by Allan Massie
‘Oh I won’t,’ Lannes said. ‘But the difference, Monsieur Labiche, is that I’m on this side of the desk, you’re on the other, and your day is done. You’re not going to get away to Spain. We’re going to hold you on criminal charges, and then you will he handed over to whichever court is established to investigate and punish those guilty of collaboration with the enemy. In that respect you’re guilty as sin. Meanwhile I think I know why you sent Marie-Adelaide to see me, and what you had to trade. Only someone else got in first. Fabien, wasn’t it? He wanted the copy of the Liste Cortin, didn’t he, with its record of the membership of the Cagoule. Only he didn’t get it. He was shot instead. And I wonder why.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘You don’t?’
‘We’re getting nowhere, chief,’ Moncerre said, getting to his feet. ‘I understand this type better than you. He’s conceited as the Devil, but there’s one language he understands.’
He crossed the room, stood behind Labiche, took hold of his right arm and twisted it high behind his back till the advocate squealed in pain.
‘That’s just the beginning,’ he said. ‘Give me a half-hour with him in the cells and I guarantee he’ll talk.’
‘It’s all right, Moncerre,’ Lannes said. ‘Let him alone. He’ll talk here, especially now that you’ve shown him the cost of silence. Go and ask old Joseph to have the café send up beer and sandwiches. We’ve a long session before us.’ When Moncerre with a shrug of the shoulders left the room, Lannes said, ‘We call him the bullterrier, you know, because when he gets his teeth into a case – or a suspect – he doesn’t let go. Now you, Monsieur Labiche, prefer violence at one remove. So I don’t think you shot Fabien yourself. I think that’s why you brought a gunman along with you. Sigi de Grimaud, wasn’t it.’
Labiche rubbed his arm.
‘He hurt me,’ he said. ‘That’s assault.’
‘Don’t be childish, Monsieur Labiche. Nothing happened. Nothing, as you would say, of any significance. I rather liked Fabien, you know. Respected him anyway. And I was in his debt after you had the Milice arrest me. That was a mistake on your part, especially since that wretched chap d’Herblay lost his nerve.
You don’t choose your tools well – d’Herblay and that miserable Aurélien. I’d have thought better of you. It hadn’t occurred to me you were such a bungler.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. This Fabien you speak of. I’ve no idea who you mean.’
Moncerre returned.
‘Beer and sandwiches on their way. Is he talking yet?’
‘He’s thinking about it,’ Lannes said.
‘Want me to have another go at him?’
‘Patience, my old bull-terrier. Remember who we’re dealing with. Not only a member of the Bar which in his opinion entitles him to be numbered among the untouchables, but the Bordeaux director of the institute set up to handle the Jewish Question. So, an important person. Actually, Monsieur Labiche, it’s indirectly your role in dealing with the Jews that has brought you here. You see, I’ve a witness to your meeting with Fabien in the Buffet de la Gare, and he recognised you because he had come before you to plead for his Jewish employer. You dismissed his appeal out of hand, of course, but he didn’t forget you. How could he? So he was interested when he saw you with Fabien, and a few minutes later Fabien was shot as he stood pissing at the urinal. My witness was so disturbed by the sight of you and the memories this evoked that he was taken short himself and he was just about to emerge from the cabinet when he heard the shot, and then saw the back of your companion – the man in the trench coat – leaving the toilets where Fabien lay dead. Now, as I say … ’
He broke off when the waiter from the café came in with a tray of sandwiches and six bottles of beer. He placed it on the desk, eyed up Labiche, turned to Lannes, smiled, nodded his head, and left them.
‘Give the advocate a beer, Moncerre. I think he needs one.’
Lannes bit into a sandwich, and took a deep draught of beer. His headache had gone either because of the aspirin or because he was enjoying himself.
