‘Were any of the men you saw of around that height, Monsieur Weismann?’
‘Well, yes, I would think so.’
‘And were any of the men you saw bearded and well dressed?’
‘Oh, all the gentlemen Mademoiselle Marchal entertained were well dressed. There was no riff-raff.’ He seemed to take a vicarious pride in the quality of her clientele.
‘And I imagine,’ went on Lambert, ‘that if you passed any of these men on the stairs, they would hardly be likely to stop to pass the time of day, given the purpose of their visit. In fact, they would be more likely to hurry past with their heads down.’
‘Indeed, Inspector,’ Weismann agreed with a complicit laugh, ‘you are entirely correct.’
Gorski observed the scene with a mixture of admiration and dismay. It was clear that within moments Lambert would have convinced Weismann that he had indeed seen Barthelme.
‘So you couldn’t say that this was not one of the gentlemen you saw?’
He handed the photograph back to Weismann. This time the historian retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his desk and put them on. He adopted a sombre expression, as if a great deal rested on his verdict.
‘He’s certainly a distinguished-looking fellow.’ He nodded slowly to himself, then tutted as if he could not believe his previous error. ‘Now that I look again,’ he said, ‘there is a certain resemblance to a gentleman I saw once or twice.’
‘Someone you saw entering Mademoiselle Marchal’s apartment?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure that it’s the same person, but, as I say, there’s a certain resemblance. It’s not a very good picture.’
‘And this gentleman you saw,’ said Lambert, ‘how would you describe him?’
Weismann cast his eyes towards the ceiling, before earnestly enumerating his characteristics: ‘Tall, well dressed, bearded. Somewhat older than the man here. But perhaps the photograph is a little out of date.’
Gorski was about to intervene, but Lambert silenced him with a curt shake of his head. Instead, he apologised for interrupting Weismann’s work and led Gorski towards the door. Weismann apologised for not being of more assistance and assured Lambert that he was most welcome to return whenever he wanted. ‘Next time I must offer you a glass of schnapps.’
Lambert promised that he would look forward to that.
On the landing, Lambert gave Gorski a wink and put his finger to his lips. Only when they were outside on the pavement, did he declare: ‘I think this calls for a drink.’
They strode back to the little bar on the corner of Rue Marbach. The man in the cap had been replaced by a tiny man wearing a suit several sizes too big. He had a glass of white wine in front of him.
‘Afternoon, Inspector,’ he said as Lambert entered.
‘Glad to see you’re keeping out of trouble, Robideaux,’ Lambert said as he passed.
They sat down in the same booth as before. The bartender appeared at the table.
‘A bottle of red, Karl,’ said Lambert. ‘Something decent.’
There was an art deco clock on the wall opposite the counter. It was quarter past four. Gorski was not due to meet Céline until eight. He would have to forgo his haircut, but he had plenty of time. If necessary, he did not even need to go home to change his shirt. The future of his marriage did not depend on what shirt he was wearing.
They touched glasses. ‘Salut,’ said Lambert. ‘And congratulations!’
Gorski was not sure why he was being congratulated, but he accepted with a nod of his head. The two men drank.
‘Not bad,’ said Lambert approvingly. ‘White gives me heartburn.’
Gorski had only taken a small sip of his wine, but Lambert topped up his glass. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He was wearing a heavy gold watch on his wrist. He leaned across the table, as if he was about to share a confidence.
‘You know, to be honest, Georges, I had you down as a bit of a plodder. One of these provincial by-the-book types, but I’m the first one to hold my hands up when I’m wrong.’
Gorski did not say anything.
‘We could do with more guys like you up here. There are too many college boys with their law degrees these days. You’ve learned your trade the proper way.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Gorski.
‘And that’s your problem, right there. You’re too modest. Tell me this: what made you call me about Barthelme? Procedure?’ He shook his head theatrically. ‘No, this!’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘You can’t learn that from a textbook.’
