by Allan Massie
So, now, he only asked Maurice if he could describe the men.
‘It’s difficult. I saw them only a moment as they brushed past me, and then I was embarrassed by what was said. And it was weeks ago now. The one who spoke Spanish was tall and thin, and the other, well, short, stocky, like a little bull, certainly French. He was smoking a cigarette – an English cigarette. I recognized the smell of Virginia tobacco because it’s what my other grandfather – my mother’s father – always smokes. It’s a smell I associate with him and it pleases me. Is this any help?’
‘It may be. You haven’t spoken of this to anyone else.’
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Not even to Miriam?’
‘No, nobody. As for the cigarette, I’d forgotten it till you asked me for a description. It’s not much of one, I’m afraid. Of course ever since I keep thinking that if only I had gone back upstairs Gaston might still be alive. But then all I was thinking of was getting home and not being late at table and being spared my aunt’s reproaches.’
‘Understandable,’ Lannes said. ‘As for what you’ve told me, continue to keep it to yourself. This isn’t a simple crime, that’s about all I know. And if it’s any comfort to you, though the case is officially closed, to my mind it remains open. You’ve helped a lot. And with regard to the other thing, please do write to Dominique. He’ll be glad of your letter. The poor boy is bored. There’s a lot of boredom in war, more boredom than anything else. Now you’d better get home before awkward questions are asked about your absence.’
‘I’ll say I went for a walk, and lost count of time. I often do that.’
Lannes watched him out of the door, found coins to pay for their drinks, heard the man in the striped-suit say, ‘And then there are the pederasts. Paris is full of them, you know, and not only in the theatre. In politics too, I’m told, on good authority. If I had my way I’d string the lot of them up.’
His companion laughed. Lannes got up, said good-bye to the barman, and left for home.
IX
April 18, 1940
‘I’m new,’ the concierge said, sniffing deeply. ‘I know nothing about it. I moved in only last week, and the lodge has been unoccupied for months. The state it’s in, you’d think it had been years.’
‘Indeed,’ Lannes said, ‘our information is that there was no concierge’.
‘And neither there was. My predecessor was in hospital since before Christmas last, her gall-bladder, they say. More like her liver, judging by the empties I’ve had to clear out. And now she’s dead. So I can’t help you, except to say that you seem to have made a mistake, for there’s no one of that name among my tenants. Here’s the list, see for yourself.’
Lannes put his finger on a name.
‘Monsieur Biron, third floor, left, number 7, what can you tell me about him?’
The woman sniffed again, and leaned on the handle of the broom with which she had been sweeping the floor.
‘Nothing, nothing at all, for the very good reason that I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him. I assume he’s away, certainly he hasn’t made himself known to me, as he should, if he has any manners. Perhaps he’s on the run from you gentlemen.’
‘And the apartment opposite, Madame Robertet?’
‘Her! She’s at home, certainly. Thinks very well of herself, that one. A widow. Not one to give you more than the time of day, which she does as if conferring a favour.’
‘I’ll have a word with her. Meanwhile you will please give me the spare keys for number 7.’
‘There’s not going to be trouble, I hope. I was assured this was a respectable house. Not that I can be held responsible for anything, having just moved in.’
Maurice had spoken of Gaston having a room, but the little apartment consisted of a sitting-room, bedroom with double-bed, wardrobe and washstand, a tiny kitchen with a single gas-ring for cooking, and a WC. All was in a state of disorder, books pulled off the shelves and thrown to the floor, and the desk ransacked. The atmosphere was cold, dank and stuffy. The apartment smelled of stale tobacco smoke, unwashed clothes and dirty air. An empty wine bottle lay on its side on the table and the ashtrays were full. In the middle of the room there was a wooden chair with bits of rope tied round the legs and arms. The rope had been cut and hung loose. René drew Lanne’s attention to a reddish-brown stain on the pale-coloured rug below the chair, and knelt down to sniff it.
