Dark Summer in Bordeaux (3 page)

‘One of your other tenants might know something about him,’ Lannes said.

‘Indeed that’s so, but then, again, this is a respectable house. There’s none of the tenants would like me to call them to the attention of the police, if you know what I mean. I speak without offence, superintendent.’

‘I understand perfectly,’ Lannes said. ‘Nevertheless, a man whom I have reason to believe used to live here has been murdered, and this is the only address I have for him, all I know about him . . . ’

He paused, to let the woman think in the silence he imposed on her.

‘Labiche?’ Moncerre had said, ‘that’s the name of that bastard of an advocate. Maybe they’re brothers. If so, it’s the wrong one has caught it.’

The same thought had of course occurred to Lannes, the moment the old tailor produced the name. All the more reason to go warily.

‘There’s Madame Bouillou, first-floor right,’ the concierge said. ‘She’s been here a long time, and she’s alert as a hunting-dog. You could try her.’

‘Yes, I’m Madame Bouillou, and you’re police, you say. What have I done to deserve a visit from you?’

If she was indeed alert as a hunting-dog, Lannes thought, she was one that was out of condition. She wheezed as she spoke and her big bosom palpitated as if the effort of moving from her armchair to the door had been almost too much for her. There was a whiff of port wine on her breath when she smiled and ushered Lannes in to an over-furnished drawing-room where a white cockatoo in a cage squawked to see him. She put a cloth over the cage saying, ‘Naughty boy, be quiet or I shan’t hear what the nice policeman has to say.’ Then she sank into a high-backed chair which she filled, picked up her glass of wine and took a little sip.

‘It’s years since I have had dealings with the police,’ she said. ‘Quite like old times, this is. Take a seat, superintendent.’

She gestured with a hand which had a large ruby ring embedded in the fat of her finger, and a grey cat leapt off the chair she had indicated, arched its back and jumped on to her lap where it lay purring while she scratched it behind its ear.

‘I know nothing about that,’ Lannes said, ‘and I can’t suppose any dealings with the police you may have had are of any relevance. It’s really some information I’m looking for, and I hope you may be able to help me.’

‘Soft soap,’ she said, ‘but go ahead. It’s a treat to have a visitor, even a policeman. Smoke if you wish. My doctor forbids me cigarettes but I do love the smell.’

‘Thank you,’ Lannes said. ‘Do you remember a Professor Labiche who used to live here?’

To his surprise, she laughed.

‘Give me another glass of wine and give yourself one. Poor Aristide! In trouble with you lot, and him such a careful man . . . ’

‘You knew him well then?’

‘Seeing as we were lovers, or I was his mistress as he would have put it, I can’t deny knowing him. You wouldn’t think to look at me now that I was a beauty once, would you, but there you are, there’s a photograph of the pair of us on that little table, and you can see I was a looker in those days. Well, that was nearer fifty than forty years ago. What’s the old fellow done?’

‘You sound as if you are still fond of him.’

‘And why shouldn’t I be? He’s an old silly and he became an awful bore. Nevertheless . . . ’

Lannes crossed the room and picked up the photograph which was in an Art Nouveau silver frame. More than forty years ago, as she said, but there was a resemblance to the dead man. As to the woman, yes, she was right, she had been beautiful in a blonde, buxom, chorus-girl way.

‘It was politics,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t be doing with his silly Communism. I was a businesswoman myself, you see. Yes, as you’ll discover if you look in your files, it wasn’t what most think of as a respectable business – I kept a house and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It embarrassed Aristide no end, he was very correct, even as a young man. Tell me why you’re interested in him and I’ll tell you our story.’

She laughed again and as she did so Lannes became aware of her charm and of how attractive she must have been when that photograph was taken.

‘I’ve had lots of lovers, but there was always something about him,’ she said, and emptied her glass.

