Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘I’ve duplicated lots of them,’ Léon said. ‘I’ll give you some to scatter about. But carefully.’

  ‘Carefully, of course. Actually I wanted to speak with you about Porthos. I hope he didn’t offend you. He’s a bit of an ass, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t offended but I didn’t much like him.’

  ‘Can’t say I do either, not much anyway, but he’s all right really. He’s one of Alain’s rugby-playing mates.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘Certainly not. Do I look as if I might be?’

  ‘I suppose you don’t.’

  They took their cups through to the bookshop and sat opposite each other at the table. Aramis leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hands, looking Léon in the face.

  ‘I’ve a confession,’ he said, ‘that’s the other reason I wanted to see you alone. You remember I said I thought we had met somewhere? I was wrong, but I did recognise you. My grandmother – my other one, not the one who lives in Nice – has a house in Bergerac. I often visit her there. One day she took me to see her friend Gaston – she was very fond of him – and there was a photograph of a boy on his desk. That’s how I thought we’d met. Poor Gaston, it was horrible what happened to him.’

  Léon felt himself blushing. And it was extraordinary surely that Aramis should have taken note of that photograph and remembered it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Aramis said, ‘I understand. I understand completely. My mother wanted a daughter. I’ve always done my best to oblige.’

  He brushed his hair off his brow.

  ‘You’re in love with Alain, aren’t you? There’s no need to be embarrassed. I was myself, two years ago, but it was no good.’

  ‘No, it’s no good, it’s hopeless, I know that,’ Léon said. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘The way you look at him.’

  ‘You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t. I didn’t tell him I was, so I certainly won’t say you are. It’s our secret. I often thought, if I’d been a girl instead of being girlish, he might have guessed how I felt, and even responded. But there you are, that’s life.’

  Léon thought, I could tell him about Félix and Schussmann, and my fear, and he would understand, but of course I can’t and so I won’t, and even though he would understand, he would feel obliged to tell Alain that I couldn’t be trusted even though he might not say why or how he knew.

  ‘Alain’s so innocent,’ Aramis said, ‘so single-minded. You and I know more about ourselves, because we’ve had to ask questions. That’s our penalty for being what we are and our reward and our strength too. I’ve thought a lot about it. I expect you have too. That’s because we’re outcasts. They call us inverts.’

  ‘I don’t like the word,’ Léon said. ‘But at least you’re not a Jew, Aramis.’

  He pushed a pack of Gauloises across the table.

  ‘Take one.’

  ‘Are you sure you can spare . . . ’ ‘It’s all right. My aunt keeps a tabac. So cigarettes are one thing I’m not short of.’

  Aramis took one, lit it, and, turning it round in his hand, stretched over the table and put it between Léon’s lips. Then he lit another for himself.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not a Jew. I don’t know any, not really, you’re my first Jewish friend. But I hate these laws. They’re disgusting.’

  ‘You won’t be surprised to know that I agree,’ Léon said, and remembered how he had spoken that exact sentence to Alain, months ago, perhaps the first day Alain came into the shop, and they got talking and Léon had hoped he would never leave, which was absurd.

  ‘It makes it natural for me to want to engage in resistance,’ he said. ‘I hate Vichy almost as much as I hate the Boches. Maybe I hate it even more. The Boches are at least our enemies, but Vichy just makes me sick. What about you, though? Didn’t you say your father thinks the Marshal is our saviour?’

  ‘Stepfather actually, though I call him Papa and think of him as that really, because I was only four years old when he married my mother after my real father was killed in North Africa. He was an officer in the Chasseurs d’Afrique. I suppose I would have been a disappointment to him with my pansy manners. Fortunately Gilles – that’s my stepfather – is more tolerant. He’s a novelist, not a very good one, I’m afraid, you won’t have heard of him, I’m sure. Mostly about priests who have a crisis of conscience or fear they are losing their faith. No, my whole family’s on the Right, Action Française and all that, bring back the monarchy, France needs a king, that’s how I was brought up.’

