Death in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘No, it’s natural to like people. Being German doesn’t mean he’s not a human being. He may well be nice, as you say, but . . . ’

  ‘But what, Papa? That’s what I wonder. What should I do?’

  What indeed?

  ‘Be polite yourself, and friendly, but, darling, no more than that. No more than that, please.’

  ‘But it’s not wrong?’

  ‘No, it’s not wrong, but some people might think it is.’

  Others, he thought, would approve, and more than approve, applaud, as an exercise in Collaboration, but this was not somewhere he wanted to go with his daughter.

  VIII

  There was a newspaper on his desk, folded back to draw his attention to a photograph. Crosses had been penciled at each corner of the picture, just to make sure he didn’t miss it. It showed Schnyder and is actress friend at the races. He remembered how Moncerre had laughed about it. So presumably he had laid it out for Lannes to see. The ‘bull-terrier’ was right: Schnyder did indeed look like a cat that had got at the cream. Well, good luck to him, Lannes thought; we all need diversion or consolation these days, and in any case Schnyder and his wife were separated. Not that it would have been any of his business if they were still together. He was about to toss it aside when his attention was caught by the man visible behind the actress: a tall man – a head higher than her – with a thin pencil moustache and black, or at least dark, hair which even in the photograph seemed to shine with the lotion that kept it so neatly in place. He wore a ribbon on his lapel. The nose was high and arched and the eyes sunken.

  Lannes knew he had never seen him, and yet . . . it would be a ridiculous coincidence . . . but it fitted the picture of Sigi’s Spanish companion which he had formed from the descriptions given by Alain and Maurice. He could show it to Alain, but, no, keep the boy out of it, he thought, remembering what Marguerite had said last night. Or Schnyder? Ask him if he happened to have been introduced to the man who, he now saw, had laid a hand in familiar fashion on the actress’s shoulder. Again, no: Schnyder had warned him off too many times. Admittedly he had done so in a friendly manner, but his patience probably wasn’t inexhaustible. Lannes hesitated. He might have sent young René to question the Spaniards again, but they had been rounded up and were interned in a camp somewhere. And yet he had to know.

  He had a friend who worked on the Sud-Ouest. He picked up the telephone to call him and ask him to make inquiries, then replaced the receiver before asking for an outside line. It was absurd, but he couldn’t be certain that a tap hadn’t been put on his phone. Ridiculous, but . . . Better to call him from a bar. He stuffed the newspaper into the inside pocket of his thorn-proof English coat and went out.

  Jacques Maso was with him in less than twenty minutes, a short balding man with weary eyes. They shook hands, asked after each other’s families, agreed it had been too long. Then Jacques said, ‘You’ve got something for me? That pen-pusher in the morgue?’

  ‘Afraid not, old man. That’s well and truly under wraps.’

  ‘Like everything nowadays. Pity. I could do with a good story.’

  ‘The times we’re in, the best stories can’t be told.’

  He hesitated. Jacques was an old friend. He’d always found him reliable, trustworthy. So why not?

  ‘Some of them can’t even be investigated.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Same with me. I know more than I can write. Any word of your boy?’

  ‘We’ve heard he’s a prisoner.’

  ‘Could be worse. I was glad mine were too young to be called up. Now I don’t know. There’s talk – only talk as yet – of youngsters being sent to Germany as labourers and factory-workers. So, if there’s no story, what is it, Jean?’

  Lannes placed the paper on the table between them and put his finger on the corner of the photograph.

  ‘Your boss, isn’t it? And the fair Adrienne. That’s going it.’

  ‘No, not them, Jacques. That’s no business of mine. It’s this chap behind her who interests me. Do you know who is he by any chance? Or, if you don’t, can you find out? Tactfully.’

  ‘Like that, is it? Tact’s certainly in demand these days. I’ll do what I can. Chances are the photographer didn’t know or bother to get his name. It’s the fair Adrienne he’ll have been interested in. and her new escort, of course. Quick worker, your boss, isn’t he? Helps to be an Alsatian with a German name these days, don’t it?’

