Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘And you enquired about him when you were in Vichy in the summer of ’41.’

  ‘You are well informed. He was described to me as a bit of a loose cannon.’

  ‘And you have had further dealings with him since, here in Bordeaux.’

  ‘We had lunch together one day.’

  ‘After which, I believe he lodged a complaint against you.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’

  ‘But nothing came of it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Quite so. But I must tell you there was some anxiety – I won’t say actual suspicion, but anxiety – in Vichy. If Edmond de Grimaud hadn’t vouched for you, the matter might have been more thoroughly investigated. But he did. So it passed over. What do you know of Félix’s activities here in Bordeaux?’

  ‘Very little. He talked at length but not specifically. He was interested in a murder case which had come my way. But it had nothing to do with him, a purely domestic crime. One of my inspectors was certain from the start that it was what he called “a pre-war crime”. I was doubtful at first, but in fact he was right.’

  ‘So you’ve solved it?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘And there is no aspect of it that might interest me or my department?’

  Lannes picked up his glass which he had left untouched, sniffed the brandy and took a sip.

  ‘How can I tell,’ he said, ‘what might interest you? Or your department since I don’t know what that is. There was a suggestion it might involve the Resistance, whatever form that may take, but there was nothing in it. Nothing at all, no public aspect of the death.’

  Fabian struck a match to relight his cigar which had gone out, the way Toscani do.

  ‘You haven’t asked me why I’m here.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’ll tell me. When it suits you to do so.’

  ‘Careful again. I like that. What did you learn of Félix’s activities here in Bordeaux?’

  ‘Very little. He spoke at length but wildly. Of the necessity for Vichy, among other things. He talked loosely, at random. Frankly he bored me. He also insisted, repeatedly, that he was a patriot.’

  ‘And what did you reply to that?’

  ‘I had no reason to doubt him.’

  ‘Who do you think will win the war?’

  ‘What sort of question is that? I can hope only that France will come out of it less damaged and less divided than seems likely.’

  Fabian smiled. He leant back in his chair and swung his right leg over, resting its ankle on his left knee.

  ‘You’re a pessimist, superintendent?’

  ‘It seems the best thing to be.’

  ‘Félix is dead. Killed. A shot in the back of his head. Does that surprise you?’

  Lannes held his glass up.

  ‘I won’t drink to it,’ he said, ‘or to his memory. But, no, it doesn’t surprise me. Why should it? Deaths are common these days. I thought him a fool and a meddler. So, no, I can’t say it surprises me.’

  ‘And you know nothing of it, of course?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Fabian drew on his cigar, but it had gone out again, and he struck another match, rotating the flame around the tip of the cigar.

  ‘A bullet in the back of the head,’ he said. ‘An execution perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Or intended to look like that?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Lannes said. ‘Depends who might want to kill him, I suppose. Do you have a candidate?’

  ‘There are possibilities. The Resistance, naturally – he was reporting on their activities. One of our Occupying friends? That’s possible too. He was attempting – against orders, I may say, but then he saw himself as a lone wolf – to try to compromise a German officer. I believe you know something of that?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘There was a liaison officer, name of Schussmann – Félix wrote a report about him. Then he shot himself. You knew him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Lannes said. ‘He seemed a decent chap, all things considered. But I can’t say why he committed suicide. It was of course no business of mine.’

  ‘But you were required to carry out an investigation. There was a question of blackmail, I believe. On account of his proclivities. You know what I mean. There’s no need to fence with me, superintendent.’

  ‘Fencing?’ Lannes said. ‘Not something I’ve ever practised, not since I was a boy reading Dumas for the first time and we played at being the Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Guard, with sticks instead of swords. But of course I know what you mean. There was talk of what Schussmann’s successor – Kordlinger his name was – called “degenerate boys”. I was required to look into it. But nothing came of it.’

  ‘Quite so. For the best, doubtless. But then Kordlinger arrested you, and beat you up, I believe?’

  ‘Not the pleasantest experience.’

  ‘And,’ Fabian smiled again, ‘you turned the tables on him, by divulging information which would have compromised him, information given you by a friend in Vichy, a colleague of mine as it happens.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘That was fortunate. But what has this to do with Félix?’

  ‘Nothing at all, I suppose, unless he was killed by one of these degenerate boys, or another one. You knew that he was homosexual?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘Oh, I think so, don’t you? Not that we would want to bring this into the light. For his family’s sake, you understand. His father is a man of some standing in Vichy.’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ Lannes said. ‘In any case, it doesn’t concern me.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Do you know, superintendent, I think I’ll take a chance with my liver and have a glass of your doubtless excellent brandy. It’s years since I’ve drunk any. Just a small one. Your health!’

  ‘Your health!’

  They met each other’s eyes, and this time Lannes returned Fabian’s smile.

