by Allan Massie
‘No, but I’ve another friend who did. Who was fond of him, I think. They used to talk literature together. Maurice thinks he’s a writer, a poet, or wants to be. Maybe he will, I don’t know. What about you? Was it the same with you? How did you meet? I’m sorry if I seem inquisitive.’
‘That’s all right. Have another cigarette.’
‘Thanks. Do you know, there’s a regulation coming in that says you have to hand over an empty packet in order to get a new one?’
‘I can get round that,’ Léon said, ‘thanks to my aunt. I can arrange to keep you in supplies too if you like. As for Gaston we met in the bank where I used to work and got talking. But you’re right in one way. He got me started reading good books, and not just crime stories. Balzac especially.’
‘Oh Balzac.’
Two German officers came into the shop. Léon went to ask them if he could be of any assistance. There was a short conversation which Alain couldn’t catch. Léon fetched a book from a shelf and handed it to one of them, who examined it, shook his head, and returned it.
‘Too expensive. You won’t sell anything if your prices are so high. Not to me anyway, young man.’
He laughed, and, turning to his companion, said something in German. Then they left.
‘It’s odd,’ Léon said. ‘That’s the third time these two have been in. That one always asks for a different book in some rare edition and then says it’s too expensive. Actually Henri tells me his prices are very reasonable. What do you make of it? He’s always very polite, I have to say.’
‘Maybe you’re lucky they don’t just walk off with the books without paying. That’s the German way, isn’t it? Grab what you want. First the Rhineland, then Austria, then Czechoslovakia, then Poland, and now France. Why stop at a mere book?’
‘That’s how you feel, is it?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, certainly, but not everyone thinks like that.’
‘That’s true. It disgusts me,’ Alain said. ‘I’ve an uncle who works in the mayor’s cabinet and says “we must engage in a sincere collaboration”. He’s furious that the English haven’t surrendered, since, he says, they got us into the war and then let us down. In his view they’re our enemy, not the Germans who are in his opinion our only defence against Bolshevism. Actually I’m ashamed to tell you, he speaks of Jewish Bolshevism. It makes me sick. It’s all so complicated though. My friend Maurice has an English mother, but his father is a minister at Vichy and has summoned him there. To do what I don’t know. I wish there was some action we could take.’
‘Me too,’ Léon said. ‘What does your father think?’
‘He says we must be patient, the war won’t last forever. But I don’t see how it’s going to end. Nobody seems to be doing any fighting now. I just don’t know what’s best.’
He looked puzzled, unhappy and lost. That was what Léon read in his face. He longed, but didn’t dare, to draw Alain to him and kiss him.
‘Maybe your father’s right,’ he said. ‘Patience.’
‘You must think me stupid and pathetic,’ Alain said. ‘To go on like this when you have real things to fear. As a Jew, I mean.’
‘I don’t think that at all. You seem to me anything but stupid, and, as for pathetic, don’t be silly.’
‘Oh good. I think we are going to be friends.’
‘What do you do on Sundays?’
‘I play rugby usually.’
‘Goodness!’
They talked of this and that, of their interests, the books and movies they liked, and of their families. Alain explained how his mother could think only of Dominique.
‘I can’t blame her, but it does get me down.’
About half an hour after Alain had left, the German officer who had asked for the book returned, this time alone.
‘I have decided after all it is not too expensive,’ he said. ‘So I shall buy it.’
He produced money and put his hand on Léon’s shoulder.
‘You resent me perhaps, resent our presence in your beautiful city. I understand that, and am sorry. I should like however to be your friend. There is no need for a quarrel now between Germans and Frenchmen. I have always admired French culture. But it is often lonely for me here. I am not always at ease with my colleagues, you understand. We do not think the same about everything. Their sensibility is not mine. Perhaps you, as an intelligent and attractive young man, can appreciate that. Isn’t it so?’
Léon said, ‘I’ll wrap your book for you.’
‘That is kind. Now that I have concluded that your prices are not too high, I shall return. By myself, without my colleague. I should very much enjoy the opportunity to have a long conversation with you. My name by the way is Schussman, Marcus Karl Schussmann. What is yours, may I ask?’
