by Allan Massie
‘You’re tired of me. That’s what it is. I’m too young for you.’
‘Well, of course you are, but, since that’s one of the reasons I love you, it’s not why we must break this off.’
When at last she had persuaded Alain to leave, she smoothed the front of her dress with her hands and thought, ‘Well, that’s done, at least it’s done.’ There was more that she might have said and couldn’t. Shouldn’t too, come to that. Truth and plain-speaking were to be avoided. If she had told him how the advocate Labiche, whom she had always found repulsive, had come to the shop and informed her, with that air of triumph, that he had been made a member of the new Institut des Questions Juives, and that her friendship with Superintendent Lannes could now avail her nothing – if she had said all that, then Alain would have been still more defiant. He was a chivalrous boy, she knew that, it was one of the things she loved in him. ‘Am I expected to congratulate you?’ she had asked the advocate. ‘Oh I don’t look for congratulations from anyone of your race,’ he had smirked, ‘it’s a warning I am giving you.’ It wasn’t a warning at all of course, rather a display of power. Well, she had taken one other necessary step, and perhaps shouldn’t have delayed so long in doing so. She had gone straight to Henri in his bookshop and accepted the offer he had made months ago to have the tabac and its licence transferred to his name. You may be safer as an employee, nominally that is, he had said. She didn’t know if it was true. Really she couldn’t believe it was. There was no promise of safety that could be kept. She was all but sure of that. If her husband, the old count, had still been alive, perhaps the title, Madame la Comtesse, might have served as some protection. And the old man had influential friends, wicked old thing that he was.
It was a fine evening. She took a chair out on to the pavement to enjoy the spring weather. In times like these, you should snatch what small innocent pleasures remain. A band was playing in the Place Gambetta and there was sadness in the music. She turned the wedding ring on her finger. Her neighbour, Madame Clouzot, brought a chair out and sat beside her.
‘There are times when you can forget it all,’ she said, ‘but the truth is, Miriam, I can’t see an end to it. It’s a long time since we played together as children, but I often find myself thinking of those days now. We didn’t know how lucky we were to be happy. That’s what I say.’
‘Have you news of Jean-Pierre?’ – her son who was a prisoner-of-war somewhere in Germany.
‘A postcard saying he’s working on a farm. I don’t know what he’ll make of that, he was never the outdoor type. I’m knitting him these socks, he was always an awful boy for wearing them out.’
Her needles worked rapidly, with assurance.
XIV
When he had good news young René Martin looked like a schoolboy who had just passed his exams or kissed his first girl.
‘It’s a pension in the rue Xantrailles,’ he said, ‘a few doors as it happens along from the house where the Catalan was murdered. There’s no doubt in the proprietor’s mind that it was our man. He recognised him when I showed him the photograph, though at first he pretended not to. But I could tell he was lying and eventually he gave way and admitted he had had a room there, then left without warning.’
‘What about his bill?’ Lannes said.
‘Well, that’s the interesting thing. A couple of days ago someone came to settle it and collect his luggage – not that there was much of that, apparently. It’s odd, don’t you think?’
‘You’ve done well,’ Lannes said, and young Martin blushed, a reaction to praise he couldn’t rid himself of, so that once again he seemed too young to be in the police force.
Lannes motioned to him to sit down.
‘It almost certainly rules out our robbery gone wrong,’ he said.
‘It seems that the dead man had a Swiss passport, with another name – Braun it was – which is of course why we didn’t find his name on the hotel fiche.’
‘Did you get a description of the man who paid the bill?’
‘Yes, I did, but it’s not a very precise one. I really think, sir, you should come and speak to the proprietor yourself, Mangeot’s his name. I’m sure you would get more out of him than I did.’
‘Seems to me, you’ve got quite a lot. Enough certainly to enable us to keep the case alive.’
