Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘The old man fell downstairs. You mustn’t believe everything old Marthe tells you. The old woman is losing her wits, and besides she has hated me for years. But what if he was your father too?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Really? Before she married the man you call your father she was a maid in my father’s household. Ask Marthe. You believe everything else she says, after all. And ask yourself two more questions. Why did the old man ask for you personally to investigate the matter of these anonymous letters, and why has Edmond become your protector in Vichy? He has a strong sense of family, Edmond. You know so much less than you think you do, superintendent. Now let us finish this bottle, and, as for young Michel, why should I do as you ask? He has chosen the side of the Future, and it belongs to him.’

  L

  The knock on the door came in the hour before dawn. Lannes was already up, dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen. Everything in that conversation with Sigi had disturbed him. He had been foolish to appeal to what probably didn’t exist, certainly wasn’t to be found – the man’s better nature. As for the suggestion that he was himself another of the old count’s bastards, it was ridiculous. Malicious too. He knew of course that his mother had gone into service as a maid when she came to the city from her father’s farm in the Landes. But she had never mentioned the Comte de Grimaud and his father had never given him any reason to suppose he wasn’t his son. In any case it didn’t matter. It was all so long ago.

  The knock was repeated, more loudly. Why not ignore it? He was suspended from duty, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to see anyone. All the same, he sighed and got up to answer it before it woke Marguerite or Clothilde.

  There were three men on his doorstep, a lieutenant and two private soldiers. They wore the uniform of the SD – the Sicherheits-Dienst or Nazi Security Service . . .

  ‘Superintendent Lannes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are required to accompany us to headquarters.’

  It was the officer who spoke, a young man not much older than Dominique. Lannes looked him in the eye.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘You are required to accompany us. I am told there are questions you are required to answer.’

  Lannes thought, how often I’ve spoken that line. And now it’s addressed to me.

  Then, like so many to whom he had made that request, he said, ‘Very well. You’ll permit me to inform my wife?’

  The lieutenant hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Please don’t do anything stupid.’

  Lannes woke Marguerite gently, told her what was happening.

  ‘I’m not entirely surprised, but don’t worry.’

  ‘How can I not?’

  ‘I’m confident I can clear things up,’ he lied, as so many of those he had himself arrested must have lied to their wives. ‘But if I’m not back in a few hours, telephone this number and ask for Judge Bracal.’

  He scribbled the number on a piece of paper and laid it on the table by the bed.

  ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be all right.’

  She lifted her head. He bent forward and kissed her on the lips, held her close for a moment and turned away.

  The two privates descended the stairs ahead of him, the lieutenant behind. One of the privates held the car door open for him. The lieutenant joined him in the back seat. Nobody spoke. The car had tinted windows, and it was only half-light outside. Lannes did not try to see where they were going. The men who had arrested him were merely obeying orders. They probably had no idea why the orders had been given. Lannes pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘You permit?’

  The lieutenant made no objection. Lannes drew the smoke deep into his lungs and felt better.

  The car turned into the rue de Cursel and stopped. Again one of the privates held the door open. The lieutenant took Lannes by the elbow as they entered the building. He saluted an officer who called out an order. Two sergeants came forward, each taking one of Lannes’ arms. They hustled him down a stair. The door of a cell was standing open. With a practised move they threw Lannes forward so that he stumbled and would have hit the stone floor if his outstretched arms hadn’t broken his fall on a camp-bed. Then the door slammed shut. The only other piece of furniture in the cell was a straight-backed chair. Lannes sat on the bed. He lit another cigarette. A bluebottle buzzed round the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. Nobody would come for some time. He was sure of that. Arresting a man in near-silence, without a charge, flinging him into a cell and leaving him alone – he knew the score. Well, the longer the wait, the more chance there was of Marguerite getting in touch with Bracal, but even if he acted at once, it would take time for the judge to learn where he was. He stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes.

  Eventually he heard footsteps. The door opened and Kordlinger came in, accompanied by the sergeants who had thrust him into the cell.

  ‘Get up, superintendent,’ Kordlinger said, ‘and sit on the chair.’

  Lannes did as he was bid. One of the sergeants stepped forward with a rope in his hand. The other seized Lannes’ arms and held them behind the chair while the first one tied him to it.

