Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘Even if I have. He’s untouchable. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Is he in fact a suspect?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to think so. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. Time with you is never time wasted, even when you make me uncomfortable. I don’t like this any better than you, Jean. You haven’t spoken of this list to Commissaire Schnyder, I suppose.’

  ‘I didn’t think it would interest him.’

  ‘He’s an efficient policeman all the same.’

  ‘An efficient bureaucrat, and a careful one. So there’s nothing to be done about the advocate’s name appearing on Peniel’s list. Is that what you recommend?’

  Bracal smiled and squirted some more soda into his brandy.

  ‘You know that as well as I do,’ he said. ‘File it away. Bury it deep. One day. You never know. And are you any closer to having a suspect for me – a suspect for the murder, I mean.’

  ‘You’re still interested?’ Lannes said.

  ‘Don’t think so badly of me. A pre-war crime, you said, didn’t you? That would be nice.’

  ‘Yes, I’m closer. I’ve no proof, but I’m closer. But only if my candidate makes a mistake.’

  ‘And you think he will?’

  ‘I think he may. He’s a respected figure, and that always imposes a strain on people who’ve been living a lie. They feel a burden of guilt from which professional criminals are free. It’s a matter of ripping off the mask they wear.’

  XLII

  The sky was steel-grey, there was no wind and the streets of Mériadeck were silent. It wasn’t only the cold that kept people inside. There was no light in the old tailor’s shop, and when Lannes banged on the door, there was no response. He tried the handle without success. He peered through the window. The pane was smeared with dirt and it was difficult to make out anything in the dark interior. He tapped on it, and there was still no answer. An old woman approached. She had the yellow star sewn on to her coat, and, when she saw Lannes, she stepped into the gutter to pass him by. But he stopped her and said he was looking for old Léopold.

  ‘I know nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a friend,’ he said. ‘I’m here as a friend.’

  ‘We no longer have friends. None of us have friends. So I can’t help you. I must be on my way.’

  ‘I think something may have happened to him.’

  ‘And what’s new about that?’

  He remembered how Yvette had said ‘we look after each other in Mériadeck’. No longer, it seemed. You couldn’t blame them. You couldn’t blame them for anything, not now.

  There was a locksmith across the road. That too was closed and shuttered. He banged on the door, and again was met with silence. He banged a second time, more loudly, and this time was answered.

  ‘Go away. We’re closed.’

  Lannes hesitated a moment.

  ‘Police,’ he shouted. ‘Open up.’

  He heard movement. A bolt was removed and a man’s head poked round the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Lannes said.

  ‘You’re police and you’re sorry to disturb me? That’s good, that’s rich.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘You’re police and you need my help. Pull the other one.’

  Nevertheless, the door was now opened and a stocky middle-aged man wearing a dirty polo-neck jersey and baggy corduroy trousers stood before him.

  ‘It’s old Léopold, the tailor,’ Lannes said. ‘He’s not answering his door.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘I’m a friend. I’m not here on duty. I think something may have happened to him.’

  ‘You think something may have happened to him? He should be so lucky. And you’re not here on duty? A policeman and a friend of the old Jew. Who’d have thought it? By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept … ’

  ‘When we remembered thee, O Jerusalem,’ Lannes said. ‘That’s enough. Cut the jokes. Be a good chap and get your tools and see if you can get me in.’

  The man looked at him full in the face for the first time.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Anything for an easy life. That’s another joke. Sorry. You can’t blame me for being suspicious.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Opening the door was the work of a minute.

  ‘That’s that,’ the man said. ‘Over to you. I don’t want anything more to do with anything. You’ll be able to lock up after yourself now.’

  The light inside was dim, and there was a smell of dust, blood and brandy. The old tailor was in his chair, but he wasn’t going to get out of it ever again, not of his own accord. His left wrist was cut, two diagonal strokes, criss-cross, and the knife had fallen to the floor. Lannes picked it up and laid it on the table beside the bottle which had only an inch or so left in it. He hadn’t bothered with a glass. He had told Lannes he drank brandy only when he was afraid, but Lannes didn’t believe that this had been the case. He had just decided it was time to go. There was a note on the table, two words only: Why not? Lannes had liked him and respected him. He would do him the justice of seeing that there was no fuss about the death. Rigor mortis had worn off. A stoic’s death, he thought. Better than what had most likely been in store for him. Miriam had been his niece. He would have to tell her, but of course only because she was entitled to know, not because she should take the responsibility of making funeral arrangements. She was out of sight, safe or as safe as might be, in Henri’s attic. No need either for a police investigation or autopsy; the old man wouldn’t have wanted that. He would call an undertaker himself, get him to do what was necessary, and pay his bill. He felt he owed Léopold that. He would tell Yvette who had been fond of him – ‘we look after each other in Mériadeck’. The pair of them might be his only mourners. There was no sign of the orange cat that had no name but Cat. He remembered Léopold’s sour joke: all his previous cats had had names, but this one didn’t, to remind himself that he was no longer Léopold Kurz the tailor, but only an old Jew. It would have been like him to have seen to the cat before …

  He used the key the locksmith had left him and crossed the road to the bar below the Pension Bernadotte. The proprietor nodded in recognition and came out from behind the bar to shake his hand. Lannes asked him if he had known the old tailor. Of course he had; this was Mériadeck. Was there something wrong?

