End Games in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘Max is entitled to be late,’ Sir Edwin said. ‘Now that he’s a hero, flying bomber-crew over Germany. Who would have thought it of our little American dancer? Not, between you and me, that I am in favour of area bombing, even of Berlin. I’ve had so many happy times there. Berlin in the twenties was sheer heaven, you know. I get in trouble for saying it, but really this war was unnecessary. And to find ourselves in alliance with the Bolsheviks, supping with the Devil, I call it. I’m a very rich man, you know. Of course Winston’s convinced himself that Stalin is his chum. I don’t believe it for a moment. And you are still broadcasting, are you?’

  His hand moved up Jérôme’s leg.

  ‘Yes,’ Jérôme said. ‘We’re all waiting anxiously for the day. I don’t suppose you … ’

  ‘My dear, I’ll know no sooner than anyone else. I’m quite out of favour, you know. Even in my own party. All because I remained loyal to poor Neville, and because I still insist that Munich was justified. If he hadn’t bought us a year’s grace, we would have lost this terrible war. We had no Spitfires then, you know. Of course Winston won’t have it. You know what they used to say in Italy: Mussolini ha sempre ragione – Mussolini is always right. Of course he wasn’t, poor idiot, but that’s what Winston thinks of himself – ha sempre ragione. The man’s a megalomaniac, you know, just as bad as your General. So poor old me is out in the cold. Ah, here’s Max … I was just saying you’re entitled to be late, my dear.’

  ‘I’m lucky to be here at all,’ Max said, leaning over to kiss Sir Edwin on the cheek, an action which had the happy consequence of ridding Jérôme of their host’s attentions. ‘Last night … I can’t tell you. It was sheer hell. I was terrified out of my tiny wits. Nevertheless the boy did his duty. Is that champagne, Edwin? Goody goody, I never felt more in need. Bless you. Love you too, Jérôme.’

  XVIII

  Lannes was woken by Madame Smitt bringing him a cup of dreadful coffee. Even though it was only three days since he had established himself in her Pension, which no longer seemed to function as that, a routine was already forming. In a little she would bring him a jug of hot water so that he could wash and shave. Then she would go out to do her marketing which she was now more able to do because of the notes he had given her and which she had accepted without counting them and without any word of thanks. She hadn’t enquired either why he had come to her door asking for a room for a few days or perhaps weeks, he couldn’t tell. Likewise she hadn’t remarked on the fact that he had neither put so much as a foot outside the door nor asked to use the telephone. Her lack of curiosity seemed to be total. When she returned from her marketing, she shut herself away in the kitchen beyond the reception desk, and remained there till noon when she brought him a bowl of soup. By that time of the day she was in carpetslippers again and her breath was sour with white wine. She put the soup on the table without a word, and shuffled away.

  Aurélien didn’t leave his bedroom till the afternoon. On the first day he looked horrified to see Lannes sitting at the table. It was evident his sister hadn’t warned him he was there, and this too was a mark of her indifference to everything and perhaps of her reliance on white wine to deaden feeling. But now Aurélien had also grown accustomed to Lannes’ presence. As soon as he understood that he hadn’t come there to arrest him, or even to interrogate him again, he tried to pretend that the superintendent was merely a chance fellow-guest in the Pension. And so he sat in the same room as him and played Patience by the hour. Lannes might be waiting for something, he didn’t know and it was no concern of his. And in his turn Lannes seemed content to do nothing, to live for a few days in limbo, divorced from life. Actually he wasn’t content. The truth was, he thought, that he was exhausted. He remembered a great uncle, his peasant grandfather’s elder brother, a widower, who spent hours without moving or talking in his cabin in Les Landes and who, when asked how he was, would say in the peasant patois that he was ‘just fair done’.

  ‘Red six on black seven,’ he said. ‘You’re not concentrating on your game, Aurélien.’

  ‘Let me be. I don’t need your advice. I don’t like being interfered with.’

