by Allan Massie
‘That young judge – what’s his name – Bracal is it? – wants to see you. “Ask the superintendent to have the courtesy to call on me” – soft soap – and there’s a note for you too. Another street-boy, I tried to hold him as you asked me, but he slipped away and scampered off before I could get a grip on him. Sorry.’
The same thing again – ‘Surely you want to know who your real father was?’ It made no sense. If the writer of the letter wanted to disturb him, he would have to do more than repeating himself.
Bracal was spruce, Lannes conscious of his own unshaven face and weariness.
The judge asked him to sit down, and smiled.
‘What I’m about to say is strictly none of my business. So I shouldn’t say it. Which is why I’m going to. Even for a judge, there is pleasure in acting improperly on occasion. It may even be a duty sometimes in present circumstances. I had dinner with the new Prefect last night. He’s an enthusiast for Collaboration, as you may have heard. Very zealous. There are advantages. He hears things.
Some of them unwelcome. This business of the German liaison officer who shot himself now. As I say, it’s no concern of mine, but it is, I gather, of yours, and the word is that his replacement – can’t remember his name . . . ’
‘Kordlinger,’ Lannes said.
‘Yes, Kordlinger, thinks you’re dragging your heels. I tell you only because I have formed a respect for you, superintendent. So can you satisfy him?’
It was unexpected. Lannes hesitated, lit a cigarette to give himself time to think. Sunlight streamed in, falling on Bracal’s face. He picked up a pair of dark glasses, toyed with them and replaced them on the desk. Had it occurred to him that putting them on would make him seem less trustworthy? Was he sincere in that expression of respect? When Lannes made no immediate reply, Bracal rolled his signet ring round and said, ‘I’m younger than you, superintendent, and I’m aware that there is rarely complete confidence between the judiciary and the PJ. It’s regrettable but understandable. Nevertheless it’s desirable and, I hope, in your interest, that on this occasion, we should speak frankly. So, again, can you satisfy this Kordlinger?’
Lannes said, ‘I’ll take you at your word. To speak frankly, the answer is “No.” Schussmann was a fool, a decent enough chap actually, but a fool and unbelievably rash. Perhaps simply because he was lonely and unhappy. There are two or three bars in Bordeaux, as there are in every city, where men of his inclinations can usually find what they want. You’ll be aware of this; it’s no secret. The Vice Squad knows about them of course, but, as long as they are reasonably well conducted, they let them be. Rightly in my opinion. As you know, in these matters, there is illegality only where minors are concerned or public decency offended, this being something which depends on circumstances. Schussmann took to frequenting at least one of these bars, possibly others. He is not, I should say, the only member of the Occupying forces to do so. That won’t surprise you. Homosexual activity is illegal in Nazi Germany, but the German disposition towards it is well known. As to Schussmann, I have identified only one boy he picked up in one of these bars. The boy has – unfortunately or otherwise – disappeared, perhaps left Bordeaux. No doubt he learned of Schussmann’s suicide and panicked. There’s a suggestion that on another occasion Schussmann left the bar hurriedly when he recognised another German officer there. If this is so, it may be that this officer reported him to his superiors and so precipitated his suicide. That’s for the Boches themselves to decide. I doubt if this will satisfy Kordlinger.’
Bracal smiled again.
‘I share your doubts. You are sure that the boy in question has indeed gone missing. Left Bordeaux, I think you said.’
‘I believe my information to be reliable. I have also spoken with the boy’s mother.’
‘A reliable witness.’
‘Reliable perhaps. Reputable no. A prostitute herself.’
‘But you are sure the boy has gone?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Good.’
Bracal played his little finger-drumming game and said, ‘A sordid little story. I like the idea that one of his colleagues should have betrayed his secret. But will that suggestion hold up?’
‘Probably not,’ Lannes said. ‘Though it might muddy the waters.’
‘I have the impression that you have another story for me.’
‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘just as sordid, and nastier.’
‘Even nastier? Perhaps we should fortify ourselves.’
