PROLOGUE
Paris, June 1923
The newsroom was already warm despite the early hour. Windows stood open to the street, letting in the noise of carts and motorcars along the boulevard. At a desk near the back of the room, a correspondent for The New York Times reread his notes before feeding a sheet of paper into his typewriter.
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I am not, by training, a writer. I am a French antique dealer who has spent 20 years moving old objects between Brittany and Texas, learning to read what things leave behind. What follows is a description of a book I am writing — and an open invitation to anyone in publishing who recognizes what it is.
In February 1923, a small advertisement appeared in the French sports newspaper L'Auto, on the seventh and again on the ninth. It read, in its entirety:
CADILLAC — Buyer sought for 10 torpedo-body Cadillacs for refurbishment, preferably from American military parks. No offers without descriptive notices. Ministry of Finance. Write: O.I.R., c/o L'Auto.
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Bertrand Vilain is a French antique dealer, passionate writer, and amateur investigator, best known for his work on the Seznec Affair — a highly publicized French criminal case dating back to 1923, involving the disappearance of Pierre Quéméneur and the conviction of Guillaume Seznec.
Brittany to Paris: The Road, the Cadillac, and the Last Known Journey
In red, route from Morlaix to Paris via the RN12To understand the Seznec case, one must first understand geography.
Brittany sits at the western edge of Europe, facing the Atlantic. It is a land shaped by wind, sea, and distance—historically more connected to maritime routes than to Paris. In the early 1920s, traveling from Brittany to the capital was not a routine trip. It was a journey.
In my exchanges, I often hear this remark: “There is no evidence.”
There is no evidence of innocence, no evidence of guilt. In short, there is never any evidence…
It is therefore necessary to explain what “evidence” means in the Seznec case. It is a judicial case that has now become a historical case. We must therefore distinguish between evidence from a judicial standpoint and evidence from a historical standpoint. These notions are often confused.
Since 2018, my research has been purely historical. It could potentially be used in a request for retrial, but it inevitably leads to proving one single thing: that there is reasonable doubt as to Guillaume Seznec’s guilt. As Denis Langlois keeps insisting, that doubt should have benefited the accused.
The difference between judicial proof and historical proof can be summarized as follows: the first is used to judge, the second to understand.
In criminal justice, the absence of a body is often described as a weakness. In reality, it can be something else entirely: an invitation to narrative.
When a victim disappears without leaving physical traces, investigators are forced to rely on indirect evidence. Timelines, behavior, documents, inconsistencies—these become the building blocks of certainty. Over time, they can weigh as heavily as forensic proof.
What Archives Reveal — and What They Never Say
Archives are often imagined as vaults of truth. Silent rooms filled with documents that, once opened, finally tell the whole story.
The reality is more complicated.
Archives do not preserve events. They preserve decisions: what was recorded, by whom, for what purpose, and under which institutional constraints. Every file reflects not only what happened, but what an administration believed was worth documenting at a given moment.
The Seznec case, like many early twentieth-century investigations, survives today through a mosaic of judicial records, police reports, and administrative documents. These files are invaluable. But they are also partial.
In the spring of 1923, two men left Brittany by car and headed toward Paris. Only one of them came back.
Pierre Quéméneur was a businessman and local official. Guillaume Seznec ran a sawmill and moved through a world of small deals, loans, and postwar opportunism. They knew each other. They did business together. And in late May 1923, they traveled together toward the capital.
Quéméneur was never seen again.
The Seznec case stands as a significant episode in French legal history, capturing the public's imagination and sparking debates over justice and truth for over a century. Dating back to 1922, the case involves the mysterious disappearance of Pierre Quéméneur and the subsequent conviction of Guillaume Seznec, a man whose name has become synonymous with wrongful conviction and legal battles. This article aims to dissect the Seznec case from its inception to the ongoing discussions in 2024, exploring the complexities of justice and the ways public perception has evolved.
