Fall of a Corsican

The most sickening sound to any French politician last week was the word Stavisky. Sweeping together the best Cabinet he could, sly Premier Daladier planned to neutralize public opinion on the Stavisky scandal by asking the Chamber of Deputies to turn the matter over to an investigating committee. But the scandal of the Bayonne pawnshop swindler who seemed to have corrupted everyone with whom he came in contact would not die so easily. Four days after he had formed his Ministry, Premier Daladier was forced to dismiss Jean Chiappe as Paris Prefect of Police. When two resignations split his new Cabinet wide open, it seemed almost certain to fall on its first appearance before the Chamber.

It was rheumy old Georges Clemenceau who first called dapper, baldish Jean Chiappe "le flic le plus habile de France," "the smartest cop in France." Newspapers like to call the Prefect of Police Little Napoleon, for, like the First Consul, he was born in Corsica. Flic Chiappe went to the Paris prefecture seven years ago after a distinguished career in the Surete Generale, the French secret police. It was Jean Chiappe who solved the historic cases of the Hungarian Forgeries and the Rose Diamond of Chantilly.

Nine years ago, a number of the most important men in Hungary including Prince Louis of Windisch-Graetz and the chief of police of Budapest, thought up a very simple scheme for "rehabilitating the finances of Hungary." It was nothing less than printing trunkloads of large lavender French 1,000-franc notes at the Hungarian State Cartographical Institute and dumping them in France and Holland. The forgeries were excellent, but the forgers forgot that all French 100-and 1,000-franc notes that come from the Bank of France are counted by hand and pinned together in bunches of ten. Sharp-eyed French cashiers first spotted the forgeries when banknotes began coming in with no pin holes. Flic Chiappe did better. One of his agents had gone with three of the forgers and a trunkful of notes to Holland. He produced the evidence that led to a major political crisis in Hungary and jailed more than a dozen of the most important men in Budapest.

In October 1926 someone with a very long ladder broke into the State-owned Chateau of Chantilly, and stole the famous Grand Conde Rose diamond that Louis XIV had given the due d'Enghien after the latter's victory over the Spanish Army at Rocroy in 1643. Chiappe took charge of the investigation but had little luck until a chambermaid named Suzanne Schlitz felt hungry in a cheap hotel on the Boulevard de Strasbourg. She bit into an apple lying on a table and broke her tooth on the Grand Conde. Within a few days Jean Chiappe had rounded up the entire gang.

As Prefect of Police he became the complete boulevardier. From his little office on the Ile de la Cite with its hideous blue wallpaper he started a slashing campaign against reckless taxi drivers and the vendors of filthy pictures. He calls everyone either mon petit or mon enfant, wears made-to-order shoes with two-inch heels and has won the adoration of the uniformed force. He has also become very rich, owns a chateau and a racing stable.

Until the breaking of the Stavisky scandal, never a doubt was cast on Jean Chiappe's honesty. No direct evidence has yet been produced, but he did know Alex Stavisky well enough to sit in his box at a theatre. Socialists yelled for his head. Premier Daladier demanded his resignation, but as a face-saver offered him the Governor Generalship of Morocco. The telephone connection was very bad. "Mon Dieu!" cried Premier Daladier to the Cabinet Members in his office, "he refuses and says he will be in the street tonight." The Cabinet decided that Chiappe was going to lead a riot in person.

Reporters rushed round to verify the story from M. Chiappe. They found him in bed with sciatica.

"I said nothing of the sort," said Jean Chiappe. "I said I refused the Moroccan post and would prefer to be a simple citizen in the street."

M. Adrien Bonnefoy-Sibour, former Prefect of the suburban Department of Seine et Oise became the new prefect of police, popped quickly into the blue-papered office.

"I shall clean up Paris simply, and with all my heart and soul," said he.

But Jean Chiappe had many friends. Blue-caped policemen talked of a protest meeting in sympathy, and Minister of War Jean Fabry and Finance Minister Francois Pietri quit the Cabinet. There was more to their resignation than sympathy for Jean Chiappe. As representatives of the Right they had just been reprimanded by their respective parties for accepting posts in a Daladier Cabinet. Premier Daladier was forced to replace them with Paul-Boncour in the War office and Mayor Paul Marchandeau of Rheims at the Treasury. This put the same old coalition of Socialists and Radical-Socialists back in power.

An excellent example of the shortness of official French tempers last week was the abrupt dismissal of Emile Fabre as Director of the State-supported Comedic Frangaise. M. Fabre has run the Comedie since 1915, and like Jean Chiappe is dearly beloved by his underlings. His offense last week was producing a really popular play in his musty old theatre. Almost as soon as the Stavisky scandal broke Emile Fabre announced a performance of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. The house was packed. Every reference to corruption in high office was greeted with roars of applause. It seemed a pity to turn good money from the box office, but the Government thought otherwise. Emile Fabre was removed overnight and surprised actors learned that their new director was to be the chief of the secret police. Said a government official: "While admitting the play's merits, we feel that the Comedie Francaise has been presenting Coriolanus much more often than its purely dramatic qualities warrant."

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