by Allan Massie
‘I’ll go up to see Henri in a minute,’ he said, ‘but I want a word with you first.’
‘Me? I’m being good, I told you that, and nothing’s changed. Not that I have much chance to be anything else just now.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Who knows I got you your job here?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just answer, please.’
‘Well, Henri, obviously, and Aunt Miriam, seeing as you spoke about it to her yourself. But I haven’t told anyone else, not even Maman. As for my friends, well I scarcely see any of them since you advised me to lie low – what did you say? – keep a low profile, keep out of sight, and don’t get into mischief. And anyway, even if I was chatting to any of them about my new job, I’m not likely to boast that a cop found it for me. Most of my old mates don’t have much time for the “flics”, Sorry.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Naturally I’m sure. Why do you ask?’
Lannes was reluctant to tell him. To speak of the anonymous letter was humiliating – humiliating for the boy also. Still he was entitled to know, and to deny him that knowledge was to treat him as a child or inferior. Nevertheless the version he gave him was watered down; he steered clear of the word ‘rent-boy’. He had no reason to think the accusation just, no evidence that Léon had ever prostituted himself. Gaston had picked him up. That was the boy’s story and he had found no difficulty in believing him.
Léon swung his feet off the desk and looked away. When he spoke, his voice was shaky.
‘I’ve got you into trouble, but I swear I haven’t told anyone. Honest.’
He sounded close to tears.
‘That’s all right,’ Lannes said. ‘There’s no reason from your point of view why you shouldn’t have mentioned it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you had. But I had to know if I’m to find out who wrote the letter.’
‘It won’t do you any good to be suspected of protecting a Jew, will it?’
‘As to that, I don’t give a damn.’
‘They’re rounding up the foreign Jews. How long before they come for us French ones?’
‘A long time, I hope. Perhaps never.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘I would like to. I’ll go up to see Henri now.’
Henri might have blabbed, he thought. It’s quite likely that he did if he really is in his cups much of the time, as I’m afraid he is. But I can’t ask him. He already feels guilty about Gaston, which is probably why he agreed to take the boy on, even if I think he has nothing with which to reproach himself as far as his twin was concerned. He always behaved well to him, and in any case his natural kindness would probably have led him to give Léon a job when I asked him to, even if there had been no connection with Gaston. But I can’t pile more guilt on him. So, after they had embraced and exchanged pleasantries, all he said was: ‘Has anyone been asking questions about young Léon?’
‘No. Nobody. Why?’
‘Just checking, that’s all. If anyone does come round asking questions, just say he came and asked you if there was a job going.’
‘You think he’s in some danger, Jean?’
‘Probably not. Not yet anyway.’
Leaving Henri, he cut through the Place Gambetta to Miriam’s tabac. He couldn’t speak of Léon and the anonymous letter to Marguerite or indeed to any of his colleagues, but he felt the need to unburden himself. So, when they were settled in the back room, with what was now the usual coffee and marc, he came out with it straight, verbatim.
‘ “Jew-lover”, “Jewish rent-boy”, I don’t like it, Jean. It’s malicious. Someone wants to destroy you.’
‘I don’t think it goes that far, not necessarily. Keep me in line, warn me off, more like.’
‘Warn you off what?’
‘I can’t say exactly. There are always things people don’t want investigated.’
‘Is Léon in danger himself?’
‘No more, I think, than he was. Than you all are. I’ve told him to keep his head down.’
‘It’s wicked,’ she said, ‘when all you’ve tried to do is help us.’
For some time they sat in silence. The little room was lit by only a single lamp with a low-wattage bulb. The silence was comfortable, companionable. Lannes relaxed. He searched in his pockets for a cigarette, found only an empty packet. Miriam went through to the tabac and returned with a carton of Gauloises.
‘On the house,’ she said. ‘Don’t argue, it’s the least I can do.’
She lit one of her own Chesterfields.
‘It’s all getting you down, isn’t it,’ she said.
‘Do you know an advocate called Labiche?’
‘That bastard. He’s a customer. Turkish cigarettes, expensive ones. Did you see his letter in the Sud-Ouest? I’ve a good mind to refuse to serve him any longer.’
‘Please don’t do that. It would be . . . rash.’
‘Why do you want to know? If I know him, I mean.’
‘I saw him today with Jean-Christophe. That’s all.’
‘They’re two of a kind,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not true. Jean-Christophe’s only pathetic, while Labiche is really evil. I’m sure of that for he used to do business for my husband, and he, as you know, was a connoisseur of evil. Oh, it’s all too horrible.’
He got up to go. She rose also and they embraced. He screwed his head round to kiss her on the lips. For an instant she responded, then drew away.
‘No,’ she said, ‘No. Perhaps we both want to, but no. Let’s not complicate things more. Besides you owe it to your wife for there to be nothing more than friendship between us. I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Jean, which would be the result if . . . ’
As he walked home, with his hip throbbing, he felt ashamed at having come so close to infidelity. He remembered the hint of blackmail Sigi had dropped.