  ‘He’s killed himself. If you call that something wrong.’

  ‘I don’t know as I do. I’m not a Jew myself, but what they are doing to them is wicked. And I don’t care who hears me say so. So if he’s given them the slip … ’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘It’s my way anyway.’

  He went behind the bar and poured two glasses of marc. He gave one to Lannes and raised the other to his lips.

  ‘Old Léopold,’ he said.

  ‘Old Léopold.’

  Perhaps there would be three at the funeral.

  Lannes asked if he knew of an undertaker, and if he might use the telephone to call him.

  ‘It’s a public phone. Here’s the number.’

  When he had made the necessary arrangements and assured the undertaker that, no, though he was a policeman, there was no police interest and he was calling as a friend, he downed his marc, said thanks for the drink, and mounted the stairs to the Pension.

  Old Mangeot was behind the desk as usual, digging into his mouth with a toothpick. He smirked when he saw Lannes.

  ‘You’re out of luck, superintendent. She’s got company.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  He sat down, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Reason said, what was one old man’s death among so many? Reason was wrong as it often was.

  He heard Yvette’s door open and her voice saying, ‘So long, sweetie.’

  A young man passed, walking hurriedly, averting his eyes. Little more than a boy. Alain’s age, Léon’s too. He wondered if it was his first time
. He knocked on Yvette’s door and waited till she called, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Lannes.’

  She was naked and counting banknotes.

  ‘Been waiting long? That was a nice boy. I was tempted to let him have it for free, but a girl’s got to pay the rent. What’s up? You’re looking very serious. You’re not jealous, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Put a dressing-gown on, or something.’

  ‘So?’ she said.

  ‘It’s old Léopold.’

  ‘He’s done it then?’

  She sat down on the bed, her mouth open.

  ‘You knew what he planned.’

  ‘Not exactly, but … it was when he brought me the cat.’

  She began to cry. He sat down beside her and held her in his arms, holding her tight and kissing her cheek.

  ‘He said she would need a home … she’s in the basket over there. Old Mangeot made a fuss about me keeping a cat, it’s against his rules, he said, but I told him to fuck off. He’s really done it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Poor old bugger. I really liked him, you know.’

  ‘So did I, but it was his choice. For the best perhaps.’

  ‘I know … but … all the same … kiss me again. Please.’

  Later, he said, ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Expect so. But thank you. For coming to tell me and for, well, everything.’

  ‘That’s all right. And you’re happy to have the cat?’

  ‘Course I am. Poor no-name cat. I won’t ever give it a name. I owe the old boy that.’

  XLIII

  The telephone call was from Jules, the proprietor of the queer bar that used to have an English name, ‘The Wet Flag’. He had already called twice, Lannes was told, but refused to speak to anyone but him.

  ‘He sounded agitated,’ young René said, which surprised Lannes who on his meetings with the man had been impressed, against his inclination, by Jules’ self-possession – which was remarkable considering the dubious reputation of his establishment and its louche clientele.

  ‘A shit of the first order,’ Moncerre said.

  ‘He said it was a personal matter,’ René said.

  ‘Personal with him means trouble, deep trouble.’

  ‘Probably,’ Lannes said, ‘but I’ll take the call nevertheless.’

  All the same he hesitated, and when Jules said, ‘It’s urgent. I need to see you at once, alone, I can’t tell you on the phone,’ replied, ‘All right, don’t say anything, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘Did you manage to make an appointment with Duvallier, René?’

  ‘Yes. Three o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Not nervous. Quite calm really, almost pleased. Even – I know this sounds strange – amused.’

  ‘Do you want us to come with you, chief?’ Moncerre said.

  Lannes lit a cigarette, shook his head.

  ‘I think not. Whatever it is, he said “alone” and he’s not likely to speak honestly if I have company. I’ll call you if I need you.’

  Whatever it is …

  That was the problem. Why was he so sure it concerned Karim? He remembered how Jules had asked him to go easy on the boy the first time he had interviewed him, after Schussmann had shot himself. And, he had to admit, Karim aroused his own protective instinct. Why else would he have gone to the trouble of getting him safely out of Bordeaux then, and of helping him when Félix tried to use him so callously? What sort of mess had the boy got himself into now?

  It was bitterly cold, freezing fog hiding the sky, the streets almost empty of people. What was there to bring the Bordelais out on such an afternoon when there was so little to buy in the shops and where at any moment you might see German soldiers to remind you of the humiliations to which you were subjected? Most had of course become accustomed to the realities of Occupation in the more than two and a half years since the Armistice, and everyone knew that the end wasn’t in sight. Indeed the German grip had become tighter, partly on account of the increasing Resistance activity which also provoked more repression from the French state too.