‘As I say, I doubt if you killed Fabien yourself, because you prefer violence at one remove, and I don’t think he got the List from you though it was the promise of the List that brought him to meet you. So it wasn’t on account of the List, but for some other reason, something perhaps that he knew about you, that he was killed. And that’s why you brought the man in the trench coat – it was Sigi, wasn’t it – as a bodyguard in case Fabien wasn’t alone – a bodyguard and hired gun. But you are – I’ve no doubt about it – an accessory to murder, and that’s what I’m going to book you as, for the time being anyway. It’s what we call a holding charge, but of course, as an advocate, you know all about that. I’d like to know what he had on you – of course I would – but that can wait. The accessory charge will stick.’
‘This is absurd,’ Labiche said. ‘I suppose I knew he would have to go to the toilets? Knew there would be nobody else there, and dispatched my so-called companion in the trench coat to kill him? Yes, it’s absurd, utterly absurd.’
‘Absurd?’ Lannes said. ‘I don’t think Judge Bracal will find it absurd. In any case we’ve been living in the absurd for four years now.’
***
Two hours later they were still at it. Lannes went over the ground time and again. Labiche admitted nothing. As to the meeting with Fabien in the Buffet de la Gare, which he realised he couldn’t deny in view of the witness Lannes offered to produce, he shrugged his shoulders and said it had been a chance encounter. He had fallen into conversation with the man but had no idea who he was. What had they talked about? He really couldn’t remember. Nothing of any great matter. Yes, he remembered that the man Lannes called Fabien had wondered how long it would be after the Germans had gone before they could get drinkable coffee again. He had no idea who the man in the trench coat was. If he had thought about it, which he had no reason to do, he would have assumed he was a friend or acquaintance of – what was his name? – Fabien. After all they had left together. No, he had no idea that there had been a shooting. Why should he have? Nobody had spoken to him about such a thing. Of course, when he learned of it later, he wasn’t surprised, but only because such things were, sadly, all too common. He supposed he would have assumed that the Resistance was involved. They were criminals, murderers, capable of any barbarity. Everyone knew that. Why had he been at the station at that hour of the morning? Why shouldn’t he have been there? He saw no reason or requirement to account for his actions. Nevertheless, if only to end this nonsense – he spat out the word, ‘this absurdity’ – he was willing to do so. He had intended to take a train to Bergerac, on the business of a client, but, as it turned out, the train, like so many, was cancelled. In short his presence there, like his meeting with the dead man, had been purely fortuitous. If Lannes really intended to hold him as an accessory to murder, he would have to produce some evidence. He couldn’t understand why Judge Bracal had consented to sign that warrant merely on the strength, as it appeared, of the evidence of a single witness who, from Lannes’ own account, had a grudge against him because he had quite properly in his capacity as director of the institute legally established to deal with the Jewish Question, been responsible for the arrest and – yes, he admitted – deportation of his employer. The man might be a Jew himself, certainly he seemed a Jew-lover, and his attempt to involve him in this crime was a typical piece of Jewish malice.
‘That old tune,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s out of date, Monsieur Labiche, and it does you no good to sing it. If there’s one good thing that has come out of this terrible war, it’s surely that anti-Semitism will never be respectable in France again. Your day’s done, Monsieur Labiche.’
‘I demand that you either release me immediately, or take me before Judge Bracal.’
‘Both demands are refused. Arrange for him to be taken back to the cells, Moncerre.’
XXI
It was like
old times, the three of them resorting for lunch to Fernand’s bistro as they hadn’t done for many months. There were no Germans there of course, and only a sprinkling of Bordelais had ventured out, pretending that normality had returned or in the hope that it was about to do so. Lannes was amused and even impressed to see that the silent elderly couple were there again. Young Jacques said they had become regulars.
‘They never speak to each other, but they eat steadily through whatever we’re able to put before them, and I have to warn you that’s not much. Even the black market’s not functioning efficiently at present.’
‘So what can you give us?’
‘A clear soup which is lacking in flavour, I’m sorry to say, followed by a rabbit stew and cheese. There’s not even any salad, but at least the Boches haven’t drunk the cellar dry.’
‘Well, we’ll have to make up on the wine, but actually a rabbit stew sounds fine. And we’ll start with a bottle of champagne. We’ve got the advocate Labiche in the cells. So we’ve something to celebrate.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Jacques said. ‘He’s been one of our best customers but I’ve never been able to stand the bastard. The champagne will be on the house.’