  ‘And so?’

  There was a touch of mischief or mockery in the smile Aramis offered to Léon, as if to say that these attitudes were nonsensical. Then, before he could continue, they heard footsteps on the stair and Henri came in with Toto on a lead. He was bleary eyed and unshaven.

  ‘Léon, Toto needs to go out. Would you mind taking him? I don’t feel up to facing the world outside.’

  ‘Of course,’ Léon said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Why, Jérôme – it is Jérôme, isn’t it?’ Henri said. ‘I didn’t know you two knew each other.’

  ‘We don’t really,’ Aramis said. ‘I was just browsing and we fell into conversation.’ He held up the book. ‘About this.’

  ‘Ah,’ Henri said. ‘Ah yes.’ His jowls shook. He coughed several times, rackingly, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘The lost domain, the enchanted estate, how we all dream of such a place now, long for it precisely because we know it is unattainable. And how is your mother, dear boy? Well, I hope. Please give her my best regards. Does she still read books? Not that there is much new to appeal to her. Thank you, dear boy,’ he said, handing Léon Toto’s lead. ‘Lock the door behind you, please. I’m not up to dealing with customers, especially if they should turn out to be Germans. To think how I used to love Germany and German literature. I suppose that barbarian has burned most of the books now.’

  Outside in the street, Léon said, ‘Toto doesn’t like to go far, he’s a lazy old thing. We might just go to a bar in the rue du Vieil Temple. I’m quite welcome there. Of course we don’t yet have to wear a yellow star like in Germany.’

  There were tables outside the bar. They ordered lemonade. Toto snuffled and sniffed busily around the chair-legs.

  ‘Henri’s in a bad way,’ Léon said. ‘I don’t know what I would do without him, but the only people he likes to see now are my Aunt Mirian and Alain’s father, and he spends most of the day drinking. Go on with what you were saying. About your family and why you . . . You know. There’s no one who can hear us.’

  ‘That’s how I was brought up then,’ Aramis said, ‘to believe that France was being ruined by corrupt politicians, by the money power and – I’m sorry to say this, Athos – no, it’s too silly when we are alone, Léon – by the Jews. So when we heard that the Marshal had replaced Reynaud as Prime Minister, I was overjoyed. We might have lost the first battles of the war but now France would be saved. The Hero of Verdun would deliver victory – the Loire would be a second Marne. With Pétain in power, everything was possible. And then came his broadcast. You heard it, we all heard it. And I had an immediate revulsion of feeling. We are betrayed. The Marshal has betrayed us. It was appalling. You were probably wiser than me and never trusted him, but for me, it was as if someone had picked up my idol and dashed it to the ground. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But I must tell you because I want you to know and because I wouldn’t want you to hear it from someone else, that I remain a member of a Cercle Charles Maurras and that, at my father’s suggestion, I signed up to join the Légion des Jeunes d’Aquitaine which, as you know is devoted to the service and person of the Marshal. I’m happy with this, Léon. If we are serious in our resistance – and we are, aren’t we? – it’s good cover. Porthos refused to join – he says, ‘I don’t like associations’ and Alain also, of course, though his brother Dominique is now favourable. But I think it wise and
, besides, I have a conspiratorial nature, I’ve discovered.’

  He laughed.

  ‘Now you know everything, you know the worst. Except one thing. There’s a boy there in the Légion I’m mad about, hopelessly because he is equally mad about girls and anyway I fear he despises me. What’s more, he’s a Fascist, a natural one, I’m afraid. And yet I adore him. Isn’t life stupid?’

  XXI

  To Lannes’ surprise the advocate Labiche presented himself at his office as requested and only half an hour late. He settled himself, dark-suited, squat and assured, in the chair where so many suspects had found themselves sweating with anxiety.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I have come even although your summons was unnecessary as well as an impertinence. I have already told your inspector I know nothing about my unfortunate brother’s death. We had no dealings with each other.’

