Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  DARK SUMMER IN BORDEAUX

  Also by Allan Massie

  Death in Bordeaux

  Klaus and Other Stories

  Surviving

  Shadows of Empire

  The Sins of the Fathers

  A Question of Loyalties

  The Death of Men

  Dark Summer

  in Bordeaux

  ALLAN MASSIE

  First published in 2012 by

  Quartet Books Limited

  A member of the Namara Group

  27 Goodge Street, London W1T 2LD

  Copyright © Allan Massie 2012

  The right of Allan Massie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 7043 7300 6

  Typeset by Antony Gray

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  T J International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

  for Louis and Géraldine

  with love

  Contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  I

  There are days, even in the bad times, even the worst of them, when you can still believe in the future, like that six o’clock in the morning three weeks ago when the bell rang and Dominique was there. Dominique, pale, wretchedly thin, exhausted, his hair cropped, but nevertheless Dominique. Lannes held him in his arms, neither able for a moment to speak. Then,

  ‘Go to your mother, wake her gently. I’ll make coffee.’

  His hands trembled as he filled the pot. He lit a cigarette to calm himself. It was right to leave them alone together for a few minutes. He hadn’t dared to pass on to Marguerite Edmond de Grimaud’s promise to arrange for Dominique’s return from the prisoner-of-war camp. ‘I’m in his debt now, deep in his debt,’ he thought and felt doubly guilty, utterly compromised. ‘No matter,’ he spoke aloud. ‘The boy’s home.’

  Marguerite was in tears, but they were tears of joy and relief as she stroked Dominique’s cheek.

  ‘It’s all right, Maman, it really is me, not a dream . . . ’ ‘I can’t believe it. It’s so wonderful.’

  Lannes put the cups on the little table beside the bed. They didn’t notice him. They were like lovers. No, not that. Madonna and Child, sufficient for the moment to each other.

  A morning like none since before the war, Marguerite singing and Dominique saying time and again, ‘I can’t believe it either, but I never gave up hope . . . ’ Later Marguerite would want to know everything that had happened to him, everything he had endured. For the moment it was enough to see him there, to be able to touch him, stroke that cropped head. As for Alain and Clothilde, once the first expressions of delight were over, they didn’t know how to speak to this brother who had been returned to them almost like Lazarus.

  For Lannes himself the idyllic hour had been cut short, interrupted by a telephone call. Murder, but a banal one, calling on no investigative skills. A husband whose tether had broken after years of disharmony – the word he unexpectedly used as he sat, hands clenched between his legs, in Lannes’ office.

  ‘She’s been asking for it for ages,’ he said, ‘and at last I’ve given it to her, though I never intended to do more than shut her up, stop her nagging for once.’

  A poor thing, a clerk whose life had become impossible when he was compelled to retire from his office and spend days at home with his wife. Lannes had known other such cases, too many, revelations of the bleakness of life. It was a relief to hand the man over to the examining magistrate and to deal briskly with the paperwork. A miserable case, certainly, but there was a sort of normality to it; nothing to do with the war, the Occupation, the German presence, nothing therefore to present him with a test of conscience.

  This was rare enough. His conscience had been oppressed since that day in Vichy when Edmond had offered him the bargain which he accepted: Dominique’s extrication from the PoW camp and information which would allow him to checkmate the lawyer Labiche who was threatening his career, in exchange for his final abandonment of the investigation into poor Gaston’s murder and the promise that he would hand over the compromising document that somehow linked Edmond to that case, should he ever happen to find it. He had been bullied, bribed and blackmailed: a humiliation and in his eyes a disgrace. He had other worries too: anxiety for Alain, the fear that his younger son’s resentment of the Occupation would lead him to some rash act; apprehension for Miriam as a Jew and for her nephew Léon too. Yet these were as nothing to the shame which ate into him like a malignant growth. I’m not fit to be a policeman, he often thought, not worthy. When, over the days that followed, he heard Marguerite singing as she went about her housework, or saw her lean over Dominique and stroke his cheek, as if to reassure herself that he had really returned and that all was well, he couldn’t experience to the full the happiness he should feel to see her restored to spirits.

  There was a knock on the door and old Joseph the office messenger came in with a letter.

  ‘This arrived by hand,’ he said. ‘It’s marked urgent, you see, which I daresay it isn’t.’

  ‘Who brought it?’

  ‘Some street-boy. For a few francs or a couple of cigarettes I would guess.’

  ‘All right, Joseph. I expect you’re right and it’s urgent only to whoever wrote it.’

  All the same he waited till Joseph had gone before slitting open the envelope which was the cheap sort that a café will provide for its clients. The message was brief.

  ‘Superintendent: it’s important that we meet. Please be at the Bar Metéo, rue Fénélon, at 4 o’clock this afternoon. I shall present my credentials to you there. The matter is urgent. Destroy this letter.’

