rest of the story. On January 2, 1942, she and her husband had dined together; then he gathered his bags and consulted a map of Paris to find the street where he would meet Petiot. Madame Guschinov went with her husband as far as the rue Pergolèse, where he told her that he must continue the journey alone. They kissed and said good-bye, and Madame Guschinov had not seen him since. Massu also consulted a map, and saw that the rue Pergolèse intersects the rue Le Sueur.
Two months after her husband left, Renée Guschinov had gone to ask Petiot for news of him. The doctor had shown her a brief note in Guschinovâs handwriting, undated, saying that he had traveled via Dakar and had safely reached Buenos Aires. Subsequent letters, one allegedly on the letterhead of the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires, said that his new business there was doing well and that she should leave France and come at once. And why hadnât she gone? Massu asked. The reasons she gave the commissaire were obscure and contradictory (Petiot would later say she had found a lover she preferred to her husband). Joachimâs letters stopped, and she wondered but did nothing. She was a Jew, and Jews did not like to make themselves conspicuousâwhich was perhaps one reason why she had not reported Joachimâs disappearance to the police even now, after the Petiot affair had broken; she had been unwillingly dragged into it by Gouedoâs report. Massu did not know what to make of her, but her husbandâs case seemed clear.
On March 17 Massu sent his men to pick up René Nézondet, whose name repeatedly came up in the Petiot investigation. Not only had he been arrested by the Germans along with Petiot the previous year, but back in 1942, when Petiot was questioned about the Van Bever and Khaït disappearances, the doctor claimed that Madame Khaït had told him of her wish to leave Paris and that he had given her Nézondetâs address in Lyon, in the free zone. Inspector Gignoux had searched for Nézondet in Lyon, but he had recently been fired from his job at the newspaper Le Figaro for black-market activities and had then moved to Paris. When Gignoux found him there in 1943, Nézondet said that he and a girlfriend had successfully crossed the demarcation line on the Comte de Barbantaneâs property and that he might conceivably have mentioned this to Petiot at some point. But no, he had certainly never met Madame Khaït or Van Bever, nor could he understand why Petiot should have given anyone his name or thought he could be of help. When Massuâs men now went to Nézondetâs apartment at 15 rue Pauly in the fourteenth arrondissement, they found a viewer in his front door identical to the one in the wall of the triangular room at 21 rue Le Sueur.
René-Gustave Nézondet was an amiable, loose-fleshed man just over six foot three. His left eyelid drooped when at rest, and when he spoke he unconsciously compensated by raising that eyebrowâa habit that gave him a startlingly credulous expression. A forty-eight-year-old native of the Yonne, he had known Petiot for more than twenty years. When they first met, Nézondet had been the town clerk at Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, but an injury to his right hand forced him to give up this position and he began raising trout and watercress and organizing Sunday-night dances at nearby Fontaine Rouge. After his marriage, his in-laws had insisted he see less of his friend Petiot, who was becoming actively involved in leftist politics in the village. Agreeable by nature, Nézondet bowed to their wishes, and apart from the occasions when Petiot and his wife put in an appearance at the Sunday-evening fêtes, he scarcely saw his former comrade until 1936, the year in which Nézondetâs marriage broke up and he moved to Paris for the first time. Arriving in the capital, he had learned from another old friend from the Yonne, Roland Porchon, that Petiot, too,
Two months after her husband left, Renée Guschinov had gone to ask Petiot for news of him. The doctor had shown her a brief note in Guschinovâs handwriting, undated, saying that he had traveled via Dakar and had safely reached Buenos Aires. Subsequent letters, one allegedly on the letterhead of the Alvear Palace Hotel in Buenos Aires, said that his new business there was doing well and that she should leave France and come at once. And why hadnât she gone? Massu asked. The reasons she gave the commissaire were obscure and contradictory (Petiot would later say she had found a lover she preferred to her husband). Joachimâs letters stopped, and she wondered but did nothing. She was a Jew, and Jews did not like to make themselves conspicuousâwhich was perhaps one reason why she had not reported Joachimâs disappearance to the police even now, after the Petiot affair had broken; she had been unwillingly dragged into it by Gouedoâs report. Massu did not know what to make of her, but her husbandâs case seemed clear.
On March 17 Massu sent his men to pick up René Nézondet, whose name repeatedly came up in the Petiot investigation. Not only had he been arrested by the Germans along with Petiot the previous year, but back in 1942, when Petiot was questioned about the Van Bever and Khaït disappearances, the doctor claimed that Madame Khaït had told him of her wish to leave Paris and that he had given her Nézondetâs address in Lyon, in the free zone. Inspector Gignoux had searched for Nézondet in Lyon, but he had recently been fired from his job at the newspaper Le Figaro for black-market activities and had then moved to Paris. When Gignoux found him there in 1943, Nézondet said that he and a girlfriend had successfully crossed the demarcation line on the Comte de Barbantaneâs property and that he might conceivably have mentioned this to Petiot at some point. But no, he had certainly never met Madame Khaït or Van Bever, nor could he understand why Petiot should have given anyone his name or thought he could be of help. When Massuâs men now went to Nézondetâs apartment at 15 rue Pauly in the fourteenth arrondissement, they found a viewer in his front door identical to the one in the wall of the triangular room at 21 rue Le Sueur.
René-Gustave Nézondet was an amiable, loose-fleshed man just over six foot three. His left eyelid drooped when at rest, and when he spoke he unconsciously compensated by raising that eyebrowâa habit that gave him a startlingly credulous expression. A forty-eight-year-old native of the Yonne, he had known Petiot for more than twenty years. When they first met, Nézondet had been the town clerk at Villeneuve-sur-Yonne, but an injury to his right hand forced him to give up this position and he began raising trout and watercress and organizing Sunday-night dances at nearby Fontaine Rouge. After his marriage, his in-laws had insisted he see less of his friend Petiot, who was becoming actively involved in leftist politics in the village. Agreeable by nature, Nézondet bowed to their wishes, and apart from the occasions when Petiot and his wife put in an appearance at the Sunday-evening fêtes, he scarcely saw his former comrade until 1936, the year in which Nézondetâs marriage broke up and he moved to Paris for the first time. Arriving in the capital, he had learned from another old friend from the Yonne, Roland Porchon, that Petiot, too,
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