End Games in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘Show her in then.’

  The young lady was wearing a summer frock, cream-coloured and patterned with red and blue flowers, and a cardigan slung loosely across her shoulders. She wore court shoes and her brown hair had been given a permanent wave, as if, even in these days, she had found the time and inclination to visit a hairdresser. His first impression was that she appeared to be very self-assured.

  ‘I believe you’ve been looking for me,’ she said.

  ‘I have?’

  Could she be the girl in the photograph he carried?

  ‘So I’m told,’ she said. ‘My name is Marie-Adelaide d’Herblay and it seems that my grandmother commissioned you to find me. So here I am. I understand that you also know my father.’

  She settled herself in the chair across his desk, crossed her legs and smiled.

  ‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble,’ Lannes said, ‘and distressed your grandmother. Have you returned home?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  She smiled as if the idea of returning to her grandmother’s apartment was preposterous.

  ‘What has puzzled me,’ he said, ‘and puzzles me more now that I have met you, is why you should have gone off with a fellow like Aurélien Mabire.’

  ‘I could say that I thought I was in love with him. Would you believe me if I said that?’

  ‘Probably not, seeing what I know of him. Besides, he told me you were desperate to be re-united with your father.’

  ‘You’ve met my father. Do you think that likely?’

  ‘Daughters and fathers, you can’t tell,’ Lannes said.

  ‘My father’s a failure, a washout. Surely you realised that?’

  She smiled again.

  ‘Why are you persecuting Monsieur Labiche?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘So it appears.’

  ‘And you can’t guess why?’

  ‘Of course I can. Because he likes little girls. I suppose you would say, he abuses them. Hasn’t it occurred to you that the little girls, some of them, one anyway I can say with assurance, might like him equally?’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I dreamed of him for years. No, superintendent, happy dreams, or, if you prefer, dreams of desire, not nightmares. Do you find that impossible to believe? Or does it disgust you?’

  Lannes sighed. The girl kept her gaze fixed on him and continued to smile. Her self-possession was as irritating as it was surprising. She wasn’t in the least like the girl described to him by her grandmother and the Comte de St-Hilaire. Or indeed by that wretched Aurélien. He got up, crossed to the window and looked out on the street which was empty but for two priests walking side by side, heads bowed as if they might be reciting their office. He took the bottle of Armagnac from the cupboard, poured them each a glass and gave one to the girl. She accepted it without a word, took a sip, and waited till he had sat down again.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said, ‘but you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe,’ he said. ‘That’s irrelevant. So you ran away with Aurélien because he promised to take you to Labiche? And yet he told me that it was Labiche who introduced him to you.’

  ‘That’s right. But I couldn’t go straight to Monsieur Labiche, could I? Not to a man in his position. But Aurélien, that was different. It was easy to make him believe I was attracted to him. It amused me to do so, and it was all the easier because I’m not pretty, which is why he could believe I welcomed his attentions. He really is such a fool, that man.’

  ‘I see. So it was Labiche all the time, not Aurélien, not your father. And now?’

  ‘Now I’m no longer twelve, and I find Monsieur Labiche rather sad, even pathetic. It’s a disappointment of course.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘He’s afraid,’ she said. ‘Everything’s gone wrong for him, and now he wants to meet you.’

  ‘Really? He tried to destroy me. Did you know that?’

  ‘Of course. And now you’re trying to destroy him. Well, as I say he’s afraid. He wants to get away, but that’s not going to be easy without help. So he wants to meet you. He said to tell you he has something you want and is willing to hand it over – for a consideration of course. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so,’ Lannes said. ‘Tell him to send me a note saying when and where. Tell him to make it an anonymous letter. He’s got experience of such things. What about you? Do you intend to go off with him, assuming he gets away?’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so. I mean, what would be the point now?’

  ‘So will you return home, to your grandmother?’

  ‘And be cooped up in that mausoleum again? It’s not an attractive prospect.’

  ‘She loves you, she’s anxious for you. To my mind the least you can do is to go home and put her mind at rest.’

  She smiled and picked up her glass.