  There followed an illegible signature.

  Lannes lit a cigarette and applied the match to the corner of the paper, held it a moment burning and then let it fall into the ashtray when he watched it crumble.

  Was it simply because he was bored that he resolved to accept the invitation?

  The bar was quiet at that hour, only a couple of workmen in blue overalls drinking pastis and playing belotte. Lannes ordered a coffee and took a seat in the far corner where he could watch the door. The coffee was vile, the worst ersatz. He called for an Armagnac and lit a cigarette. A bluebottle settled on the rim of the coffee cup. A man emerged from the toilet, had a word with the barman, stood watching the card-players, sniffed the air, held himself just short of the door a moment, surveying the street, then tur
ned and disappeared through a bead curtain to the left of the bar. A minute later the barman approached Lannes and said, ‘Will you come this way, please, sir?’ He led him through the curtain to a little room where the man was sitting at a table. He gestured to Lannes to take the other chair.

  ‘I think we’re all right,’ he said.

  Lannes said nothing. He sat down. The man had dark hair, shiny with some dressing, dark eyes, a thin mouth. He fitted a Celtique cigarette into a holder and lit it.

  ‘You can call me Félix.’

  ‘Latin for fortunate,’ Lannes said.

  ‘We must hope so . . . ’ He drew on his cigarette, expelled smoke through his nostrils ‘A misnomer,’ he said, ‘perhaps, these days. Which of us is fortunate?’

  ‘Call no man fortunate till he is dead.’

  ‘That’s a quotation, isn’t it?’

  ‘Some ancient philosopher, Greek or Roman, I don’t remember which.’

  ‘So you’re here,’ Félix said. ‘I think you are a patriot, superintendent.’ ‘A patriot? Aren’t we all? – whatever being a patriot means, in our circumstances.’

  ‘Oh quite. We all mean different things by the word. You’ve had dealings with Lieutenant Schussman, I think.’

  ‘He’s a patriot too,’ Lannes said. ‘A German one. Aren’t you going to tell me who you are?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Félix is enough.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Lannes said. ‘You mentioned credentials in your note. So I need a bit more than the assurance of a name that certainly isn’t yours before I carry on this conversation.’

  ‘Superintendent, you don’t really want more than that name which is, as you surmise, a nom de guerre. Not at this stage anyway.

  Let’s stop sparring and get down to business. Lieutenant Schussman is a queer.’

  ‘If you say so. He’s a decent enough chap actually.’

  ‘All the better. A literary type too, isn’t he? A regular customer of a bookshop in the rue des Remparts. Kept by your friend Henri Chambolley. But books aren’t the only attraction, are they? Or so we believe.’

  ‘We?’ Lannes said, ‘I don’t know who you mean by your “we”.’

  ‘We? Oh, we’re patriots, just like you, superintendent. I shouldn’t be in Bordeaux, you know. I’ve taken a risk coming here. We’re not really supposed or permitted to operate out of the so-called

  Free Zone, not at present anyway. There: I’ve placed one of my cards on the table. Here’s another. It’s in our interest to have friends among the Occupying army, not friends, precisely, we can’t have that, but men, a few anyway, who are bound to us. You understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘I understand now. I understand perfectly. But I’m a policeman. I don’t like spooks.’

  He had left it there, been, surprisingly, permitted to do so, the man Félix making no demur, as if, Lannes thought, he was content to have made only this brief preliminary contact, in the course of which he had, nevertheless, sown his seed. Walking away, leaning on his blackthorn stick, he was tempted to go straight to the rue des Remparts and warn Léon. Warn him off? Off what? The danger of being used as bait? Certainly, but . . . He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t being watched, spied on. He turned into a bar and ordered a demi, beer to wash the taste of the spook away. A word with Schnyder? Cover his back? Perhaps. But that would mean telling him more than he would care to divulge.

  II

  ‘Disharmony’: the word that wretched clerk had used stuck with him. It so precisely described his state of mind, the state of France indeed. Bordeaux was a prison in which nevertheless he walked at liberty. It was late winter weather he had always liked, no leaves on the trees, a low sky, scudding winds, no hint of spring. As for the war, well, there was no war, and the Occupiers were mannerly. Sometimes, seeing German soldiers sitting at café tables, or chatting around one of the city’s fountains, you might have thought they were on holiday.

  He might as well be so himself. The case that had occupied him for months was dead. Nothing new claimed his attention, only routine matters which bored him.

  But now, this ‘Félix’ – ridiculous name – had come to arouse him from his torpor. There was nothing for it, he must overcome his reluctance, speak to the boy Léon. All the same he waited till the streets were dark before making his way to the bookshop in the rue des Remparts.

  Léon said, ‘Oh, it’s you. I was just about to close up. Henri’s upstairs, but . . . ’ ‘That’s all right. It’s you I’ve come to see.’

  ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

  ‘I hope you’ve done nothing.’

  Léon smiled.

  ‘You look very serious,’ he said. ‘I could give you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Yes, why not? I’d like that . . . ’

  He sat smoking while the boy went through to the back room. It was very quiet. The place felt like sanctuary. Léon returned with coffee for both of them, sat opposite him, cupped his thin intelligent face in both hands and waited for Lannes to speak. When he didn’t do so, he said,

  ‘I haven’t registered as a Jew. Should I have done so?’

  ‘Not if you can avoid it, but . . . ’

  ‘Yes, it’s a “but”, isn’t it? Otherwise I continue to behave myself, as you recommended. So?’

  ‘Schussman,’ Lannes said. ‘I learn things I don’t want to learn. Does he bother you?’

  ‘Bother? What a strange word to use.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Léon. I’m too tired. You know what I mean.’

  ‘He’s a nice enough chap, you know,’ Léon said and smiled. ‘But I’ve made it quite clear, I think, that I’m not interested. That’s to say, I’ve tried to choke him off. That’s what you advised, isn’t it?’

  Lannes drank his coffee which was still of pre-war quality.

  ‘His attentions have been noticed,’ he said.

  The boy flushed and looked away.

  ‘I’ve spoken to nobody,’ he said. ‘But I can’t help it if he . . . ’ ‘If he . . . What?’

  ‘Finds me attractive. Do you despise me, superintendent?’

  ‘Despise you, Léon? No, why should I?’

  ‘For being what I am, for being what I was to Gaston . . . ’ Lannes sighed, lit a cigarette and pushed the packet over to the boy who took one and held his face towards Lannes for a light. Lannes looked him in the eyes over the flame till Léon lowered his.

  ‘That’s nothing to me,’ he said. ‘I despise nobody, except those who delight in power and misuse it. You’re fond of Alain, aren’t you?’

  ‘We’re friends, that’s all. He’s not like me, you know, so friends is all we can be whatever else I might want. You won’t tell him, will you?’

  His upper lip quivered and he looked close to tears.

  ‘He thinks of you as a good friend,’ Lannes said. ‘I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Thank you. So why have you come here?’

  ‘It’s difficult.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Yes, you’re intelligent. You know that. Lieutenant Schussmann.

  The fact is, his attentions have been noticed, his inclination suspected. That’s why you must be careful. Do you understand?

  People may want to use you. Try not to let them.’

  ‘What sort of people? No, you don’t need to tell me. I think I can guess.’

  ‘I don’t approve of them,’ Lannes said. ‘I have no time for these types who use other people as if they were pawns in a game of chess. Let me know if they approach you. That’s as much as I can ask.’

  ‘If they are who I think they are, how can I say no?’

  ‘That’s why I say to let me know, get in touch straightaway. I’ll do what I can to protect you, but I have to warn you it may not be much. Not, certainly, as much as I would wish.’

  ‘And this conversation, has it taken place?’

  ‘I wish I knew the right answer to that.’

  III

  The body had been dragged into the
bushes in the public garden. Incompetently. The feet protruded and one of the park attendants kicked them, assuming they belonged to a drunk who had passed out there. When he got no response, he parted the bushes to get a look at the man lying there. Then he hurried to call the police.

  ‘His head’s been bashed in,’ he told Lannes. ‘A very nasty mess, and it’s not as if he’s one of these young hooligans who get into fights. His hair’s grey, white really, I could see that in spite of the blood. Dried blood it is . . . ’

  ‘All right,’ Lannes said, ‘we’ll take a look at him. You didn’t touch anything, did you?’

  ‘Apart from giving him a kick because I thought it was a drunk sleeping it off, and pushing through the bushes to see why he didn’t move, certainly not. I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’m a good citizen. I called you straight away, and then came back here to lock the park gate again, seeing as I assumed you wouldn’t want to have a lot of people gawking at you. Not to mention the kids. It’s not a sight for them, I can tell you. If you think, superintendent, I’m talking too much, well, that’s because I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing. To tell you the truth this is the first dead body I’ve seen since the last Armistice. Saw plenty before then of course. I’m not counting the wife’s mother. She died natural, peacefully, just drifted away. Not that her death would have disturbed me however it happened. Here we are then. See for yourself.’

  ‘Right,’ Lannes said, ‘thank you. Would you go back to the gate, please, and wait for the doctor and the technical boys? They’ll soon be on their way. And yes, continue to keep the public out. Find some excuse. Or tell the truth. Whichever you prefer.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll lay it on,’ Moncerre said.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s go take a look then.’

  Moncerre pulled a couple of branches aside.

  ‘Not much doubt, is there?’ he said. ‘Our old friend, the blunt instrument . . . He looks a respectable gent though. That’s a good piece of cloth.’

  Lannes knelt and fingered the cuffs of the trousers.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said, ‘good English flannel.’