‘There’s no doubt he was killed here,’ Lannes said.
He picked up a scarf lying by the chair.
‘They gagged him.’
‘So they were searching for something. Maybe he was killed because he wouldn’t talk, René said. ‘Or do you think they found it, whatever it was?’
‘May have. The house in Bergerac hasn’t been ransacked like this. But what on earth could Gaston have had sufficiently important to provoke all this? Nothing makes sense yet.’
A waste of time to speculate. In any case what he pictured was horrible. One moment talking about poetry with a nice-looking boy and making his little joke about graves, then minutes late, tied to a chair, terrified, tortured, murdered, and mutilated.
He would call in the technical boys to make a thorough examination – their boss, Argoud, was an old friend, wouldn’t ask awkward questions about the propriety of working on a case that had been officially closed. A nod and a wink would be enough for Argoud, no great respecter of authority himself.
‘We’ll have a word with the lady opposite,’ he said, ‘before we’re once again forbidden to pursue the investigation.’
‘Why should we be, after what we’ve discovered.’
‘Because there’s a lot besides the murder itself I don’t like.’
Madame Robertet was very small, very old, and very neat. She wore a black dress with a little nosegay of Parma violets pinned to its lapel. Her face was yellowish, wrinkled and looked soft as taffeta. In the room beyond a wireless was on.
‘I was listening to the news,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why because it speaks of things I’d rather not know. If it’s Monsieur Biron you want he’s across the landing. But he’s not there, I haven’t seen him for weeks now. He comes and goes, always very polite when we meet, and so kind when my cat strayed, spending hours hunting for him, and then the wicked fellow just trotted up the stairs and cried to be let in. Of course cats never show any sign of feeling guilty, do they?’
Lannes showed her a photograph of Gaston.
‘This is Monsieur Biron?’
‘Why certainly. He isn’t a handsome fellow as you can see, but always the gentleman. I hope nothing has befallen him?’
‘He seems to have disappeared.’
‘But I expect he’s in Paris.’
‘In Paris? Why do you say that?’
‘Because that’s where his main residence is. Or so I have always understood.’
‘Does he have many visitors?’
‘Really, I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to keep an eye on my neighbours. His students of course.’
‘His students?’
‘He’s a historian, though without a post, as I understand. Did he say he had retired from the university? You must excuse me, my memory isn’t what it used to be. But he does take a few students, I know that. Privately, that is, poor boys who haven’t had the education they deserve. It’s so kind of him. But that’s his nature. When I was ill last year, he saw to the feeding of Abanazar. That’s my cat. I call him Abanazar because he’s a Persian, a Red Self, very beautiful but so naughty. And with a will of his own. Monsieur Biron is the only person besides myself whom he allows to pick him up. He’s very particular. For instance, he doesn’t at all approve of the new concierge. No, I’m sure you’ll find Monsieur Biron is in Paris. I haven’t been there myself since before the war, that’s the last war, you understand.’
She sighed. In the background the news gave way to music, a military band.
‘The students are all boys?’
‘But certainly. It wouldn
’t be proper for Monsieur Biron to receive girls in his apartment, now, would it?’
Lannes said, ‘We’re interested in the evening of February 26 and in two men who called on Monsieur Biron then. Do you remember hearing anything unusual on that date.’
‘I’m afraid that at my age one day is much like another. But why don’t you ask Monsieur Biron himself?’
‘Unfortunately that’s proving difficult. Do you happen to have his address in Paris, Madame?’
‘Good heavens, no. His address in Paris? What would I need that for? I haven’t been in Paris since 1914 and that’s a long time ago, even if at my age it sometimes seems like yesterday. How my dear mother used to love the Bon Marché, and what a thrill it was when their Christmas catalogue arrived. Do you know, I still have sheets of the Bon Marché linen, untouched in their original wrappings. I sometimes take them out of the cupboard, just to look at them and remember.’