Lannes hesitated. The smoke from his cigarette hovered in the still air of the room where it was probable no window had been opened for days. He had always hated this moment when you had to announce a death.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘So that’s why you’re here. I didn’t even know he was back in Bordeaux. How did you find me?’

Lannes said, ‘It’s the only address we have for him.’

‘There’s a time I would have wept,’ she said. ‘Now . . . ?’

She reached out for the bottle of port, and again offered it to Lannes, who declined because it was a drink he had never cared for.

‘What was he a professor of?’ he said.

‘History, which has never interested me. The Commune was his subject, I believe.’ She sighed and her bosom heaved. ‘He was a shy and timid lover,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that’s what attracted me, and held me for so long . . . ’

Lannes said, ‘Does he have family here in Bordeaux?’

‘There was a wife of course. Perhaps she’s dead too. I would be dead myself if I believed my doctor. And there’s a brother, you’ll know of him, I’m sure. The advocate, a good deal younger he is, a nasty piece of work. They didn’t get on. Politics.’

‘But he lived here with you, rather than with his wife?’

‘He loved me, or said he did. So he moved in here when he left her at last, and stayed with me for I can’t remember how long. Years anyway. Then he went up to Paris. On account of his stupid politics. I can’t remember just why. Perhaps he went to write for a paper there. Yes, I think that was it. To tell the truth I wasn’t much interested and I confess I had had enough of him really. Being under my feet, you understand.’

She picked up her glass and held it to her lips but paused before drinking.

‘I can’t think why anyone should have killed the poor chap. He was an innocent, you know.’

Lannes said, ‘According to the tailor who gave me this address, the professor had a daughter. Can you tell me anything about her?’

‘I never met her. That won’t surprise you. He very seldom spoke of her, except occasionally as she had been when a little girl. He may have been fond of her, I don’t know, it was a part of his life I didn’t belong to. Though he was fond of me, as fond as he could be, I think, of anyone, it was ideas that held him, not people, and, as for the daughter, politics came between them. That’s what he used to say. And perhaps she took her mother’s side. I don’t know. I was his mistress for years, you know, before he came to live with me. But there were sides of his life I knew nothing about. I preferred it that way, to be honest.’

Her hand stroked the grey cat. For a couple of minutes when she didn’t answer its purring was the only sound in the stuffy room.

‘I wouldn’t have thrown him out, you know,’ she said, ‘not ever. Not even though he had come to bore me and I was past enjoying what we had had together. All the same, when he came to live here I gave him something he had never had before. Or so he said, though he never said what it was. But it wasn’t enough. Evidently it wasn’t. It was his decision to leave, for Paris and his politics, not for another woman, you’ll understand. I could have seen off such a one, no matter who she was, if I’d chosen to, but I was helpless against politics. And to tell you the truth, superintendent, I didn’t much care. As I said, he had become an awful bore. Give me some more wine, please.’

She held out her glass.

‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I missed him. For a long time . . . ’ ‘So you don’t know where we might find the daughter.’

‘No idea. You’ll have to try the brother. As for me, I wouldn’t demean myself by speaking to him. I’m a generous-minded woman, as won’t surprise you knowing my milieu, but there are things I’ve no time for. Nor those whose tastes lie that way.’

‘I’m with you there,’ Lannes said.

He got to his feet.

‘You’ve been helpful,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful. I’m sorry to have brought you distressing news. There’s one other thing, a request. I’ve been speaking of the professor as the murdered man, and I’ve no doubt correctly. But actually we can’t be sure until he has been identified. It’s only the evidence of his suit and the tailor who made it brought me here. It’s a lot to ask you, but . . . ’

‘It’s the brother’s job, surely.’

‘You’re right, of course, but I have reasons to think he may not prove co-operative. So?’

‘Very well then, since you ask politely. And as for the brother, from all I’ve heard of him you may well be right. He’s a bastard, my poor old boy couldn’t stand him.’

‘An innocent?’ Moncerre said. ‘A Communist and an innocent? Pull the other one.’