  ‘You also told Inspector Moncerre that you knew nothing about his daughter. Nothing about the celebrated actress, Adrienne Jauzion?’

  Labiche smiled.

  ‘He irritated me, your inspector, and I saw no reason why my niece should be troubled.’

  ‘You can hardly expect me to believe that.’

  ‘As you like, superintendent. It’s no concern of mine. May I say it is only out of respect for the French State which we both serve that I have presented myself here today. You know very well that I have sufficient influence to have enabled me to ignore your summons with impunity. If I have not done so it is because I am curious to know why you are acting so rashly. You must be as aware that I have been appointed a member of the Institut des Questions Juives as I am that you have Jewish friends, superintendent, your pretty Jewboy in the bookshop and his aunt, the widow of the Comte de Grimaud, in her tabac. I really wonder at your audacity.’

  ‘We are not here to speak about Jews,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Nevertheless you would do well to bear them in mind.’

  Lannes pushed the photograph of Sombra across the desk.

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘Certainly. He presented himself at my office some days after my brother’s death and said he had information which he would let me have at a price. I told him what I told your inspector – that my brother was of no interest to me, dead or alive. So I sent him away. I don’t know his name. He spoke French fluently, but with an accent, Spanish perhaps. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Are you sure that visit was after your brother’s death, not some days before it?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of making mistakes.’

  Lannes lit a cigarette, got up from behind the desk and looked out on to the square which was bathed in sunshine. A party of schoolgirls passed, chattering like starlings.

  ‘The present Comte de Grimaud is one of your clients, I believe.’

  ‘He has been in the past. An unfortunate man. I have done what I can for him.’

  ‘The man in that photograph frequents his house. He is a friend, or associate, of the Count’s illegitimate nephew, who calls himself Sigi de Grimaud, though that is not the name on his birth certificate. Do you know him?’

  ‘Superintendent, you are wasting my time. Your time too, though that is no concern of mine. I fail to see the relevance of your questions. As for this Sigi de Grimaud or whatever, I may have seen him. I don’t know. I have never spoken to him, though I have heard the Count speak of him. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘I take note of what you say. If your brother – and his murder – are of no interest to you, Monsieur Labiche, how did you know the name of the pension where he had been staying and why did you send your office boy to collect his possessions from it?’

  ‘Because it was natural and proper I should do so. Superintendent, my brother was a fool and his politics were not mine. Nevertheless he was my brother. I am not devoid of family pride, for we are, as you must know, a family of some position here in Bordeaux and have been for generations. Naturally I was anxious lest my brother had some papers which were – shall we say? – discreditable. The Spaniard – if he was a Spaniard – let slip the name of the pension where my brother had been living since his return to Bordeaux. So naturally I sent one of my clerks to retrieve his belongings.’

  ‘And did you find anything discreditable?’

  ‘Nothing at all, and nothing of interest either. My brother had led a wasted life, somewhat pitiful indeed, engaged in political foolishness and futility. His effects were meagre. Tell me – since I am being frank, I am entitled to expect frankness in return – do you suspect this Spaniard of complicity in my brother’s murder?’

  ‘It seems unlikely that he killed him,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Very well then. I fail to see the relevance of your questions. As I said, we are both wasting our time. Naturally you must investigate his death and I admire your pertinacity. But it has nothing to do with me, and I would advise you to accept what is surely the obvious conclusion: that some lout attacked my brother with intent to rob him and hit him perhaps harder than he intended. It is surely among the scum of the criminal world that you will find his killer – if he is to be found at all.’

  He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time smiled, a man at ease with the world. No doubt it was calculated to demonstrate his indifference to the conversation.

  ‘There are however complications,’ Lannes said, ‘which have led me to reject what would, I agree, be a comfortable solution.’

  Labiche took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, snapped it open, and said, ‘I have another and more important appointment.’