  ‘I spoke of her house as a mausoleum,’ she said. ‘More exactly, it felt like a prison. I’ve no intention of living there again, but if she started to weep and clung to me, well, I don’t know that I mightn’t weaken. She has always used tears as a means of exerting control. So there it is. You say she commissioned you to find me, well, go and tell her you’ve done so and she needn’t worry. It’s not as if I’ve broken her heart, for I can’t tell you how many times she has assured me it was shattered years ago. In any case, she’s tougher than she seems and a terrible hypocrite. She threw out my father, you know, while protesting that he was the light in her life, and, though I’ve no time for him myself now, I can’t respect her either.’

  ‘At least go and speak to your godfather, Monsieur de St-Hilaire.’

  ‘You do that, superintendent, if you like. I’ve certainly no intention of doing so.’

  ‘Then tell me where you are living.’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I’ll pass your message on to Monsieur Labiche.’

  XVI

  He had tried to telephone the Vichy number Fabien had given him, but there was no reply. That wasn’t a surprise. He supposed that most of the offices in the hotels that the administration had commandeered as government offices in Vichy were now deserted. Why would anyone linger there? There were rumours that the Marshal, Laval and whatever survived of what was now only a shadow government had been carried off to Germany. He couldn’t suppose the Marshal would have gone willingly; the man who had dedicated his person to the French people and who by all accounts had refused to fly to Algeria in November ’42, at the time of the American landings, would surely have chosen to stay and if necessary die in France; he was a Man of Honour, the Hero of Verdun. Many would revile him now; Lannes felt only pity for him; no, more than pity, there was still respect and admiration for his old chief. As for Monsieur Laval, Lannes had never met him, but from what Edmond de Grimaud, who had served briefly in his private office, had said, he supposed he might have received this order to be one of the caravan of the defeated and disgraced with an ironical smile. He remembered how the barman in the Hotel des Ambassadeurs in Vichy had spoken of Laval as ‘a deep one – you never know what he is really thinking, and the more frankly he seems to be speaking, the more you feel he is saying nothing that matters or he believes in’.

  He telephoned Fabien’s number again, futilely. It was extraordinary, he thought, that the system was still working, and that you could hear a bell ringing in an empty room halfway across France, extraordinary too that there were telephone operators still connecting distant cities as if times were normal, attempting to do so indeed politely in this case.

  The office felt like an antechamber to the morgue. He picked up his stick.

  The sky had cleared. There were only a few little clouds, fleecy as young lambs, dotted against its deep blue. The gutters still ran with rain-water, but the air was as fresh as a spring morning. Waiters were unstacking chairs outside cafés, wiping them dry, and a few people were sitting there as if they were early customers for the day when peace returned. In the Place de la
Cathédrale, a one-legged man was juggling small Indian clubs watched by half a dozen small boys who broke out in jeers when he dropped one.

  But the rue d’Aviau was as empty as ever, many of the houses shuttered, their owners having probably, he thought, judged it wise to leave the city for their place in the country, to wait there until they saw how things panned out and normality was restored. There were few people who could be confident that they would be cleared of collaboration. Even the Rich must be anxious. Nevertheless he didn’t doubt that he would find Edmond at home; his pride wouldn’t permit him to run away.

  When old Marthe opened the door more quickly than usual, she said, ‘For once, Mr Policeman, I’m pleased to see you. Sigi is home. The nerve of him to show his face. I trust you’ve come to arrest him for the murder of his father.’

  ‘No, Marthe. In the first place I didn’t know he was in Bordeaux, and in the second, as you are well aware, there’s no evidence against him, whatever you may believe.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but you know as well as I do that he killed the Count.’

  ‘Perhaps he did, but, if so, his punishment will have to be in the next world, if there is such a place.’

  ‘You know there isn’t. I wonder why I don’t stick a knife in him myself. The Count was an old devil, but he loved life. The night before his murder he had his hand up my skirt and when I reproved him laughed and told me I used to welcome his attentions. “Stop being an old fool,” I said, but he spoke the truth and it’s four years now that I still miss him every day. So is it the poor sot in his chair or Monsieur Edmond that you’re here to see?’