He fetched a bottle of cognac from a cupboard and poured them each a glass.
‘You probably prefer Armagnac, but my home country is the Charente. Your health, superintendent. Please carry on.’
There is an English expression from the hunting-field: to throw your heart over a hedge. It means to take a jump blind and boldly without thought of what lies on the other side. Lannes had never of course heard of it, but this is what he now did.
‘There’s a bookshop,’ he said, ‘in the rue des Remparts. The owner is an old friend of mine. Last year he took on a young assistant, a good-looking boy. Lieutenant Schussmann was a cultivated man, with an interest in literature. I believe he may have been a schoolmaster before the war. No matter. He found his way to the bookshop and made a habit of calling in there. He took a fancy to the boy. He might have been more careful if he had known that the boy was Jewish – or perhaps not, I don’t know. His attentions were remarked, but not necessarily, so far as I have been able to ascertain, by his colleagues.’
He paused and took a sip of the brandy. It was very good brandy. He looked up at Bracal who continued to smile.
‘Travaux Rurales,’ he said. ‘The spook who called on you and made an appointment with me. You won’t have forgotten him. You may even know his name. I don’t. Félix, he called himself. He approached the boy and instructed him to encourage Schussmann, lead him on. Naturally the boy was reluctant. And afraid. But he is, as I say, Jewish, and he has a mother – he’s her only child – and an aunt who is, I’m prepared to tell you, a friend of mine. It is not a good time to be Jewish, as I don’t need to remind you. Threats were made. Félix terrified and humiliated the boy. I won’t go into that. You may imagine the worst. It was indeed the worst which happened. So the boy did as he was told, unwillingly. An assignation was made in a cheap hotel where they are accustomed to this sort of thing. Félix interrupted them, catching Schussmann in the act. His intention was, as you will have realised, blackmail. Schussmann was to be turned, to supply information about – I don’t know exactly what Félix had in mind. But instead of submitting he shot himself. You might say he took the honourable way out. You might also say that Félix was acting as a patriot, in the interests of France, if not necessarily of Vichy. Again I don’t know. Do you think I should tell this story to Kordlinger?’
‘It’s a remarkable story,’ Bracal said. ‘Or at least remarkably interesting. And the boy? I don’t suppose you are in a position to hand him over to the Germans and satisfy Kordlinger? No? Where is he now?’
‘I believe he is no longer in metropolitan France.’
He looked Bracal in the eyes. For a long moment they held each other’s gaze.
‘Good,’ Bracal said. ‘Satisfactory. For the boy, but not for you. It doesn’t help solve your problem with Kordlinger, does it?’
‘Not at all. Perhaps I should give him Félix.’
‘Not a good idea.’
‘He’s a bastard.’
‘But a French one. And a patriot. One who may have stepped out of line, acting on his own initiative, since Travaux Rurales, like the Deuxième Bureau and the other branches of these services are – officially – committed to collaboration, just as I am and you in the PJ are. Isn’t that so?’
‘Certainly. That is our duty – officially.’
‘So what will you say to Kordlinger?’
‘What can I say? I am merely a slack inefficient French cop who is embarrassed to have made a balls-up of the investigation.�
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‘Don’t push your incompetence beyond the limits of his credulity.
That’s all. I’m pleased to have had this conversation. It’s cleared the air, hasn’t it? Brought us to an understanding. One other thing. I understand that you are about to make a visit to Vichy. I would be grateful if you would present my compliments to a friend of mine.’
He picked up a card and scribbled a name and address.
‘You’ll find him here. He will be expecting you. He also works for the TR, but I believe you will find him more sympathetic than you found Félix.’
‘I’ll be happy to oblige you, even though I don’t care for spooks. By the way, since we have had this conversation . . . ’ ‘But we haven’t. There will be absolutely no record of it, and my memory is terrible.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Lannes said, ‘the Spaniard Sombra. The order to release him?’
‘Ah yes, that disreputable fellow. Was he by any chance guilty of the crime for which you had arrested him?’