As they left, René Martin said, ‘Why didn’t you tell her he’s dead, chief.’
‘Couldn’t bring myself to do so, hadn’t the heart. It’s obvious the old lady knows nothing. Why distress her? It might have been interesting if she had had a Paris address for him, though I doubt if it exists.’
X
April 18, 1940
‘Today,’ Fernand said, ‘I recommend the hare, mountain hare, marinaded in red wine and juniper berries, very good, my grandfather’s faourite dish, cooked according to his recipe. I have a good robust St Emilion, cru bourgeois to go with it. The hare demands a vigorous wine, none of your delicate creatures. Good? Eat well then. Who know what privations we shall suffer as the war advances?’
Outside Spring had retreated again. It was neither good nor bad, the sky grey, clouds unbroken, a chill wind. But the back room of the brasserie with its gilt and mirrors, its marble-topped tables and plush banquettes, was as ever reassuring, a safe place.
Moncerre’s mood was sour as the wind. He had spent the morning questioning a young lout who had held up a jeweller’s shop in the rue du Temple Beaubadat, and then lost his nerve when the shop assistant, returning from making a delivery, had shouted in alarm.
‘The young idiot struck out, and it’s lucky that the old man will survive. What a cretin – for three hours he protested his innocence and said he was the victim of a misidentification. He hadn’t even been within a kilometre of the shop, didn’t even know where it was, had been playing billiards with his mates, and so on. I kept at him and of course he cracked eventually and burst into tears. I’d send him to the army rather than prison, for we all know what he’ll learn there. It depresses me. What’s the use? I hope your morning has been more profitable, chief.’
Lannes forked a piece of the pickled herring that Fernand had brought for their first course, with a warm potato salad.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve made progress. We know where Gaston was killed. We can even guess why – they wanted information from him. And it’s probable they didn’t get it. But I don’t think I can get Rougerie to agree to re-opening the case.’
‘You’ll tell him you were acting on information received?’
‘Certainly, but for the moment at least I want to keep the boy Maurice out of it.’
‘You think he’s reliable?’
‘He’d no need to approach me and involve himself in the case.’
‘He wasn’t put up to it?’
‘I don’t think so. On the contrary I think he had to brace himself to speak to me. He’s the nervous type.’
‘A pity he took so long to brace himself, as you call it. And even now we know very little.’
‘That’s so. Argoud’s technical boys may give us something, though I wouldn’t bet on it. There won’t be fingerprints, I’m sure – they were professionals. Nevertheless, it’s moving. René, I’d like you to look up your Catalan friend again. See if he remembers anything more. One of his mates may be able to offer a better description of the man who smokes English cigarettes.’
The hare had been as fine as Fernand promised, the wine too, but Lannes was in low spirits as he left the brasserie. The murder had been nasty, and now that he was convinced the motive was political, that was nastier still. Every policeman knows that when politics enter a case, things are never straight. People lean on you, facts are concealed or twisted, and Lannes resented this. Moreover that morning Marguerite had been in tears after Alain and Clotilde left for school. When he put his arm round her, she shook her head, and, freeing herself from his embrace, said, ‘I do so hate this war’. Which hasn’t started, Lannes thought, ‘not properly’.
He couldn’t face the office yet. So he turned around and made his way to the rue des Remparts, telling himself he should bring Henri up to date.
The bookshop was closed. Lannes rang the bell for the apartment. No answer. He had turned away when he heard his name called and saw Henri approaching with Toto on a lead. They shook hands. Henri unlocked the door.
‘You’ve had lunch? Then we’ll have some coffee and perhaps the merest spot of Johnnie. Miriam liked you. But I don’t suppose it’s business that you’ve come about.
