Dark Summer in Bordeaux (9 page)

‘Then, not just like you, I gave him a blow-job, he really wanted it badly. “So long as you don’t tell Wolfie,” I said. So?’

‘So then what?’

‘Then, nothing much. We talked a bit. He got in the way of dropping in and we talked and I gave him what he wanted. He was a nice old thing really. I was sorry when he moved out.’

‘He didn’t exactly move out,’ Lannes said. ‘You might say he was moved out. In fact he was murdered, hit on the head with a blunt instrument.’

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re kidding.’

‘I’m afraid not. That’s why I’m here. I’m investigating his murder.’

‘Oh no,’ and to his surprise she began to weep, genuine tears and sobs. He thought how strange it was: Adrienne Jauzion dry-eyed and indifferent to the news of her father’s murder and this little tart in floods.

He let her have her cry out. Then she said, ‘There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard. Give me a glass. Take one yourself.’

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘It’s his wine. He gave me half a dozen bottles. This is the last.’

‘What did he talk about?’

‘The state of the world. The war. Communism. He went on a lot. Over my head, most of it. He wanted to educate me. That’s what he said, that it wasn’t safe being an innocent in the world today.’

‘He was right there.’

‘Not so safe for him either, from what you say.’

‘Oh I think he was quite an innocent in his way himself. Did he ever seem frightened?’

‘Only after the Spaniard came. Then he said he was going to have to disappear. Disappear again, he said. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when he left. But I did think he might have come to say good-bye . . . ’

‘He didn’t go when he meant to, of his own accord. Otherwise I daresay he wouldn’t have left without a word to you. Did you see the Spaniard?’

‘No, but he frightened him. I know that.’

‘You’ve been helpful,’ Lannes said. ‘And remember: his advice was good. Take care.’

‘That’s all right, he was a nice old boy. Can’t oblige you?’

Lannes shook his head.

‘Another time,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Whenever you’re needing.’

XV

‘The lawyer’s clerk,’ Lannes said, ‘Labiche’s young man, do you think?’

‘Seems possible,’ Moncerre said. ‘I never thought the bugger wasn’t lying to me.’

There were more Germans than French in the Brasserie Fernand where the food was still of pre-war quality and abundance, doubtless because Fernand cultivated the chiefs of the black market. Sometimes, when Marguerite complained of the difficulty of feeding the children adequately, Lannes felt guilty because he had eaten so well at lunchtime. Today’s saddle of lamb for instance – it was impossible for Marguerite to buy anything like that. It had been a triumph to find a dozen eggs the other day. Lannes had eaten very little of the pipérade she had cooked. ‘The children need it more,’ he had said.

‘I’d like to shake the truth out of him,’ Moncerre said. ‘I don’t care for his sort. Pity he’s one of the Untouchables.’

‘For the time being . . . I think, though, the clerk is a job for you, René. See if you can strike up an acquaintance with him. We’ll keep this unofficial just for now.’

‘And what about the Spaniard?’ Moncerre said. ‘The description fits our old friend Sombra. Or would that be too much of a coincidence? Mind you, it fits every second goddam Spaniard too.’

‘Take his photograph to the pension and check it out,’ Lannes said. ‘And ask in the bar too. Things may be beginning to move.’

As they left the restaurant he remembered Schnyder’s request about Havanas, and drew Fernand aside. Sure, Fernand said, with a smile. It was possible. Anything was possible if you were prepared to pay.

‘It’s playtime for those who step outside the law,’ he said. ‘Must make your life more difficult, Jean.’

The sun was shining as he limped back to the office. A spring afternoon, with women in pretty frocks for the first time that year and the candles on the chestnut trees. Before the war it would have raised his spirits and he would have been happy to stop off and sit for half an hour on the terrace of a café, enjoying the scene. But now he felt only a tightening of the knot of apprehension, as if the sweetness of the day mocked its reality. A year ago, he thought, the ‘drôle de guerre’ had been exploded by the German blitzkrieg, and now they were living through a ‘drôle de paix’. Phoney war, phoney peace. But hadn’t the inter-war years been no more than that?