  Back at the office Lannes found a message from Rougerie. The little judge would like to see him, ‘as soon as convenient’.

  He opened the door that led into the inspectors’ room and called to Moncerre and young René.

  ‘What’s up, boss?’

  ‘Rougerie wants to see me, but it’s not that. Thanks for the photograph, Moncerre – I take it, it was you laid it out for me. Did you happen to look at the man behind Adrienne? No? I think it may be our Spaniard, Marcel’s chum.’

  ‘Have you asked Schnyder?’ René said.

  ‘And be told to keep his nose out if it,’ Moncerre said. ‘Be your age, kid.’

  ‘No. I’ve asked Jacques Maso – you know him, don’t you – to see if he can get a name.’

  ‘Me and Jacques go back a long way,’ Moncerre said. ‘In fact we were in the same class at school. He’s all right, Jacques.’

  ‘Fine. Now I want you, Moncerre, to go and have another word with Madame Cortin. Press her about the meeting her husband went to. I’m sure she knows more than she let on. If she’s difficult, then go over the story about the stolen car again. Don’t hesitate to come down hard. I doubt if she’s the grief-stricken widow. Ask her if she ever met the foster-brother’s Spanish friend. Show her the photograph. Oh, and remember she knows Marcel as Sigi. As for you, young René, I want you to interview that young mother who lives on the ground-floor of the Catalan’s apartment. I know you’ve spoken to her several times, but I’d like you to try again. She may just have remembered something else. We’ll meet for lunch chez Fernand.’

  ‘So the case isn’t dead,’ Moncerre said.

  ‘Officially it’s dead as mutton, but to my mind it’s still breathing. One other thing. Because it’s dead, nothing concerning it is to be discussed on the telephone. You understand?’

  Moncerre laid his forefinger along the side of his nose.

  ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘Like that. I should warn you to go carefully.’

  ‘No need, chief. I know. If we’re not careful, we’re all deep in shit. So what? It’s all shit nowadays.’

  The little judge was agitated, hands flapping, snuff scattered all over his waistcoat.

  ‘I’ve always stood by you, superintendent,’ he said. ‘You’re what is called a maverick, even a loose cannon, and you’re said to have flair, though I distrust that. Nevertheless I’ve always defended you against your critics, told them that you get results. That is why this is upsetting, so very upsetting.’

  Lannes said nothing, waited.

  ‘I don’t want to think ill of you, you understand. You’re a man I value. But I can’t overlook complaints coming from the Mayor’s office, now can I?’

  ‘They’ve been complaining?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the first thing I have to say. It seems that this dead man – what’s his name? Cerdan?’

  ‘Cortin, sir.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the judge took another pinch of snuff and sneezed. ‘It seems he was well thought of there, and they want his killer found. Naturally. But there’s been no action. They complain that you’re dragging your heels.’

  ‘It’s only forty-eight hours since he was fished out of the river.’

  ‘Well then, and what progress have you made? Why have I, the examining magistrate, been kept in the dark?’

  Best place for you, Lannes thought, but said only, ‘In the dark, sir? The investigation’s at a very early stage, or would be, were it not for the fact that it appears to be connecte
d with other cases I’ve been forbidden to pursue. It seems that it raises political questions, very sensitive ones.’

  ‘Political questions?’

  ‘So I’m told, sir. Perhaps you should speak with Commissaire Schnyder. He knows more about the political aspects than I do.’

  ‘If there are political considerations, that puts a different complexion on it,’ the judge said.

  ‘However – and speaking tentatively – I think I can say that, despite these potentially embarrassing political connections, there is every indication that the unfortunate Monsieur Cortin may have been the victim of a purely criminal act, a street robbery that went wrong. This seems the most likely explanation and is the line we are currently pursuing, cautiously of course in view of the possible relation of this murder with these other delicate cases. Perhaps this will reassure the mayor’s office.’

  Would he swallow that? Ignore the about-turn Lannes had made in a couple of sentences?

  It seemed he would, for he merely nodded and muttered something inaudible.