  ‘I’m the man called in to see about the trouble,’ Fabian said, ‘and this time my role is to sweep it out of sight. It would, frankly, be awkward to ask questions about this death. Awkward and even futile. Besides, as you will have gathered, I’m sure, the man was a nuisance. No reason why he should be an even bigger one in death than in life. You understand?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Out of sight, out of mind. By the way I think you have another son besides the charming boy I met in Vichy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he is where?’

  Lannes raised an eyebrow and turned down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I see. I trust all is well with him. These are difficult times for adventurous youth.’

  ‘For all of us,’ Lannes said.

  XLVII

  Duvallier would be taken to Bracal as soon as he had signed young René’s record of the interview. Moncerre was doubtful.

  ‘You’ve given him too much rope,’ he said. ‘The tail I put on him reports that he went straight round to the girl Marie’s home and looked in a state when he came out, no doubt because her mother told him that a policeman had spirited her away. He’ll be alarmed.’

  ‘So he should be,’ Lannes said. ‘That’s how we want him, isn’t it?’

  ‘But what makes you think he’ll keep his appointment here?’

  ‘His vanity. He’s still sure we have nothing on him, and he’ll easily offer an excuse for trying to get hold of Marie. Besides, not to keep the appointment would seem to him more dangerous, even an admission of guilt. I’ll add your tail’s report to the papers I send through to the judge. And I’m also advising him to make an order to require the doctor to produce a financial statement. I’m pretty sure Gabrielle was blackmailing him. It’s the obvious motive.’

  ‘If you say so, but I still think you should have held him yesterday.’

  ‘No,’ Lannes said, ‘we’ve given him that little bit more rope.
There’s nothing to worry about, my old bull-terrier. And congratulations by the way. You were right from the start, and I was wrong. It’s a genuine pre-war crime.’

  ‘There’s one thing I still don’t understand,’ René said. ‘How did he persuade her to take her clothes off? They weren’t lovers, were they? And anyway you said she was a lesbian. It doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant to,’ Lannes said. ‘Moncerre here was right about the sort of crime it was, but I was right too in thinking the set-up was all wrong, intended to distract us. You’re right too, René, in questioning it now, but of course all the stage management stuff was put in place after he killed her which he did when she was still fully clothed. To suggest a crime of passion, which it wasn’t. He strangled her, probably when she was counting the money – the latest payment – he had handed to her. Then he carried her through to the bedroom, stripped her, and knocked over the bottle of scent, deliberately of course, before arranging the set-up in the salon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually sat there, drinking the bottle of champagne, taking care to pour some into what we were supposed to think was her glass, and even smoked the cigar. He probably enjoyed it – he’s a cold-blooded bastard. And he would do all this wearing surgical gloves.’

  Moncerre laughed.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. But it’ll do. So we’ve all got it right? Makes a change, don’t it?’

  ‘A nice change,’ Lannes said. ‘When you’ve delivered him to the judge, join me at Fernand’s.’

  ‘A celebration lunch?’ Moncerre said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  When he was alone, Lannes took the envelope old Joseph had given him on arrival, and slit it open. There was a single sheet, a one-line message on notepaper with a German heading which he didn’t trouble to identify.

  I’ll be where we met before, at eleven o’clock this morning. K.S.

  * * *

  Schuerle rose to greet him, extending his hand which Lannes accepted.

  ‘At last,’ he said, ‘a beautiful morning. I hope it hasn’t been inconvenient for you to come here.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been ordered home to Berlin.’

  ‘Promotion?’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. I’ll be sorry to leave Bordeaux. You may not believe me but it’s been restful being here, and agreeable.’

  ‘And Berlin?’

  ‘Won’t be.’

  He smiled. Lannes hesitated, unsure what to make of that smile.

  ‘It has pleased me,’ Schuerle said, ‘to think we have understood each other, even to suppose that in other circumstances we would have been good friends. You don’t need to reply to that, superintendent.’

  Lannes looked across the gardens where a wintry sunshine was flickering on the bare wet branches of the trees.

  ‘We’re losing the Battle of Stalingrad. There’s no question of that,’ Schuerle said. ‘It’s the turn of the tide, perhaps the beginning of the end. Only the end is still a long way off, unless … ’

  ‘Unless those friends you spoke of … ’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And you expect to see some of them in Berlin?’

  ‘Hope to, anyway. You understand me.’

  ‘What are their chances?’

  ‘Slim. Very slim. The regime is still strong. And, of course, how do you define patriotism?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lannes said. ‘Here in France, the Marshal is a patriot. But so is de Gaulle.’

  ‘And the Communists?’

  ‘In their own fashion. But they don’t object to seeing France suffer.’

  ‘Perhaps if we both survive the war, we may meet again and make sense of it all.’

  ‘What are the odds on that?’ Lannes said.

  ‘In your case, my friend, I don’t know. You don’t object that I call you “my friend”?’

  ‘Not at all. And in yours?’

  Schuerle smiled.

  ‘You fought at Verdun, My father was killed there. That’s a sort of bond between us. As to your question, what can I say? Some of my friends assure me that Right must prevail.’