‘No, but . . . ’
‘Quite. You wonder who leaned on me? That’s how you would put it, isn’t it?’
He inspected his fingernails and then smiled.
‘Strangely I find my memory working quite well again for the moment. You will have heard of the BMA?’
‘A man calling himself Villepreux approached me some weeks ago.’
‘There you are then,’ Bracal said, ‘though of course I don’t recall that name. Thank you for coming to see me, superintendent. It has been a delightful and instructive conversation, don’t you think? I’m happy to find that we understand each other.’
XLIV
Kordlinger’s boots were as highly polished as those of a Great War general thirty kilometres behind the Front. It was afternoon but his face shone as bright as his boots and it looked as if he had only just shaved. He gave off a whiff of eau-de-Cologne. His nose twitched when Lannes lit a cigarette.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what have you discovered? Are these degenerate boys under arrest?’
‘There are difficulties,’ Lannes said. ‘I am anxious of course to collaborate with you, as I have been instructed to do. Naturally I recognise that it’s in the interest of the PJ to have good relations with you as the Occupying power. This has been made very clear by my superiors. Nevertheless . . . ’
He blew out smoke, held his cigarette between thumb and his first two fingers, and sighed, waiting for Kordlinger to speak. He let the silence stretch out, then smiled at Kordlinger as if inviting his confidence. When the German made no reply, he said, ‘I am quite happy to lay my cards on the table, but let me say first I fully appreciate your concern. You have expressed it very clearly. There is however a difficulty – I speak as a policeman, you understand, not, if I may put it like this, as a politician. You understand? As a policeman, an official of the French State, I am constrained by the law. That is the position – is it not? – of officials in Germany too, and of policemen in the Reich? We are bound by the law, must not overstep its limits. I deal with crime, that is, with acts defined as criminal by our code of law, commonly styled the Code Napoléon. Now I respect your position. I understand your desire to have any who had sexual relations with Lieutenant Schussmann apprehended, but . . . ’
‘But?’
‘There have been no such criminal acts. Homosexual practices are not illegal in France, unless public decency is outraged or minors have been corrupted. You may think this deplorable, since I am aware that the law is different in Germany – Article 175 – isn’t it? – of your criminal code covers the question, or so I believe. I might agree with you, but my opinions, whatever they are, must be irrelevant. You understand my predicament?’
‘I understand only that you are being obstructive, and appear to have forgotten the relationship in which you find yourself with regard to the forces of the Reich.’
‘I am sorry to hear you say so, being well aware of the requirement to collaborate, and of my superiors’ orders that I should do so. However, I have some information which may be useful to you. It seems likely that Lieutenant Schussmann killed himself either because he was being blackmailed or because he feared exposure. These are two possibilities.’
‘Superintendent, pray don’t insult me by stating what would be obvious even to a blind man.’
Lannes paused. He wondered how clever Kordlinger was, what he could get away with, how close he dared edge towards the truth.
‘Schussmann was not careful,’ he said. ‘Indeed he was rash. He frequented certain bars, places which are not illegal, where people of his tendency gather and recognise each other. I may say he was not the only member of the Occupying forces to do so. It is possible that he may have learned, suspected or feared that he was being spied upon by one of his colleagues, even perhaps an agent of the military police. My investigation leads me to believe that this was so. He may therefore have panicked, being well aware that the Wehrmacht does not tolerate such depravity.’
‘This is mere speculation,’ Kordlinger said. ‘Meanwhile I insist that such establishments must be closed,’ Kordlinger said.
‘That would be a matter for the Prefecture, not for the PJ.’
‘Very well, I shall speak to the Prefect. It is of course within my power, as a representative of the Occupation, to act unilaterally in such matters. Nevertheless I am content to leave it in the Prefect’s hands. Meanwhile you have not only failed to arrest any of these degenerates, as I requested, but it appears that you have not even identified them.’
Lannes spread his hands, conscious that he was behaving like a Frenchman in a stage farce.
