by Allan Massie
‘Perhaps she was looking for security?’ Lannes said.
Henri shook his head. She wasn’t made for security. She was a rebel by nature. Her father was an impoverished Castilian nobleman of the old school, the oldest school, proud and pious in the manner of the sixteenth century. Pilar’s mother died young. The little girl was sent to be reared in a convent where the nuns totally neglected her education. Contempt for her father and hatred of the nuns were the result.
‘Nevertheless that hatred was mingled with pity because these women were themselves victims of the backwardness and bigotry of Spain.’
She was a fierce anticlerical. She was modern. That was what she knew herself to be, and as soon as she could, she broke free. She came to France, to Bordeaux, to lead a modern life.
‘Yes, even our reserved, secret, self-regarding Bordeaux seemed modern to her.’
She had a little money – Henri never knew the source. From her dead mother perhaps? They met when she came to his shop in search of Marxist literature. What he loved in her first was her Castilian pride which was perhaps more like her father’s (whom he had never met) than she would have acknowledged. The pride which had led him to retreat from the world and regard it with disdain was transformed in Pilar into a conviction that it was her duty to change the world. As to how she had lived in her first months in France, Henri had never inquired. It was none of his business. And as to why she had married him . . . He shook his head in puzzlement.
To Lannes’ mind it wasn’t so mysterious. He could imagine this ardent young woman recognizing goodness and honesty in Henri and surrendering to these qualities.
1936: the year of the Popular Front in France and of Franco’s war against the Republic. For Pilar one was light, the other darkness. Her world was a battlefield between good and evil. But she had been shocked and disgusted by the refusal of France to come to the aid of the Republic. She couldn’t understand it.
Henri got heavily to his feet, stood as if bemused a moment, then padded through to his little kitchen and returned with a bottle of whisky, a soda siphon and two glasses.
‘I know you prefer Armagnac, Jean, but Pilar drank whisky, and Johnnie Walker is the only one of her friends left to me.’
Naturally she couldn’t stand aside from the conflict in Spain. Henri himself, sceptic in what he considered the true spirit of Aquitaine, which was Montaigne’s, would have said, ‘a plague on both your houses’. But he had kept that thought to himself. Should he have tried to dissuade her from engaging in the struggle? As well command the Atlantic waves to stop rolling!
Lannes left Henri in tears and a little drunk. He didn’t doubt that his friend would seek further consolation in the bottle, and find none. He couldn’t blame him. What had most appalled Henri was discovering how little he had known the woman he loved, and that she appeared to have confided in Gaston and not in him.
‘We can’t be sure of that,’ Lannes said; but really he was.
XI
April 23, 1940.
He had been half-expecting a summons from Rougerie, for days now, really . . . The language was polite – the little judge would never fail in formal courtesy. Nevertheless the underlining of the words ‘as soon as is convenient for you’ spoke of his impatience and, perhaps, anxiety. Lannes sent old Joseph through to the other wing of the Palais de Justice with the message that he would be with him in half an hour if this was, in its turn, convenient.
Meanwhile he rocked his chair back, balancing it on its hind legs, and smoked and tried to sort out what he knew.
It didn’t amount to much. Gaston was as ignorant as Henri of Pilar’s fate, he suspected, but his inquiries among the Spanish refugees suggested he knew more than his brother of her activities on behalf of the Republic. That was only supposition, reasonable nevertheless. On one occasion he had been accompanied by the Frenchman who smoked English cigarettes. But had they gone there together or had this fellow been spying on Gaston and following him? He was almost certainly one of the men who had brushed past Maurice in the doorway of the house in the rue Belle Etoile, and it was probable – though Lannes even in the privacy of his mind shied away from the word ‘certain’ – that the two men had tied Gaston to the chair, interrogated him, tortured him, and murdered him before searching the place for something – a document presumably. As to its importance he could only guess: did it compromise them or whoever was employing them? Then they had mutilated the body to make it look like a sex-crime, and dumped it. What next? The murderers or, more probably, their employers – Lannes was sure they were agents acting on instructions – had leaned on Rougerie. So whoever they were working for was in a position of some influence, even authority. And if Rougerie was eager to see him now, then they were keeping tabs on him, knew of his visit to the rue Belle Etoile.