Gorski made a self-effacing gesture, but he had no wish to disavow the Strasbourg cop of his favourable view of him. He took a good swallow of wine. It felt good to be in this grotty bar with this big shot who had not once looked at his watch or suggested that he needed to be elsewhere.
Either on account of the wine or Lambert’s praise, he began to feel more comfortable. ‘Even so,’ he said, ‘I doubt if Monsieur Weismann will be quite so sure about having seen Barthelme tomorrow.’
Lambert held up a finger. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Georges. When Weismann wakes up tomorrow, he’ll be more convinced than ever about what he saw. That’s why I backed off. Never push a witness. Maybe I planted a seed in Weismann’s head, but the more he thinks it was his own idea, the more adamant he’ll be.’
‘But it wasn’t his own idea.’
‘That’s neither here nor there. The point is that he believes it was his idea. If I go back tomorrow and say: “Oh, Monsieur Weismann, I think you were mistaken about what you told me yesterday,” then I guarantee you he’ll insist that he saw Barthelme numerous times and even, now that he remembers, spoke to him occasionally. It’s human nature,’ he said with a laugh. He knocked back his wine and refreshed the glasses.
Gorski had no time for the idea of human nature. It was a meaningless idea people used to absolve themselves of responsibility for their own actions. He kept this thought to himself, however, stating only that it would be difficult to convince an examining magistrate of the soundness of such testimony.
Lambert waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it’s always worth cultivating a few friends on the other side.’
Gorski had never thought of examining magistrates as being on ‘the other side’, but again he kept his counsel.
‘Still, you’re right about one thing,’ Lambert went on. ‘We will need some kind of corroboration. Mademoiselle Marchal wasn’t living on fresh air.’ What they needed, he said, was to have a look at Barthelme’s financial records. ‘Think you’d be able to take care of that?’
Gorski stared at him blankly. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘It might be tricky to get a warrant,’ he said.
Lambert tucked his chin into his chest. ‘Georges, that’s the sort of thing I’d expect from one of the college boys. You’re in with the widow. I’m sure you can charm her a little?’
Gorski lit a cigarette. Lambert’s view of him was correct. He was a plodder, a provincial plodder. And now, when against his better instincts he had followed a hunch, he had found himself drawn into a situation he wanted no part of. He should never have called Lambert in the first place.
Lambert began to tell the story of a teenage boy who had stabbed his mother. Gorski was relieved that the conversation had moved on, but he was barely listening. He looked at the Strasbourg cop’s wide, handsome face. At the station, everyone called him ‘Boss’. But there was an edge to him. He well understood Weismann’s compliance: Lambert was the sort that people gravitated towards; they wanted to please him. And Gorski was no better. Was he not also acquiescing because he felt grateful to be sharing a bottle with ‘Big Phil’, to feel that he was part of his circle.
‘The kid got off with five years,’ Lambert was saying. ‘Mitigating circumstances, apparently. Fuck mitigating circumstances. There’s no such thing.’
Gorski nodded obediently.
‘You should get yourse
lf a transfer up here, Georges,’ Lambert went on.
Gorski gave a dismissive laugh. Years ago he would have jumped at such a proposition, but he had long since given up on the ambition to test himself in a more challenging environment. Saint-Louis might not be much, and the role of chief of police might not be unduly demanding, but it was his domain. He had no desire to involve himself in the grubby practices of his big-city counterparts. Nevertheless, it was he who insisted on the second bottle.
Twelve
Since the accident, Raymond and his mother had eaten their evening meals in near silence. Naturally, they sat in the same places as before. It would have been unthinkable for Raymond to take over his father’s place at the head of the table, but the unaltered seating arrangements only emphasised his absence. And perhaps because of this, they had become locked into a certain way of conducting themselves. They kept their eyes downcast, ate with little appetite and made only the most mundane remarks. Certainly no mention of the accident passed between them. They had achieved a near-perfect imitation of a solemn, grieving family. Raymond wondered if this charade was for the benefit of Thérèse, who would undoubtedly frown upon any merriment. It might, on the other hand, be that the two of them simply had little to say to each other and it was easier to blame the presence of the housekeeper than admit this.