  There was a knock on the door. René Martin came in with an envelope in his hand.

  ‘Collected on behalf of the emperor,’ he said, and passed it to Lannes, who slit it open and extracted two photographs. They showed the same scene: the advocate Labiche sitting on a couch beside a little girl. A black mask concealed her face. Otherwise she was naked. She looked no more than twelve. The advocate’s hand rested between her thin thighs. Lannes passed one copy across the desk.

  ‘You will of course have seen this before,’ he said. ‘Who was the little girl? Is she still alive? And who took the photograph? Jean-Claude who is now the Comte de Grimaud?’

  The advocate held the photograph in both hands. The tip of his tongue moved very slowly across his lips.

  ‘This is evidence of nothing,’ he said.

  He tore the photograph across, then tore it again and again, till it was reduced to scraps which he let fall on the floor.

  ‘I knew you were a fool, superintendent, but I didn’t know you were also a hypocrite. You and Gaston Chambolley and his Jew boy, your Jew boy. As for the girl she gave for money what she was ready to give for free to any “voyou” in a back-alley.’

  ‘Is she still alive or was she disposed of?’ Lannes said.

  ‘How should I know?’

  Was he indifferent or indignant? Lannes couldn’t tell. He knew only that he felt disgust at being in the same room as the advocate. He had felt pity for many who had sat in that chair, resisting him for hours before breaking and confessing to their crime, sometimes with relief, as if he had been a priest. They weren’t seeking absolution, merely to be known at last for what they were. If Labiche was unconcerned, it was surely because guilt was foreign to him. And of course he was protected.

  ‘Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Allow me to make something clear. These Jews – your Jews – are at my mercy. One word from me, and they will be arrested and taken to an internment camp. I am told conditions in the camps are not agreeable. If you interfere further in my affairs, I shall make good my threat, and take pleasure in doing so. Pray bear that in mind.’

  He clamped his hat on his head and left. Lannes opened the window wide.

  XXII

  ‘Sometimes your beautiful eyes look so sad.’

  Lieutenant Schussmann leaned across the table and pressed his hand on Léon’s.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all have reasons to be sad. I understand that. I told you once,
Léon, of my dearest friend who was killed and of how, because I loved him, I married his sister. That was not right of me, nor of her. We both knew it soon, that our marriage was a mistake, because it was founded in loneliness and pity, not in love or desire.’

  He paused and drank some wine. He had drunk most of the first bottle and had already drunk one glass from the second.

  The restaurant was emptying as people looked at their watches and thought it was time to be home. They were mostly French and, though Schussmann was not wearing his uniform, which was probably in breach of regulations, and therefore was not obviously German, Léon had had the uncomfortable feeling that people had been looking at them throughout the meal. But perhaps it was the key to the hotel room which Félix had given him that made him think this. The memory of that second visit and the way Félix had smiled when he confessed that he had agreed to have dinner with Schussmann made him feel sick.

  The waiters were clearing tables and rolling up the paper covers, and still Schussmann talked. Probably he was nervous too and being nervous wanted to postpone the moment when they would have to leave and he would put the question he so much wanted but feared to put.

  After all, Léon thought, he can’t be sure, he can’t be sure of me or of how I will answer. And I know how I would answer him if I didn’t have to give him the reply I’ve been instructed to make.

  He slipped his hand into the pocket and felt the key.

  He can’t even be sure, not absolutely sure, I am as he hopes I am, he thought. Perhaps he won’t dare, perhaps his nerve will fail him at the last minute and we shall say good-night and I’ll thank him for a pleasant dinner.

  It was what he wanted, but what he was also afraid of, because Félix would not believe it was Schussmann whose nerve had given way.

  How Alain would despise him if he saw him now, knew what he was doing and was about to do, Alain who was so angry that his mother had invited a young German officer to lunch with the family that he had said he certainly wasn’t going to be there. Alain must never know. He couldn’t speak to him of his shame.