  ‘That’s natural,’ Lannes said. ‘Where do you think Labiche took the girl?’

  ‘How should I know? By that time I was pleased merely to be rid of her. She bored me, if you must know.’

  ‘Did Labiche pay you well?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he paid you anything at all, really. You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?’

  Aurélien collected his cards formed them into a pack, shuffled it, and began to deal them out again.

  ‘Why should I be?’ he said.

  Lannes lit a cigarette and pushed the packet across the table.

  ‘Take one. Why should you be? Why shouldn’t you? A lot of people are afraid of Labiche. He has influence and power and doesn’t care how he uses it. That can be frightening. I’m a bit scared of him myself if you must know.’

  It’s true, he thought. Malevolence is frightening, because you don’t know how far it may reach.

  Patience, he thought. When you don’t know what to do, you do nothing and wait to see which card is turned up. Like Aurélien he was killing time. People all over France were killing time, waiting for the day of Liberation, some eager to be able to walk through their home city without seeing a German soldier, others merely for the return of a normality in which nevertheless they might scarcely be able to believe, so long was it since they had known it. There were women who longed for the return of their husbands or boyfriends, and others who were afraid of what their man would find and of how he might have changed. Was anyone, Lannes thought, the same person he had been in 1940? And of course there were many, thousands of them, who must lie awake thinking of the retribution that they might suffer, suffer often only because they had made the wrong choice or had continued to do what they believed to be their duty.

  Had Marguerite believed him? He had no idea. She had wept when he said goodbye and made to kiss her, but she had turned her head away. Was she weeping because he was in danger, or for the end of their marriage?

  XIX

  When Jacques Bernard emerged at lunchtime from Labiche’s office René Martin let him turn the corner before he came up behind him and took hold of his arm.

  ‘Remember me, Jacques?’ he said. ‘Off to lunch, are you? I’ll join you if I may. Do you still eat in the same place? A brasserie in the Cours du Chapeau Rouge, wasn’t it? Fine by me.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can prevent you,’ the clerk said.

  In the brasserie Jacques Bernard made for what was obviously his usual table at the back of the room. There was a slightly stained napkin on the side-plate and a half-empty bottle of vin ordinaire placed there in waiting for him. Without being asked, the waiter brought him bread and soup, and René said, ‘For me too, and a glass of beer, just a demi. You were quite helpful to us a couple of years ago. I hope you are going to be helpful again.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You were investigating a death then, a murder you said.’

  ‘So we were, and I didn’t let your boss know that you had helped us because you were obviously afraid of him. You said he was a holy terror, I made a note of the expression. But you evidently satisfy him because you’re still in the job. This soup’s rather good, isn’t it?’

  René smiled.

  ‘This is just a friendly chat, no more than that. Well, it might be a bit more. It might be a warning, I suppose. You see, we’re interested in Labiche. Well, a lot of people are going to be interested in him in the months to come. You’re intelligent, Jacques, so I don’t need to spell out why. You must have wondered whether you’ll have a job when things change. I suppose Labiche is making arrangements for himself, perhaps moving money abroad, that sort of thing. As an insurance against the worst, I suppose.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘No, of course, you wouldn�
�t. You’re only a very junior clerk, aren’t you? Or that’s what I remember you telling me.’

  The waiter approached bearing the soup tureen.

  ‘More soup, Jacques? More soup, monsieur? I’d advise it because I wouldn’t recommend the plat du jour, scrag end of mutton from a sheep that must have been almost as old as the Marshal himself. I wouldn’t feed it to my dog, if I had a dog, that is.’

  ‘You’re obviously popular here,’ René said. ‘They look after you. That’s nice, that’s always nice. Is it because you work for Labiche?’

  Jacques dipped a crust of bread in the soup and sucked it.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he said, ‘it’s not a bit like that. The patron is a sort of cousin of my father’s. That’s all. Not that that gets me a reduction in the price. I only wish it did.’