  ‘I’m sorry you made this necessary,’ Kordlinger said. ‘You know what I want. Give me the names.’

  Lannes shook his head.

  ‘You’re being foolish,’ Kordlinger said.

  Lannes made no reply. Whatever he said straightaway would not be believed. Kordlinger nodded to one of the sergeants who stepped forward and with his fist clenched struck Lannes on the mouth. The chair rocked and he tasted blood. The other sergeant kicked the chair hard. It fell over and Lannes’ head hit the concrete floor. They picked the chair up and then kicked it over from the other side. Again his head struck the floor and there was a ringing noise in his ears.

  Kordlinger said, ‘Well?’

  Lannes spat out blood.

  ‘Again,’ Kordlinger said, and over the chair went.

  Again and again and again.

  ‘The names,’ Kordlinger said. ‘I want the names.’

  Lannes shook his head.

  ‘Don’t have them,’ he said.

  ‘Again.’

  This time he hit the floor even harder and the fall left him dazed and dizzy. He wondered how much more he could take. When the chair was upright one of the sergeants produced a rubber truncheon and hit him first on one shoulder, then on the other. Then his companion seized Lannes by the hair and pulled his head back, while the first one forced his mouth open and poured something from a bottle down his throat. Castor oil. He began to retch.

  ‘You don’t have to suffer this,’ Kordlinger said. ‘You are really being very stupid, superintendent. I am sure you have enough experience of interrogations to know that you will speak in the end. Everybody does. You know that. And you know that we have scarcely begun. There’s much more and a lot worse we can do to you. So why not be sensible, and tell me what I need to know, without suffering more pain. No? Again.’

  Over he went and this time they let the chair lie where it fell. The bigger of the sergeants stepped forward and kicked Lannes hard in the crotch. Then he hauled the chair upright while Lannes felt the pain run through his body and gasped for breath. The smaller sergeant gave him a backhander to the face.

  ‘Fucking Frenchman, fucking obstinate Frehchman,’ he said. ‘We can go on for a long time, me and my mate.’

  His colleague dangled the truncheon before Lannes’ eyes.

  ‘You want more of this chappie?’ he said, and smacked him across the cheek with it.

  Then he stepped back. Lannes’ mouth was again full of blood and this time when he spat it out, a tooth came with it.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk. Alone, Kordlinger.’

  Kordlinger hesitated a moment, then snapped out an order and the two heavies cut the rope that bound Lannes to the chair and withdrew. Lannes flexed his a
rms, wiggled his fingers and then took a handkerchief from his pocket. He ran it over his mouth and spat twice into it.

  ‘Lucky I’ve a good dentist,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you think you’ll ever visit him again?’

  ‘I’m always hopeful.’

  ‘Names . . . ’

  ‘I don’t have any names for you,’ Lannes said. ‘I told you that before. How’s your grandmother? Is she still alive?’

  Kordlinger clenched his fist and took a step forward. Lannes held up his hand, palm toward the German. He smiled. It hurt him to move his mouth, but he managed the smile.

  ‘Your Jewish one of course. That’s the one who interests me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Now it’s you that’s being stupid,’ Lannes said. ‘Your Jewish non-Aryan grandmother. That’s who I mean.’

  He smiled again, fished a crumpled packet of Gauloises from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. It had been crushed in one of his falls, but he lit it and drew in the smoke happily.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he said. ‘I’ve given you a shock. Think about it. Think about her.’

  Kordlinger didn’t move. Lannes read uncertainty in his face.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you could call in your thugs again and have them beat me to death, but you can’t suppose I’m the only person who knows about Granny. Who do you think told me? A spook of course. He was interested in you, knew I was too. Come, Kordlinger, face up to it. You know why Schussmann killed himself? Because one of our spooks put the boy up to seduce him, so that he could be turned. He took what he considered to be the honourable way out. I don’t think that’s your style. Is it? You’d rather be useful to us. Wouldn’t you? Of course there are other courses open to you. As I said, you can have your thugs kill me, but when the word of my disappearance, or death, gets out, the spook who told me about Granny will put two and two together. Spooks can do their sums. So he’ll get the right answer, and you’ll be faced with the same question I’m putting to you. Exposure or co-operation. Cooperation? Let’s call it collaboration. Alternatively you could volunteer for the Eastern Front and fight the Bolsheviks. But I don’t think that’s your style either. So there you are. Long speech, sorry. It hurts me to talk after the roughing-up I’ve had.’