  Lannes leant heavily on his stick. The old tailor had looked curiously serene in death. There had even been a wry smile on his face, as if he had cheated them. Or was that his imagination? He couldn’t be sure. But at least Léopold had chosen his own way out, though any sense of triumph must be tempered by the reflection that he had nevertheless given the bastards what they wanted – one Jew fewer. As for Yvette, poor girl, he had so nearly done what he had resolved not to do, what they both wanted, and he was ashamed to know how close he had come.

  Jules was leaning with his elbows on the bar counter, and plucking at the wart on his cheek. It was a gesture which irritated Lannes. Was it unconscious, or did he deliberately draw attention to the disfiguring growth?

  The bar was empty but for a couple of middle-aged men who, seeing him enter, quickly finished their drinks and left.

  ‘Sorry to frighten your custom away,’ he said.

  ‘Tell you the truth, I’m happy to see the back of that pair.’

  ‘So?’

  Jules picked up the bottle of Armagnac which stood on the counter beside him, refilled his own glass and gave one to Lannes.

  ‘You’re going to need it,’ he said.

  ‘Bad as that?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘It’s Karim?’

  ‘How did you guess? It’s Karim. Of course it’s Karim. Thanks for coming so quickly by the way. He insisted I call you, which surprised me I have to say. You’ve certainly made an impression on him.’

  ‘Oh yes? Where is he then?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way, trembling like a leaf and barely able to speak. I put him up in my own bedroom.’

  ‘Been there before, has he?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘I’m fond of the kid, I’ll admit that. Otherwise … in my line I can do without shit, and this is deep shit. Tell the truth, I wouldn’t have known what to do if he hadn’t said I must call you. I just hope he’s right to rely on you. I hope to all the gods I’ve ever blasphemed that he’s right.’

  ‘Well, I can’t know about that till I’ve heard what he has to say – if he’s capable of saying anything.’

  ‘He’d better be,’ Jules said, and pulled at his wart again. ‘Not that I want to know, whatever it is. My curiosity’s strictly limited. That’s how I keep going. Here’s the key. It’s the first door on the right. You’ll be gentle with the kid, won’t you?’

  * * *

  Karim was lying on the bed, in the foetal position. He wore only a singlet despite the freezing weather and a pair of blue cotton trousers. His leg twitched as Lannes closed the door and he turned his head towards him. His mouth was swollen and had been bleeding, and there were streaks of dried blood on his chin and on the dirty singlet. His left eye was bruised and already beginning to turn black. He gave a little moan or whimper, and screwed round to pull himself up with his back against the headrest. His mouth hung open and his lips moved as if he was making to speak, but instead he swallowed and no words came.

  Lannes poured him a drink from the bottle he had brought up from the bar.

  ‘I know you don’t,’ he said, ‘but get this down. You need it.’

  The boy stretched out his hand which was shaking and with difficulty got the glass to his lips. He did as he was told, knocking it back in one. Then he shuddered as if his stomach was heaving, and coughed. He lay back on the bed holding himself together and sweat started on his face.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Lannes said. ‘Take your time. Take all the time you need.’

  He laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘It can’t be that bad,’ he said, though he knew it could. It could always be that bad.

  He lit a Gauloise and gave himself another shot of t
he brandy; and waited, maybe five minutes, maybe longer. The room was very silent and cold, and the boy had stopped shaking. A dog barked somewhere in the street below. Its bark turned to a howl as if it had been shut out from its home and didn’t understand why the world had turned against it.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Karim said. ‘It wasn’t me but he’s dead. You have to believe me. I didn’t even know she had a gun.’

  ‘So he’s dead and you didn’t know she had a gun. Who was he? Do you know that?’

  For the first time the boy looked him in the face and when he spoke his voice was firmer.

  ‘Of course I do. It was that bastard, the spook you called Félix.’

  ‘Félix?’ Lannes said. ‘You’re sure? Sorry, silly question. You couldn’t not be sure.’

  He put a cigarette between the boy’s lips and lit it, another for himself.

  ‘We’ll take it slowly,’ he said. ‘The whole story, from start to finish.’

  ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘The story. Just what happened.’

  He sat down on the bed by the boy’s feet.

  ‘We’ve got as long as you need,’ he said.

  It took time. The boy spoke in spurts, breaking down and crying more than once. He mostly kept his eyes averted, only once or twice looking up to see how Lannes was taking it. He was trembling again. He had been brought into the world of his worst dreams.

  The old woman, his mother, had let Félix in. No problem: from her point of view he was a client and they needed the money. Lannes imagined her turning away and back to her chair by the table which would have been littered with dirty dishes, plates of half-eaten and rejected food, overflowing ashtrays and of course her bottle of rum. Karim was asleep or near asleep, stretched out on his bed. He sprang up when he recognised Félix, who said, ‘You little bastard, you filthy cunt,’ and hit him, swinging his fist into his face so violently that Karim who had been getting to his feet was knocked down. Félix took hold of his hair and hauled him up, and then he hit him in the belly, so hard that Karim would have fallen down again, if Félix hadn’t kept hold of his hair. Then, with his free hand, he swiped him twice across the face.