  ‘Was there anything else, sir.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is and it’s most distasteful. Without precedent in my long experience. I’m embarrassed, superintendent, but it’s my duty to bring it to your attention. I’ve received this. It’s anonymous of course, and dirty, very unpleasant.’

  He handed Lannes a sheet of note-paper such as any café might supply. Words cut from a newspaper were pasted to it, reading: ‘Ask jew-lover Lannes why he is protecting a jewish rent-boy.’

  ‘Can you explain that?’

  ‘It means nothing to me, sir.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘It’s malicious of course. And quite without basis in fact.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I should do with this . . . this piece of ordure?’

  ‘That must be your decision, sir. You must see I can’t advise you – whether to put it in the waste-paper basket or to file it.’

  Alain was right: there are times when lying is not only permissible, but necessary.

  IX

  ‘Partridge with red cabbage,’ Fernand said. ‘Don’t ask me where I got the birds. And a nice St-Emilion? Good?’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ Moncerre said. ‘After a session with that cow I’m in need of a good meal.’

  There were more German officers than French people in the restaurant, but Fernand had kept the table in the back-room for them. Labiche, the advocate who had written the letter to the newspaper which Lannes had read with disgust that morning, was across the room at a table by himself. He was reading what looked like a brief and smoking a cigarette through a long tortoiseshell holder.

  ‘Did you get anything from her?’

  ‘Did I, hell. Nothing concrete, that’s to say, but I’ll swear she knows who her husband had gone to meet. Thing is, her mood was different. She was still disagreeable – she’ll always be that, in my opinion – accused us of incompetence, the bitch. But I got the impression that she’s afraid too, as if someone has put the wind up her. Well, we don’t need to guess who that is likely to have been. What did Rougerie want, chief ?’

  ‘He’s had a complaint from the mayor’s office. They think we’re dragging our heels on the Cortin case. They want it solved.’

  ‘And nobody else does,’ Moncerre said. ‘Fuck them all.’

  ‘René?’

  ‘Nothing either, I’m afraid, chief. She’s a nice woman and I’m sure she would help us if she could. She liked Javier Cortazar and is horrified by what happened to him, but I really think she knows nothing. She’s heard by the way that her husband’s a prisoner of war, just like your Dominique. Worrying about him and caring for the baby – that’s really all that’s on her mind. Do you want me to have another go at the Brunes – the couple upstairs?’

  ‘I doubt if it’s worth it,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Is anything?’ Moncerre said, ‘Since we’re evidently not going to be allowed to arrest anyone. We’re being given the run-around and it’s my opinion that we’re wasting our time. Mind you, things being as they are, what else are we to do without ourselves?’

  ‘Do you feel like that too, chief?’

  ‘I’m tempted to agree. All the same we keep digging. In fact I’m more determined than ever.’

  He paused. Should he mention the anonymous letter Rougerie had received?

  No, not even to colleagues he trusted. It was too shameful. Disturbing nevertheless.

  Fernand brought them the wine and put a basket of bread and a platter of charcuterie on the table. Lannes indicated Labiche.

  ‘Is that one a regular?’

  ‘I’m glad to say not. In fact the table was booked by the new Comte de Grimaud who’s already half an hour late. They’re two of a kind, both swine if you ask me. But these days I can’t afford to be choosey about my customers.’ He gestured towards the other room where the Germans were eating. ‘If I was, I’d soon be out of business.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Lannes said. ‘Our revered mayor would approve. So would the Marshal. They’d call it an exercise in positive collaboration.’

  ‘Shit – is my answer to that. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.’

  They were eating the partridge and red cabbage, every bit as good as Fernand had promised, and drinking their second bottle of claret when Jean-Christophe joined Labiche. His face was flushed and his gait unsteady, as if he had stopped at a couple of bars on his way to the restaurant. He shook hands with the lawyer who put his papers away in his briefcase and called out to Fernand. Jean-Christophe had sat down before he noticed Lannes. He gave no sign of recognition but began talking to Labiche in a manner that suggested urgency. The advocate looked over at Lannes and nodded.

  Moncerre said, ‘That’s the cunt that likes little girls, isn’t it? They say it takes all sorts to make a world but in my opinion we’d be better off without types of that sort.’