  Kordlinger had turned away while Lannes spoke and stood facing the wall.

  ‘You bastard,’ he said.

  ‘You were the one who started playing rough,’ Lannes said. ‘So are you going to collaborate or do you prefer that your superiors learn about Granny? Not today – not if you have your thugs bump me off or send me to a camp. But some day, and you’ll meanwhile live wondering when that day comes and the spook approaches you. You’ll have long anxious hours, lots of them.’

  ‘I never even knew her,’ Kordlinger said.

  ‘So what? You missed knowing your Jewish granny. Doesn’t alter facts. You won’t be asked for much, you know. Just a little information now and then. Like you said, collaboration is important. Say “yes” and I’ll help you, give you something, save your face. After all it’s in my interest to do so. You wanted names. I’ll give you two. First, Ahmed Benazzi – yes, an Arab, a rent-boy whom Schussmann picked up in one of these bars I told you about. He’s given us the slip, I’m afraid, and is somewhere in the Free Zone, the so-called Free Zone, Marseilles probably, he has family there. One of his other German clients procured an ausweis for him when he ran blubbering to him. Blackmail again, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘The one who was set up to seduce Schussmann? Daniel Matthieu. He’s got away too. It was one of our spooks set him up, but I’ve since learned he was also working for British Intelligence and they’ve got him out. He’s probably in London and it doesn’t look, does it, as if the Wehrmacht is going to get to England, not now that you have this business with the Soviet Union. But there you are. You’ve got two names to pass on to your superiors and another Wehrmacht officer – the one who got that ausweis for the Arab boy to investigate. To say nothing of the activity here in Bordeaux of British Intelligence. I’ve given you enough to interest your superiors, may even win you some credit. So is it a deal?’

  Kordlinger turned round to face him.

  ‘You bastard,’ he said again.

  ‘Sure I’m a bastard, just like you. You’re wondering why I let your gorillas beat me up before I spoke? Aren’t you? You don’t understand it. You will if you think about it. I did it for your sake, Kordlinger, to let you come out of this well. Your bosses are more likely to believe what you tell them if they think you got it the hard way. And it’s in our interest that they do. Maybe you’ll get a promotion. Good for you and good for us. So, do we have a deal?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That’s right. Think about it. By the way Bracal will know by now I was picked up this morning. And that’s not all he knows.

  He’ll be asking questions, politely of course because he’s a judge.’

  Kordlinger said, ‘I should have let them finish you off.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have helped you,’ Lannes said. ‘Meanwhile, as long as you collaborate, Granny’s secret’s safe. By the way, Schussmann’s boy-friend, Daniel Matthieu, the English spy, is a Jew. Just like you, Kordlinger, just like you.’

  Kordlinger took a step forward. His hand went to the gun in its holster. For a moment Lannes thought he was going to draw it. Then he turned away, and the cell door slammed behind him.

  Lannes lay down on the bed. He felt terrible. God knows what my face looks like, he thought. He took out the crushed packet of cigarettes and counted them. Twelve left. He lit one. He had better ration himself. It might be some time before Kordlinger accepted the reality of his position. He might wait till Bracal arrived. But he would accept it. Lannes was sure of that. He drew on his cigarette. The man wasn’t a fool. And he was frightened, just frightened enough to see sense, not so frightened that he would go wild. Thank God Bracal told me to go to see his friend in Vichy, he thought. It was a mad world in which having a Jewish grandmother could destroy a man. But that’s how it was.

  Lannes lay back on the bed, smoking, and looked at the cell door. Sometime it would open again. It might not do so for a few hours, but it would open and he would walk free. Hobble free anyhow. His suspension would be lifted. He was sure of that too. How would the Alsatian take it? He would guess that levers had been pulled, and he wouldn’t want to know who had done so. He would smile and say, ‘Welcome back, Jean,’ but he would be worried too. So what? Let him worry.

  He kept his gaze fixed on the door, waiting for the moment of liberation. Waiting, like France itself.