Lannes stubbed out his fifth cigarette and went to keep his appointment. The little judge was agitated. He had spilled snuff all over his waistcoat.
‘I’m amazed,’ he said, ‘amazed and disappointed’. His voice had risen an octave on the second ‘amazed’. ‘I have always considered you reliable, which was why I selected you to deal with the delicate matter of the Comte de Grimaud’s request. And now I find that you have been harassing his grandson, and, secondly, that you have been guilty of disobedience in continuing to pursue an investigation which I had commanded you to abandon.’
Lannes was surprised to find himself feeling sorry for the judge. Whoever had leaned had leaned hard.
‘Harrassing the count’s grandson?’
‘Indeed yes, I have received a complaint from the boy’s father, Edmond de Grimaud, who is not only a political figure of some importance but the publisher and editor of an influential review. Moreover he tells me that he had specifically asked you not to question the young man. And what reason could you properly have had for doing so?’
‘None at all,’ Lannes said.
‘In that case . . . ’
Lannes was tempted to say nothing, to let the judge make the running. But the little man seemed so at a loss, taking more snuff and spilling it and spluttering, that he continued: ‘I was asked if I had questioned the boy Maurice in connection with the anonymous letters sent to the count, and said that I saw no need to do so. Then, leaving the house, I found myself pursued by the boy who wished to speak to me. We went to a café and talked for a little. I can’t think why his father should suppose I had been interrogating him. It sounds to me as if the interrogation, if there was one, came from Monsieur de Grimaud himself.’
‘And what was the subject of this conversation?’
Lannes said, ‘He’s an emotional young man, a poet they tell me, and apparently fond of his grandfather’s wife. He wanted to know more about these letters. Their existence had aroused what I can only call his sense of chivalry. I tried to set his mind at rest.’
Would that serve? Lannes waited, his gaze fixed on a photograph of a former President of the Republic. Rougerie took a fountain-pen from his pocket and made a note. Then, still holding it poised above the paper, said, ‘But why should the young man’s father conclude that you had interrogated the boy?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps it suited the boy to give his father that impression, for reasons I can’t guess at.’
Again the judge made a note, hesitated, took snuff, and said, ‘But to the more important matter. I am given to understand that, in defiance of my instructions, you continue to investigate the Chambolley case. Would you please explain this.’
Lannes pressed his head back so that his gaze was fixed on the ceiling and he could feel the muscles of his neck tighten. His silence irritated the little judge, he could sense that. Nevertheless he took his time.
‘Please answer.’
The question was: how much did Rougerie have to know? What indeed was it wise to let him know? And how little could Lannes get away with saying?
‘Police work,’ he said, ‘is messy, often a matter of scraps of information that lead nowhere. Informers are necessar
y, necessary evils, if you like, and certainly often of a type that a gentleman like yourself would scorn to have dealings with. You might call them scum, often with good reason. Nevertheless one can’t, simply on account of their dubious character, safely ignore, set aside, the information they offer. Which is not however always reliable, is sometimes prompted by malice. One can’t tell . . . ’
He let his voice drift away and for a moment it must have seemed to the judge that this was all he was going to say in reply to his demand. Lannes was conscious of the little man’s impatience. It went beyond the norm.
‘Please come to the point.’
‘The point?’
‘I suppose there is a point to these remarks, that you are not simply being evasive.’
‘Evasive?’ Lannes made as if to consider the word. ‘Evasive?’ he said again.
‘No, I wouldn’t say that. As to the point, yes indeed, one of our informers – “snouts” we call them – laid information that led me to believe there might be a development in the case. It was by no means certain – as I say, such information is often worthless, no matter how inviting it may seem. Which is how it was in this instance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply that one was led to follow a false trail, a diversion, that led nowhere. In short, information was received which suggested that Gaston Chambolley had a lodging here in Bordeaux, rented a small apartment, no doubt for purposes of vice – that’s to say, for what you naturally found disagreeable, unsavoury was your word, as I recall.’
