by Allan Massie
A year younger than Clothilde – it didn’t bear thinking on.
‘So . . . ’ the old woman was deep in her story now, this story she had guarded for so long. ‘So it couldn’t be thought of that the poor girl should rear the baby herself. It was sent to a wet-nurse in Les Landes. But later nothing would serve but that the count should bring him back here, and hand him over to my care. And an engaging scamp he was, full of merriment and laughter and tricks. The count doted on him and would come down to my kitchen ad sit playing with him for hours. Aye and reading books to him later, though they weren’t what I who have no book-learning thought suitable for a bairn. But then Thérèse fell into hysterical fits at the thought of her shame here in the house and maybe the count was afraid of exposure – though, if so, it’s the only fear I ever knew him act upon. Be that as it may, the lad was sent away to be cared for by a tenant’s wife in the mountains. He was fifteen when he learned the secret of his birth, who his father was and his mother too.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Monsieur Edmond of course. Who else would dare to? I boxed his ears for him, but he only laughed and called it an interesting experiment. That’s his way.’
The old woman folded her hands on her lap. It seemed to Lannes that, though she knew the enormity of the story she had told, she had lived with it so long that she no longer felt its horror. But of course that’s how it is. You can get used to anything. A pathologist goes serenely about a task that makes the novice onlooker retch and spew.
‘What happened to Marcel then, or Sigi as you call him?’
‘He ran away, disappeared, vanished for years, as if he had never been, to Algeria, as we later earned, then to Lyon and eventually to Paris where he ended up in prison. It was Monsieur Edmond got him out, how I don’t know, perhaps he had completed his sentence, it doesn’t matter. Then two years ago he turned up on the doorstep. I knew him at once and he had the impudence to embrace me before insisting he must see his father. He’s had money from him ever since – what do you police call that? Blackmail, is it? But it wasn’t the money that interested him, it was the knowledge that he had power over the count. And then he killed him. He always meant to. It was what he said to me before he ran away. “One day I’ll have my revenge, don’t you doubt that.” That’s what he said. I should never have let him into the house.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘How should I know? Monsieur Edmond takes care of him, you can be sure of that.’
XXII
June 4–19, 1940
‘If the English are running away,’ Alain said.
‘Sailing away, you mean, ass,’ said his sister.
Alain waved the interruption aside.
‘No, but I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Can we continue to fight the war? Without Allies? Can we, papa?’
They were at table, the wireless turned off as soon as Marguerite came through from the kitchen with a dish of pipérade and Bayonne ham. It had become an unwritten rule of the house: that she should not be subjected to news bulletins. But the subject was inescapable; how to find anything else to talk about?
Lannes said, ‘We’ve no means of knowing. It seems that we’re still holding the line between the Somme and the Aisne. But really we know nothing certainly.’
He felt inadequate. A father should, even in the worst of times, find a means of encouraging his children.
The day after his conversation with Marthe he had called on Miriam in the tabac. But it was closed. A notice on the door gave the explanation: on account of a bereavement, the death of the respected proprietor, M Saul Boniche.
Impossible to intrude with his questions on a house of mourning.
Instead he went to the Banque des Pyrenées, cours de l’Inten-dance, where the boy Léon was employed. Reluctant to make his presence known in the bank, he waited at a café from which he could watch its door and intercept the boy when he left. Was it, he wondered, at this same café that poor Gaston had lurked eager to make his pick-up? Léon at last emerged. Lannes followed him as if casually, waited till he had turned into the little rue de la Vieille Tour before calling out his name.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘It’s merely that I would like you to give your aunt Miriam a message. I’m sorry to learn of your grandfather’s death.’
‘Is that the message. You don’t need me for that surely? Besides it may be for the best.’
‘No death is for the best,’ Lannes said, ‘though it may often seem so. But, apart from asking you to offer her my sympathy and condolences, I need to ask her some questions, and this isn’t a suitable time. So will you please ask her to get in touch with me as soon as she feels able to do so. That’s all. It won’t embarrass you to be the bearer of a message from me, will it?’