‘Is your father about?’
‘He said he might be in later if he can take time off from rounding up collaborators.’
He put his hand on Lannes’ shoulder to draw him aside, out of the hearing of Moncerre and young René.
‘I’m very glad you’ve come in. I’ve got young Karim here, up in the attic. He arrived last night, in a bad way. Someone has beaten him up. He wouldn’t say who, but I’d say he’s scared stiff. Would you have a word with him after you’ve eaten? And, by the way, if the old man does turn up, don’t tell him Karim’s here.’
‘All right, but why?’
‘It’s just a feeling I have, that it would be better to say nothing. Now I’ll see to the champagne.’
‘Fine, I don’t think we’ll bother with the soup.’
‘A wise decision, I’m sorry to have to say.’
‘Fizz on the house,’ Moncerre said. ‘It’s almost enough to make you believe in a post-war world. Are you sure we’ve got enough on the bastard, chief?’
‘We’ve enough to hold him. Beyond that, I don’t know, so far as the murder of Fabien is concerned. But don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere. There are lots of people who are going to be interested in seeing to Monsieur the Advocate.’
‘I hope you’re right. I’m with Jacques. Like he said, I can’t stand the bastard, never could. But it’s not like you to be so confident, chief. You must have got out of bed on the right side this morning.’
Jacques brought the wine, popped the cork and filled the glasses.
‘Have one yourself, Jacques,’ Lannes said.
‘I don’t mind if I do.’
‘Here’s to Peace,’ Lannes said. ‘I only wish I could believe in it. And we’ll have a bottle of St-Emilion with the rabbit.’
‘Of course.’
Lannes turned to René.
‘Did you get anything from the clerk?’
‘Nothing directly useful. He’s still scared stiff of Labiche. Even when I told him we had him under arrest, he continued to say he knew nothing. I think he may have been telling the truth. He’s a feeble fellow and I can’t see Labiche entrusting him with anything important. Sorry.’
‘I expect you were too soft with him,’ Moncerre said. ‘Give me ten minutes with him and he’d be singing.’
‘Yes,’ René said. ‘He’d tell you exactly whatever you wanted to hear. But it would still be lies.’
Lannes repressed a smile. The boy had certainly grown up.
‘There was just one thing,’ René said. ‘According to Jacques Bernard, the girl who was living with Labiche has walked out on him. That was the one you were looking for, wasn’t it, chief?’
‘Yes. I don’t suppose he said where she had gone.’
‘I asked him but he said he had no idea.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s important. She came to see me, and she’s certainly not the innocent child I was told she was. I would say she can look after herself.’
‘This rabbit,’ Moncerre said, ‘has certainly been on Occupation rations. There’d be more flesh on a rat.’
***
Karim was lying face-down on the truckle bed in the attic, his legs stretched out straight. Lannes put his hand on his shoulder and the boy started. When he turned his head, Lannes saw that he had a black eye, his mouth was swollen and there were streaks of dried blood on his cheek.
‘You just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?’ Lannes said. ‘So what is it this time? Why did you land yourself on Jacques?’
Karim attempted a smile. It didn’t get far.
‘Nobody else,’ he said, ‘nobody else I could think of. The priest’s dead. I didn’t kill him, but he’s dead. They put him up against a wall and shot him. I thought they were going to kill me too, but they just beat me up. Then one of them spat on me and then it was worse, and then they told me to get out of Bordeaux.’
He began to cry and his whole body shook. Lannes sat on the edge of the bed, waiting till the spasm passed. Eventually, ‘You’d better tell, from the beginning,’ he said, and placed his fingers lightly on the boy’s cheek. ‘Relax,’ he said, ‘and tell. You’re safe here. No harm’s going to come to you.’
‘They raped me, all three of them, and one said, “This is what you like, isn’t it?” ’
‘From the beginning.’