The judge coughed. Lannes, conscious of how Rougerie had been embarrassed by what he had learned of Gaston’s sexual proclivities, stretched out the silence again. Then he shifted his gaze to look the judge in the eye.
‘One was obliged to follow this up. But it was, as I say, a false trail. The apartment in question was rented by quite another man. I spoke with the tenant of the apartment on the same floor, a most respectable old lady, a widow. She assured me that her neighbour lived in Paris and made only occasional visits to Bordeaux. He was a Monsieur – no, for the moment, the name escapes me, though I can of course supply it from my notes if you wish. The old lady spoke feelingly of his kindness and gentility, and affection for her cat. So there we were. It was nothing to trouble you with. Naturally, had it been otherwise, had we any firm evidence that the apartment had indeed been rented by Monsieur Chambolley, it would have been my duty to apprise you of this and perhaps to ask if you would consider re-opening the investigation. But as it is . . . as it is, we are no further forward. The case remains closed.’
Rougerie sniffed.
‘It’s clear that you have run up against a dead-end.’
‘A dead-end name of Rougerie,’ Moncerre said.
He took a big swig of beer and licked the foam from his lips.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘someone is buggering us about.’
‘It’s not the judge himself,’ Lannes said.
‘That old woman. Maybe young René will get something from his Catalan, but I wouldn’t bank on it. We’re stuck.’
‘Maybe we’re looking at this case from the wrong end,’ Lannes said. ‘Maybe we should be trying to find out what happened to Henri’s wife – if she’s dead – how she was killed and why. That was Gaston’s question, wasn’t it, and – an assumption – he may have been killed because someone thought he was getting close to an answer. Does that make sense?’
‘It makes sense all right, but I don’t see as it gets us any further forward.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s at least a new point of departure. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Meanwhile we have wives of our own to return to.’
Moncerre picked up his glass and drained it.
‘I’ll have another beer first. Till tomorrow.’
It wouldn’t be only one beer. Moncerre was unhappily married. His wife resented and disliked police work. She would have preferred he had a job with regular hours, so that he had no excuse for not being home within half an hour of his office closing. Lannes sometimes thought that the difficult marriage made Moncerre a better policeman, and not only because he was prepared to work all hours rather than go home.
‘I shouldn’t have made that crack about wives to return to,’ he thought.
He stopped at a flower-stall and bought a large bunch of mimosa for Marguerite. As he climbed the stairs he thought how terrible it must be to come unwillingly home. Marguerite opened the door for him as if she had been listening for his step. They kissed. She thrust her face into the mimosa.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘There’s a young man to see you, he says he’s a friend of Dominique, and Alain and he have been chattering away as if each has discovered a twin soul. Clotilde’s jealous.’
‘No, I’m not, but they are rather rude to ignore me.’
‘What are they talking about, poppet?’
‘Oh, Literature, with a big “L”. It’s boring. They even like the same authors.’
Maurice got quickly to his feet when Lannes came in to the sitting-room. His face was flushed and he pushed away the lock of blond hair falling over his left eye.
‘I hope you don’t think it rude of me to have called on you without warning or invitation, but Madame Lannes has been so kind and it is a great pleasure to meet her and Alain and Clotilde.’
‘Not at all,’ Lannes said, aware that Clotilde had started to giggle, no doubt on account of Maurice’s excessively formal manner. Though he spoke of course in French, Lannes was reminded by something in the way he held himself, both resolute and shy, that he had an English mother. Indeed he seemed like a young actor in one of these dreadful English comedies which leave you wondering if the young lovers have the faintest notion what to say or do when they are at last alone together . . . and as for bed . . .
‘The truth is that I owe you an apology, superintendent, and I have also something to add to our previous conversation.’
‘In that case, perhaps we should talk privately for a moment. Alain?’
The boy took the hint and went to join his mother and sister in the kitchen.
