by Allan Massie
‘You might at least find out where our dead man has been living. That would be a start.’
Moncerre fingered his glass, then downed the brandy in one swallow.
‘I’ve got itchy palms,’ he said. ‘It’s like when I go home and find that my wife hasn’t cooked a dinner because I’ve done something new to offend her and I’ve no idea what it is. So I’ve the feeling that this is not going to turn out to be a simple head-bashing. That advocate likes little girls, doesn’t he?’
‘So they say. There’s no reason though to suppose his brother shared that taste. Certainly not if Madame Bouillou is anything to go by.’
‘Never said there was.’
Moncerre laid his finger along his nose.
‘But a bit of leverage, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Apply as much leverage as you care to,’ Lannes said, knowing that Moncerre would take pleasure in doing so.
V
The judge appointed to supervise the investigation was new. Old Rougerie had been retired, or chosen to withdraw. Lannes didn’t know which. He hadn’t been sorry to see the old fusspot go. Nevertheless there had been this in his favour. You could always bamboozle or scare him; he hadn’t been very bright and he was terrified of responsibility. The new man was more formidable, had come straight from Paris, and to make matters worse was several years younger than Lannes, maybe as much as ten. He wore a double-breasted suit in a harsh shade of blue. There was a gold watch on his wrist. He was tall and thin and his black shoes were highly polished. For a moment Lannes couldn’t remember his name, which was Bracal. The first time they met, three weeks ago, he had begun by saying, ‘I’m a good republican but we are where we are.’ Lannes hadn’t known what to make of that. Was it some sort of test? He had let it pass without comment anyway.
Now Bracal said, ‘I could offer you coffee, but I wouldn’t advise you to drink it.’
‘In that case, no thank you.’
‘So what do you know? Have you a suspect?’
‘No suspect and we know very little. We have a name. Labiche. Professor Aristide Labiche. He used to be a resident of Bordeaux but we think he hasn’t lived here for some time and has perhaps only recently returned. He has a brother. You’ll know of him perhaps. An advocate. One of my men has gone to interview him, but I don’t think they were close.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Politics,’ Lannes said. ’The professor was apparently a man of the Left, a card-carrying Communist.’
The judge began to file his nails.
‘Not a very prominent one,’ he said, ‘He took to journalism, didn’t he? I rather think I’ve read some of his articles. Turgid stuff, no flair.’
Lannes let that pass.
Bracal said: ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll keep me informed. There’s another matter.’
He kept his eyes fixed on the nail he was filing. Lannes waited. He wasn’t going to help the man who seemingly preferred not to look him in the eye. The silence prolonged itself, broken only by the sound of the wind in the upper branches of the trees in the square.
‘You had a visitor recently,’ Bracal said. ‘A visitor who had no authority to be here in Bordeaux.’
Lannes again made no reply.
‘I’d be grateful,’ – the judge laid stress on the word – ‘if you would co-operate with him. We must all do our best in these difficult times.’
‘I won’t pretend I don’t know of whom you’re speaking,’ Lannes said. ‘But he gave me so little information I wasn’t prepared to – what did you say? – co-operate. As you say. These are difficult times and one can’t be too careful. A name – Félix – which certainly isn’t his own – isn’t enough to win my confidence . . . ’
‘You are wise to be cautious, superintendent. Nevertheless . . . he belongs to Travaux Rurales. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Rural works? Nothing at all.’
‘He’ll be in touch with you again and your co-operation will be appreciated. That’s all for now. You’ll keep me posted about the results of your investigation. Robbery with violence might be the best solution, don’t you think?’
‘Bracal?’ Schnyder said.
‘Yes.’
The commissaire rolled a cigar round between his thumb and forefinger.
‘Our friend Schussmann gave me a box of these when he returned from his leave,’ he said. ‘They’re German. Between you and me the Boches don’t make good-quality cigars. Kind of him all the same. Just to show you collaboration isn’t a one-way street, he said. He’s not a fool, you know. I’m pretty sure he’s not even a Nazi. Bracal now, he’s a dark horse in my opinion. Vichy sends him here. So they must think well of him. But I don’t know how well he thinks of Vichy.’