X
Dinner was over. Marguerite was sewing. The children were washing-up. Lannes stretched himself on the couch and read ‘Le Vicomte de Bragelonne’. He knew it so well that he skipped certain passages to arrive at his favourite ones. Nowadays he preferred the ageing d’Artagnan, face wrinkled, anxious about his future, to the dashing young musketeer of the earlier novels. But still capable of the most audacious strokes – the transporting of General Monk across the Channel in a box – marvellous. And the distrust of authority, of Cardinal and King – well, he was at one with him there.
‘I don’t know why it is that Alain always has a hole in the heel of his sock. Dominique never did.’
Alain, coming through from the kitchen, said, ‘It’s because, maman, half my socks used to be his. Also I run more than he used to.’
‘Didn’t you say you’d an essay to write?’ Lannes said.
‘I’m brooding on it. Cogitating. Then when I come to attack it, it will flow quick as lightning.’
‘Lightning doesn’t flow,’ Clothilde said.
‘All right then, it’ll dart like lightning. Does that satisfy your literal mind?’
‘Don’t bicker, children.’ Marguerite said.
‘What a bore this curfew is,’ Clothilde said. ‘This time last year we could have gone to the cinema. It’s as if we were in a cage.’
‘All Europe’s a cage,’ Alain said, ‘and Herr Hitler’s the keeper. “Heil the Fuehrer”, I don’t think.’
The telephone rang. Clothilde jumped up to answer it. The instrument was in the hall and they couldn’t hear what she said, but Lannes thought there was disappointment in her voice. Then she laughed.
‘It’s for you, papa. Someone called Jacques something, I didn’t catch it. He took me for maman, then said I sounded very grownup. Well, I am nearly, I said.’
‘Jacques? Any luck?’
‘I think so. Do you want me to tell you now?’
‘Are you speaking from your office?’
‘Yes, I’m still at my desk, slaving away.’
‘Can anyone hear you?’
‘Well, the pl
ace isn’t exactly deserted.’
‘In that case, if you don’t mind, let’s meet in the morning.’
‘Fine by me. Same place? Nine o’clock do you?’
‘I’ll be there. Thanks, Jacques.’
He had escaped he embarrassment of explaining he was afraid his telephone – here too – might be tapped. Was the suspicion – which he had after all no evidence to support – becoming an obsession?
Marguerite didn’t ask the caller’s name, though she must have been curious after what Clothilde had said. It was work, none of her business, part of his life she wanted nothing of.
‘Jacques Maso,’ he said, ‘you remember him, don’t you?’
‘I haven’t thought of him for years. He used to be such a good dancer. We used to meet at the “bals musettes” – oh long before you two were born.’
‘Your mother and Jacques used to make a very distinguished couple. They were the best by far on the dance-floor whereas I was always told I had two left feet.’
‘So you did.’
‘I think he was what we used to call sweet on your mother. I’m not surprised he mistook you for her, Clothilde. He’s a journalist now, on the Sud-Ouest.’
‘Is he?’
Lannes thought: I treasure old friends because memories matter to me. Marguerite discards them happily. Family’s all that counts for her now. Even Henri . . . I doubt if she has been to the bookshop more than a couple of times in the last five years, though he would love it if she dropped in, whereas I . . . I keep hold of the past like a drowning man clutching a rope that some passer-by has thrown him.
Alain said: ‘You know that the Romiers upstairs have had a German officer billeted on them. He stopped me today as I came in. No, it wasn’t anything to worry about, maman. It was just because he noticed I was carrying a German book – The Sorrows of Werther, which is one of our set texts. He asked me if I was enjoying it. Actually I’m not – it seems dated and a bit silly – but I thought it polite to say it was all right. Then we chatted for a bit, his French is quite good. He seemed a nice enough chap – he’s not much older than Dominique – but I didn’t like it. I felt it was wrong somehow to be having a friendly conversation with him. What do you think, Papa?’
‘They’re going to be here for a long time. It’s not always going to be possible to avoid them. So be civil, nothing more. That’s my advice.’
He was careful not to look at his daughter in case she was blushing.
‘Poor boy,’ Marguerite said. ‘He’s probably lonely, and homesick.’
XI
The rain, still streaking the windows when Lannes sat with his morning pot of coffee in the kitchen, had stopped, and a pale sun was dispelling the mist that crept over the city from the river. He found Jacques already in the bar, scribbling in a notebook.’
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he said, stuffing the book into the pocket of his raincoat. ‘I make notes for articles that will never be published.’
‘And I pursue cases that can’t be brought to a conclusion.’
They exchanged smiles, like conspirators. The waiter brought coffee and two small glasses of marc.
Jacques said, ‘so be it’, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. ‘I thought your daughter was Marguerite. She sounded so like her. Did she tell you?’
‘Yes, and I recalled what a fine couple you used to make at our bals musettes. So long ago.’
‘So long ago.’
They smiled again. This time, Lannes thought, it was as if each was hearing the accordion music of their youth.
‘I’ve got your identification,’ Jacques said. ‘He’s a Spaniard, Don Jaime Sombra, which may or may not be his true name. Who can tell nowadays? He’s what they call a socialite, but, according to my informant, five years ago he was living in Paris and cadging drinks, meals whatever, in the cafés of Montparnasse. Or he was kept by a succession of rich women, in other words he was a gigolo, though he didn’t last long with any of them. Do you want to know the name of my informant? I have to say he would rather you didn’t.’