  ‘Monsieur Edmond.’

  She sniffed. ‘At least you’ll get some sense from him, whatever lies he tells you. You know where to find him.’

  De Grimaud was reading, but laid his book aside when Lannes entered.

  ‘Gide,’ he said, ‘how I responded to him when I was young, and what a canting old hypocrite he seems now. He’ll be back soon, from his refuge in Algeria, if he’s not already in Paris. So I thought I should renew my acquaintance. Strange how what used to excite me now seems like cold mutton. What do you think, Jean?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve never read him, nor been tempted to do so.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. You’re a Romantic at heart, aren’t you. Your boy Dominique told me how you repeatedly return to the Musketeers. All for one and one for all – not a contemporary sentiment.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lannes said. ‘Some of the young men in the Resistance probably endorse it.’

  Alain, he thought, remembering how Léon had confessed that when they first formed their own short-lived Resistance group here in Bordeaux, they had called each other by the names of the Musketeers, Alain of course being d’Artagnan.

  ‘Do you know Madame d’Herblay?’

  ‘By name and reputation only. She never goes anywhere. Why?’

  ‘But you’ll know her son.’

  ‘Long ago. A useless fellow.’

  ‘You may know then that he has a daughter, who lived with his mother, in her charge, very much in her charge. Then she disappeared, apparently running off with an art dealer called Aurélien Mabire, another useless fellow as you might say. Her godfather, the Comte de St-Hilaire whom you undoubtedly know, asked me to look for her. I found Aurélien but not the girl. Then when the Milice arrested me, I was interrogated by her father who called himself Captain Fracasse – ridiculous name, more literature as you see. Fabien arranged my release. You know that of course. Now this morning the girl, Marie-Adelaide, came to see me. She’s living with Labiche, I think. Anyway she brought me a message from him. He wants to meet me, come to an agreement, says he has something he knows I want. Any idea what that might be? No? I’ve been trying to call Fabien, without success. What do you think?’

  De Grimaud got to his feet. His left trouser-leg was rucked up, and he kicked out to free it.

  ‘What do I think?’ he said. ‘More alcohol is perhaps best. Brandy for heroes, though I never felt less heroic. Fabien is dead. His body was found in the urinal of the railway station this morning. He had been shot in the back of the head, presumably while peeing, for his flies were undone. Or so I hear. The death hasn’t been reported to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It won’t be, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘How do you come to have heard of it?’

  De Grimaud smiled and raised his glass.

  ‘Your health, Jean. In a city of secrets there are always those ready to sell them.’

  ‘The Resistance?’

  ‘Perhaps. Our poor Fabien was responsible for the arrest and therefore indirectly the execution of a number of Communists, more than twenty to my knowledge, all now martyrs as you know. But then perhaps not. We spoke of the Liste Cortin. Fabien wanted it, for good reason; it represents power. And perhaps it is this that Labiche is now ready to trade. So who can tell? We may be sure that a man like Fabien had made many enemies.’

  ‘Is your half-brother or nephew, as you prefer, Sigi, one of them? Marthe tells me he is back in Bordeaux? The Liste Cortin that Labiche may have, and that we suspect Fabien wanted … might Sigi’s name appear on it? Was he a Cagoulard? And didn’t Labiche defend him once, just as he defended your other brother Jean-Christophe?’

  ‘Your half-brother too, Jean … don’t forget.’

  ‘I’ve no time for that nonsense,’ Lannes said. ‘Even if it was true, which I don’t believe, it would mean nothing to me. The man who brought me up is the only father I’ll ever acknowledge. Why has Sigi returned to Bordeaux? Tell me that.’

  Edmond held up his hand and seemed to examine his fingernails.

  ‘It’s his home,’ he said. ‘This house is the only real home the poor chap has ever had. So naturally he returns to it as to a refuge.’

  ‘A house where old Marthe would stick a knife in him without any compunction? Not much of a refuge.’

  ‘Words, words, only words. Whatever she says now, she can’t forget that Sigi was a neglected child who used to run about her kitchen and hide under her skirts. She’ll do him no harm.’