‘Ah,’ Lannes said. ‘I wondered. And then I wondered again.’
‘Who was the chap in the Bible who walked warily in the sight of the Lord?’
‘Agag, as far as I remember.’
‘Agag. You’re well up in the scriptures. You’re not a Protestant, are you?’
‘I’m nothing,’ Lannes said.
‘Good. Best thing to be. Keep it that way if I were you.’
He hadn’t been open with Bracal. Whoever Félix might be, Lannes knew very well that ‘Travaux Rurales’ was the designation of one branch of the Secret Services; a thin disguise indeed, doubtless penetrated by the Germans. He wanted nothing to do with them. Any decent policeman distrusted the spooks, disliked them too on account of their readiness to step outside the confines of law. It was true of course he had done that himself, on occasion. There was scarcely a senior policeman who hadn’t. But exceptionally, only exceptionally, not as a matter of course. The spooks had no hesitation in using the innocent, as Félix intended to use Léon; with no thought of the consequences for the boy. Lannes smacked his blackthorn against the trunk of a plane tree in his irritation.
Miriam was behind the counter of the tabac.
‘Stranger,’ she said.
‘I can’t trust myself to come here too often,’ he said, and was surprised to see her blush at what he intended as levity.
‘Go through to the back room. I’ll close up and join you.’
She brought him coffee and a nip of marc.
‘You look tired.’
‘So do you.’
‘We’re all tired,’ she said, ‘tired of this war which isn’t being fought and tired of the conditions of this peace which isn’t peace.’
Lannes knew what he had come to say, reluctantly, because it was bound to alarm her.
‘You haven’t been bothered, haven’t had unwelcome visitors?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘No, of course you don’t. I’ve had such a visitor. It makes me uneasy. Since I don’t know what to do, I was going to say nothing. But . . . I think you should know. There’s a German officer I have to deal with, quite a decent type as it happens, who has taken a fancy to Léon. Well, that’s natural enough, he’s an attractive boy and an intelligent one. But it’s been remarked on. There are people who want to use Léon to compromise the German. Do you see?’
‘Oh yes, I see and I understand.’
‘I don’t like it. It puts the boy in danger. I’ve spoken to him and warned him. I think you should do so too.’
Moncerre was in the inspectors’ room, paring his nails, when Lannes returned to the office.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that bastard was no help, no help at all. “So my brother’s dead,” says he, “murdered, you say. I can be of no assistance to you. We haven’t spoken to each other for a dozen years. It’s news to me that he had returned to Bordeaux. Why he should have done so is no concern of mine. Good day to you.” And that was it.’
‘You believed him?’
‘Of course I didn’t. He’s a twister, that’s obvious. I tried to press him. “Surely you must have some information?” “None at all,” says he, “his death is a matter of complete indifference to me. As far as I am concerned he’d been dead fo
r years.” I asked him if it was on account of politics that they had fallen out. “None of your business,” he said, “and none of Superintendent Lannes’ either.” He stinks, but I suspect he may have been telling the truth. It’s clear anyway that he doesn’t give a damn about his brother’s murder. Frankly I don’t think we are going to get anywhere, and I have to say that I don’t know that it matters. That’s how browned off I am.’
Lannes usually enjoyed Moncerre’s spurts of irritation, but this one depressed him. It wasn’t like the bull-terrier – as they called Moncerre – to relax his grip on a case, not even, it seemed, to have applied the leverage of which they had spoken. And to hear him say that it didn’t matter whether they found the old professor’s killer or not, that was somehow symptomatic of the mood of demoralisation which had led so many to acquiesce in the extinction of the Republic and to accept the aged Marshal as their guardian, if not indeed as their saviour. That he should have accepted the advocate’s refusal to interest himself in his brother’s murder, and by his own account done so without demur – well, it didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Let’s be honest,’ Moncerre said, ‘we’ve nothing to go on. Young René’s been through all the hotel fiches and there’s no record of our professor. Of course, as the lad says, he may have had false papers and another name, but that doesn’t help us. We’re stuck.’