Léon smiled: ‘If it does, then I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I?’
That was two days ago, and she hadn’t yet responded.
In the evening Alain and Clothilde went out to meet Maurice and go to the cinema. The previous year Marguerite would have said, ‘It’s such a lovely evening, how can you go and waste it sitting in the dark?’ Now she summoned up a smile, told them to enjoy themselves, but not to be late home.
Lannes stretched out on the sofa and tried to read. Impossible: he couldn’t concentrate. The words flickered before his eyes.
He said, ‘Come, let’s go for a walk and perhaps eat an ice somewhere.’
Anything that would serve as distraction.
But, as they strolled hand-in-hand along the quay in the gold and blue of the soft evening, the war never left them, and when they turned down the rue du Chapeau Rouge to a café in the Place de la Comédie, it hovered like a vulture over them; and sitting at a table with strawberry ices, coffee and a glass of marc for Lannes, they found no words to speak. Others round them chattered like birds in springtime and Lannes didn’t know whether to admire their insouciance or condemn their indifference to the reality that oppressed him. But then the war was still several hundred miles to the north, and perhaps they had none of them a son, like Dominique, at the Front.
Maurice returned to the apartment with the twins. They talked about the film and then Alain said: ‘It’s disgusting. When we went for a lemonade afterwards, I heard someone in the café say, “Have you noticed? The town’s filling up with Jews,” and his companion replied, “Well, they’re always the first to run, they’re not really French, you know.” I almost hit them both.’
‘I’m very glad you didn’t,’ Lannes said.
Clothilde took her mother aside, and whispered something to her, and then they both left the room. Maurice looked embarrassed. In a little Clothilde came back and said, ‘That’s all right then, Maman’s perfectly happy about it, she’s making up another bed in Alain’s room. Maurice is going to stay with us a few days, Papa.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s intolerable now at home.’
Schnyder called Lannes into his office, first thing in the morning. The Alsatian was buoyant, smart in a double-breasted grey suit, blue shirt and tie decorated with white horses. His hair shone with brilliantine, and he looked like a man on top of the world. Lannes felt himself shabby in comparison. His hip was hurting and he had slept badly.
‘Strange times,’ Schnyder said. ‘I’ve come from the Hôtel de Saige. The Prefect says, quite simply, run-of-the-mill crime doesn’t really matter at the moment. Things are falling apart, no use our occupying ourselves with little matters like murder, burglary and so on. He’s convinced the war’s already lost, now the English have deserted us. The Government’s about to abandon Paris. It’ll transfer itself here, as it did in 1870 and 1914. The city will be flooded with refugees. Maintaining order’s going to be the issue of the day. What do you think?’
‘Not our job,’ Lannes said. ‘Our business is detection.’
‘I’m so glad you agree. That’s what I told him myself. So, any progress on the crimes we’ve been forbidden to investigate?’
‘Yes,’ Lannes said, ‘our man’s got a record.’
He gave Schnyder an edited version of Marthe’s story.
‘Trouble is, we’ve no idea what name he was convicted under, not his own, I’m sure of that. He’ll have had false papers most likely. And we don’t actually know what he’s calling himself now, nor where he is. I took it on myself to wire Paris, asking them to run a check. But there’s been no reply.’
‘You won’t get one. Not with things as they are.’
‘You’re probably right. Edmond de Grimaud’s the key.’
‘Well, if things turn out as they look like doing, I’ve no doubt he’ll be here before long. What about his brother? Should we haul him in for further questioning? Even if we’ve been forbidden to?’
‘He’s very near collapse, total disintegration. Putting him in a cell might tip him right over the edge.’