There had been an anonymous letter on his desk that morning. A single sentence: ‘Superintendent Lannes, don’t you want to know who your real father was?’ Madness: as if his poor pious mother would ever – could ever – have cuckolded his father? They had been as decent and loving a couple as you could imagine. It’s vicious, intended to disturb me, he thought. Only that. In any case, how could it matter? His parents were dead. His father had been his father.

Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork: an afternoon of the utmost tedium lay before him. Perhaps that was what he needed, the reassurance that he was only a functionary. If only he could believe that, could be content to go through the motions! But he was weighed down by responsibilities, oppressed by perplexities. And everything was going to get worse. That was his one certainty. Nevertheless he settled at his desk, reading, annotating, ticking, signing his name, going through the motions as if any of it mattered, profoundly bored, but finding that the routine of bureaucratic duty was indeed a sort of soporific.

Old Joseph interrupted him: the Alsatian would like to see him.

Schnyder was at his window gazing out on the square. His desk was clear, uncluttered by papers. Lannes had the impression, doubtless mistaken, that his chief had had nothing to do all day, and was only waiting for the hour when he could decently leave the office, perhaps even to call on La Jauzion.

‘Are you still working on the Labiche case? You got nothing from the daughter, did you? So can we write it off?’

‘That’s what everyone seems to want,’ Lannes said, ‘but I can’t oblige. We’re making progress. Or perhaps we are.’

He brought Schnyder up to date, briefly recounting the visit to the Pension Bernadotte.

‘Young René Martin’s done good work,’ he said.

‘Well, I suppose you’d better carry on. But it’s something else. I’ve had a visitor, not the kind I like. He was inquiring about that Chambolley case which I thought we’d agreed was dead and buried.

I told him it had been your business. So he wants to see you. When I say I had a visitor, I don’t mean here. He preferred to meet me out of the office, summoned me really. What does that say to you?’

‘Nothing good.’

‘Exactly. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ve arranged for you to meet him. In an hour’s time. In the public garden, he’ll be on a bench by the statue of Montaigne, and he’ll have a copy of his essays. They’re so childish, the spooks. I hope you can get rid of him without any trouble. That’s the last thing we want.’

‘Very well,’ Lannes said, ‘I suppose I’ve no choice. By the way, I’ve put out a request for your cigars.’

‘Kind of you.’

‘My contact thinks he can get them. May take a week or two.’

‘Good, these German ones are really no pleasure to smoke.’

The man on the bench was wearing a dark suit and an Italian straw hat. He got up to shake Lannes’ hand and then motioned him to share his bench.

‘I’m told you’re honest,’ he said.

Lannes made no reply.

‘Cards on the table. My bosses would prefer that I don’t give you my name, but I think they’re wrong. If we’re to work together . . . ’

‘Are we?’

‘I hope so. Lionel Villepreux of the Bureau des Menées Antinationalistes. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘The Bureau does, but . . . ’ ‘You mean anyone might make that claim?’

Lannes lit a cigarette and waited.

‘Of course they could, but for the moment you’ll have to take my word for it. It can’t surprise you that I don’t carry identification. If I did we wouldn’t be meeting here, but in your office. Last autumn you made a visit to Vichy, which is unusual and which was probably, given our circumstances, unauthorised. Not that that matters to me. You saw Edmond de Grimaud and had a long conversation with him in the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. Subsequently he arranged for your son Dominique to be repatriated from his prisoner-of-war camp. Correct?’

‘Yes. You’re well informed.’

Villepreux – if this was indeed his name – took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and filled a pipe, pressing the tobacco down hard, with his thumb, lit it with a wax match and emitted a couple of puffs.

