by Allan Massie
Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork: an afternoon of the utmost tedium lay before him. Perhaps that was what he needed, the reassurance that he was only a functionary. If only he could believe that, could be content to go through the motions! But he was weighed down by responsibilities, oppressed by perplexities. And everything was going to get worse. That was his one certainty. Nevertheless he settled at his desk, reading, annotating, ticking, signing his name, going through the motions as if any of it mattered, profoundly bored, but finding that the routine of bureaucratic duty was indeed a sort of soporific.
Old Joseph interrupted him: the Alsatian would like to see him.
Schnyder was at his window gazing out on the square. His desk was clear, uncluttered by papers. Lannes had the impression, doubtless mistaken, that his chief had had nothing to do all day, and was only waiting for the hour when he could decently leave the office, perhaps even to call on La Jauzion.
‘Are you still working on the Labiche case? You got nothing from the daughter, did you? So can we write it off?’
‘That’s what everyone seems to want,’ Lannes said, ‘but I can’t oblige. We’re making progress. Or perhaps we are.’
He brought Schnyder up to date, briefly recounting the visit to the Pension Bernadotte.
‘Young René Martin’s done good work,’ he said.
‘Well, I suppose you’d better carry on. But it’s something else. I’ve had a visitor, not the kind I like. He was inquiring about that Chambolley case which I thought we’d agreed was dead and buried.
I told him it had been your business. So he wants to see you. When I say I had a visitor, I don’t mean here. He preferred to meet me out of the office, summoned me really. What does that say to you?’
‘Nothing good.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ve arranged for you to meet him. In an hour’s time. In the public garden, he’ll be on a bench by the statue of Montaigne, and he’ll have a copy of his essays. They’re so childish, the spooks. I hope you can get rid of him without any trouble. That’s the last thing we want.’
‘Very well,’ Lannes said, ‘I suppose I’ve no choice. By the way, I’ve put out a request for your cigars.’
‘Kind of you.’
‘My contact thinks he can get them. May take a week or two.’
‘Good, these German ones are really no pleasure to smoke.’
The man on the bench was wearing a dark suit and an Italian straw hat. He got up to shake Lannes’ hand and then motioned him to share his bench.
‘I’m told you’re honest,’ he said.
Lannes made no reply.
‘Cards on the table. My bosses would prefer that I don’t give you my name, but I think they’re wrong. If we’re to work together . . . ’
‘Are we?’
‘I hope so. Lionel Villepreux of the Bureau des Menées Antinationalistes. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘The Bureau does, but . . . ’ ‘You mean anyone might make that claim?’
Lannes lit a cigarette and waited.
‘Of course they could, but for the moment you’ll have to take my word for it. It can’t surprise you that I don’t carry identification. If I did we wouldn’t be meeting here, but in your office. Last autumn you made a visit to Vichy, which is unusual and which was probably, given our circumstances, unauthorised. Not that that matters to me. You saw Edmond de Grimaud and had a long conversation with him in the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. Subsequently he arranged for your son Dominique to be repatriated from his prisoner-of-war camp. Correct?’
‘Yes. You’re well informed.’
Villepreux – if this was indeed his name – took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and filled a pipe, pressing the tobacco down hard, with his thumb, lit it with a wax match and emitted a couple of puffs.
‘A pipe’s reassuring, isn’t it? You can trust a man who smokes a pipe. That’s why I prefer it. What did you give de Grimaud in return? A promise to close down the Chambolley case, wasn’t it?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I don’t care about that. The Chambolley case doesn’t interest us, not directly. Beautiful these gardens, aren’t they? So peaceful. You wouldn’t think there was a war on. Not of course that there is, just now. Do you think that will last?’
Villepreux took off his hat and fanned his face. His fair hair was thinning. He had a Norman accent and a big mottled nose. His eyes were a very pale blue.
‘Unwilling to commit yourself?’ he said. ‘I like that. I do indeed.
It’s a rash man who is ready with an opinion these days. So anyway I don’t need to know what you think, but I tell you this. Things aren’t going to continue the way they are. We must prepare for a change. Vichy won’t last for ever. Will it now?’
‘If you say so.’
‘France has lost a battle. France has not lost the war. You know whose opinion that is, don’t you? The general who is currently in London. Do you think he’s right?’
‘You don’t want my opinion,’ Lannes said. ‘Tell me instead what you do want.’
‘Cards on the table, eh? Even if you choose to keep yours close to your chest. Fair enough, I like a careful man. Bureau des Menées Antinationalistes, that’s who we are, like I say. But there’s more than one interpretation of what might constitute anti-national goings-on, plots or machinations. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘There’s more than one interpretation of most things,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ll grant you that. But the wind’s blowing from Vichy.’
‘Quite so. But winds change, don’t they? That’s the thing about the wind, it only blows for a certain time from the same direction. Your friend, Edmond de Grimaud now – is he your friend, by the way, or merely someone you’ve found useful? No, don’t bother to answer. He’s sitting pretty at the moment – as long as the wind doesn’t shift. But, you see, if it does – I won’t say “when” – there are questions that will be asked about his activities before the war as well as now. And they may not be questions he can answer with any comfort. You see what I mean? We’ve quite a dossier on Monsieur de Grimaud.’
