Dark Summer in Bordeaux (17 page)

Yvette was stretched out naked on her bed. There was dance music on the wireless and her right foot jiggled up and down in time with it. The sunlight gleamed on her pink-varnished toenails and her thighs looked as warm as a Renoir nude.

‘I knew you’d come again,’ she said. ‘Needing?’

‘Don’t be silly, Yvette,’ Lannes said, and, as before, tossed her the dressing-gown which was folded over the end of the bed. She let it lie where it fell across her middle, and raised her arms up behind her head to give Lannes a fuller view of her breasts.

‘All right then,’ she said, ‘if it’s not that, it’s a bit early to disturb a girl. Not that I mind, not really.’

Lannes switched the wireless off and sat down. She pushed her foot against his thigh. He lifted it away.

‘Stop playing games,’ he said.

‘Don’t you like games? I could give you a good time. Seriously.’

‘I’ve no doubt you could. Nevertheless . . . ’ ‘Have you found out who killed the old gentleman yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Shame. A clever policeman like you.’

‘Not so clever it seems, I’m sorry to say. Has anyone else come to ask you questions about him?’

‘Not counting your young inspector? He’s quite a dish that one, I’m surprised you let him out on his own.’

‘I’ll pass on the message. Now, be serious.’

‘I was being serious,’ she said.

She drew up her legs and hugged her knees. A strand of hair fell over her face. She nibbled the end of it.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘There was the Spanish gentleman.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Can’t you guess? Not that I gave it to him. To tell the truth I wanted him out of my room as soon as he entered. There was something about him.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know, do I, but he looked the sort to keep clear of.’

‘And he asked you about Doktor Braun?’

‘You are a good policeman after all. Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell.’

She took the cigarette, put it between her lips, and held her face towards Lannes for a light. She put her hand on his as he held out the lighter, and looked over it into his eyes.

‘He asked what you didn’t ask first time: if the old gentleman had entrusted anything to me. Have you a daughter, superintendent?’

‘Yes. What did you say to him?’

‘Is she about my age?’

‘More or less, I suppose. A year younger perhaps.’

‘Is that why you won’t?’

‘Answer my queston.’

‘Answer mine first and then I’ll answer yours.’

Lannes smiled. ‘You do like games, don’t you?’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’ she said, smiling in turn.

The smile revealed that she was missing a front tooth.

‘All fathers want to fuck their daughters, don’t they,’ she said.

‘Mine certainly did.’

‘And did he?’

‘That would be telling. I’m not your daughter, am I?’

‘Now answer my question,’ Lannes said.

‘Forgotten it.’

‘What did you reply to the Spaniard?’

‘Can’t remember. Might if you were to help me.’

‘All right then, perhaps this will help. You were right to think he’s a man to keep clear of. In fact he’s a murderer.’

‘Fancy that now. Did he kill the old gentleman?’

‘No. I don’t think so. His method’s the garotte.’

‘Nasty,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that sort.’

‘So? What did you say to him?’

‘I wouldn’t tell him anything. He spoke to me as if I was dirt. But I don’t mind telling you.’

She got off the bed, letting the dressing-gown slip away. There was nothing coquettish in her movement now. She opened a drawer in the chest, revealing a tangle of underwear, and rummaged among it to bring out a long brown envelope.

‘The old gentleman said he could trust me to keep it for him, and there was nobody else he could trust. “No family?” I said because I knew he had a daughter, he’d spoken of her, apparently she’s quite a distinguished person. I think he was proud of her but disapproved also. “No,” he said, “only you, kitten” – that’s what he’d taken to calling me, kitten. But it’s no use to him now he’s dead, and, frankly, in case that Spanish bastard comes back, I’d just as soon be without it. So . . . ’

She held it out, then, with a swift gesture, put it behind her, out of Lannes’ reach.

‘Kiss first,’ she said.

‘I’m more inclined to slap your bottom.’