The Pension Bernadotte was on the corner of the street, two floors up, according to the imitation-marble plaque on the wall. There was a bar on the ground floor and, above it, the offices of a company with a Jewish name; its windows were boarded up. Lannes and young Martin went up the narrow stairs – there was no lift – and found the reception desk deserted. There was a bell on the counter and Lannes pressed down hard on it; the ringing was faint. Eventually a small man with a moustache that was as white and assertive as the Marshal’s emerged from a back room, hooking one strap of his braces over his shoulder. The look he gave young Martin was heavy with resentment.
‘I should have known better than to talk to you,’ he said. ‘That’s what the wife said and for once she was right. And now you’ve gone and interrupted my lie-down, which I need at my age, and you’ve brought your boss, as I suppose this gentleman is, which is also something I could do without. I’ve told this young fellow all I know,’ he said, turning to Lannes, ‘and if he don’t remember it but needs it repeated, well, that’s how it is, but don’t think I’ve more to relate because I don’t.’
Lannes took a packet of Gauloises from his pocket, thumbed out a cigarette and offered it to the little man. It was accepted without a word. Lannes lit it and one for himself, then gestured across the little hallway to a sofa and chairs that stood behind a low table.
‘We’ll be more comfortable sitting down,’ he said. ‘You’ve a bit more to tell us, you know.’
‘Nothing I haven’t said to the young fellow.’
‘Nevertheless, Monsieur Mangeot, we’ll take a seat.’
‘If you say so, if you say so . . . ’ The little man dipped into a cupboard below the desk and brought out two bottles of beer. He unclipped the tops and offered one to Lannes.
‘A drop of wet won’t come amiss, friendly-like,’ he said, coming out from behind the desk and taking one of the chairs. He sat on its edge, took a swig of beer and placed the bottle on the table and the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
‘I’ve never had trouble with the police,’ he said. ‘I run a decent establishment, which is why it disturbed me to see you, not forgetting that I’m never at my best if my kip is broken. So you’ll pardon me if I seemed unfriendly. What I will say is that my fiches are always in order and delivered on time to your colleagues. They’ll confirm that, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t doubt that they will. Now my inspector here tells me that Mr Braun was travelling on a Swiss passport . . . ’ ‘Nothing amiss with that, is there? The Swiss are neutrals, welcome everywhere, aren’t they? And it was Doktor Braun. Herr Doktor Braun.’
‘So he was Swiss-German then.’
‘As I supposed, though he spoke French very well.’
‘Any accent?’
‘Well, now, since you ask, superintendent, that’s the funny thing. If I’d met him, just casually, you know, I’d have said he was a born-and-bred Bordelais.’
‘Which, as it happens, he was,’ Lannes said, ‘and this didn’t make you suspicious?’
‘Why should it? None of my business. He said he was Swiss, his papers and passport said he was Swiss. Why should I question it?’
‘And the passport?’ Lannes said.
‘What do you think? I handed it over with the rest of his stuff. No reason not to, was there? He was entitled.’
‘Ah yes, your mysterious visitor.’
‘Nothing mysterious about him, not to my mind. He had authorisation for collecting the stuff, showed me a lawyer’s letter. So I’d no reason not to hand it over to him and no reason at all to hold on to it. I was glad enough to be rid of it, that’s all. And to have the bill paid.’
&nb
sp; ‘A lawyer’s letter?’ Lannes said. ‘Can you remember the lawyer’s name?’
‘No, I can’t and it’s no use pressing me. It was no concern of mine, see.’
He picked up his beer bottle again and turned it round in his hands.
‘And the man who handed it over. The description you gave my inspector was vague. I’d like you to be more precise.’
‘If it was vague, it’s because he made no impression on me. Young chap, in a suit, fair hair, what they call nicely spoken, bit prissy in my opinion, but that’s all I can tell you.’
Voices came from along the corridor. A woman calling ‘au ’voir‘ and adding, ‘any time you want, darling, I’m always up for it.’
A door closed and a young blond German soldier came into sight, buttoning his tunic. He passed them without a look or word, a touch hurriedly, and descended the stairs.
‘So you keep a decent establishment, Monsieur Mangeot,’ Lannes said. ‘Who’s the lady? A professional? Maybe the Vice Squad would be interested. What do you think, René?’
