Knock, Knock...Who's there? Part two of the tale...

To continue....click here to read part one

Je suis Australienne, je suis Vicki Archer, je suis en vacances, I repeated over and over. No, no, no, the Inspector replied becoming more and more frustrated with me. Who are you? Where do you come from? Where is your husband? He asked me these simple questions time and time again and we went back and forth in our childish attempts to communicate. My schoolgirl French and his schoolboy English were useless to help my case. The children and the tongue-tied gardiens were as wordless as each other. The children were understandably confused; Monsieur and Madame Robert were set firmly in the French, 'don’t get involved at all costs' mode and if they could have magically disappeared they would have done so. In my experience it is not an uncommon French characteristic to play dumb when it comes to authority. Some tense hours later police headquarters in Marseille finally released the authorization that convinced the Inspector that our passports were in fact genuine. His officious questioning immediately ceased and was replaced by a new and more charming persona. This Inspector was a conscientious detective, not altogether a muddling fool like his movie counterpart and he apologised sincerely for doubting me, for taking my time and for unduly worrying me. 

With my innocence no longer in question I thought this flamboyant charade over. Not so: he wanted to make a comprehensive search of the house and grounds. His gendarmes looked from top to bottom, every cupboard and every draw was turned inside out. Our suitcases, packed and ready for our return flight to Australia, were emptied and scrutinized. The gardiens were ordered to find keys and unlock doors. The hunt continued long into the early evening. I was still none the wiser but grateful and relieved to have our passports back and in my control. Once the house had been scoured and the search was complete the Inspector answered some of my questions. Twelve hours later my confusion, anxiety and ultimate relief were replaced by an unbridled curiosity - I was impatient (and felt entitled) to know what this intrusion was all about.

Persuaded that he had found the missing link to a high profile and scandalous Parisian embezzlement case, the Inspector explained that our rental house had been under permanent surveillance for some time. Daily movements in and around the property were monitored by undercover police and had been recorded for the entire duration of our stay. (In three months I had never once noticed the stakeout...either I was very unobservant and oblivious or those gendarmes were brilliant super sleuths) Nervous at the signs of our imminent departure, the Inspector was compelled to show his hand. This case had tormented him for years. He could tell me no more, it was top secret. Nothing was revealed in the hunt; there was no paper trail to be found. The Inspector and his exhausted gendarmes wished me a safe and pleasant journey home and hoped I had enjoyed my vacation in France...

The police convoy was no sooner out through the gates than Monsieur and Madame Robert found their tongues. At lightning speed they recounted their tale and closed the gaps to this strange day. They had carefully chronicled the misdemeanors and apparent criminal acts of the owner of the house, their patron. A scrapbook of clippings from Le Monde outlined the allegations. Their employer, a substantial and well-known Parisian property developer, had been involved in a major swindle of public company funds – he had reputedly fled the country and was living in South America. His wife owned this house and was thought to know of his whereabouts. Two of his partners had been convicted and were serving jail sentences. Monsieur and Madame Robert pleaded ignorance during our inquisition because they were afraid for their livelihood. Their employers had simply disappeared and all contact between them had ceased. They had continued living in the caretakers flat in the hope that their patron would continue to make arrangements for their future.

This confusion occurred because I matched the profile of the fugitive’s wife. Not only did we look alike in build and hair colour but also she had three children, two girls and a boy of comparable age to mine. The final coincidence: we were both English-speakers. Our arrival at the house (and the lack of Mr FF) convinced the police the fugitive’s wife had returned to France and that her activities would lead them to her husband. Persuaded I was the missing Madame, the Inspector made his move. It was simply a case of mistaken identity.

True story...xv

P.S The following year I went back to visit the house and to see if Monsieur and Madame Robert were still in residence. The gates were locked, the house shuttered up, the gardens overgrown and there were no visible signs of the gardiens. I subsequently heard that the house had been repossessed by the French State. 

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