It took some time because Karim was incapable of speaking coherently. But gradually, something of a narrative emerged. He had been sitting in a café, couldn’t say which, minding his own business, and happy. Yes, happy – ‘because of my last conversation with you, superintendent, you remember that?’ – then the priest came in, and sat down beside him. He would have gone away at once, but the priest prevented him. He began to speak again of his brother’s murder. It was like he was obsessed. Really what he said made no sense at all, and twice Karim made to leave, but the priest took hold of him and said, ‘No, you must listen.’
‘Then these three men came in, not men really, young fellows, no older than me.’ Two of them grabbed the priest, twisted his arm up behind his back and frog-marched him out into the street, round the corner into a little alley. The third one stuck a gun in Karim’s back and made him follow. They set the priest up against the wall, and he cried out that he didn’t want to die unshriven. They laughed, and said it didn’t matter because he was a collaborator and if there was a hell, that’s where he was bound for. Then they shot him, just like that, and Karim was sure he was for it himself. He pissed himself in his terror, and that’s when they began to knock him about, and one of them said, ‘Let’s have some fun with the pansy, let’s give him what he likes.’ Some people, alerted by the shots, came and stood at the entrance to the alley, and just watched, silently. ‘The young men laughed, and, you know,’ Karim said, ‘they weren’t thugs. They sounded like what they call well bred, students perhaps. And when they had finished, one said, “Fun’s over.” Another said, “Shouldn’t we finish him off too,” but they just laughed again, and they came and spat on him and left him there in the gutter.’ He couldn’t think of anyone to turn to but Jacques. ‘He’s always been my friend, even if … ’ He began to cry again. ‘What should I do?’
What could he say?
‘I’ll have a word with Jacques. For the moment you’re safe here.’
He descended the stairs with a heavy heart. The priest, Father Paul, had been a scoundrel. He might have caused more trouble for Lannes, pursuing his allegation that he was responsible for the killing of his brother, the spook Félix. The charge was baseless. Nevertheless.
But his own murder, undoubtedly at the hands of the Resistance, was a crime which would certainly go unpunished. What was it Bracal had said? That, for the time being, the concept of legality was in suspension and the Resistance’s revenge on collaborators woul
d be a kind of wild justice? What sort of New France could be established on that sort of foundation? And the rape and humiliation of Karim? There was no justice there, merely a vile expression of power.
‘Will you keep him where he is for a few days?’ he said to Jacques.
‘He’s in a bad way. Not, this time, his own fault.’
‘Yes of course,’ Jacques said. ‘I’m fond of him in a way. He’s not such a bad chap, despite everything.’
‘He’s a bloody nuisance.’
‘But you’re fond of him yourself.’
‘Am I? I suppose I am. What about your father?’
‘Oh he’s got no thought for anything just now, except his new girl, the Party and the Resistance. I don’t understand it. It’s not like him.’
‘We must hope the enthusiasm passes.’
XXII
‘The Charlemagne Legion of the Waffen SS,’ Baron Jean de Flambard said, ‘sounds grand, doesn’t it? Almost medieval, like a heroic chanson de geste. Do you regret being here, kid?’
‘Do you?’
Michel turned over to look at his corporal, and saw there was laughter in his eyes.
‘Do you?’ he said again.
‘I know myself for a fool,’ the baron said, ‘but you shouldn’t be here, kid.’
‘Don’t patronise me. I’m where I chose to be.’
The baron lit a cigarette and passed it to Michel, then another for himself.
‘You don’t know Paris, do you?’ he said. ‘I remember one evening in 1940, standing on the Ile des Juifs below the Pont-Neuf. It’s where they burned the Knights Templar – there’s a plaque on the wall commemorating it, and, as the flames rose around him, the Grand Master of the Temple Jacques de Molay called out a curse on the King, Philip the Fair, and on all those who had collaborated with him in the destruction of the Order. And I thought, even then, that curse still hangs heavy over France, more than six hundred years later. It was a beautiful May evening when I stood there and pictured the scene, the fires of persecution masquerading as justice, and now I think we’re as surely doomed as the Templars were. And that’s why I’m here.’
