He boarded first so Luki could see him, and took his first-class cabin, alone. He tucked his suitcase away so as not to invite a search, and listened to Luki’s voice drifting from the adjoining cabin. Would his forged papers be good enough if he had to produce them here on the train? The real US visa that also served as a document in lieu of passport in his own name was sewn into the lining of his jacket, along with his real French residency permit and camp release. He had a French identity card, also real, in his coat pocket; it had belonged to an Henri Roux, whose photograph had been carefully replaced with one of Edouard by Varian’s new forger. Edouard had memorized everything handwritten into the form, the details of the real Henri Roux, recently deceased: born December 9 of the year before Edouard was born, in the Dordogne, to parents Pierre and Marie Roux. Height: 70 inches, to Eduard’s 71. All the other details stated on the card were close enough that they might describe Edouard, with the exception of the last line, Signes particuliers: Néant. Distinguishing marks: None. The real Henri Roux had no defining mole at his left eyebrow. If the line had been left blank, like the line for facial hair, the forger might have written in Edouard’s mole, but None was written clearly there. Bill Frier might have been able to transform the single word into something suggesting Edouard’s mole, but that was beyond the skill of this new forger. Still, this was, Varian had assured him, the safest kind of alias. Any check would show Henri Roux as a real French businessman, and wouldn’t likely turn up his death only two days earlier.
A few moments later they departed, without any document check. The train would take all day to get to Perpignan, where they would change to a local train to Banyuls-sur-Mer. The threat of discovery would remain every minute. There might be a document check anywhere along the way. Still, as Edouard watched Marseille disappear out the window, he wondered if luck might finally be on his side.
Sunday, December 8, 1940
MONTPELLIER
Where are you going, Monsieur Roux?” the uniformed train attendant at the door to Edouard’s compartment asked—demanded, Edouard would have said, but he was trying not to seem defensive. They were at the station in Montpellier, quite far to have gotten without their documents being checked, and the man was Vichy, that was clear from his words, his attitude, even his bearing. Better Vichy than German.
Edouard handed him the ticket to Banyuls, a real ticket but in Henri Roux’s name. As the man glanced at it, punched it, and handed it back, Edouard tried to appear relaxed.
“And your documents?”
Edouard handed over the identity card with its fingerprints of a dead man not yet buried.
“What business have you in Banyuls?” the attendant asked. Again, demanded. “And what need have you of a camera?”
Edouard smiled and raised the Leica slightly, unsure whether the man would be flattered to have his photograph taken, or suspicious.
“I’m exploring Banyuls as a location for business expansion,” he said. “Photographs are so often helpful for remembering.”
The man frowned, unconvinced.
To Edouard’s horror, he began ticking through the details listed on Henri Roux’s identity card, reading each under his breath and looking up at Edouard to confirm.
“Height: 70.”
Edouard sunk into his heels, hoping to shrink that extra inch.
“Face shape: Square.”
“Complexion: Brown.”
“Hair: Brown.”
“No mustaches.”
No mustaches, Edouard thought. But not no distinguishing marks. Was there any chance the inspector could be convinced Edouard’s mole was not distinct enough or had been inadvertently left off?
“Forehead: Ordinary.”
“Eyes: Green.”
“Nose: Medium.”
The man considered Edouard’s nose, leaving Edouard remembering that shot he’d taken so many years ago now, of the Nazi measuring a man’s nose with a caliper.
“Mouth: Medium.”
The next line would be his chin, and then there would be nothing left but Signes particuliers: Néant.
Edouard moved his Leica aside, in the process deliberately clipping one of the cabin’s lamps with his elbow so that it hit the man’s arm before tumbling to the ground with a gratifying commotion.
“Terribly sorry,” Edouard apologized, stooping to retrieve the Henri Roux documents that had fallen to the floor and righting the lamp as, already from next door, Nanée could be heard calling out in fear.
The attendant went running. Edouard set the forged identification on the table in his compartment and followed.