This evening, however, Lucette seemed determined to dispel the gloomy atmosphere. She was dressed in a light skirt and a yellow blouse and had even, Raymond discerned, applied a little make-up to her cheeks. When Thérèse brought in the soup, Lucette asked in an excessively jovial manner if she wouldn’t mind turning up the heating. She even affected a little shiver to give credence to her request. In most households, this would have been a matter of no significance, but at the Barthelme’s it amounted to a minor mutiny. Previously, if she had been chilly, Lucette would have gone upstairs to fetch a cardigan. On the rare occasions that the heating was turned up, it was only at the behest of the head of the household, and then only when it had reached the point that the occupants of the house could see their breath. It was not unusual during the winter for Maître Barthelme to wear a scarf and gloves in his study to set an example to the other members of the household.
Thérèse responded to Lucette’s request only with: ‘Of course, Madame.’
As she left the room, Lucette shot her son a complicit smile. When they were alone, she took a deep breath. It was obvious to Raymond that she had rehearsed whatever she was about to say. He assumed it would be about the 200 francs he had stolen. After first wishing him bon appétit and taking a spoonful of soup, she began: ‘I’m pleased that you decided to go back to school, Raymond. We mustn’t mope around the house feeling sorry for ourselves.’ This was the closest either of them had come to alluding to his father’s death. ‘Was everyone kind to you?’
Raymond took a spoonful of soup. It was cauliflower. It had not occurred to him that his mother would ask about his day at school. But he was glad she was making this effort to lighten the atmosphere, and he was proud of her rebellion over the heating.
‘I’m glad I went too, Maman,’ he said. ‘Of course, everyone knows what happened.’
‘Tell me all about it.’ Lucette’s manner was rather forced. Perhaps she already knew he had not been to school and wanted to see how long he would keep up his pretence. But Raymond could not imagine his mother engaging in such subterfuge. He had never known her to be anything other than ingenuous. It was this that made her so easy to deceive. His father, on the other hand, immediately saw through the pettiest of lies, and even when Raymond had been a small boy, he had been quite prepared to utilise his armoury of lawyer’s tricks to get the truth out of him. It was impossible to imagine Lucette having an ulterior motive, however. She was merely trying to shake off the grip that Bertrand continued to exert over them.
So Raymond played along: ‘Mademoiselle Delarue kept me behind and asked if I was all right. She said that if I needed to leave suddenly, or whatever, I was just to do so.’ Then to embellish the lie—which had, in any case, come easily to him—he added: ‘She seemed a bit embarrassed. The whole time she was talking to me, she kept looking at her fingernails. But she was nice. Everyone was nice. And everyone asked me to pass on their condolences.’
He glanced up from his soup. Lucette looked pleased with him.
‘I’m very proud of you, Raymond. And I’m sure your father would be as well.’
Raymond gave a derisive snort.
‘What else?’ she persisted, fearing that silence would envelop them again.
Previously, Raymond might have answered such an enquiry monosyllabically, but now, feeling that they had entered into a kind of pact, he embarked on a long speech about how he was finding his French class quite demanding. The novel they were studying was dreadfully boring, and of course missing a week’s classes hadn’t helped. He even, out of sheer bravado, kept his monologue going when Thérèse came in to clear away the soup bowls. The problem with Zola, he found himself saying, is that he’s so judgemental about his characters, it’s hard to form an opinion of one’s own. He paused to draw breath.
Lucette nodded seriously. ‘I always struggled with Zola at school. Those endless descriptions!’
‘Exactly!’ said Raymond. They smiled at each other, pleased to establish this point of commonality. Thérèse entered with the main course. It was lamb casserole. As she put the plates in front of them, she wished them bon appétit, but she imbued the phrase with such sourness that it was less an invitation to enjoy their food than to stop chattering like children.
