Death in the City of Light: The Serial Killer of Nazi-Occupied Paris by David King Page B
Authors: David King
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corner onto rue Saint-Lazare. She never said anything about their conversation along the way.
When Massu asked her what she did after her husband’s departure, Georgette Petiot said that she had “waited all night in an armchair.” Did she always do that whenever Dr. Petiot left without giving any information on his destination? No, that night was different. “It was the word ‘police’ that disturbed me.”
“But this word should not have disturbed you since you know your husband is incapable, as you say, of doing an evil deed. Was there something else that bothered you?”
“You never know, these days, what is going to happen to a man who has business with the police.”
Georgette Petiot was right. The Nazi Occupation had vastly complicated criminal investigations, tarnishing respect for law and the police who enforced it. Massu later said that he admired her for her candid remark, which was uttered at no small risk to herself. He pressed on, however, with questions about her actions immediately following the discovered remains at the town house.
“That morning, did you think of going to rue Le Sueur to find your husband?”
“No, I decided to return to Auxerre,” she said, eager to be with her son, who then studied in that town and lived with her husband’s brother Maurice. She went to Gare de Lyon, looking for the seven or eight o’clock train, but learned that there were none leaving until Monday evening. “I returned to the neighborhood of rue Caumartin, but without returning to my apartment.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.… A feeling told me that there was danger there for us.”
“Was it not rather the sight of two policemen at the door that made you turn back?”
“I do not know. Yes perhaps.” She also said that she had hoped, despite everything, to find her husband somewhere on the street.
Georgette Petiot explained that she went to church, attending several masses, and then spent the rest of the afternoon at the busy train station Gare Saint-Lazare. She was not waiting for anyone, she told the commissaire, and she had not gone there to avoid being recognized. “I was afraid, and I felt more security in the middle of the crowd.”
Asked what exactly she feared, Petiot said that the evening newspapers had appeared at the train station kiosk about six o’clock, and she had panicked when she saw her name on the front page of
Paris-Soir
. That night, she went to one of her husband’s properties, at 52 rue de Reuilly, thinking that he might come there and give her an explanation. He did not. And as she did not know anyone there, she hid on a staircase near the attic, fleeing into the shadows when a door opened, or occasionally into the courtyard of the neighboring building, which her husband also owned. Fearing detection, she had not slept well.
Early Monday morning, she had gone back to the Gare de Lyon and found the train schedules. As the next departure was not until 5:20 p.m., she spent most of the day at a small hotel restaurant, the Hôtel Alicot at 207 rue de Bercy. She bought her ticket at the last minute and boarded the train for Auxerre. Arriving at 9:00 p.m., she went over to the apartment of her brother-in-law Maurice on rue du Pont. She hoped to find her husband, she repeated, but no one was home. She waited, terrified and uncertain of her next move.
“Perhaps rue des Lombards?” Massu asked.
The mention of this property shook her. She also seemed disturbed by the fact that the address had been posted on a sheet attached to the carriage door. As Massu described the scene, Petiot’s hand opened, her handkerchief fell to the floor, and she fainted. This would not be the lasttime she would collapse—or pretend to collapse—in the middle of an interrogation.
W IVES of criminals, Massu later reflected, were indeed an interesting lot.
There are those who, real panthers in madness, defend their men with claws out; there are the cold and insensitive ones, who wrestling
When Massu asked her what she did after her husband’s departure, Georgette Petiot said that she had “waited all night in an armchair.” Did she always do that whenever Dr. Petiot left without giving any information on his destination? No, that night was different. “It was the word ‘police’ that disturbed me.”
“But this word should not have disturbed you since you know your husband is incapable, as you say, of doing an evil deed. Was there something else that bothered you?”
“You never know, these days, what is going to happen to a man who has business with the police.”
Georgette Petiot was right. The Nazi Occupation had vastly complicated criminal investigations, tarnishing respect for law and the police who enforced it. Massu later said that he admired her for her candid remark, which was uttered at no small risk to herself. He pressed on, however, with questions about her actions immediately following the discovered remains at the town house.
“That morning, did you think of going to rue Le Sueur to find your husband?”
“No, I decided to return to Auxerre,” she said, eager to be with her son, who then studied in that town and lived with her husband’s brother Maurice. She went to Gare de Lyon, looking for the seven or eight o’clock train, but learned that there were none leaving until Monday evening. “I returned to the neighborhood of rue Caumartin, but without returning to my apartment.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.… A feeling told me that there was danger there for us.”
“Was it not rather the sight of two policemen at the door that made you turn back?”
“I do not know. Yes perhaps.” She also said that she had hoped, despite everything, to find her husband somewhere on the street.
Georgette Petiot explained that she went to church, attending several masses, and then spent the rest of the afternoon at the busy train station Gare Saint-Lazare. She was not waiting for anyone, she told the commissaire, and she had not gone there to avoid being recognized. “I was afraid, and I felt more security in the middle of the crowd.”
Asked what exactly she feared, Petiot said that the evening newspapers had appeared at the train station kiosk about six o’clock, and she had panicked when she saw her name on the front page of
Paris-Soir
. That night, she went to one of her husband’s properties, at 52 rue de Reuilly, thinking that he might come there and give her an explanation. He did not. And as she did not know anyone there, she hid on a staircase near the attic, fleeing into the shadows when a door opened, or occasionally into the courtyard of the neighboring building, which her husband also owned. Fearing detection, she had not slept well.
Early Monday morning, she had gone back to the Gare de Lyon and found the train schedules. As the next departure was not until 5:20 p.m., she spent most of the day at a small hotel restaurant, the Hôtel Alicot at 207 rue de Bercy. She bought her ticket at the last minute and boarded the train for Auxerre. Arriving at 9:00 p.m., she went over to the apartment of her brother-in-law Maurice on rue du Pont. She hoped to find her husband, she repeated, but no one was home. She waited, terrified and uncertain of her next move.
“Perhaps rue des Lombards?” Massu asked.
The mention of this property shook her. She also seemed disturbed by the fact that the address had been posted on a sheet attached to the carriage door. As Massu described the scene, Petiot’s hand opened, her handkerchief fell to the floor, and she fainted. This would not be the lasttime she would collapse—or pretend to collapse—in the middle of an interrogation.
W IVES of criminals, Massu later reflected, were indeed an interesting lot.
There are those who, real panthers in madness, defend their men with claws out; there are the cold and insensitive ones, who wrestling
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