by Allan Massie
Lannes was in the Café des Arts, cours Victor Hugo; waiting. He ordered a coffee improved with a dash of marc and lit a Gauloise. He had no doubt that Sigi/Marcel would accept his invitation. He had never known a serious criminal who wasn’t conceited, believing himself smarter than the police as well as ordinary people, his victims. Domestic murderers were different, often weaklings provoked beyond endurance, but professional killers assumed the freedom of the gods. Moreover Sigi knew himself to be protected – one of Schnyder’s class of ‘Untouchables’. The invitation was a challenge his vanity couldn’t permit him to refuse, an opportunity also to flaunt his power.
What did Lannes himself hope to get from the encounter? A difficult question. Perhaps no more than a sighting of his white whale?
Who was now before him, in a high-collared, double-breasted, belted trench-coat, dripping with the rain that had started since Lannes settled himself in the café. He’d been waiting longer than he thought; there were half-a-dozen stubs in the ash-tray. Sigi removed his grey trilby hat and held out a hand which Lannes declined. He smiled as if mocking or gently rebuking this refusal, gave hat and coat to the waiter, and settled himself opposite Lannes. He wore a dove-grey suit, also double-breasted and with padded shoulders, a cream-coloured silk shirt and a black, neatly knotted tie with a gold pin. His sandy hair was cut short. He was clean-shaven and square-jawed. It was, at first glance, a hard face – self-consciously hard? – but the dark-brown eyes gave it an unexpected suggestion of delicacy, even sensitivity.
‘The black tie – for your father or foster-brother?’ Lannes said.
Sigi smiled again.
‘Poor Jules,’ he said. ‘Who would have thought he would go like that? Such a careful man, always correct, with a gorgon of a wife who bullied him and kept him on the straight and narrow. But when you say “my father”, you mean, surely, grandfather. Edmond tells me you’ve been listening to old Marthe. You really shouldn’t, you know. She’s half-crazed, poor darling. Still, you’re right. I have too many reasons to be in mourning. But so do we all these sad days! Poor France, full of widows, orphans, bereaved parents and desolate lovers!’
‘This isn’t an official interview.’
‘Naturally not, or we would be in your office. What shall we drink? Waiter, a whisky-soda for me and whatever my friend is having.’
He took a silver cigarette-case from his inside breast-pocket and offered it to Lannes.
‘English cigarettes,’ he said, ‘best Virginian. You see, I’m not afraid to display my tastes, though who knows how much longer these will be available. “Goldflake”, they are called. In my opinion the best cigarettes in the world. Ah, you prefer to be a patriot and stick to your Gauloises. Very well. For my part I am a citizen of the world. I’m happy to proclaim myself that. Perhaps the English will soon realize that it is stupid to pursue this war. What do you think? I am told Churchill is a drunkard, which may explain his foolish obstinacy. But surely the City of London knows that we all have a common enemy, which is Communism, the Bolsheviks, and that Germany and the Fuehrer are the true defenders of Europe, which is to say of civilization. Believe me, my friend, I fought in Spain and I know what atrocities the Communists are capable of. If you had seen what I saw . . . with my own eyes, I tell you. It doesn’t disturb you that I address you as “my friend”.’
‘Address me as you please,’ Lannes said. ‘It means nothing.’
‘In any case I’m delighted to meet you, superintendent.’
He raised his glass and held it out towards Lannes as if about to propose a toast or drink his health.
‘Edmond de Grimaud who, I’m happy to say, does not disdain to acknowledge me as his nephew, despite my illegitimacy – see, I conceal nothing – has spoken admiringly of you. Which, given his present position in the Ministry, can do you no harm, superintendent. I find that interesting.’
‘You fought in Spain? I didn’t know that.’
‘Why should you have? But, yes, I did, till I was wounded. In a noble cause, if I may say so. And fought not ingloriously, my friend.’
‘Your foster-brother, Jules Cortin, was murdered.’
