver coffee pot. From the kitchen came the unmistakable scent of lamb being slowly roasted with rosemary and garlic.
    ‘I clear all this away for dinner,’ she said, piling together some of the books on the table and clearing more from a chair to make some space for Bruno to sit. On the top of the pile sat a copy of Guy Penaud’s
Histoire de la Résistance en Périgord
. ‘You caught me working on footnotes, a scholar’s drudgery. I was just about to make some coffee. How do you take yours?’
    ‘Black, one sugar, please. Are you writing a new book?’
    ‘Yes, on Franco-American relations during the Cold War, a fertile field. I’ve written on bits of it before, on nuclear cooperation and American policy toward France’s wars in Vietnam and Algeria, but now I’m trying