‘Oh,’ Lannes said, ‘there are innocent Communists, you know, just as there are even innocent Fascists. We call them idealists and they cause a lot of trouble.’

He lit a cigarette and pushed the packet of Gauloises towards Moncerre. Then he got up, crossed over to the window. The sky was slate-grey, threatening rain and a little gust of wind threw discarded papers about the square.

‘I liked her,’ he said, ‘and what she told me helps to give us a picture of our man. But she hadn’t seen or heard of him for years.’

He took a bottle of Armagnac from his cupboard, filled two stubby glasses and passed one to Moncerre.

‘There’s the brother,’ Moncerre said.

‘Yes, there’s the brother.’

‘A bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Yes . . . ’

Had he told Moncerre just how Edmond de Grimaud had arranged that Sigi, who was also known as Marcel and whom they knew to be a murderer, but one of those belonging to the category Schnyder described as ‘untouchable’, should apply pressure on the advocate Labiche to prevent him from continuing his campaign against himself? ‘You’re in deep shit,’ Edmond had said – and got him out of it. By what was either blackmail or menaces. Or both. Lannes had been relieved and at the same time ashamed. Deeply ashamed. No, he hadn’t been able to tell Moncerre everything, just made it clear he’d been heavily leaned on, bullied and bribed, though not with money.

He looked at his subordinate whose face was completely without expression. Lannes knew him to be loyal, thought of him as a friend as well as colleague, but was never sure that he had his respect. Not his full unconditional respect anyway, certainly not the unqualified admiration that he knew young René felt for him – which admiration, even reverence, was itself a cause for embarrassment.

‘I want you to question him.’ he said. ‘There are things between us.’

‘I see.’

‘Frankly, apart from anything else, he would take pleasure in telling me nothing about his brother or even telling me lies, certainly making things as difficult for me as possible.’

‘So you want me to twist his arm? It’ll be a pleasure.’

‘You might at least find out where our dead man has been living. That would be a start.’

Moncerre fingered his glass, then downed the brandy in one swallow.

‘I’ve got itchy palms,’ he said. ‘It’s like when I go home and find that my wife hasn’t cooked a dinner because I’ve done something new to offend her and I’ve no idea what it is. So I’ve the feeling that this is not going to turn out to be a simple head-bashing. That advocate likes little girls, doesn’t he?’

‘So they say. There’s no reason though to suppose his brother shared that taste. Certainly not if Madame Bouillou is anything to go by.’

‘Never said there was.’

Moncerre laid his finger along his nose.

‘But a bit of leverage, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Apply as much leverage as you care to,’ Lannes said, knowing that Moncerre would take pleasure in doing so.

V

The judge appointed to supervise the investigation was new. Old Rougerie had been retired, or chosen to withdraw. Lannes didn’t know which. He hadn’t been sorry to see the old fusspot go. Nevertheless there had been this in his favour. You could always bamboozle or scare him; he hadn’t been very bright and he was terrified of responsibility. The new man was more formidable, had come straight from Paris, and to make matters worse was several years younger than Lannes, maybe as much as ten. He wore a double-breasted suit in a harsh shade of blue. There was a gold watch on his wrist. He was tall and thin and his black shoes were highly polished. For a moment Lannes couldn’t remember his name, which was Bracal. The first time they met, three weeks ago, he had begun by saying, ‘I’m a good republican but we are where we are.’ Lannes hadn’t known what to make of that. Was it some sort of test? He had let it pass without comment anyway.

Now Bracal said, ‘I could offer you coffee, but I wouldn’t advise you to drink it.’

‘In that case, no thank you.’

‘So what do you know? Have you a suspect?’

‘No suspect and we know very little. We have a name. Labiche. Professor Aristide Labiche. He used to be a resident of Bordeaux but we think he hasn’t lived here for some time and has perhaps only recently returned. He has a brother. You’ll know of him perhaps. An advocate. One of my men has gone to interview him, but I don’t think they were close.’