‘Poor Jules! He wasn’t much of a man, even as a boy. He was afraid of his father, who adored me, which he resented. I pitied him, you know. He had ambitions he was incapable of realizing. Is it of Jules that you want to speak? Believe me, my friend, I know nothing of the circumstances of his death. Surely it was a robbery gone wrong or something of that sort. I can’t imagine anyone having a good reason to kill poor Jules. He was always insignificant.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh, months ago. I had no cause to seek his company and his gorgon of a wife had the ill taste to dislike me. Which gave me some amusement, I admit.’
He gestured to the waiter to bring him another whisky-and-soda.
‘For you, my friend?’
Lannes shook his head.
‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘You know, don’t you, that I was shot on the day of the old count’s funeral, shot from your foster-brother’s car.’
‘My dear superintendent, you can’t suspect poor Jules of trying to kill you. That would be too ridiculous. Besides, even if he had – and the fact that you weren’t killed, only, happily, wounded – might, I admit, suggest that your assailant was an incompetent – like that poor Jules – I am quite certain that the Gorgon would have supplied him with an alibi. She did? Then there you are.’
‘There were cigarette-butts in the car. Virginian tobacco.’
‘And for this reason you suspect me? You must do better than that, superintendent. If I tell you that poor Jules was always cadging cigarettes from me, whenever we met, which was seldom, what would you say? Come, let’s be frank. You’re fishing, superintendent. I know – and you know that I know – that you have been warned off, forbidden to interrogate me, which is why we are having this charming conversation here in this café and not in your office. Now I’m not going to report you for exceeding your powers or disobeying your superiors, because, well, that’s not my way, and I admire a man with a talent for insubordination, but don’t push me, my friend. It’s in your interest not to.’
‘There have been too many deaths,’ Lannes said. ‘Do you want me to list them?’
‘As you please.’
‘I have a witness saw you enter the apartment block where Gaston Chambolley was murdered, you and your companion who is, I think, Spanish.’
‘And will this witness testify? No, of course he won’t. So his evidence is worthless. Besides, entering an apartment block is no more evidence of murder than calling on the Jewish woman who is my grandfather’s widow is evidence of adultery. I really think we are, as the Americans say, quits there.’
‘Five deaths,’ Lannes said.
‘So many? You must take me for a monster, a veritable Landru. Don’t you find your position peculiar, my friend? With the world as it is, I mean. To be so concerned with a handful of individual deaths. Five, you say. I admit to nothing, but I won’t insult you by pretending not to know which deaths you are referring to. My grandfather, a wicked old man who fell down the stairs. What of that? Gaston Chambolley, a pervert and degenerate, hovering on the verge of public disgrace. That Spaniard, whose name I forget. A Communist or perhaps an Anarchist. And my poor foster-brother who lived in terror of stepping out of line. Do any of them matter? In a few months, believe me, when spring comes, Germany will be at war with the Soviet Union and France will engage itself in alliance with Germany in this battle for Europe. Deaths will be numbered in hundreds of thousands, even millions, and you concern yourself with the removal of a handful of men of no significance whatsoever. It’s grotesque. As I say, I admit nothing, but do you suppose that if I was guilty as you imagine, I should lose a night’s sleep over these deaths? Five, you say. I’ve counted four. Who is your fifth man?’
‘No man. A woman. Pilar was her name.’
‘It means nothing to me. Spanish, I suppose. Another Red? Or
do you think me guilty of a crime of passion? I assure you that is something I have never experienced.’
‘That I can believe,’ Lannes said.