  ‘He’s not up to much,’ Lannes said. ‘He’s a poor wretch but there are worse. Speaking of which, I broke bounds yesterday and had a word with Marcel. Sigi’s his real name, as you know, and he’s that fellow’s nephew, perhaps even his half-brother too. I’ve known that for some time.’ he added, and recounted what old Marthe had told him.

  ‘And she really believes he killed the old man?’ René said.

  ‘She has no doubt about it, but it’s not something that’s ever likely to be proved. An old man – a fall down stairs – simple way to get rid of anyone – and unless there’s a witness . . . ’

  ‘So,’ Moncerre said, ‘so you talked with him, and . . . ’

  ‘He’s like a cock crowing on a dunghill. Happy to think he’s one of the Untouchables, just as Schnyder told me.’

  ‘Do you mean he admitted?’ René said.

  ‘He admitted nothing, and denied nothing.’

  ‘And there’s nothing we can do,’ Moncerre said. ‘Crazy world. Makes you sick.’

  ‘He’ll overreach himself. One day, he’ll overreach himself. He’s eaten up with conceit and vanity and so he’ll do something stupid.’

  ‘And we still won’t be able to do anything about it.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Meanwhile, let’s hope Jacques Maso comes up with an identification of the man in the photograph and that he is indeed our Spaniard. If so, we concentrate our fire on him. I have a notion he may not be untouchable. He may prove to be Sigi’s weak spot. In any case, nobody’s warned us off him, because Schnyder doesn’t even know of his existence. All he knows is that there were two men in the car from which the shot was fired at me.’

  Leaving the restaurant Lannes headed for the rue des Remparts. It was raining softly and there were few people in the streets. Again he had the sensation of life being suspended, of Bordeaux drawing in on itself in apprehension and shame. For so many of the citizens there was now no security except within the family, and at home they were spared the sight of the occupying army. You could pretend that life was still as it had been before the war – so long as t
he shutters were closed and the outer world excluded.

  He found Léon alone, sitting reading a book with his feet up on the desk. He looked up and, without taking the cigarette from his mouth, said, ‘Oh, it’s you. I thought for a moment it might be a customer. There hasn’t been a single one all day, except for two German officers.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Something to read. What else?’

  ‘And what did you sell them?’

  ‘Nothing. They said our prices were too high. Don’t worry. I was polite, respectful. Henri’s upstairs, drinking whisky, I’m afraid. He doesn’t do much else now. Sometimes when he’s had a few, he comes down and talks at length about Gaston. I don’t know if it does him any good, but it makes me feel guilty, though I don’t know why. I gave Gaston what he wanted, didn’t I? But I wish I had known him better, even in a different way actually. It’s how Henri speaks of him, with admiration as well as affection. He recalls him as he was when he was young and eager and happy, before he became what he did. Then he’s embarrassed because that’s the side of Gaston’s life I belonged to or was part of.’

  ‘You don’t have to blame yourself. What are you reading?’

  Léon held up the book, so that Lannes could read the title: ‘Le Grand Meaulnes’

  ‘I’ve read it before,’ the boy said. ‘Twice actually. It was wonderful then and it seems even better now. It lets you forget how things are.’

  ‘I suppose it may. I was in the trenches when I read it. The man who gave it to me caught it the next day, shot in the head. The author himself had already gone. Well, we all have our “lost domain” now. It’s called Peace.’

  He found himself liking the boy, even though the reminder of what he had done with Gaston, or permitted Gaston to do to him, was disgusting. Still, given his situation, he was bearing up well, bravely, showing some grace under pressure. In any case, no matter what disgust he felt, Lannes knew very well that the barricades of Reason and Decency are weak defences against sexual desire. Hadn’t some Greek philosopher said that when Eros, the boy-god of love and servant of Aphrodite, lets loose his dart, his victim is wounded, poisoned, incapable of resistance, no longer responsible for his actions – a concept after all which the Code recognized, holding that the perpetrator of a ‘crime of passion’ was beyond rational restraint.