‘Léon.’
‘Léon? A charming name. It suits you very well. Auf wiedersehen, as we say in Germany.’
XIV
The rain had stopped and Moncerre was on his way back from the bar where he had gone for a coffee laced with brandy when the tall figure of the Spaniard emerged from the house in the rue d’Aviau. He stood for a moment looking at the washed-out sky. Then he set off with long-striding walk in the direction from which Moncerre was approaching. René signalled to his colleague that this was their man. Moncerre stopped him and asked for his papers.
‘My papers?’ he said, as if the request was strange to him. ‘What right have you to demand them?’
‘We’re police officers,’ Moncerre said, ‘police judiciaire, and if you’re the man I think you are, we have questions to put to you. So hand them over, please.’
The Spaniard shrugged and slipped his hand into his breast-pocket.
‘You will find this is all nonsense,’ he said, and pointed a gun at Moncerre. ‘Now, step back or . . . ’
René slammed down hard on the Spaniard’s wrist, the gun fell to the pavement, and Moncerre launched himself in a rugby tackle which sent the man crashing. René picked up the gun. Moncerre snapped handcuffs on the Spaniard before he could recover, and hauled him to his feet. He kneed him hard in the groin. The man collapsed again whimpering in pain.
‘Go get the car, kid. Oh, give me the gun first. Not that this daisy’s going to make trouble just yet. Up you get, darling, or you’ll feel my boot and that’ll put you out of action with your lady-friends for a month.’
He bundled the Spaniard into the back of the car and got in beside him.
‘You’re all the same,’ he said. ‘You think a gun in the hand makes you tough.’
‘You’ll regret this. You’ve made a mistake. I’ve got diplomatic immunity. But take these bangles off, stop the car and I’m ready to allow this to be forgotten.’
‘Oh I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I don’t give a shit for your diplomatic immunity.’
‘He’s a daisy,’ Moncerre said, ‘a real daisy. Diplomatic immunity, that’s what he claims. But before then he pulled a gun on me. The kid did well, knocked it out of his hand, and then we sorted him out. He’s waiting in the lobby, holding on to his balls.’
‘Fine,’ Lannes said. ‘We’ll let him stew for a bit. Are you all right yourself ?’
‘Haven’t been better in weeks.’
‘Did you both get some lunch?’
‘Yes, we took it in turns. He pulled the gun soon as I asked for his papers, imbecile that he is.’
‘Have it sent upstairs to be tested.’
‘Sure.’
‘See if it matches the bullet that was taken out of me. I don’t expect it will. Sigi’s bright enough to have dumped that one.’
He settled the Spaniard in the chair opposite the desk. There were dark damp stains on his camel-coloured overcoat where he had hit the wet pavement, and a nice bruise coming up on his right cheek-bone. Lannes held his gaze till the Spaniard lowered his eyes. His mouth was twitching and he licked his lower lip.
‘Your men have made a mistake.’
‘Is that so?�
�
Lannes crossed to the cupboard, took out the bottle of marc and a glass, poured himself a drink, and set it on the desk in front of him. He tapped a cigarette on his thumb-nail and lit it.
‘Did you fire the shot or were you the driver?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told your officers that I have diplomatic immunity and must ask you to respect it.’
‘You pulled a gun on them. That’s a criminal offence.’
‘They were in plain clothes. I didn’t believe they were policemen. I have enemies, you see, political enemies.’
‘I’m sure you have, Senor Sombra. A man like you can’t go through life without making enemies. You’ve got one in front of you now. I think it was you tried to kill me. Fired the shot and bungled it. Sigi can’t have been pleased. I don’t think he’d have failed himself.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Really? Do you think, Moncerre, his memory would improve if we started to pull his fingernails out. Did that make Javier Cortazar speak? Did he tell you what you wanted to know?’
No response. Lannes picked up his glass but didn’t drink. Sombra eyed it, gave another flick of his tongue across his lips.