Sigi smiled, held his glass of whisky up against the night, and said, ‘Edmond admires you. That interests me. Perhaps we are more alike than you think, my friend. In inviting me to this meeting you show your contempt for your superiors who have undoubtedly forbidden you to question me. I like that. It shows you are a man. Not like poor Jules. When his father beat him, he whined and howled and hid his face. When the old man took the birch to me, I refused to submit. He never mastered me and he came to respect me for my defiance. It made me strong. I learned as a poor outcast child, the shame of my mother, that only one thing counts in this world, and that is Will, the strength of your Will. Do you read Nietzsche, superintendent? ‘Der Mensch ist etwas, das uberwunden werden soll.’ You don’t speak German? Very well, I translate: ‘Man is something that has to be overcome’. Good, yes? There are two moralities: ‘Herren-Moral und Sklaven-Moral’ – the morality of the Masters and the morality of the Slaves. I chose mine when I was twelve, before I had read a line of Nietzsche. I think perhaps it is your philosophy too, even if you won’t confess to it, for I feel you are no slave, which is why Edmond admires you. I tell you, my friend, there are glittering prizes for those bold enough to accept the world as it is, which is a jungle, a place where there is one Law – the survival of the fittest – and one form of Justice – the justice which is to be found in the strength of the Individual. Believe me, everything else is false, lies concocted by priests and so-called democrats to force humility on us. But humility is only a few letters away from humiliation, and that I refuse. You begin to understand me? Good. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Finally, you will not be offended if I give you a word of advice. There are opportunities for a man like you who does not fear those set in authority over him, rich opportunities in the New Order of Europe which is unfolding. I shall pay for our drinks. No, I insist.’
VII
Lannes walked home through the dark streets, deserted on account of the curfew the Germans had imposed. The street lights were turned off, for fear of English air raids, though there had been none in Bordeaux for weeks now. A brisk wind sent clouds careering over the half-moon and rattled the shutters of the houses. They were all closed and gave no hint of the life being dragged out behind them. Why did that word come to mind? Dragged-out? Families were doubtless sitting round the table at their evening meal or talking together or playing cards, listening to the wireless, reading books in companionable silence. Yet it felt to him like a dead city, or at least one in which all life was suspended.
Sigi’s final words had disturbed him: the assumption that they had much in common, the offer which he had held out. For hadn’t he in fact said, ‘Join the winning side, superintendent, admit that you belong to the tribe of those of us to whom all is permitted? There is only one Law and that is the Law of the Jungle.’ If Lannes had a philosophy, it was Scepticism, distrust of certainties and big words. How to maintain that in this New World of boastful rhetoric? In this New Order where the Will was supreme? It was his task to defend decency, to protect the Village against the Jungle.
Was this still possible when the Elders of the Village – Rougerie, Schnyder and their superiors too – had withdrawn their support and given at least tacit acquiescence to the New Order. ‘Keep your head down till the gale has blown itself out.’ That, in essence, was Schnyder’s advice, instruction even. But the gale was blowing stronger than ever. A sentence from a book read in childhood ran in his mind: ‘The Jungle and the Village Gate are closed to me.’ To me? Against me? Same thing, really.
He had killed Germans in his war, or supposed he had; you could never be sure. But, apart from that, he had killed only once, an armed robber who had fired at him, missing, and whom he had shot in self-defence. That was ten years ago at least, and yet the look on his victim’s face – astonished, even indignant – was something he had never forgotten. It was the only time he had fired a gun in his twenty years of police work, and now this Sigi, for whom murder was a matter of perfect indifference, presumed to call him ‘friend’ and to treat him as a brother.
‘You look terrible,’ Marguerite said. ‘Bad day?’
‘Very bad.’
‘Tell.’
‘It’s not worth it.’
Not worth it? Impossible, even if Sigi hadn’t stirred his sense of guilt by speaking of his visits to Miriam, words which hinted – did more than hint – at blackmail. Call your dogs off, or I’ll set mine on you!
It was a relief to sit at table with Marguerite and the twins, to ask them about their day at school, though he scarcely listened to their replies. Marguerite apologised for the meal – a tortilla made with too few eggs and too many leftovers. ‘There was no meat in the market today,’ she said. Food shortages were becoming acute.
‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry,’ he said. It was more important that the children got enough.
‘We had a discussion in the Phil class today,’ Alain said. ‘Is it permissible to tell a lie? If so, when and in what circumstances? I said, that you have to sometimes, either so as not to hurt someone or simply because it’s good manners, as when I pretend to agree with Uncle Albert. Not that I mentioned his name, you understand. What do you think, Papa?’
Before he could answer, Clothilde said, ‘That’s hypocrisy.’