‘A pipe’s reassuring, isn’t it? You can trust a man who smokes a pipe. That’s why I prefer it. What did you give de Grimaud in return? A promise to close down the Chambolley case, wasn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I don’t care about that. The Chambolley case doesn’t interest us, not directly. Beautiful these gardens, aren’t they? So peaceful. You wouldn’t think there was a war on. Not of course that there is, just now. Do you think that will last?’

Villepreux took off his hat and fanned his face. His fair hair was thinning. He had a Norman accent and a big mottled nose. His eyes were a very pale blue.

‘Unwilling to commit yourself?’ he said. ‘I like that. I do indeed.

It’s a rash man who is ready with an opinion these days. So anyway I don’t need to know what you think, but I tell you this. Things aren’t going to continue the way they are. We must prepare for a change. Vichy won’t last for ever. Will it now?’

‘If you say so.’

‘France has lost a battle. France has not lost the war. You know whose opinion that is, don’t you? The general who is currently in London. Do you think he’s right?’

‘You don’t want my opinion,’ Lannes said. ‘Tell me instead what you do want.’

‘Cards on the table, eh? Even if you choose to keep yours close to your chest. Fair enough, I like a careful man. Bureau des Menées Antinationalistes, that’s who we are, like I say. But there’s more than one interpretation of what might constitute anti-national goings-on, plots or machinations. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘There’s more than one interpretation of most things,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ll grant you that. But the wind’s blowing from Vichy.’

‘Quite so. But winds change, don’t they? That’s the thing about the wind, it only blows for a certain time from the same direction. Your friend, Edmond de Grimaud now – is he your friend, by the way, or merely someone you’ve found useful? No, don’t bother to answer. He’s sitting pretty at the moment – as long as the wind doesn’t shift. But, you see, if it does – I won’t say “when” – there are questions that will be asked about his activities before the war as well as now. And they may not be questions he can answer with any comfort. You see what I mean? We’ve quite a dossier on Monsieur de Grimaud.’

‘I suppose you’ve a dossier on many people . Even one on me doubtless.’

‘Certainly on you, superintendent. I have you marked as a good Republican. Not like your friend – if he is indeed a friend – Monsieur de Grimaud. Your Chambolley case turned out to be somewhat different from what it seemed. Isn’t that so? And now I’m told you have another murder on your hands.’

Lannes looked towards the bushes where the professor’s body had been found. Two children, boy and girl, were playing ball with a ginger-coloured terrier which was in a state of high excitement.

When it succeeded in catching the ball, the boy, who wore a sailor-suit, threw himself on the dog and persuaded it to release its trophy while it responded with mock growls which the child did not take seriously. The children’s mother sat knitting on a nearby bench, and now looked up to smile at them.

‘There’s no connection,’ Lannes said. ‘Murder comes my way, from time to time. As you might suppose.’

‘But if you were to discover a connection, would you feel obliged to report that to Monsieur de Grimaud?’

‘It seems unlikely.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Villepreux put another match to his pipe and said: ‘Naturally you are wise to have a friend at Vichy. We all have friends at Vichy. Even the general who is now in London has friends at Vichy. But friendships can be dangerous. And you would be wise to have friends also who are – how shall I put it? – not perhaps entirely of Vichy. You follow?’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’

The little dog had seized the ball again and this time disappeared with it into the bushes, followed by the boy calling out its name.

‘Cards on the table,’ Villepreux said again. ‘I’ll be frank with you. Before the war Monsieur de Grimaud paid several visits to Berlin. He was friendly with Admiral Canaris of the Abwehr. You know what that is, of course – Military Intelligence. Well, that’s the sort of thing that interests me, do you see? Canaris is an interesting case himself – a German patriot who doesn’t, we believe, love the Nazis as they think they should be loved. All the same, when a French politician who is also the proprietor and editor of an influential review has relations with a man like Canaris, questions are bound to be asked by people like me.’

‘People like you,’ Lannes said, ‘but I don’t see that this is any concern of mine. I’m a cop, not a spook.’