Dark Summer in Bordeaux (21 page)

Sleep still evaded him. Marguerite was breathing easily. She shifted away from him and emitted a little sigh. He pictured Yvette lying back with her legs open. There was so much which you didn’t control.

XXXII

‘You can take the cuffs off him,’ Lannes said.

Sombra’s face was unmarked, but, when Lannes told him to sit down, he placed his hand on his kidneys and moved gingerly. The arrogance had left him. Moncerre had evidently done a thorough job on him, and would have enjoyed it.

‘I don’t like men who beat up women,’ Lannes said. ‘So you’ve nothing to complain of. You got what was coming to you.’

Sombra shook his head and gulped.

‘What’s all this about?’ he said.

‘That’s my question, not yours,’ Lannes said. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Aristide Labiche. What did you want from him?’

Sombra made no reply.

‘Come on,’ Lannes said. ‘You knew I was going to ask that question. You’ve had time to think of an answer. You called on him in the Pension Bernadotte, went down to the bar for a drink. Then a day or two later you visited the office of his brother, the advocate, and then Aristide was found murdered in the public garden. So you’ve some explaining to do.’

‘I didn’t kill him. You can’t pin that on me.’

‘Is that so? All right, perhaps you didn’t kill him, though I’ve an open mind on the subject, but, believe me, I can pin it on you if I choose. I need his killer. You’ll do as well as anyone.’

Sombra twisted the gold signet ring he wore on the little finger of his left hand.

‘We were old acquaintances,’ he said. ‘I knew him in Spain. So when I learned he was in Bordeaux it was natural to have a drink with him. That’s all. I know nothing about his death.’

‘So you say, but you’re the only suspect I have.’

Lannes took the brown envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk.

‘This is what you were looking for,’ he said. ‘It’s what he left with Yvette. I haven’t opened it, as you see. I don’t know what it contains or who might be interested in that. Except you, of course. Look at it from my side, Sombra. You seek out Aristide, talk with him, and he gets frightened, so frightened that he entrusts the envelope to Yvette, for safe keeping. Then he’s dead, and you return to search for it, and beat up young Yvette when she tells you she gave it to me. So it’s important to you, or to whoever put you up to it. Is Sigi back in Bordeaux?’

Sombra shook his head again.

‘Or perhaps it was your German friends who want the information. If the envelope contains what I think it does – evidence relating to Edmond de Grimaud’s relationship to the girl Pilar – then I can see why they would want it, in order to put the squeeze on him. Perhaps you are playing a double game, Sombra? I don’t think your friend Sigi would approve of that. Edmond’s his protector, after all. Still nothing to say? Lost your tongue? You were talkative enough last time we had you in here. Claimed diplomatic immunity, didn’t you, which was absurd.’

Still the Spaniard said nothing. Lannes looked him in the eyes. Sombra’s were dark, liquid. He couldn’t hold Lannes’ gaze for long. He licked his lips.

‘Can I have a glass of water?’ he said. ‘I think your bastard of an inspector has broken one of my ribs.’

‘Too bad,’ Lannes said. ‘You broke one of Yvette’s teeth.’

‘I don’t know who killed Aristide. Maybe his brother ordered it. I really don’t know. It had nothing to do with me.’

‘So you say,’ Lannes said again. ‘Tell me about the brother, the advocate. How well do you know him?’

‘Not well. Why should I? Superintendent, please believe me, I know nothing, really nothing.’

‘You’re not a man it’s easy to believe,’ Lannes said.

He got up and crossed the room to look out of the window. He could sense Sombra shifting in his chair. To ease his bodily discomfort? Or his mental? Then he took a bottle of Armagnac and two glasses from the cupboard, poured out two drinks and passed one across the desk to the Spaniard, who hesitated before stretching out for the glass which, however, he downed in one swallow.

‘You’re small fry, Sombra,’ Lannes said. ‘Among other things you’re a pimp. Is that your connection with the advocate? Have you procured little girls for him?’

‘You accuse me of this now?’