  ‘That’s natural. We all feel the pinch these days, don’t we? But you see, there’s something that puzzled me when we last talked. You told me that you had had to leave school early because your father was a prisoner of war, and your mother needed a wage coming in from you, and then that you were only a sort of dogsbody in Labiche’s office, running messages for him. But you eat here every day, and it certainly isn’t cheap, even if they are reduced to serving scrag end of old mutton. And this looks like a new suit you’re wearing, nice piece of cloth too. So I can’t help wondering if Labiche employs you for some other work, spying on people perhaps. Unless of course you’re blackmailing him, and I’ve no doubt there’s occasion for that.’

  ‘Blackmailing the boss? You must be joking. Nobody who tried that trick would last long?’

  ‘No, I suppose he wouldn’t. Indeed it wouldn’t surprise me if anyone who attempted to put the black on him was fished out of the Garonne soon afterwards. So how do you get the money that enables you to live as you obviously do? That’s a question that might interest some of my colleagues in another department. We in the PJ are easy-going about little peculations and the like. But there are other matters we take more seriously, and anything that concerns your boss is one of them. For instance – I don’t mind telling you this, though you must regard it as a confidence – just at the moment, I’m investigating him on account of the disappearance of a girl. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

  ‘No, nothing. You must believe me.’

  ‘Then there’s a priest, name of Father Paul, I think. Know anything about him?’

  ‘I’ve seen him with Monsieur Labiche. I think perhaps he’s his confessor.’

  ‘A full-time job I’d call that,’ René said. ‘So how do you earn your extra money? You can’t tell me that you bought this suit out of a junior clerk’s wage. And don’t try to persuade me you saved up for it.’

  The young man, who still looked as if he wasn’t yet old enough to shave, and indeed had only a pale down on his cheeks and chin, shook his head. René who hated bullying felt a moment of pity – Jacques Bernard was so obviously terrified of Labiche. If René hadn’t understood that in some way Lannes’ future, even his safety, was at stake, he might have let the wretched boy off the hook.

  Instead, he said, ‘Look, it’s obvious you have something to tell me and I realise that you are reluctant, but we can do this two ways. I’m asking you nicely, without threats, and you can answer me here. Or, if you prefer, you can accompany me back to the station and I’ll hand you over to my immediate superior, a senior inspector. We call him the bull-terrier because when he gets his teeth into a suspect he doesn’t let go. That’s your choice. Which is it to be?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I promise. You have to believe me. I’m only a messenger boy, I told you. I’ve been a fool, I realise that, but I couldn’t afford to lose my job. What Monsieur Labiche needs – what he likes – is information. About people. He says knowledge is power and I’m sometimes asked to collect it. About Father Paul, for instance, yes, I think he’s his confessor like I say, but I’m also sure Monsieur Labiche has a hold on him. And about another man. I was sent to ask a prostitute about him. I didn’t know he was a policeman and I was terrified when I found he was. I’ve been living in fear, it’s almost a relief to speak to you, you must believe me.’

  ‘And what did the tart tell you?’

  René spoke with deliberate roughness.

  ‘She told me to get the hell out. Monsieur Labiche smiled when I reported that.’

  ‘I see,’ René said.

  He saw all too well, and it frightened him too.

  ‘And Father Paul? You say Labiche has a hold on him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  The waiter approached to take their plates away.

  ‘Are you all right, Jacques? This gentleman’s not troubling you, is he?’

  ‘Not at all,’ René said. ‘We’re just having a friendly conversation. You might bring us some coffee and the bill.’

  The waiter looked doubtful, but collected their plates and turned away.

  ‘There you are,’ René said. ‘Now if I’d told him I’m a policeman that would really have embarrassed you. So Father Paul?’

  ‘He likes boys. Like many priests. It disgusts me. Well, one of them was blackmailing him, or so he said, and I expect it’s true. Why wouldn’t it be? So I was sent to bring him to Monsieur Labiche’s office with the promise of a settlement.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘And did he come, accompany you back?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he, with the promise of money?’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘How should I know? I was disgusted, I tell you. That sort of thing, it makes my flesh crawl. A priest and an Arab boy because that’s what he looked like. It’s repulsive even to think about it.’