‘Oh, if that’s your style . . . I have a friend who would oblige.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Right then. Kiss first,’ she said, and settled on his knee. ‘I’m not your daughter, remember.’ Her tongue sought out his.

‘There,’ she said, ‘I knew you wanted it really. Here’s the envelope. I hope it helps you find out who killed him.’

‘I don’t know that it will do that,’ Lannes said, ‘but I think it may be important, all the same.’

‘I’ll see you again, won’t I? Now you know how you feel?’

Lannes gave her his card.

‘Ring me . . . if you’ve any trouble. Ring me especially if the Spaniard. . .’

‘No other reason to ring you?’ she said.

‘What about your Wolfie?’

‘Wolfie’s sweet, but who knows how long he’ll be here? Besides, I’m not what you might call exclusive. So?’

‘So what?’ Lannes said.

Lannes put the envelope in his breast pocket. He unpinned the rose from his buttonhole and tossed it to her.

Why did I do that? he thought, as he descended the stairs, but it was a rhetorical question, that is, one which answered iself. There was every reason why he shouldn’t, but there was a compelling reason on the other side of the argument. He knew that and felt ashamed. Nevertheless, he said aloud, nevertheless.

XXVI

‘The Alsatian was looking for you,’ old Joseph said. ‘Told me to ask you to see him soon as you arrived.’

‘Fine,’ Lannes said, and collected the two boxes of Ramon Allones that Fernand had given him on the Friday afternoon. That should put him in a good mood.

As usual Schnyder’s desk was all but bare. Lannes laid down the cigars.

‘Oh, good of you. What do I owe you?’

‘I haven’t paid for them yet. Here’s the bill.’

He handed over the note Fernand had scribbled on a scrap of paper.

‘The man who got them for you would prefer you to pay me, and I’ll pass it on to him.’

‘That’s all right, but you’ll have to wait till I’ve been to the bank.’

‘There’s no hurry. He’s an old friend who can afford to wait.’

Schnyder opened one of the boxes, took out a cigar, clipped the end off, and lit it. For a moment he watched the blue-grey smoke rise, and sat back in his chair, contentment spreading over his face.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘These German ones were poor stuff and our own Fleur des Savanes aren’t much better, even when you can get them. One for you?’

‘No thanks,’ Lannes said. ‘I won’t deprive you. Anyway, as you know, I prefer cigarettes.’

‘Have you seen Schussmann recently?’

‘He called in one day last week.’

‘And?’

‘The usual thing, routine visit, any problems with collaboration, that sort of thing, nothing of note.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘Again as usual, pleasant enough, he’s not exactly the ravening Nazi beast, is he? Why do you ask?’

‘He’s been replaced, superseded. I’d a visit from his successor this morning. A Lieutenant Kordlinger.’

‘Well,’ Lannes said, ‘it’s no business of ours, is it, who the Boches assign to deal with us. Only hope the new chap’s as easy and undemanding as Schussmann.’

‘Quite so,’ Schnyder said.

He drew on his cigar, got up and paced around the room.

‘There’s something I don’t like,’ he said. ‘I got a whiff of a nasty smell. He asked me more than once, in different ways, if I knew of any French contacts Schussmann had outwith our department. Certainly not, I said, which happens to be true. But he kept probing. Something’s up, that’s obvious. It doesn’t sound to me like the usual replacement of one officer by another. I got the impression that old Schussmann’s blotted his copybook rather badly.’

‘None of our business if he has,’ Lannes said.

‘I hope not. Then I started thinking. That spook you saw in the public garden – did he have anything to say about Schussmann?

Mention him perhaps?’

‘Villepreux – the BMA, he belongs to, by the way. Not a word.’

Bracal, he thought, knows about Félix and the Travaux Rurales, though not in detail. Schnyder doesn’t as far as I know. Keep it that way.

‘It was certain aspects of the old Chambolley case that interested him,’ he said, conscious of Professor Labiche’s envelope in his jacket pocket. ‘Nothing about Schussmann.’