Lucette ignored or failed to notice her tone. With a glance towards Raymond, she said: ‘Is there no wine tonight, Thérèse?’
Thérèse’s only reply was to incline her head and return to the kitchen to fetch a bottle. It fell to Raymond to open it. He took the corkscrew from the drawer of the sideboard and replicated the actions he had seen his father perform so many times. The task accomplished, he poured a glass for his mother and then, at her invitation, for himself. Thérèse left the room. She had a way of making her disapproval apparent with the smallest adjustment of her gait.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Thérèse had succeeded in dampening the convivial atmosphere they had conspired to create, and Raymond could not think of anything other than the most banal of remarks.
Eventually, Lucette said: ‘Yvette rang.’ She tried to make it seem as if she had only just remembered, but she was no actress. Raymond wondered if this was her way of telling him that she had known all along that he had not been at school. Yvette would have had no reason to call if he had been. His mother liked Yvette, and it irked Raymond that they got on so well. His mother affected an irritating girlishness in her company, while Yvette talked to Lucette unselfconsciously as if they were two friends, rather than members of different generations. It was likely that they would have talked for some time.
‘She did?’ Raymond replied. ‘When was that?’
‘Around four.’
‘I’ll call her back later,’ he said.
‘I thought you would have seen her at school,’ Lucette said.
‘We missed each other,’ he said. ‘We didn’t share any classes today,’ he said.
‘I see,’ she said sadly. It was clear that she knew Raymond was lying. She attempted to conceal her embarrassment by asking Raymond to replenish her wine.
She made an effort to brighten her tone. ‘In any case, you must invite her round for dinner now that—’ She had been on the brink of referring to her husband’s death. She looked down at her plate. She had only taken a few mouthfuls of her lamb.
‘I will,’ said Raymond.
The conversation petered out, and it was a relief when Thérèse returned with dessert.
At this point, Lucette asked the housekeeper to join them at the table. She sat down opposite Raymond and folded her arms. Lucette became quite agitated. She fidgeted with her hair and took a sip of wine, before explaining that Thérèse had brought
a certain matter to her attention and that all she required from Raymond was an honest answer. Raymond adopted an expression suggesting that he had no idea what she was talking about.
‘Apparently, this morning a certain sum of money went missing from the jar in the kitchen.’
‘I see,’ said Raymond. Thérèse was staring fixedly at him across the table, her folded forearms pushing up her bosom. Raymond had assumed that she would tell Lucette about the missing money and that his mother would, in turn, feel obliged to raise the subject with him. He had planned to say that he had needed the money for a project at school and that he hadn’t wanted to disturb her first thing in the morning. I’m sorry, Maman, he had imagined himself saying, I quite forgot to mention it. Lucette would not trouble to ask for details about the project. But he had not reckoned on his mother questioning him in Thérèse’s presence. They must have cooked up this little plan to confront him during the day. It crossed his mind to suggest that Thérèse might be mistaken, but given her scrupulousness over the tiniest sums of money, that would have been implausible.
Instead, with an air of defiance, he said: ‘And I sense that she has accused me of taking the money.’
‘Nobody is accusing you,’ said Lucette. She fidgeted with the stem of her glass. ‘But we thought that as you were in the kitchen this morning, you might be able to shed some light on the matter.’
It was clear that all he had to do was admit that he had taken the money and that would be the end of it, but he did not want to concede defeat to Thérèse.
He shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t,’ he said.
Lucette looked quite distressed. She glanced in Thérèse’s direction, but the housekeeper kept her eyes on Raymond.
‘If you need money, Raymond,’ she continued, ‘you need only ask. But we can’t have you stealing.’
There was no other course of action available. ‘I didn’t steal the money,’ he shouted. Then he pointed a finger across the table at Thérèse, aware as he did so of the silly theatricality of his gesture. ‘Maybe it’s her you should be accusing instead of me!’
The Accident on the A35 Page 13