‘I suppose you’ve a dossier on many people . Even one on me doubtless.’
‘Certainly on you, superintendent. I have you marked as a good Republican. Not like your friend – if he is indeed a friend – Monsieur de Grimaud. Your Chambolley case turned out to be somewhat different from what it seemed. Isn’t that so? And now I’m told you have another murder on your hands.’
Lannes looked towards the bushes where the professor’s body had been found. Two children, boy and girl, were playing ball with a ginger-coloured terrier which was in a state of high excitement.
When it succeeded in catching the ball, the boy, who wore a sailor-suit, threw himself on the dog and persuaded it to release its trophy while it responded with mock growls which the child did not take seriously. The children’s mother sat knitting on a nearby bench, and now looked up to smile at them.
‘There’s no connection,’ Lannes said. ‘Murder comes my way, from time to time. As you might suppose.’
‘But if you were to discover a connection, would you feel obliged to report that to Monsieur de Grimaud?’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Villepreux put another match to his pipe and said: ‘Naturally you are wise to have a friend at Vichy. We all have friends at Vichy. Even the general who is now in London has friends at Vichy. But friendships can be dangerous. And you would be wise to have friends also who are – how shall I put it? – not perhaps entirely of Vichy. You follow?’
‘I understand what you’re saying.’
The little dog had seized the ball again and this time disappeared with it into the bushes, followed by the boy calling out its name.
‘Cards on the table,’ Villepreux said again. ‘I’ll be frank with you. Before the war Monsieur de Grimaud paid several visits to Berlin. He was friendly with Admiral Canaris of the Abwehr. You know what that is, of course – M
ilitary Intelligence. Well, that’s the sort of thing that interests me, do you see? Canaris is an interesting case himself – a German patriot who doesn’t, we believe, love the Nazis as they think they should be loved. All the same, when a French politician who is also the proprietor and editor of an influential review has relations with a man like Canaris, questions are bound to be asked by people like me.’
‘People like you,’ Lannes said, ‘but I don’t see that this is any concern of mine. I’m a cop, not a spook.’
‘But a patriot?’
‘Whatever that means today. Like you I’m a servant of the Republic.’
‘Quite so,’ Villepreux said, ‘even if we are no longer supposed to speak of the Republic but only of the French State. And Edmond de Grimaud is a pillar of that State who has close German friends. I need more for my dossier, superintendent, and I trust you to help me. Who knows? If you do so you might solve both your cases. I’ll be in touch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think my sister is ready to take the children home. And that tiresome little dog.’
So that’s your cover, your excuse for being here in Bordeaux, Lannes thought, damn you. He watched Villepreux approach the woman he said was his sister. The little boy ran up to him and clasped his hands round his knees. Villepreux swung him up and round and on to his shoulders and the boy crowed with pleasure. The family party moved slowly away. The little dog now trotted at his mistress’s heels accepting that playtime was over. Lannes watched them drift out of sight. Out of sight wouldn’t be out of mind, unfortunately. Should he pass on a report of this conversation to Edmond? Was that part of the agreement he had reluctantly made with him, inasmuch as there was any agreement? No reason to do so. Besides, if the Bureau was interested in Edmond’s activities before the war, there wouldn’t be much he could do about that. Except cover up; you could always try to cover things up. It was the one thing at which the political class really excelled.
He would go home, perhaps stopping for a drink on the way. A glass of beer on an early summer afternoon. But home too was uninviting. It was a long time since he had been able to shelve his guilt opening the apartment door.
Crossing the Place de l’Ancienne Comédie, he saw Clothilde. She was sitting at a café table with the young German lieutenant billeted on their neighbours. For an instant they caught each other’s eye, then, simultaneously, both looked away in denial.
XVI
Léon slipped the duplicated sheets into his satchel and called up the stairs to Henri to say that he was closing the shop and going home. He checked both ways to make sure the street was empty before locking the door. It was a week since his humiliation, and in that time Schussmann had not visited the shop and there had been no sign of the man who called himself Félix. Perhaps Schussmann had been transferred from Bordeaux, and he would be safe. But he couldn’t persuade himself that this was so. Fear had laid a frost-chilled hand on him. Two or three times he had resolved to speak to Alain’s father, but his nerve failed. If he had come to the shop, even if to call on Henri, he might have dared to blurt it out. Not all of it, certainly; he would never surely be able to speak of the worst, of the shame.
The terrace of the Café Régent in the Place Gambetta was crowded. Two tables were occupied by German officers drinking beer. The prosperous Bordelais acted as if their presence was normal, as if they had accommodated themselves comfortably to the presence of the Occupiers. Léon entered the café and was relieved to find Alain already there, alone at a table at the back of the room. He was reading a book. So Léon was able to watch him for a moment unobserved. He wasn’t sure he could trust his voice.
If Alain knew what he must never know, would he despise him or be indignant on his behalf? Either would be intolerable. Either would reduce him to tears. He swallowed twice and approached the table. Alain looked up and smiled.