‘Looks as if they might, chief.’
‘Or perhaps you may remember a bit more, Monsieur Mangeot. For instance, did Doktor Braun have any visitors?’
Mangeot took a grubby handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed his forehead.
‘There’s no need to talk of the Vice Squad, superintendent. Like I say, I keep a respectable house, and if that girl chooses to have a friend in her room, it’s no concern of mine, is it? I’m not the Gestapo, am I? And as for Doktor Braun, there was nothing of that sort with him. Very quiet gentleman. Kept himself to himself. Respectable, like I said. Never thought he would cause me this sort of trouble. All the same, now you mention it, I do recall one visitor. It was a couple of days before he, well, disappeared. A Spanish gentleman, I think it was. Tall, dark fellow with a thin moustache. Very abrupt in his manner. Course, I don’t know what he wanted or what they talked about. As a matter of fact they went out together, not for long, maybe just down to the bar below, for all I know, but I will say this, Doktor Braun seemed a bit disturbed after. And that’s all I know or have to say.’
‘Right then,’ Lanes said. ‘Take a statement from him, René, please. Meanwhile I’ll have a word with the lady along the corridor. Which room is it?’
‘If you must, you must. I should have kept my trap shut when this young fellow showed me the photograph. But that’s my trouble, I’ve always been too obliging. The wife always tells me that, time and again. Seven, that’s where you’ll find her.’
She answered his knock immediately. Perhaps she thought it was her German returning, or old Mangeot come to demand his cut.
She was a pretty girl, not much older than Clothilde, with wavy brown hair, a lock of which fell over her forehead, brown eyes, a wide mouth and generous breasts which were disclosed by the negligée she was wearing.
‘Police judiciaire,’ Lannes said. ‘Put some more clothes on.’
‘That’s funny. Most gentlemen tell me to take them off.’
‘You surprise me,’ Lannes said, handing her a dressing-gown that was folded neatly on a chair at the end of the bed. ‘What do you charge your Boche?’
‘Who says I charge him anything? None of your business, is it? He’s a nice kid and good looking. I might even be in love with him.’
‘Might you now? Bad luck for you if you are. There’s a new term for it, you know. It’s called “horizontal collaboration”.’
‘We’re meant to collaborate, aren’t we? That’s what the Marshal says, isn’t it?’
‘So it is.’
‘Well then . . . ’ ‘What’s your name?’
‘Yvette. I’ve done nothing illegal. Got a fag?’
‘Certainly.’
He lit one for her and another for himself. She lay back on the bed, letting the dressing-gown fall away to give him a good look at her legs.
‘I’m not interested in your Boche,’ he said, ‘though for your own good – and safety – I would advise you to have done with him. The day will come when people will get rough with girls like you. You’ll be a scapegoat for their own shame, but that won’t make it easier for you.’
‘Depends, don’t it?’ she said. ‘The Boches are here and look like staying if you ask me. Besides, why shouldn’t a girl have a good time? Like I say, he’s a nice kid.’
‘You’re only a kid yourself.’
‘I’m of age. I could give you a good time too.’
She lay back with her arms folded behind her head, a smile spreading and the dressing-gown falling further away.
‘Forget it, Yvette. I’m not interested in what you have to offer.’
‘Like that, is it? One of those, are you?’
‘Don’t be silly, and rude. Doktor Braun. See anything of him?’
‘The old gentleman? That’s funny. He was just like you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. Just like you, one day when Wolfie – that’s my Boche – left he rapped on my door and tried to warn me off. Just like you, like I say.’
‘And then?’
‘Then, not just like you, I gave him a blow-job, he really wanted it badly. “So long as you don’t tell Wolfie,” I said. So?’
‘So then what?’
‘Then, nothing much. We talked a bit. He got in the way of dropping in and we talked and I gave him what he wanted. He was a nice old thing really. I was sorry when he moved out.’
‘He didn’t exactly move out,’ Lannes said. ‘You might say he was moved out. In fact he was murdered, hit on the head with a blunt instrument.’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re kidding.’