‘Agreed,’ Lannes said. ‘So we must find out more about him.’
It was something he had learned early. In any but the simplest of murders, it was knowledge of the victim that turned the key.
‘What of the daughter?’ he said.
‘Denied all knowledge of her, hadn’t seen her for years.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘Not particularly, but, short of twisting his arm or beating him up, what could I do? He did say she wasn’t married, or he believed she wasn’t, but that was all, he shut up like a clam, except that he smiled, clearly taking pleasure in denying me any information. A bastard, as you said. It was all a waste of time.’
VI
The German officer was leaving the bookshop as Alain arrived. Indeed they almost collided in the doorway. Amazingly he apologised and then stood aside to let Alain enter. It had been raining and Alain took off his coat and shook it. The lock of hair that fell over his left eye dripped water down his cheek.
‘That chap again,’ he said, ‘did he buy anything this time?’
‘Not today,’ Léon said, ‘though he sometimes does. He’s very keen on what he calls “good French literature”.’
‘Only on that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing really. It’s just suspicious the way he’s always hanging around.’
‘I think he’s just bored.’
‘I suppose a lot of them are. There’s a young officer who is billeted on a family in our building. He’s quite a decent fellow really. My brother has long conversations with him on the staircase.’
‘How is your brother?’
‘He’s all right. We don’t agree, however.’
‘What about?’
‘Things. Politics. He believes in Vichy’s claptrap, the National Revolution and all that. He says we must take this opportunity to effect a moral regeneration of France. It’s all nonsense. He talks about the iniquity of the money power and Jewish capitalism.’
‘I’m a Jew,’ Léon said, ‘remember. I don’t notice myself having much money, let alone money power.’
‘And yet the strange thing is that Dominique’s nature is sweet, much sweeter than mine.’
‘I’ll make some coffee.’
From the back room he watched Alain as he waited for the water to boil in the Neapolitan coffee-pot. His friend was frowning; he thought, he’s really disturbed by this quarrel with his brother, that’s why he’s come here today. Nobody means more to me and yet every time I see him I feel more alone. He thought of how Schussmann had run his finger along the line of his jaw, and told him again, in German, that he had beautiful eyes, and had said, “You really are such a charming boy, I do wish you would consent to have dinner with me one evening.” More, surely, was implied in that choice of verb, consent. I can’t have what I want and I am being pressed to have what I don’t want. And then he thought of the warning the superintendent had given him and felt uneasy, even afraid. A net was closing around him.
‘What’s this you’ve been writing?’
‘It’s a story. Don’t read it, please, not in its present state, or I’m afraid I’ll never finish it.’
Don’t read it at all, he thought, it’s too revealing.
He brought the coffee through, lit a cigarette, and, taking it from his lips, handed it to Alain. It was as close as he dared come to intimacy. He lit another for himself, and said, ‘Henri has an old duplicating machine. I found it in the store-room. It hasn’t been used for years, I should think. I thought we might . . . ’ ‘Might what?’
‘Do something with it. It’s the only resistance possible just now.’
VII
The old man who looked like a colonel but had been a professor of literature was playing chess with his grandson, Michel, when the maid showed Lannes into the study.
‘I apologise for calling on you unannounced,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry to interrupt your game. Pray continue, I’m happy to wait.’
‘Not at all,’ the professor said. ‘One of the beauties of chess is that one can lay the board aside and resume at the same point whenever one wishes.’
The boy turned in his chair and looked at Lannes, then got to his feet and made to leave the room. Was there suspicion in his gaze? Or animosity?