‘An apology? For what?’
‘Because I have been telling lies,’ Maurice said. ‘About that conversation. My father questioned me closely when I returned home, and I allowed him to understand that I had been asking you about these anonymous letters.’
‘It seems as if it is your father to whom you should be apologising.’
‘No, you see, it’s because I allowed him to think that you had been grilling me. I didn’t, you understand, want him to know that we had been talking about Gaston. And only partly because he disapproved of that friendship. You do understand, don’t you.’
‘Yes, I understand and of course I accept your apology.’
An apology that would have amused Lannes if the boy hadn’t so evidently been nervous and anxious.
He lit a cigarette and pushed the packet towards Maurice who, as on the previous occasion, hesitated a moment before accepting it and lighting up himself.
And the information?’
Maurice hesitated, drew on the cigarette, and said, ‘It may not amount to much, for really it’s only my impression, and then too it’s only come to me since I started thinking about that evening after we talked together. You understand?’
Lannes nodded. The boy resumed, speaking fast and in an undertone as if ashamed, or afraid, of his own words.
‘That night Gaston was eager for me to go. Usually it wasn’t like that. Quite the reverse. I’ve confessed to you that I knew he was in love with me, a bit in love anyway, though he never said so in so many words. So often when I was ready to leave him he would try to detain me, inventing reasons. For instance he would, suddenly as it were, think of some book he wanted to show me or some poem to read to me. Anything to prolong the conversation, keep me with him. But that night was different. He didn’t try to stop me. It was almost as if he was eager for me to be gone, hurrying me out. And so, now, I think he was expecting these men to arrive and wa
nted to be rid of me before they did so. I don’t know if this is of any significance, but I thought I should tell you, even if it’s only, as I say, my impression, and one I wasn’t obviously aware of at the time.’
An appointment, Lannes thought, it made sense. The man who smoked English cigarettes had perhaps promised to come with information about Pilar. That way he could be sure of finding Gaston at home. Yes, it made sense, but it didn’t lead anywhere.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said, and added ‘it may indeed be useful’, principally to put Maurice at ease.
He stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Is your father still in Bordeaux?’
‘No, he’s returned to Paris. He says he wants to be there when the Germans arrive. That’s his idea of a joke, I think.’
‘And have you eaten?’
‘No, it’s not important.’
‘Then you must stay and have supper with us.’
‘Will that not incommode Madame Lannes?’
‘Not at all, since you’re a friend of Dominique. And it’s a casserole of some sort, so one more will make no difference.’
It was a sort of pity for the boy that had prompted his invitation. How did he pass the time in that dreary house in the rue d’Aviau?
Maurice had good manners. He spoke to Marguerite of Dominique with warmth and admiration. He paid attention to Clothilde, even though he blushed whenever he addressed her or she offered a reply. Over coffee Alain asked him if he had read a novel published the previous year – ‘La Nausée’. He answered enthusiastically. It was wonderful. They fell to discussing it. Clothilde joined in, speaking animatedly and with authority, though Lannes remembered that she had cast the book side saying it was boring and therefore stupid. Now she was full of admiration for it. This amused Lannes. He recalled picking up the book himself and quickly deciding it wasn’t his sort of thing. As for Marguerite, she smiled and busied herself darning Alain’s socks. She felt no need to engage in the conversation. It was enough for her to see the young people happy. ‘As if there was no war, this evening at least,’ Lannes thought. The black cat, originally a stray which Alain had found half-starved under a bridge, came and jumped up on the boy’s knee. He stroked it, running his hand the length of tis body which was now plump and well-fed, the coat glossy. It was a handsome cat with a very short neck. That was how Clothilde addressed it: ‘No Neck’. But Alain called it Sylvestre, and at nights it slept on his pillow, sometimes across his chest. Lannes opened the window and leaned out. The evening smelled of rain. A tram-bell sounded from the Cours Victor-Hugo. He smoked contentedly and listened or half-listened to the young people. It didn’t matter what they said. There was comfort in the soft music of their talk. Then the telephone rang.