‘Lieutenant Schussmann frequented these bars, but my investigations have established that he was careful to this extent, in that he always left alone. No doubt he may have made assignations to meet elsewhere, but I have found no evidence that he did so. I am sorry to disappoint you.’
Kordlinger clenched his fist and banged it on Lannes’ desk. It was not an impressive gesture, not one, Lannes thought, that came naturally to him. Kordlinger too was playing a part and one in which he was less comfortable than he would have wished. No doubt he was afraid of his superiors.
‘I am sorry,’ Lannes said again. ‘My investigation might have been more fruitful’ – he hesitated – ‘more fruitful if it had been possible to accede to my request, which Commissaire Schnyder will have relayed to you, that any diary or private papers which Lieutenant Schussmann kept should be made available to me.’
Kordlinger got to his feet.
‘There were no such papers,’ he said. ‘None at all. Only some embers in a fireplace. Schussmann died as he had lived, guarding the secret of his degeneracy. Superintendent, you have failed me. I was advised to put my trust in you and you have betrayed it. Rest assured, you have not heard the last of this matter. Heil Hitler!’
Not heard the last of it? That was only too probably true. He hadn’t played the scene as he had intended. But he had avoided giving anything more than a hint of the involvement of the spooks – which hint Kordlinger hadn’t picked up on. Apart from that, would it have been any better if he had named Karim – or at least indicated that he knew a boy whom Schussmann had picked up but that the boy had gone to ground or slipped out of Bordeaux? He had meant to give him that much. Then it had stuck in his gorge. Kordlinger hadn’t even asked for the name of the bars. Because he knew them already? Because there had indeed been a German officer or NCO, or even someone from the Gestapo, spying on Schussmann? But if that had been the case, wouldn’t they have identified Léon and arrested him? Or had Kordlinger’s intention been to put him to the test?
One thing was clear. He was a marked man himself, from now on. Bracal had warned him not to push the impression of his incompetence beyond the limits of Kordlinger’s credulity. Was that what he had done? Or worse, had he simply shown himself to be defiant, determined to obstruct Kordlinger? He had been stupid, had let himself be carried away. And why? Because he had been enjoying himself, taking pleasure in this lit
tle act of resistance. Yes, he had been a fool. He couldn’t deny it.
He sat for a long time smoking and thinking. Then he called Moncerre in and went over the meeting with him.
‘You might just as well have punched him in the face,’ Moncerre said.
‘That’s how it looks to you?’
‘Can’t look any other way. You’ve made a pig’s arse of it. You don’t think the Alsatian will defend you, do you? Not bloody likely.’
‘Things are as they must be,’ Lannes said.
‘And that’s consolation?’
‘Not a lot. You know that queer bar, used to be called ‘The Wet Flag’ now ‘Chez Jules’? I can’t approach it myself, not again. And it’s safer if you don’t either, not now. So I want you to get hold of one of your snouts and have him take a message to Jules. Tell him the dead German – he’ll know who’s meant – was never in his bar. He doesn’t recognise his photograph, sorry. And I never came to interview him either.’
‘And you think that’ll help you.’
‘Not a lot. Not at all really. But it’s the best line to follow. You’ll understand why.’
‘So collaboration’s off the menu. The Alsatian won’t like that either.’
‘He doesn’t have to.’
‘And we’re resisting?’
‘That’s up to you, my old bull-terrier.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
XLV
For most of the train journey to Vichy Dominique kept his eyes on his book, while Lannes looked out of the window. There was constraint between them. Marguerite had kissed Dominique with tears in her eyes, and spoken lovingly to him. She had said nothing to Lannes, turning her head aside and looking downwards when he moved to embrace her, so that his lips had done no more than brush her cheek. It’s as I feared, he thought, she’ll never forgive me, or not for a long time, no matter how things turn out. He felt sad and resentful at the same time; she might have made an effort to understand. But that wasn’t quite true. She understood one thing only too well: that he had put loyalty to Alain above loyalty to her.