Lannes said, ‘There’s no call to go on my account. There’s nothing confidential in what I’ve come to ask your grandfather. By the way, is your friend Sigi – Monsieur de Grimaud – still in Bordeaux?’
The boy flushed.
‘I believe not,’ he said. ‘He was summoned to Vichy on business and hasn’t returned, as far as I know.’
He leaned over and kissed his grandfather on the cheek.
‘I think I resign anyway,’ he said, ‘You would have had me mate in three moves, wouldn’t you? And I have this meeting. So I must go anyway. It’s all right, Grandpa, I won’t forget the curfew and I’ll be back in time for supper.’
He inclined his head to Lannes.
‘Superintendent,’ he said, and hurried, awkwardly, from the room.
‘He’s a good boy,’ the professor said, ‘but he worries me. These political enthusiasms. Ill-judged and therefore dangerous. And he is devoted to the man Sigi, who is, as you told me, a criminal.’
‘But one with friends in high places.’
‘So much the worse, I fear, in the long run.’
The old man took a cigar from the box on the table by his side, saying, ‘You prefer cigarettes, as I remember.’ He rolled it in his fingers, snipped the end off, and put a match to it.
‘I’m grateful to you, superintendent,’ he said. ‘There has been no more trouble regarding my granddaughter. The warning you gave the Comte de Grimaud seems to have been effective. So I assume it’s some other matter that brings you here.’
The maid came in with tea and petits-fours. Lannes waited till she had left the room, and said, ‘I’ve a corpse on my hands. A retired professor. Of history, I believe. I hoped you might have known him and may be able to tell me something about him. At present I’m at a loss. Not many professors get murdered after all. Labiche was his name.’
‘Aristide?’
‘Yes. You did know him then?’
‘Years ago. He gave up his chair. For journalism. To tell the truth I rather think he was happy to do so. Why should anyone kill poor Aristide? An inoffensive person.’
‘A Communist, I’ve been told.’
‘Certainly. But that’s no reason to murder anyone. Or wasn’t, I suppose. How was he killed, if I may ask?’
‘Hit on the head, and the body left in the bushes in the public garden
, not two hundred metres from here.’
‘So . . . A robbery with violence perhaps?’
‘Perhaps, it’s an obvious explanation, but there are reasons why it doesn’t satisfy me.’
The old man drew on his cigar and closed his eyes. Then he pulled the Paisley shawl more tightly around his shoulders. Lannes sipped his tea which was scented with bergamot. He felt tired and would have been content for the silence to prolong itself companionably. The rising wind threw rain against the shutters. The black-and-white fox-terrier came and settled on the old man’s slippered feet. Wouldn’t it be simpler, Lannes thought, to accept that explanation – robbery with violence – and be done with the case? Was it only obstinacy that prevented him from doing so?
‘You’ll know his brother, the advocate,’ the professor said.
‘Yes, he has been no help at all. Says he hasn’t been on terms with his brother for a dozen years, even denies knowing the married name of Professor Labiche’s daughter, which I find hard to believe.’
‘There I can help you. He’s lying, of course. She’s quite a distinguished person, famous indeed. You will certainly know of her, superintendent, as the actress Adrienne Jauzion. I don’t believe she has ever married – Jauzion was her mother’s name. She excels in romantic comedy, but fails in tragedy. Hasn’t the voice for Racine. A matter of breath control, perhaps. That’s only my opinion, you understand. Not that this can be of any significance to you.’
VIII
‘The fair Adrienne,’ Moncerre said. ‘That complicates things, doesn’t it?’
‘You think so?’
‘Seeing as the Alsatian has been chasing her tail and may have caught it for all we know, I should say it does. What’ll you tell him?’
‘Nothing. It’s not as if she’s a suspect. That would be ridiculous.’
‘All the same, he won’t be happy. He’ll think you’re hassling his girlfriend, interfering in his private life . . . ’ ‘But that’s precisely what it is, private. You and I know nothing of his relations with La Jauzion. He’s never spoken of them, has he? To either of us? So we know nothing.’