‘Well, hypocrisy’s another name for good manners,’ Alain said.
‘Since when were you so keen on them? You know you only pretend to agree with Uncle Albert because Papa will give you a row if you openly contradict him. I don’t call that good manners. I call it cowardice.’
‘No, it’s not, and anyway Papa wouldn’t give me a row, or not a real one, because chances are he would agree with me. He doesn’t like what Uncle Albert says, or respect his opinions, any more than I do.’
‘You mustn’t speak of your Uncle Albert like that,’ Marguerite said. ‘He’s older than you and you should treat him with respect. His opinions may not be yours, but you should remember that he has far more experience and knowledge of the world than you do.’
‘Sorry, maman, but all I’m saying is that you often have to lie, for the best of reasons. Suppose, Clothilde, that you have a friend who engages in an act of Resistance – for example, sticking up posters denouncing the Occupation or listening to the BBC – and you were questioned about him, you would lie then, wouldn’t you, say you knew nothing at all about it.’
‘I hope you won’t do anything so stupid, Alain,’ Marguerite said. ‘The Occupation is something we have to live with. I’m sure nobody likes it, but there’s nothing we can do about it.’
Later, in bed, she said, ‘I’m worried about Alain, the way he talks so wildly. I know he’s clever, but I’m afraid that simply because he is clever and sure of his own mind and high-spirited, he will do something foolish. Before you came home this evening, he was saying these anti-Jewish laws are wicked. Well, I see that they are, even though I’ve never cared for Jews myself, and I don’t see why the country has to be flooded with foreign ones, but it’s no good speaking about such matters, is it? And if he talks so rashly at home, then I’m afraid he will do so at school as well, and then someone may denounce him. There are sure to be others there who approve of the measures. Of course, I don’t know anything about these things, as you know I’ve never taken an interest in politics, but I’m afraid. Speak to him about it, will you? He respects your opinion.’
‘All right,’ Lannes said, and took her in his arms and kissed her. Her face was wet with tears. Then she fell asleep, her head against his shoulder. He thought of Miriam and wondered if she was lying awake, afraid for herself and Léon and her sister. Sigi’s words came back to him: Herren-Moral und Sklaven-Moral. Was there any morality between the two, as he had always believed? Or were they all now condemned to make the choice between being Masters and Slaves?
In the morning he rose, as us
ual, while it was still dark. The melancholy sound of fog-horns came from the river and when the day dawned mist clung to the chimney-pots. He drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and read the previous day’s newspaper. There were letters approving the Vichy decree of 4 October which authorised the internment of foreign-born Jews in ‘special camps’. One writer declared it was a fitting punishment for their role in dragging France into an unnecessary war. ‘This demonstration of our solidarity with the German Reich is necessary if Collaboration is to be a reality and the hardships of the Occupation are to be alleviated’. He recognized the writer’s name, Labiche, a member of the Bordeaux Bar who two years ago had successfully defended a man arrested by Lannes and charged with the attempted murder of his wife’s Jewish lover.
‘All alone, Papa?’
He looked up to see Clothilde, barefoot and still in her nightgown.
‘Your mother’s still asleep. We won’t wake her. She needs her sleep. Put something on your feet, child, or you’ll catch cold.’
‘That’s all right. Don’t fuss. I’m not a baby.’
She compromised however by settling herself on a chair and tucking her legs up.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ she said. ‘It’s about the Germans. I know they’re our enemies of course, but are they all?’
‘Probably not, personally and as individuals. Nevertheless . . . Why do you ask?’
‘You know the Romiers upstairs have had a German officer billeted on them? Marie says he’s ever so nice. Well, I met him yesterday as I was coming home, and . . . yes, indeed he was nice, very friendly. He’s young, not much older than Dominique. We chatted for maybe ten minutes, not more, but I could tell he wanted to be friends. I think he’s lonely. He said it was difficult being away from home. His home’s in Wurttemberg, he said, I didn’t catch the name of the town, but he’d been at university there when he was called up. It’s the first time he’s been away from home, really away, from home, he said. I liked him, Papa. Is that wrong?’