‘I’m afraid not. That’s why I’m here. I’m investigating his murder.’
‘Oh no,’ and to his surprise she began to weep, genuine tears and sobs. He thought how strange it was: Adrienne Jauzion dry-eyed and indifferent to the news of her father’s murder and this little tart in floods.
He let her have her cry out. Then she said, ‘There’s a bottle of wine in the cupboard. Give me a glass. Take one yourself.’
‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘It’s his wine. He gave me half a dozen bottles. This is the last.’
‘What did he talk about?’
‘The state of the world. The war. Communism. He went on a lot. Over my head, most of it. He wanted to educate me. That’s what he said, that it wasn’t safe being an innocent in the world today.’
‘He was right there.’
‘Not so safe for him either, from what you say.’
‘Oh I think he was quite an innocent in his way himself. Did he ever seem frightened?’
‘Only after the Spaniard came. Then he said he was going to have to disappear. Disappear again, he said. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when he left. But I did think he might have come to say good-bye . . . ’
‘He didn’t go when he meant to, of his own accord. Otherwise I daresay he wouldn’t have left without a word to you. Did you see the Spaniard?’
‘No, but he frightened him. I know that.’
‘You’ve been helpful,’ Lannes said. ‘And remember: his advice was good. Take care.’
‘That’s all right, he was a nice old boy. Can’t oblige you?’
Lannes shook his head.
‘Another time,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Whenever you’re needing.’
XV
‘The lawyer’s clerk,’ Lannes said, ‘Labiche’s young man, do you think?’
‘Seems possible,’ Moncerre said. ‘I never thought the bugger wasn’t lying to me.’
There were more Germans than French in the Brasserie Fernand where the food was still of pre-war quality and abundance, doubtless because Fernand cultivated the chiefs of the black market. Sometimes, when Marguerite complained of the difficulty of feeding the children adequately, Lannes felt guilty because he had eaten so well at lunchtime. Today’s saddle of lamb for instance – it was impossible for Marguerite to buy anything like t
hat. It had been a triumph to find a dozen eggs the other day. Lannes had eaten very little of the pipérade she had cooked. ‘The children need it more,’ he had said.
‘I’d like to shake the truth out of him,’ Moncerre said. ‘I don’t care for his sort. Pity he’s one of the Untouchables.’
‘For the time being . . . I think, though, the clerk is a job for you, René. See if you can strike up an acquaintance with him. We’ll keep this unofficial just for now.’
‘And what about the Spaniard?’ Moncerre said. ‘The description fits our old friend Sombra. Or would that be too much of a coincidence? Mind you, it fits every second goddam Spaniard too.’
‘Take his photograph to the pension and check it out,’ Lannes said. ‘And ask in the bar too. Things may be beginning to move.’
As they left the restaurant he remembered Schnyder’s request about Havanas, and drew Fernand aside. Sure, Fernand said, with a smile. It was possible. Anything was possible if you were prepared to pay.
‘It’s playtime for those who step outside the law,’ he said. ‘Must make your life more difficult, Jean.’
The sun was shining as he limped back to the office. A spring afternoon, with women in pretty frocks for the first time that year and the candles on the chestnut trees. Before the war it would have raised his spirits and he would have been happy to stop off and sit for half an hour on the terrace of a café, enjoying the scene. But now he felt only a tightening of the knot of apprehension, as if the sweetness of the day mocked its reality. A year ago, he thought, the ‘drôle de guerre’ had been exploded by the German blitzkrieg, and now they were living through a ‘drôle de paix’. Phoney war, phoney peace. But hadn’t the inter-war years been no more than that?
There had been an anonymous letter on his desk that morning. A single sentence: ‘Superintendent Lannes, don’t you want to know who your real father was?’ Madness: as if his poor pious mother would ever – could ever – have cuckolded his father? They had been as decent and loving a couple as you could imagine. It’s vicious, intended to disturb me, he thought. Only that. In any case, how could it matter? His parents were dead. His father had been his father.