‘I couldn’t sit outside,’ he said, ‘watching the Boches drink beer as if they were in Bavaria. Are you all right? You don’t look all right.’
Léon sat down.
‘Seeing them made me nervous,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
Alain closed his book. ‘Kafka,’ he said. ‘Appropriate, don’t you think? “Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K because without having done anything wrong he was arrested one morning.” That’s the first sentence, you know. It’s the way things are now, isn’t it? You’ve brought the stuff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Give me one. I’ll leave it in the toilet. I brought some drawing-pins.’ When he returned, he said, ‘That’s a start. It looks good. But we shouldn’t hang around.’
When they came out into the square, Alain said, ‘I’d have liked to watch people going in and out and see the expression on their faces, but . . . ’ ‘But it’s a luxury we have to deny ourselves.’
‘Exactly. Come, we’re going to meet a couple of mates from school who’ve agreed to help.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘We can’t do it all ourselves and they’re good mates. Of course they know nothing about the production side. It’s better they don’t. We’re meeting them at the railway station. It’s a place where nobody knows us, where it’s natural to meet by chance.’
The two boys were waiting at the station entrance as if on the lookout for girls. Alain clapped one on the back and said, ‘This way.’ He led them through side-streets and down to the quai, without saying anything. The quai was deserted. Alain heaved himself up on to the parapet and sat there swinging his legs.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘introductions. This is Athos,’ he said, indicating Léon. ‘And this is Porthos and this is Aramis.’
‘And you’re d’Artagnan, I suppose,’ said the large solid youth he had called Porthos.
‘What’s the point of this?’ Aramis said. He was a slim fair-haired boy with a sulky mouth. ‘We know each other.’
‘You don’t know Athos,’ Alain said, ‘and you don’t need to know him as anything but Athos. He’s the brains of our network.’
‘Network?’ Porthos said.
‘That’s what it’s going to be. When you find a new recruit, you give him a false name. That way, if we are taken, we don’t know his real name and he doesn’t know ours and so neither can give the other away.’
‘But we know each other by our real names,’ Aramis said.
‘That’s unavoidable. We have to start this way, but from now on, we know each other only as the musketeers, and I’m our only link in common.’
Léon gave them each a leaflet to read. They expressed approval; ‘This is incendiary,’ Aramis said. Léon blushed with pleasure and handed each a sheaf.
Alain said, ‘Never put them up where you can be seen. Always post them where they will be seen. This is just a start. We have to encourage people to see that things don’t have to be the way they are. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘And remember this isn’t a game. It’s dangerous. We’re still in the war, or rather we’re renewing it. We’ll meet tomorrow to see how it’s gone. The municipal swimming-pool would be a good place. Four o’clock?’
As they were about to part, Aramis turned to Léon.
‘I’ve seen you before, Athos, but I don’t remember where.’
‘It’s better that way,’ Léon said.
When the others had left, he said,
‘I’m going to make a drawing of the Cross of Lorraine and duplicate it. Then we can just scatter it around to show that de Gaulle has supporters here in Bordeaux.’
‘Great idea.’
‘Tell me about Aramis. He thinks he knows me from somewhere, but I don’t recognise him.’
‘Doesn’t matter, but, as you said, keep it that way. Now let’s start our own distribution. It feels good to be doing something, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Léon said, ‘as long as all four of us remember to be careful.’
‘Are you afraid, Léon?’
Léon lifted his gaze to look his friend in the eye.
‘Yes,�
� he said. ‘I admit I am.’
‘Good,’ Alain said. ‘So am I. Fear makes you cautious, which is what we have to be.’
XVII
Lannes remembered how most mornings when he was a boy his mother had had to call him several times to get up and ready for school. Occasionally she had stripped the bedclothes off and even given him a smack on his thigh to wake him up properly. Now, sleep deserted him long before the early summer dawn and he slipped out of bed quietly so as not to wake Marguerite. He put on a dressing-gown. In the kitchen he filled the coffee-pot and set it on the stove. His clothes were over the back of a chair; he had taken to undressing there in order not to disturb his wife. It was a long time since they had made love. Perhaps they would never do so again. There must be many marriages like theirs in France now where nothing was said because what might be said was painful or frightening. Their last time of real intimacy had been in the weeks when he was recovering after being discharged from hospital following the shooting outside the Hôtel Splendide. Even Dominique’s return had only brought them together again for a few days. Perhaps if he had explained his role in securing it, things might have been different, but he could not claim credit for the shameful deal he had made with Edmond de Grimaud. And now he was perplexed by his conversation with the spook which meant he must choose one betrayal or another.
The coffee was sour. In the years of peace he had learned to prefer coffee without sugar, but this ersatz stuff, more chicory than coffee and God knows what else, needed sweetening, even though the sugar ration was small. Another compromise; he restricted himself to the shallowest of spoonfuls, and lit his first cigarette of the day. He opened the window and leaned out to savour the cool clear air of early morning, and to watch the swallows, martins and swifts swooping and diving like demented acrobats. He surprised himself in a moment of happiness. Usually he shaved in the kitchen, in cold water. Today he would stop at the barber’s on his way to the office. He dressed and drank another cup of the vile coffee which this time he improved with a slug of marc.