‘I can accuse you of several things. I don’t like you, Sombra. I don’t like your type. I have several different stories and you’re in the centre of all of them. That’s why I would advise you to speak. Because if you don’t, if you choose to stay silent, then, believe me, you will be back in the cells and you won’t be out for a long time.

Of course that might be best for you. You may be safer there, even if I let Moncerre have another go at you. Think about it.’

‘I know nothing about Aristide’s death, I assure you. You must believe me.’

‘Must I? Why should I?’

Lannes sighed. He had a sour taste in his mouth. He loathed this sort of thing. Sombra was a miserable rag of humanity, but he was nevertheless human. He was a murderer. Lannes had no doubt about that. Sombra and his mentor Sigi had killed Gaston Chambolley and Sombra had also killed that wretched clerk – what was his name? – Sigi’s foster-brother who had tried to blackmail them after they had borrowed his car from which one of them – Sombra, he believed – had tried to shoot Lannes himself. Lannes had been forced to abandon that investigation, but not before he had frightened Sombra with the threat of the guillotine. But, rat though Sombra was, Lannes knew he had initiated nothing. He was an underling, a hitman, who merely carried out orders. The question was: whose orders?

‘Tell you another story,’ he said. He picked up the envelope and waved it in front of Sombra. ‘There’s an agent of one of the French Security Services who wants to have something on Edmond, wants to be in a position to damage him. He knows there are compromising papers relating either to his relationship with Pilar, a Spanish anarchist and spy, or to still more damaging connections with the Germans whom, despite the Armistice, the spook still regards as the enemy, and he believes that these are now in Aristide’s possession. He knows about your reputation, which is not exactly a savoury one, and he commissions you to get in touch with Aristide and obtain the papers. You make his acquaintance and he promises to meet you again in a public place – for his safety, as he thinks – and enter into negotiations with you. I suppose he wants some sort of promise of safe conduct when he hands them over. But he has second thoughts, gets suspicious perhaps about your intentions, and you lose your temper and hit him on the head with your stick. Perhaps you hit him harder than you intended. No matter. He’s dead. You pull his body into the bushes and make off in a panic. But you still have to get hold of the papers. I ruled you out, first, I don’t mind admitting, because I said that this sort of killing wasn’t your style. You prefer the garotte, don’t you, Sombra. But I’ve changed my mind, you see, on account of your attack on Yvette. You lose your temper easily, and when you lose your temper, you lose your head. And now you don’t know whether you should be more frightened of me or of the man who commissioned you, or even of Sigi and Edmond whom you have double-crossed. So you are playing dumb. How do you like that?’

‘It’s fanciful,’ Sombra said. ‘You’ve no evidence at all.’

‘Evidence?’ Lannes said. ‘Let’s not worry about evidence. I’ve enough, I assure you, to hold you on suspicion. In fact, after this conversation, I’m going to go straight to the examining judge to get authority to do just that. There’s an alternative story of course: that it was the advocate Labiche, who knows you because you have obligingly provided him with the young flesh he likes, who commissions you to get the papers from Aristide. Why should he want them, you ask? Because though he denies that he met his brother since his return to Bordeaux, that’s a lie, one of his many lies, and in fact they did meet and Aristide foolishly spoke of this document, which interests the advocate because he is anxious to get a hold on Edmond de Grimaud, for reasons which I know, even if you don’t. So he commissions you to get them. The outcome’s the same, whichever story we prefer. Either one puts you in deep shit. Actually I prefer this second one because I get the advocate too. As for you, Sombra, your only chance of getting out of the mess, is to come clean. You’re not ready to do that yet? Fine, you’re going to have long days and nights in the cells to think about it.’

He was pleased to be rid of his presence, of the whiff of corruption he exuded, but he knew he had got nowhere. Each of the scenarios he had sketched was plausible, but no more than that. He had no evidence to support any of them, and Sombra knew it. Worse, Bracal would know it too, and would be aware that even if any held water, Sombra had connections which might make it dangerous to take things further. Lift a stone and whatever lay under it might be something of which Bracal would prefer to remain ignorant. Lannes could picture him drumming his fingers on his desktop, stroking his chin, raising an eyebrow, every movement indicative of scepticism and impatience. Bracal might indeed have his own doubts about Vichy, but he wasn’t – surely? – going to do anything which would have Vichy doubting him.

