Paul grimaced at the thought of police in his factory again, but it was necessary whenever a man died. “Who was it?”
A long pause. Moreau rolled his thick lips between his teeth. “René Lafarge.”
“Lafarge?”
“He wasn’t watching where he was going. Silvestre warned him, but he didn’t listen.” Moreau’s jaw edged forward and back, his eyes hard.
Something wasn’t right. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
One short shake of Moreau’s head confirmed Paul’s fears.
Paul groaned and pressed his fist to his mouth. For weeks, Lafarge had been denouncing Silvestre. Nothing had stuck, and Paul had told him numerous times to back off. Lafarge must have pushed Silvestre too hard, and now Silvestre had pushed back.
He scanned the scene of the accident. No, of the crime. The murder.
If evidence pointed to foul play ...
If Silvestre caved under Gestapo interrogation ...
The man was enmeshed in every aspect of resistance work in the factory.
Paul eyed Moreau. “Let’s talk in my office. Give me a second.” He approached the men around Silvestre, who looked for all the world like a despondent witness instead of a murderer.
“All right, men. Who’s a witness?” Paul asked.
Four hands raised. “I didn’t see anything,” one of the workers said. “None of us did, but I heard Silvestre tell Lafarge to watch out.”
Paul nodded. “You four stay here. I’ll call the police. The rest of you, make sure the machinery in this section is shut down, then go home. I know how difficult it is for you to lose a colleague.”
The men murmured and dispersed.
Paul and Moreau headed up to the office, while Paul’s mind careened.
What was Silvestre thinking? Not only had he killed a man, but if the Gestapo broke him, he’d endanger dozens of lives in the factory and maybe even in the escape line.
And for what purpose? They had Lafarge under control. Paulhad given Moreau funds to keep paying him after Paul left. And after the Germans took over the factory, sabotage would cease and Lafarge would lose leverage.
Upstairs, Paul opened the office door.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Aubrey,” Miss Thibodeaux said.
“I’m afraid it isn’t. Please call the police to report a fatal accident. Then phone the receptionist and have her call when the police arrive.”
Wide-eyed, his secretary nodded. “Oui, monsieur.”
Paul led Moreau into his office, set down his suitcase, and removed his hat and coat. “What happened?”
Moreau perched on the windowsill. “This morning Silvestre told me Lafarge found out Silvestre’s daughter runs with a resistance group. He threatened to turn her in unless Silvestre gave him half his wages each week. Silvestre can’t afford that, refused to ask you, told me he’d take care of it. If I’d known how he meant to take care of it...” Moreau hung his head.
Paul joined him by the window and huffed out a breath. “I would have paid him. You know it. Now he’s endangered all of us.”
“They’ll rule it an accident. No one saw anything. Silvestre called out warnings as if Lafarge wasn’t watching where he was going. Everyone knows Lafarge is careless and insolent. And there won’t be any evidence.”
Paul crossed his arms. “Unless Madame Lafarge knows about the blackmail.”
Realization flickered through Moreau’s black eyes. Fear.
“Here’s the plan.” It spun in Paul’s mind, pieces flying together. “If they find out about the blackmail, they’ll arrest me. So I’ll leave town tonight. I have to leave soon anyway. Now, if they think it’s murder and they still haven’t learned about the blackmail, I want you to reveal it.”