Alain skipped school to wander the city with Maurice. The sun shone, enlivening even the narrow streets of the Old Town. Then the light was swallowed up in the grime which covered the soft yellow stone of the buildings. For a long time they strolled without aim, talking little, yet contented with each other’s company. Then Alain had an idea. They caught a bus for the beach on the lake. They swam, and stretched out in the sun.
‘You’re well-muscled,’ Maurice said.
‘It’s rugby. I’m smaller and lighter than most who play, so I have to be stronger for my size.’
Maurice put his shirt on, went to the café and came back with two orangeades.
‘The war’s lost, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘What will we do?’
‘Go on, I suppose. What else can we do?’
He sipped the orangeade, lit a cigarette and passed the packet to his friend.
‘Why did you really leave home and come to us? Not that I’m not delighted that you did. So’s Clothilde by the way.’
Maurice drew on his cigarette, blew out smoke, failing to make the ring he attempted.
‘It was old Marthe,’ he said.
‘Who’s she?’
‘I suppose you might call her the housekeeper, but I rather think she used to be my grandfather’s mistress too. A long time ago, she’s ancient. Anyway she said, “You must get out, this is no place for you now”.’
‘And so you did, obeyed her just like that?’
‘Oh yes, I always have, you see. I can’t explain it, but she’s formidable. Besides it was what I wanted myself, though I didn’t know it was till she told me. Does that sound feeble? Or crazy?’
‘Not to me, might to others. In any case, the whole world’s crazy now.’
Maurice turned over and lay on his back looking up at the deep blue of the sky. Two storks flew overhead, towards the hills in the direction of Spain.
He said, ‘Maybe I shall go to England. That would make sense. Why not come with me, Alain? If the war’s lost, why don’t we get out? What do you think?’
A boat crossed the lake, coming within twenty metres of them. A dark-haired man with a thin moustache pulled at the oars and a pretty girl sat in the bow eating cherries from a brown paper bag.
I’ve seen him before, Maurice thought. But where?
‘I couldn’t do that,’ Alain said. ‘Not with the uncertainty about Dominique. It would distress Maman, even though it’s Dominique that’s her favourite. Besides, what would I do in England? They’d probably put me on the next boat back to France. What would you do?’
‘My mother’s there, remember? I’m sure she’d make you welcome. And what will there be for us here if the Nazis occupy the country. Have you thought of that?’
‘Yes, of course I have. It would be an experience, I suppose. In any case I can’t run away.’
There was a message for Lannes from Miriam. Could he come, please, to see her, earliest convenience?
Good. It would get him out of the office where he felt stifled. As he was about to leave. Joseph brought him a note from Rougerie, marked urgent. Lannes passed it back.
‘You haven’t found me, Joseph. Let me have it when I return.’
Miriam was dressed in black and wore no make-up. She looked ten years older. Lannes, awkwardly, repeated the condolences he had sent by way of Léon. The words were meaningless, yet had to be spoken.
She said, ‘He wasn’t unhappy to go. In his last moments of lucidity he urged me to leave France.’
‘And will you?’
‘Why should I? I’m French. I have no other nationality.’
‘That’s not what “they” think – and by “they” I don’t mean only the Boches.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I know you don’t. But I’m damned if I’ll be driven out of my own country. However it wasn’t to speak of these matters that you wanted to see me.’
‘I’ve been talking to old Marthe. Listening to her, rather, for I had no need to ask questions. She told me a strange story.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. You like it strong, don’t you?’
The silk of her dress rustled as she edged past him sitting in the chair that, he feared all of a sudden, might have been her father’s favourite. But surely not? She had directed him to it. He watched the swing of her hips as she left the room, and thought, if I wasn’t a married man and faithful husband . . . He had cheated on Marguerite only once, and the memory of that betrayal, a dozen years ago, still tasted sour. But sweet too, of course, that was the truly painful thing.
Miriam returned with the coffee and a plate of little almond biscuits.
‘I made them myself, to a recipe of my grandmother who’s been dead for more than twenty years. So, tell: what had old Marthe to say?’