‘But that case is dead, isn’t it?’

‘As I told him.’

‘Puzzling then. You’ll let me know if anything transpires. I wouldn’t like to think the Boches were taking an interest in our department.’

‘Can’t think why they should be,’ Lannes said.

But of course he could . . . ‘Contacts outwith the department’: well, there was certainly Léon – but clearly there was suspicion directed at the department itself, and this suspicion had led to Schussmann being replaced, perhaps. Well, that was no business of his, though he had liked him well enough. Damn these spooks and their tricks and plots. He collected his blackthorn and left the office. There was almost certainly no urgency, but the whiff of a nasty smell which Schnyder had detected alarmed him. He set off for the rue des Remparts.

There were no customers in the bookshop.

‘Henri’s upstairs as usual,’ Léon said, and looked away.

‘Schussmann,’ Lannes said.

‘What about him?’

Léon looked miserable, also guilty. Lannes had seen that expression too often, on too many suspects, to mistake it. He saw also that the boy was near breaking-point even before he had started what he would doubtless think of as an interrogation.

‘Léon,’ he said, ‘I’m here as a friend, not a policeman.’

‘Can you ever not be a policeman? How can I forget that’s what you are?’

Lannes sighed. He felt ashamed. The boy was right. When was he ever not a policeman? Except surely at home, with Marguerite and the children. Yet even there his profession was a barrier. Could either Dominique or Alain be absolutely honest and open with him? Clothilde perhaps, but the boys? Even as he thought that, the memory of Yvette settling herself, naked, on his knees and demanding a kiss, came to him, excitingly and shamefully.

So he said, ‘I don’t know, Léon, but there are times when I try myself to forget I’m a policeman, as for instance when I gave you a warning and asked you to come to me if . . . ’

‘And I didn’t because I couldn’t,’ Léon said before he could finish his sentence.’

‘All right, but now?’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t know precisely,’ Lannes said, ‘but another German officer has been asking questions about Schussmann whom he seems to have replaced . . . Félix,’ he said, and waited, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face. ‘Félix, you had really better tell. A man calling himself that came to see you, yes? And he threatened you? Yes?’

‘How could I speak to you?’ Léon said.

He buried his face in his hands. Lannes waited. There was no need to say anything more, not for the moment. He laid his hand on the boy’s head.

‘I couldn’t even speak to Alain.’

Lannes got up and locked the door. Léon straightened up and pushed his hair back.

‘You’d better read this,’ he said, and took Schussmann’s letter from his pocket.

‘I think he refused the dishonourable course,’ Lannes said.

‘And the alternatives?’

‘They might come to the same thing in the end. I suspect he realised that.’

Suicide or confession?, he thought. The speed with which he had been replaced suggested the former. A bullet in the head might be preferable to a concentration camp. On the other hand – damn these spooks – surely he might have agreed to collaborate, then played Félix false. Had he considered that course?

‘I can guess what happened,’ Lannes said. ‘You don’t need to spell it out.’

‘He was a nice man, really, but I wouldn’t have gone with him, if . . . ’ ‘Félix,’ Lannes said again.

‘My mother, Aunt Miriam, he said if I didn’t do as he asked, he would see that they were sent to an internment camp. They’re good people, you know that. I couldn’t say, go ahead, could I?’

‘No, Léon. You couldn’t. I understand.’

He suspected there was more the boy might have told him, but there was no point pressing, and even less point in saying that his aunt and mother were in danger as long as the war and Vichy lasted.

‘Will he come back, do you think?’

‘I trust not. You’ve done what he asked you to. It should be enough. It should be over. But if I’m wrong and he returns, this time, whatever he demands of you, you must let me know. Otherwise I can’t help you or your mother and aunt. Understand?’

Léon nodded.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Someone rattled the door handle.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so.’

Lannes unlocked the door. A slim fair-haired boy smiled at him.

‘You’re Alain’s father, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of his at school. Jérôme de Balastre.’