‘I don’t think he did,’ Lannes said. ‘He was a hard man, harder than you, not the type who lives off women.’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. This Cortazar. Never heard of him.’
‘Haven’t you now? When we’ve a witness saw you going up to his apartment the night he was killed. And Gaston Chambolley? You’ve never heard of him either, I suppose. Yet we’ve another witness saw you enter his apartment building the evening he was murdered. And Jules Cortin? Just a name to you, though it was from his car that you tried to kill me. And Pilar? What do you know about her?’
‘Pilar? It’s a common Spanish name. I know lots of girls called Pilar.’
‘I suppose you do, the trade you’re in. But this one’s another death to be explained. Think of it, Senor Sombra.’
He drank his marc and lit another cigarette.
‘You’ve a lot of explaining to do.’
‘I repeat. I have diplomatic immunity.’
‘Forget it. Tell me about Pilar.’
The Spaniard was sweating. He was probably hot in his overcoat, but he was also afraid. Lannes knew the smell of fear.
‘I demand to see the Spanish consul.’
‘Oh I don’t think so. We’ve a lot of talking to do before we reach that point. I know a bit about you, Sombra. You’re a small-time pimp and procurer, and you’ve done time for fraud, passing dud cheques, wasn’t it, but now you’re out of your league. You’ve gone over the top. I’ve got enough on you to send you to the guillotine. Think about that. The seven in the morning call, then they bind your hands, blindfold you, and then . . . ’
He slammed his hand, sidedown, hard on the desk.’
‘You’ll need time to think about it. Moncerre, take him downstairs and bang him up in a cell. We’ll talk more later. Think of Chambolley and Cortazar and Cortin and Pilar. And the guillotine of course.’
As soon as he was alone, Lannes gave himself another drink. He felt dirty, also on edge. He didn’t like this sort of thing, had never taken pleasure in playing the hard cop, accepted it only with reluctance as sometimes necessary. At school, aged eleven, he had befriended a snotty white-haired boy with whom he had nothing in common simply because the boy was bullied by their class-mates. Sombra was a rat, he had no doubt about that; nevertheless . . . He wondered how long he had, how far he dared push him. That boy, Alphonse, had tried to hang himself in the school latrines. Lannes had come upon him by chance and just in time.
Moncerre returned.
‘How would it be if I rough him up a bit, chief?’
‘No, let him stew. It’s what’s going on in his mind is our best hope. Give yourself a drink.’
‘These witnesses. We don’t have them, do we?’
‘You know we don’t. We’re not going to be able to hold him overnight, you know, and, even if he talks, we’ll be prevented from acting on anything he tells us. But I want him to talk. Make him think he’s not one of the Untouchables. He’s out of his league, you know. I got on to an old friend in Paris. He knew a bit about him, knew his record. Small-time stuff, as I said. Used to hang about the bars in Montparnasse in the late Twenties, before the Depression, when there were rich American women to prey on. Then turned to a bit of pimping, ran a couple of girls, did time, as I said, for passing dud cheques. I suspect it was in prison he met Sigi. My chum put me on to someone in the Deuxième Bureau. He wasn’t very forthcoming.’
‘Spooks never are.’
‘But he did go so far as to say that when the Spanish war broke out, our friend got involved in affairs that brought him to their attention. Wouldn’t go further than that. No trade secrets to be divulged. But this may be the tie-up with Pilar’s death, and that death is the starting-point of this whole bloody business.’
Hours later they were still at it. Lannes knew he was getting nowhere, but wouldn’t give up. It was dark outside. There was no traffic, the curfew already in force. Every half-hour he took a break, turning the interrogation over to Moncerre, who put the same questions, went over the same ground. But the Spaniard’s resistance held. Now Lannes was ready for what might be his last throw. He was conscious of the deep silence of the building, deserted by all except the officer on the desk and themselves. It was a couple of hours since young René had reported that the gun didn’t match the one fired at him. He had never expected it would.
Sombra was still in his overcoat with the handcuffs on his wrists. His face was grey with exhaustion, there were dark circles under his eyes, but he was holding his ground, denying everything, though it was a long time since he had last protested they were not entitled to question him and asked that the Spanish consul be summoned. It was as if he too accepted that they were caught up in a dance from which others were excluded.