Lannes recounted her story.
‘What do you think?’
‘That my husband was murdered? It’s not something you are likely to be able to prove, is it?’
‘You said before that you had no knowledge of this man we were calling Marcel. But what of Sigi? You must have heard him spoken of ?’
‘Never, I assure you. To think of poor Thérèse . . . It’s too wretched. But, yes, I believe it all. He was perverse, you know, or do I mean perverted? I’m ashamed to say that was part of his attraction for me. In the beginning. Later there was – and this may surprise you – a sort of companionship. And finally only pity. He was a man who took what he desired and was never satisfied. But, no, I never had a hint of this awful story or heard mention of any Sigi. What ignorance I lived in! Do you know, in a strange way, I have the feeling that my real life is only now beginning.’
Lannes envied her that feeling, delusory as it might be. For him the daily problem was how to go on, how to find a reason for doing so.
He said, ‘It’s clear that Edmond and this Sigi are close. In some way. If you hear anything, or remember anything, or anything occurs to you, please get in touch. Meanwhile, take care of yourself. There are bad times ahead, but you know that. And tell your nephew Léon, who seems a nice boy, but silly if also intelligent, to watch how he goes. I think you understand what I mean.’
The judge was agitated, scattering snuff all over his waistcoat. There were little pink spots on his cheeks and when he spoke, his words tumbled over each other.
‘I’ve had a high regard for you, superintendent,’ he said. ‘I thought you prudent, trustworthy, reliable. But I’ve received complaints, complaints which I can’t ignore and indeed don’t choose to, about your conduct. Which has been intolerable, intolerable and insubordinate. The new comte de Grimaud whom, it seems you’ve been harassing, in defiance of my instructions, has, it appears, tried to kill himself and is even now in hospital. His sister, Madame Thibault de Polmont, a lady of considerable standing, as you must be aware, holds you responsible. It was all I could do to dissuade her from lodging a formal complaint such as must lead to your suspension. What have you got to say for yourself?’
Lannes had had enough. He was tired of it all, tired of the obfuscation, tired of cover-
ups, tired of this assumption that there were people of “good birth” whose position in society meant that they had to be handled tenderly, meant that they were to be excused from being subjected to the ordinary routine of investigation. Something snapped.
He said, ‘If Jean-Christophe de Grimaud has indeed tried to kill himself, it’s not on account of me, it’s because he is guilty and afraid, and his nerve and judgement are destroyed by brandy. As for Madame Thibault de Polmont, if she was not who she is, and protected by those in high places, I would have had her in my office subjected to interrogation and in all probability charged with withholding information relevant to the investigation of a crime. More than one crime indeed. One man has been murdered, mutilated repulsively after death, another has been tortured so brutally that he suffered a heart-attack and died, and I myself, a police officer, have been the victim of attempted assassination. The same man is responsible for all these crimes, and he has a close connection with the Grimaud family and that house in the rue d’Aviau. And you require me to desist? To neglect my duty as an officer of the police judiciaire, which duty, I take it on myself to remind you, is to investigate serious crime and lay evidence before you in your capacity as examining magistrate? Now either you apply for my suspension, which is a matter for my superiors in the PJ and ultimately for the Prefect, or you leave me to get on with my job.’
He got up and left the room before Rougerie could reply. He closed the door firmly behind him, and felt better.
XXIV
June 11–17, 1940
Lannes’ satisfaction at having spoken his mind was short-lived; his loss of control emphasised his impotence. Waking before dawn, in dark silence, his persistence seemed futile. What did it matter who had killed Gaston and tortured the Catalan, even who had fired at him? As for the old count’s death, absurd. They were tiny incidents unremarkable in the chaos of a war that was being lost, a catalogue of the fallen that might at any moment include his own son. ‘We’ve entered a world in which private life is overwhelmed by public disaster, is indeed all but abolished.’ The words – his own or someone else’s – rang in his head, participants in an endurance dance.