‘Fine by me. Anything else?’
‘Only that his money troubles seem to have evaporated, and my informant believes he may be one of Franco’s agents, employed here to spy on Republicans and their sympathizers. Incidentally, he also has a French passport, though I don’t know how he comes by it. Perhaps his mother was French? Perhaps he was born here?’
‘You’ve done wonderfully, Jacques. I’m very grateful.’
‘Is it impertinent of me to ask why you are so interested in this type?’
‘Not at all, so long as you understand there’s no story for your paper. It’s because I’m pretty sure he tried to kill me.’
Back at the office, Joseph told him there was a gentleman asking to see him.
‘A gentleman?’
‘That’s what I said. We don’t get many of them here, but I can recognize one when I see him. He reminds me of a colonel I served under, stiff as a ramrod, but nevertheless cared for his men and saw that we were decently treated – as far as was within his power, that is.’
‘Fine. Give me ten minutes and then bring him in.’
Moncerre was in the inspectors’ room, shuffling a pack of cards.
‘It’s bad news when I’m reduced to playing patience,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve got something for me, because I don’t mind confessing I’m bored out of my mind.’
‘Your old schoolfellow Jacques has come up trumps,’ Lannes said. ‘Listen.’
‘Not bad,’ Moncerre said, ‘he sounds like the sort that needs his arse kicked. I don’t mind obliging if that’s what you want.’
‘It may come to that. Meanwhile the only address we have for him is the house in the rue d’Aviau, which he visits even if he isn’t living there, as I don’t think he is. So I want you to stake it out, and, if he turns up, bring him in. A question of papers, or something like that, I don’t need to explain the drill to you. Don’t approach the house. There are German officers billeted there. Take young René with you. The boy needs to be kept busy.’
Joseph’s ‘gentleman’ did indeed look like a colonel, a retired one certainly. He held himself upright, had a moustache like the Marshal’s, a full head of snowy hair, neatly brushed, and highly polished shoes. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit, with a waistcoat and gold watch-chain, though the suit was shiny at the knees and had been sponged and pressed too often. His nose was like an eagle’s beak and the yellowish skin of his face was leathery. There were liver spots on the back of his hands.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’m over seventy and I’ve never before had dealings with the police.’
‘That’s not so unusual, I’m glad to say. How can I help you?’
‘It was Henri Chambolley suggested I approach you, personally and informally. He said he was a friend of yours.’
‘Since we were students.’
‘So you also knew poor Gaston, a talented fellow, even if his talent rather flickered out. A wretched end. I scarcely dare to ask whether . . . ’
‘I can’t answer that, I’m afraid.’
‘No, of course not, I apologize for inquiring. To come to the point, the purpose of my visit, which is difficult and embarrassing, and which is not, I trust, properly speaking, police business. That’s to say no crime has been committed, so far as I know, though then again I may be mistaken. But if I am, this is not something I should wish to see brought before the courts. I’m afraid I don’t make myself plain, but that is because the matter of which I wish to speak is painful to me. Let me give you my card. You see, I’m a Professor of Literature, retired naturally, seeing as I’m seventy-five. I’m also a widower and have been for more years than I care to think. My only son – our only son – was an army officer, a major in the colonial infantry. He was killed the day the Germans crossed the Meuse.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He too was a widower. His wife died giving birth to their daughter whose guardian I now am, also of
their son, a boy of seventeen. He’s difficult, has been ever since he went to the lycée. I have no control over him whatsoever. He’s not a bad boy, I’m sure of that, indeed he is charming and affectionate, but he is wild and intensely – romantically, I choose to think – political. He was a member of one of those youth groups attached to Colonel de la Roque’s Croix de Feu movement. It’s a tradition in our family, we were always Royalist, but I myself broke away and am a good republican because the Republic for all its defects represents principles which I hold by. In my youth I even wrote for ‘L’Aurore’ and knew Clemenceau when he edited the paper, not only knew him but revered him, as I still revere his memory. So you will understand that I find our present state to be shameful, though I have no doubt that the Marshal, poor man, is actuated, as he always has been, by noble motives and true patriotism. I trust I am not boring you?’
‘Not at all,’ Lannes said, and lit a cigarette. ‘Pray continue.’
‘Michel’s an attractive boy, and intelligent, if also silly. You will know, I’m sure, superintendent, that intelligence and silliness are quite frequently found together. Unfortunately, as I say, I have no control over him, and I confess there have been times when I have all but shrugged my shoulders and told myself he must make his own way to perdition or redemption. Do you think that irresponsible of me?’
‘There’s a limit,’ Lannes said, ‘to what we can do for others, even for the young.’
‘Nevertheless one has to try, but to my shame I have to admit that he has escaped me, for the time being anyway. My immediate concern is for his sister, my granddaughter Anne-Marie. She’s only fourteen, an innocent child still, and I have a deep affection for her. I think she’s fond of me, but she adores her brother, which is understandable. But he has got into bad company and I’m afraid for her.’