  ‘Did he shoot Fabien?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It seems unlikely. Fabien was a man who moved in the shadows. He must have had many enemies. I should think it will be convenient to attribute his death to the Resistance. They’re the people who are piling up corpses now. For my part I regard his departure as an inconvenience.’

  Lannes lit a new cigarette from the stub of the previous one which he then crushed in the ashtray.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it would doubtless be expedient to hold the Resistance guilty, and so there would be no investigation. But I’m puzzled by the role of that priest, Father Paul. He seems to be playing a double game. So why, I wonder, did Fabien bring him to that meeting?’

  ‘That’s a question I can’t possible answer, Jean. Fabien rarely let his right hand know what his left was doing. As for me, I know nothing of the priest. I was as surprised by his presence there as you seem to be.’

  ‘Might he have betrayed Fabien?’

  ‘It’s possible. We live in a time when anyone may betray anyone.’

  ‘Is that a warning?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Edmond said. ‘Merely a statement of how it is.’

  XVII

  It had been a profoundly unsatisfactory conversation. But that had been his experience with Edmond. Their dialogue was like one of these country dances where you step forward and back, come close to your partner but your hands never meet. And Fabien shot. Standing there trying to pee, on account of his bladder trouble. Doubtless he had been taken unawares; it was a humiliating way to go. No, ‘humiliating’ must be the wrong word – he wouldn’t have known anything about it and you can suffer humiliation only if you are conscious of what has happened. So, not humiliating, but sordid. Edmond was probably right in asserting that nobody would want that death investigated. Like so many. But it went against the grain. Fabien had after all saved his life, almost certainly sav
ed it, because without his intervention, he feared he would never have emerged from the Milice’s prison. So he owed him a debt, or at least owed his memory one. And though he hadn’t found Fabien sympathetic, he had felt respect for him.

  No doubt Edmond was right. It would be convenient to hold the Resistance responsible. No questions were to be asked of the Resistance, not now, not for months as Bracal had implied, perhaps never. So any killings attributed to the Resistance could properly be shuffled out of sight.

  But suppose it hadn’t been the Resistance? Fabien had, for reasons he never divulged, been determined – seemed determined – to bring Labiche down. He’d made that clear in that meeting at which Edmond and the priest, Father Paul, were present. And Father Paul, as he’d said to Edmond, seemed to be playing a double game.

  Then – Lannes’ thoughts were like autumn leaves torn from the trees and swirling in a gale – there was Sigi back in Bordeaux. Was this a coincidence? He too, Lannes was certain, had moved in the Secret World. A man of no scruples and ineffable conceit. Marthe was sure he had murdered the Count, his father. She had, as he told her, no evidence – only her knowledge of his character. And he himself was equally certain that Sigi had murdered Gaston and also that he had tortured and killed the Catalan refugee Cortazar. Edmond had protected Sigi then; he had intervened to do Lannes a service with the result that the investigation had been abandoned. The shame of his agreement still lay on his conscience like a dark shadow.

  In his confusion he might have been walking without intention, but his steps had taken him to the Gare St-Jean. That was how it happened sometimes. You arrived at a decision without conscious thought, just as so often it wasn’t reasoning or the intellect that enabled you find your way to the solution of a case.

  He went first to the tabac for a packet of Gauloises, and then to the bar for an Armagnac. He took it to the corner table where he had sat on his first meeting with Léon. The boy had arranged the meeting. He had looked up from the book he was reading – a Balzac novel, he remembered – and spoken of Gaston with affection and without shame, despite what he had been to him, and then described the man he had seen Gaston afraid of in La Chope aux Capucines, and Lannes remembered how Maurice, leaving Gaston’s apartment on the night he was murdered, had been embarrassed to hear one of them speak contemptuously of him as one of Chambolley’s ‘bum-boys’. Maurice had not been able to identify either of them as Léon did, and it was because Léon had impressed him that he had asked Henri to employ him in the bookshop which was where he had met Alain. More than four years ago, he thought, ‘And I’ve failed in almost everything since.’