This time Lannes, re-entering the office, said to Moncerre, ‘Take the cuffs off him’, and then offered the Spaniard the cigarette he had been denied for hours. He took it, accepted a light and sat looking at Lannes with a suggestion of uncertainty, while he rubbed first one wrist, then the other. He was wary, in case this was a trick, and waited for Lannes either to explain this change in his circumstances or simply to tell him he was free to leave.
‘Give him a drink,’ Lannes said. ‘You can drink marc, I suppose, or would you prefer beer?’
‘Marc is fine.’
‘This diplomatic status you claim. How did you come by it, given your record which you needn’t trouble yourself now to deny.’
‘Superintendent, we have gone over the same ground time and again, and you realize you have made a mistake, and I have nothing to tell you about these cases you are concerned with. I don’t hold it against you, as another man might. Nor do I pretend that my life has always been that which I might wish. I’ve experienced misfortune. I’ve not always been respectable. I have known poverty and poverty loosens what I believe is called the moral fibre. See: I conceal nothing. You know I have been in prison and for this reason you have suspected me. But then war broke out in my country, and this offered me the chance to redeem myself. I could not serve in the Army on account of a lung condition, but I was eager to work for the Cause.’
‘What cause was that, chummy?’ Moncerre said from his seat by the window.
‘The Cause of Patriotism.’
‘Patriotism, was it?’ Moncerre said again, his sardonic tone mocking the audible capital letters in the Spaniard’s words. ‘It’s a big word, and in your mouth an empty one. Carry on all the same.’
Sombra shot him a look in which Lannes read a rising anger.
‘Patriotism,’ he said again. ‘See, gentlemen, my poor Spain was in the hands of gangsters, anarchists, Reds, Communists, enemies of the Church and true religion. Your government here in France – the government of the so-called Popular Fro
nt – aided and abetted the Republican government in Spain, which, I assure you, was composed of men devoted to the interests of the Soviet Union, Jewish-Bolshevism and World Communism. Fortunately while the Jew Blum was ready to do the work of the Comintern, there were others here in France who thought differently. I acted as an intermediary between them and the Nationalists. I may say this safely now, though a year ago it would have been dangerous to admit it, but French patriots are now in a position to save France as General Franco has saved Spain from Jewish-Bolshevism.’
‘You acted as an intermediary?’ Lannes said. ‘What did your work consist of?’
‘Even now I cannot give you details. The secrets are not mine to reveal. But I can say that thanks to my efforts Bolshevik agents here in France were unmasked and their conspiracies against both Spain and France were thwarted. And for this service I have been decorated by the Generalissimo himself and have been granted that diplomatic passe-partout which is now among the papers in front of you.’
‘And was it in the course of this work that you encountered Pilar?’ Lannes said.
‘Always this Pilar! I tell you again I know nothing of her. But if, as I surmise from your questioning she was an agent of the Comintern and is now dead, do not ask me to regret it. And now, if you have finished, would you please return me my papers and let me go?’
‘In a moment,’ Lannes said, removing the French passport from the sheaf of papers. ‘With your diplomatic immunity, you no longer need this. I’m confiscating it. For the time being, that is. And one other thing: the day will come when you find your association with Sigi is in danger of bringing even closer than you are now to that seven o’clock in the morning knock on a cell door. You should get in touch with me then.’
‘We could have kept him in the cells and had another go in the morning,’ Moncerre said.
‘No. That would have had to be recorded. As it is, he’s never been here. I’m making no report. Not even an unofficial one to Schnyder. Even if he’d been less obdurate I doubt if we’d have been allowed to pin anything on him. But the night hasn’t been wasted. He’ll tell Sigi about it and boast that he gave nothing away and won this round. But there’ll be a doubt in his mind, anxiety about the day when things change. As for Sigi, he’ll know we haven’t given up, that we’re still on his track, still got our teeth in the case. All the same I don’t see our next move. I’m not even sure one is immediately possible.’