‘We’re getting nowhere,’ he would say. ‘Write the case off, file it as unsolved. Who’ll care? The murdered man – his past seems a bit murky too. Nobody’s calling for vengeance, certainly not his own brother, who is’ – he might not say this, but the thought would be there – ‘who is someone well in with Vichy, capable of causing us trouble.’

Like the Alsatian, Bracal would see no good reason to invite trouble. Quite the contrary. Push it all out of sight.

There was a knock on the door. Schnyder came in with a German officer.

‘Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Kordlinger, superintendent,’ he said. ‘He has replaced Lieutenant Schussmann as the officer charged to liaise with us. We thought he should have a word with you, just to get acquainted, you understand. Always well to establish good relations quickly. You’ll be glad to know he speaks excellent French.’

‘Oh yes,’ Kordlinger said, as Schnyder with a nod to Lannes left them alone. ‘I’m quite a Francophile. I’m a Rhinelander, and indeed my mother’s father was born a French citizen, in Lorraine well before the war of 1870. I’m delighted to meet you, Superintendent Lannes.’

Kordlinger was grey-haired – rather old for a lieutenant – lean, fine featured, with an aquiline nose. He wore pince-nez spectacles attached to his lapel by a black cord. His uniform was beautifully pressed – unlike poor Schussmann’s – and his nails well manicured.

‘My predecessor left a good report of you,’ he said.

‘I’m pleased to hear that, naturally.’

‘Willing collaboration is so important.’

Lannes invited him to sit down and offered a cigarette.

‘Thank you, no. It’s a habit I have never cared for.’

‘Each to each,’ Lannes said, lighting one himself.

‘Collaboration,’ Kordlinger said again, ‘so necessary if France is to take the place she should take in the New Order of Europe. I should like to know if any case that you may be engaged in has a relevance to us. I speak generally of course.’

‘None at present that I’m aware of,’ Lannes said.

‘But you would inform me if that was so?’

‘If that was what my superiors recommended, naturally.’

‘Quite so. Hierarchy must be observed.’

No reply seemed necessary. Kordlinger removed his pince-nez and began to polish the glass.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my predecessor, Lieutenant Schussmann – you got on well with him.’

‘I had no complaints. I trust he had none either.’

‘None at all. As I said, he made a good report of you. In certain respects, however – to be more exact, in one respect – it appears that Lieuenant Schussmann was too, shall we say, liberal in his interpretation of orders to collaborate. He behaved in a manner unworthy of the Wehrmacht, disgracefully indeed. You have heard nothing of this?’

‘Nothing at all. You surprise me. May I offer you a drink, lieutenant?’

Lannes gestured to the bottle which he had not replaced in the cupboard.

‘Thank you, no. Like the Fuehrer I detest alcohol. It is necessary to keep a clear head. Superintendent, it pains me to say what I am about to tell you, for it casts dishonour on the German army and the Reich. Schussmann should not have been entrusted with a position of responsibility. He was a degenerate, a homosexual, though naturally he tried to conceal this. He engaged in disgusting practices, with a French boy, perhaps several French boys, we cannot be certain. He exposed himself to blackmail. That is why at last he behaved honourably and shot himself when his criminal conduct came to light.’

‘He shot himself? I had no idea. I’m shocked to learn this.’

‘He had been under suspicion for some time, I believe. When threatened with exposure, he did as I say. Superintendent, you will understand that I tell you this – shameful though it is to the honour of the Reich – for one reason only. I must know who this boy is – or these boys if there was, as we believe, more than one. They – or he – cannot be allowed to remain free to attempt to corrupt more German officers. In Germany we send such despicable creatures to a punishment camp, which is where Schussmann would have gone if he hadn’t escaped us.’