  Lannes said, ‘There’s a boy my daughter is in love with. He’s brave and foolish, and has been led by a man he admires to join this Legion of French Volunteers against Bolshevism. I tried to prevent him and failed. I can’t believe she will ever see him again. It’s the madness of war.’

  ‘Yes. From what I hear Stalingrad is as terrible as Verdun. The madness of war.’

  XLVIII

  Because it was nearby and because he felt guilty, Lannes went to call on Michel’s grandfather, the retired Professor of Literature who looked like a colonel. The elderly maid answered his ring, and said, ‘The professor’s not well, he shouldn’t have visitors, but he wouldn’t be pleased if I turn you away. He was speaking of you only yesterday. Wait here, will you, please.’

  The hall with its tiled floor was cold as everywhere in the city was now, and there were several bulbs dead in the electrolier, so that more than half the space was in deep shadow. A piano was being played somewhere. Anne-Marie, he supposed, a tune he recognised but couldn’t name, perhaps because she was playing it so slowly, picking the music out note by note. It was a piece she was learning, he supposed, and was still some way from mastering.

  The professor was sitting in the chair from which he rarely moved now, and Lannes had the impression that the maid had disturbed the half-sleep which the old and weary drift in and out of. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his mottled hand. There was a rug wrapped round his thin legs and his pince-nez dangled on a black ribbon. Lannes apologised for intruding on him.

  ‘I’ve been asking myself,’ the professor said, ‘where I went wrong. Was I too indulgent with the boy? I’m afraid I spoilt him, let him have his head, should have kept him on a tighter rein.’

  ‘I would think he was an easy boy to spoil,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s the fate of those who have charm.’

  ‘Fate?’

  ‘The wrong word perhaps, but I can’t think of a better.’

  The professor rang the little bell that stood on the occasional table by his side, and asked the maid to bring them sherry.

  ‘I still have a few bottles,’ he said to Lannes. ‘I won’t live to drink them all. How is your daughter?’

  ‘Miserable, she’s afraid she will never see Michel again.’

  And even if she does, he thought, he’ll be so marked by whatever he is going to experience that he will be a different person. But there was no point saying this to the old man.

  ‘I would be happy if she was to come to see me,’ the professor said. ‘And so would Anne-Marie. She’s lonely, poor child.’

  ‘I tried to discourage him,’ Lannes said, aware how feeble the words sounded.

  ‘Oh yes, but he had the bit between his teeth.’

  The music had stopped. There was no sound in the salon but for the ticking of the black marble clock that stood on the mantelpiece. The little fox-terrier woke and scratched himself and went back to sleep. The maid brought in the decanter and gave them each a glass. The professor turned his round between his fingers.

  ‘There’s nothing to drink to, is there?’ he said.

  ‘A safe return,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s what we must hope for.’

  For all of them, he thought. Surviving, that’s the only true war aim. Nothing else matters. All these young people will see terrible things, do terrible things, learn what they are too young to know. He thought of Schuerle returning to Berlin and of what he himself had learnt at Verdun.

  The professor coughed and put a white-spotted red handkerchief to his mouth. He leant back exhausted, struggling for breath. Lannes looked away. His visit was futile. He didn’t know what he had hoped to achieve. He put down his glass and prepared himself to go.

  The professor said, ‘I have something on my conscience. That’s another reason why I am pleased to see you
, superintendent. I had a visit two days ago, from an old Russian, an aristocrat, he said, before the Revolution, who served subsequently in our Foreign Legion and now runs a gymnasium here in Bordeaux which Michel attended, and where he taught him to box – Michel was passionate about boxing, collecting photographs of that “noble art” as they call it. The old man was distressed, told me he loved Michel – “with a pure love”, he insisted, and I dare say he was speaking the truth – but was now consumed with guilt because, as he said, he had filled the boy’s head with nonsense. He had tried – too late – to dissuade him from the course he has taken. He spoke in that exaggerated manner we are all familiar with from Russian novels, and I confess it embarrassed me, no matter how I admire such effusions in Dostoyevsky.’

  He paused to light a cigar and Lannes saw that his hand was shaking.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘He spoke at great length about his sins, which I confess bored me. And then he said it was another man who had been Michel’s evil genius. I think you may know who he was referring to.’

  ‘I believe I do.’

  ‘And then he said he would kill him, and went away, still in tears, still sobbing. What do you make of it, superintendent?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ve never read the Russians you speak of.’

  XLIX

  ‘Something’s gone out of me,’ Maurice said. ‘I don’t know what exactly, but … how do you feel, Dom?’

  It was night. They were sitting in the stone-flagged kitchen of a château in the mountains. The kerosene lamp on the table flickered as the wind blew through a broken pane, and each was huddled in a greatcoat to protect him against the cold. The troop of boys for whom they were responsible had been dispatched to sleep on the floor of the improvised dormitory in what had once been the salon of the half-ruined building. The flickering light threw weird shadows on the wall. The litre bottle of red vin ordinaire was almost empty, and since neither of them usually drank much, both were conscious of being a little drunk.