  ‘So you delivered him to Labiche. What happened then?’

  ‘How should I know? I’d done my duty, what I was asked to do. And I tell you, it didn’t please me to think that somebody I knew might have seen me in the street with that creature.’

  ‘No,’ René said. ‘I don’t suppose it did. You disgust me rather yourself, Jacques.’

  XX

  The Alsatian hadn’t appeared in the office for three days. Moncerre was missing too. Drunk or nursing a bad hangover, René thought. The letter was addressed to the Alsatian, but the address was in printed capitals and this made René suspicious. He would later say that he had some sort of intuition. If Madame Lannes had been sent that anonymous letter about the girl in the Pension Bernadotte, then mightn’t a similar one be addressed to the Alsatian? So he opened it, and when he read it was pleased that he had done so, and horrified by what he read: I suggest you ask Superintendent Lannes about his Arab catamite.

  It wasn’t a message for anyone else to read, he was sure of that. So he struck a match, held it to the edge of the paper and was about to burn it when he had second thoughts. It was evidence and he was trained to respect evidence, even on occasions when it might be prudent to conceal it. So he folded the letter and put it in the inside breast-pocket of his jacket. Then he sat back and found that he was sweating.

  It was vile, nonsense, vile nonsense.

  The previous afternoon Yvette had sighed – theatrically – and murmured ‘if only’ when he told her about the first anonymous letter.

  ‘He’s been kind to me,’ she said. ‘And he treats me with respect which is not how I’m commonly treated. And I can see that he’s unhappy and anxious. But there’s been nothing doing. I offered him what I’m sure his wife isn’t giving him and what I’ve no doubt he wanted. But he still said no, and what’s more he turned me down in a manner that didn’t offend me because I understood that if things had been different he’d willingly have got into my bed. But there it is. Things are as they are. I sound quite a philosopher, don’t I?’

  She lay back on her bed.

  ‘Usually it’s insulting for a girl to be turned down, even if she’s a tart, but, like I say, I wasn’t offended. He’s in trouble, isn’t he?�
��

  ‘I’m afraid he is.’

  ‘I mean, this letter’s really nasty, isn’t it. To send lies like that to his wife.’

  And now, very evidently, it was worse. René couldn’t doubt that, not after his conversation with Labiche’s clerk. The letter was a lie of course. He had no reason to suppose Lannes had ever met this Arab boy, but equally it was likely that the boy who had been blackmailing a priest had now been bought off by the lawyer and would be paid to support these allegations. Well, by intercepting the letter, he had thwarted this attempt to blacken the superintendent’s reputation, for the time being anyway. But should he tell him about it? Yes, of course. He had to give him the letter. It would be insulting not to do so. The chief wasn’t a man who had to be protected from bad news.

  It was raining for the first time in days and there was a cold Atlantic wind blowing up the Garonne and stripping the last of the cherry blossom from the trees in the Place de la Cathédrale. René who had set out for work that morning without a raincoat or umbrella found himself shivering. He stepped into the gutter to allow two old women, black-dressed widows, to have the pavement, and found that his right foot was wet. He had forgotten that his mother had told him to wear a different pair of shoes this morning and she would take these ones to the cobbler to be re-soled.

  He had to bang several times on the door of the Pension Smitt before it was opened. The old woman said she had no rooms available, it was no longer a pension and she should have had the sign removed, but he shook the rain from his hair and said he wasn’t looking for a room but had come to speak to the superintendent.

  Lannes was reading when the old woman showed René in, with some muttering about people causing a disturbance where they weren’t wanted. He laid the book – a Simenon novel – aside, and told René he looked like a drowned rat.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ René said.

  ‘Nevertheless you’re in danger of catching a chill. Would you please make him a grog, Madame?’