The Prodigal Accountant

At first, it appeared to French police like a case of straightforward, though exceptionally grand larceny. Early last July, Herve de Vathaire, 49, the chief accountant of France's huge Dassault conglomerate, strolled into the Banque Nationale de Paris and signed a withdrawal order on the personal account of his employer. The sum was unusually large: 8 million francs ($1.6 million) in 500-franc notes. Still, no one at the bank thought to question De Vathaire as he lugged two big suitcases out of the bank; after all, he had long been empowered to sign Industrialist Marcel Dassault's name on checks. But then De Vathaire vanished.

Last week, after a two-month hiatus, the mild-mannered accountant returned to France from the Greek island of Corfu--tanned, newly bearded and quite penniless. Locked up in Paris' La Sante prison, he faces trial in an affair that has become as labyrinthine as the maze of catacombs that lies under the jail.

The case soon began to look like one calling for the quirky talents of Simenon's Inspector Maigret. A month after the theft, Marcel Dassault, 84, unaccountably withdrew his formal complaint against De Vathaire. Dassault, who is famous for having developed his company's Mirage fighter planes, later appeared on French television with a somewhat unconvincing explanation of his action. He declared that "since there was no chance of recovering the money, and to please his parents, I dropped charges against my employee of 24 years' standing." Would he go so far as to rehire De Vathaire? a reporter sarcastically asked. "He's such a good department head," Dassault answered with a straight face, "that I'm sure he'll find a job somewhere."

Flamboyant Adventurer. Pursuing the investigation in spite of Dassault, police found that De Vathaire had compiled what he regarded as an incriminating dossier concerning the finances and sales of the Dassault conglomerate. Suspicions of blackmail were reinforced when police learned that the seemingly respectable accountant had recently become enmeshed in the French underworld. Around the time of the death of his wife, who drowned in a bathtub last March, De Vathaire took up with a nightclub hostess, the estranged wife of a man wanted by the Paris police. A friend of hers introduced the $60,000-a-year accountant to Jean Kay, a flamboyant adventurer best known for his aborted 1971 hijacking of a Pakistan Airlines plane supposedly for the purpose of sending food to Bangladesh. He is also a mercenary who has fought in Biafra, Yemen, Angola and Nigeria.

In a statement he left with the nightclub hostess, De Vathaire claimed he had loaned the Dassault dossier to his new friend, Kay, who failed to return it. According to De Vathaire, Kay threatened to kill him and demanded money in exchange for the dossier. Whether to yield to his blackmailer, to divvy up the loot with his accomplice, or just to relax with a pal, De Vathaire met with Kay at a resort hotel near the Swiss border after the theft, whereupon both men vanished. So did the 8 million francs. Last week Kay phoned a Paris newspaper from his hideaway, declaring, "I had nothing to do with it. For once, I wasn't doing anything. It's De Vathaire who's a bit crazy."

In yet another odd turn in the convoluted case, Paris police have obtained two alleged copies of the confidential Dassault dossier. Although they have not divulged the file's contents, Dassault made another appearance on French television last week to counter widespread speculation that the affair hinges on a cover-up of bribes and other dubious financial dealings by his company. As for his absconding employee, Dassault benignly welcomed him home as a "prodigal son." French justice may not be so kind: if found guilty of fraud, he could be sentenced to two years in prison and fined 36,000 francs.

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