‘You had another session with Rougerie, I gather.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve known him for years of course, since the days when I was a young aspiring advocate myself. A silly fellow I thought him then, like a cushion, you know, bears the imprint of the last person who’s sat on him. And he hasn’t improved. I didn’t like what he had to say, but then, I don’t know, do I really want the wretch, whoever he is, some silly young fellow who probably panicked and lost his head . . . I mean, what good will it do? Then I think of all the decent young men who are going to be killed in this war, and I ask myself whether a murder, even my brother’s murder, is of any significance set against that. I’m sorry, Jean, I shouldn’t speak to you of all people like this, when you are so anxious about Dominique. But the truth is I’m in a bad way. I can’t sleep unless I stupefy myself with whisky. I wake up crying. It’s grief of course, but also guilt, because I keep thinking of how we were both unfit for the last war, your war, and were called cowards by some. I’m not making much sense, am I?’
He poured coffee and sank into a chair. Toto came and licked his dangling hand.
Lannes said, ‘You were surprised when Rougerie said the case was being set aside?’
‘Yes, naturally, and angry at first, but then . . . I’ve tried to explain to myself.’
Lannes felt a surge of pity for his old friend. He had lost weight in the last weeks. His flesh seemed to hang loose, and when he lifted his coffee-cup his hand trembled as if he had been overtaken by old age or had become the sort of drunkard who needs a couple of morning nips to cure him of ‘the shakes’. And Lannes found himself thinking, ‘After all I’m fortunate perhaps to have the sort of fear that my anxiety for the children provokes, whereas this poor Henri now has nothing but his little dog.’
He said, ‘This visit is unofficial. Indeed I may be inviting a reprimand.’
‘What do you mean? I never think of your visits as official, seeing we are such old friends.’
‘Simply that, despite all instructions, I haven’t abandoned the case, and I’ve come to tell you that I’m not all but certain Gaston wasn’t killed for the reason we supposed.’
It’s what had always disturbed him. He couldn’t believe that a young man who had objected to demands Gaston might have been making would have mutilated him and moved the body. Hit him on the head, like the young idiot Moncerre had locked up that morning – that would have been more likely. But there was no need to say any of this to Henri.’
‘I’m going to hurt you more,’ he said. ‘I’d like to ask you about what you know of the circumstances of Pilar’s death.’
‘But why?What has this to do with Gaston?’
Henri passed his soft white hands over his face as if to wipe away memory.
‘I know nothing really,’ he said. ‘Beyond that she was determined to go to Madrid to serve the Republic and did not return. But
why do you ask, why now?’
‘Because Gaston was making inquiries about her, among the Spanish refugees and probably elsewhere. And I believe this was why he was murdered. Perhaps in seeking to find out what happened to Pilar, he was trying to repay you to some extent for all that you had done for him.’
‘But that’s terrible. It makes me in some manner responsible.’
‘You mustn’t think that,’ Lannes said. ‘We’re none of us responsible for what others choose to do.’
‘So you say, Jean, but you yourself assume responsibility for others.’
‘If I do, it’s on account of my job. It’s my metier. Now, please, tell me more about Pilar. I hardly ever had a real conversation with her myself.’
This was because on each of their meetings, which hadn’t been numerous, he had been aware of a reserve, even hostility, on her part, no doubt quite simply because she distrusted the French police. But there was no need to say that.
Henri said, ‘I know now that I never really knew her. I loved her, but my love was ignorant.’
A nerve jumped in his cheek. He took a big red handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes. Lannes got up and crossed to the window to give his friend time to compose himself. It had started to rain and the dark sky seemed infinitely sad to him. The few pedestrians hurried by hidden under umbrellas. A large car of German manufacture nosed its way along the middle of the road. Henri blew his nose, loudly, and began to talk, his words tumbling over themselves and interrupted by long pauses.
Was it a mistake from the start? He had often asked himself that question in recent months. A mistake for her, he meant, not for him. She had brought light and movement into his life. He had never imagined that he could win such a woman, so beautiful, so vital.
‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘I’m not made to be a great lover.’
Why had she accepted him, a fat man who passed his life among dusty old volumes and whose only previous experience of sex was with prostitutes?
