“Who’s that one? Where’d you find her? Is she mute or just stupid?”
Francis laughs.
“Oh, she talks. More often than she should. But we had a little talk this morning, so she’s not giving me any shit today. I call her Alison. I give them American names nowadays—the johns prefer that. I’m sick of bloody Ginettes and Lucettes anyway. Those are names you’d give a cow! This girl does rich guys. Dirty weekends, secret getaways. I rent her a studio flat in the cours de l’Intendance. It costs quite a bit, but those pricks love it. They think it’s chic going to see whores in a swanky neighborhood. And the place is always packed. And on Saturdays and Sundays, monsieur goes on a business trip and I’m the one who cleans up. Sometimes they take her to Arcachon or the Basque coast, and that costs them a packet. I started it six months ago—I don’t remember if I already mentioned it to you—but anyway it’s working so well that I’m planning to get another one to meet the demand. That’s the future, that is. You don’t need a whole herd of girls on the street with their tits in the air or leaning on the counter in crappy bars. And you get to choose the clients. You don’t have to put up with cocksuckers, or weirdos with their little perversions, or loonies who beat the girls up or tightasses who don’t want to pay so you have to convince them afterwards. All that shit causes aggravation over not very much and sometimes, even here, your colleagues don’t like it much when the pigsty gets out of hand . . . And I haven’t even mentioned all the top brass we get . . . Two or three members of parliament, bosses galore, honest shopkeepers . . . Word of mouth, discretion assured, and impeccable service given by top-quality birds . . . those are the three keystones of my business! Just like in Paris! And those suckers are queuing up for it!”
He bursts out laughing, pleased with himself, and pours more wine into his glass. Darlac cannot help smiling as he serves himself with beef stew.
“Anyway, I’m keeping the client list warm for you. It’s always useful to have these bastards by the balls.”
Darlac nods. He sniffs his plate then boldly spears a chunk of meat.
“Not too bad, is it?” says Francis.
The commissaire nods, drinks some wine, wipes his mouth.
“Alright,” he says. “You didn’t get me here to talk about food, did you? What have you got for me? Cos we’ve found fuck-all.”
“Were you expecting me to give you a name and address?”
Darlac sighs.
“Spit it out.”
“No-one’s been able to tell me anything about the guy who did it. We’ve talked to dozens of men—and the girls too, cos sometimes they get weirdo clients who tell them stuff . . . but nothing at all. And no-one can see why any fucker would even want to stab Penot or burn Couchot and his missus. You want to know what I think? Look closer to home. This is someone who’s lashing out at people who are close to you, or who used to be, like Penot. And he had a go at your daughter too. He’s prowling around you—you know he is. And I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out there were cops feeding him information. You know, the types who just adore you and would like to pin a lead Liberation medal really deep in your chest or plant the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor at your graveside . . . What about your commissaire divisionnaire, Laborde? He’d push you down the stairs given half a chance, wouldn’t he?”
“Leave cops out of this. I’ll take care of my business.”
“It’s not just your business though, if they’re talking about it in town.”
“Laborde’s been talking? To who? When?”
Francis leans back in his seat, looking sharp in his waistcoat and his English-made pinstripe shirt, and smiles sardonically.
“Stop messing around,” says Darlac. “That doesn’t work on me. Just say what you have to say—let’s get it over with.”
Francis pushes his plate aside and crosses his arms on the table, suddenly looking serious.
“You know Lucien Lavaud? Lulu le Veau, as his friends know him?”
Darlac shakes his head. He has sat forward too and is leaning across the table. He can feel pins and needles under his skin.
“Fat guy. Soft and fat, and slow since he got out of the nick three years ago. He used to rob post offices. Bit of a crackpot, used to do all kinds of shit. He put on weight in prison, and he must have been softened up by the raving queers you get in that place. Apparently now he’s acting as a fence, but I don’t know much about that . . . Anyway, I heard the other day, in a bar at Barrière de Bègles, that he was going on about the man you’re looking for. He said the cops were not close to collaring anyone cos this man was cunning and he had personal reasons for doing what he was doing, and that he wasn’t even close to being finished. He also said he got all this from someone who knows the details of the investigation.”
“One of ours?”
“What do you think? I’m just telling you what I heard. Now, bear in mind that this guy is a bit of a crank. He drinks, and he talks a lot of shit. Michou knew him in prison. Said no-one would go near him. He used to sit on his own at meals most of the time.”
“And a clown like that is a fence? Why would anyone trust him?”
“No idea. He’s not in my network, and I don’t want him to be. If there are guys stupid enough to work with him, that’s their funeral. Should be easy enough to get your hands on them anyway . . .”
“What does he fence, this loony?”
“Not sure. Gold jewellery, furniture, curtain rods . . . how should I know? He must be in cahoots with one or two gangs of layabouts who break into houses.”
“Where will I find him?”
“Barrière de Bègles, in one of those bars. Or rue Son-Tay—his bird runs a bistro there, apparently.”
Darlac stands up.
“Let’s go. Hurry up.”
Francis drinks a mouthful of wine then lays his knife and fork across his plate.
“I haven’t had dessert yet. And don’t worry, that clown’s not going anywhere. Sit down and have some lemon tart.”
But Darlac, his raincoat already over his arm, doesn’t move, so Francis signals to the waiter to bring him his next course.
“Or you can go on your own. I need to eat in peace.”
The waiter brings him a slice of tart and a cup of coffee. Francis gestures at the chair that Darlac had been sitting in.
“A coffee?”
The commissaire nods reluctantly and sits down with a sigh.
“You’re going to end up fat too, you know. Like that other prick.”
“Maybe. But my pockets are full and my balls are warm. He’s sitting on an anthill with a stick of dynamite up his ass. That changes everything, in my opinion.”
Francis deliberately takes his time, nibbling at his tart and sipping his coffee as Darlac watches furiously, smoking in silence. One by one, the other customers have left and now the café owner is alone behind the bar, tidying up. Darlac seethes. He lights another cigarette and sucks his coffee down to the half-melted sugar at the bottom of the cup. He looks at his watch: nearly two. He feels himself turning bad: violent and venomous. It overcomes him sometimes, this desire to hurt someone, to make them suffer. Of course, Francis is not the type who would just let him do it. He is even capable of inflicting great pain on others, and taking great pleasure in the act. But anyway. Darlac feels this black mood seeping through his veins, inch by inch. He is convinced that he has finally found the first line of inquiry likely to lead him to the man he’s searching for.
Suddenly, Francis stands up.
“O.K., I’m ready when you are.”
A dark bar near the boulevard, almost deserted at this time of day. A wino at the counter is talking to the owner, a small fat man with a moustache, who is reading the newspaper behind his till and occasionally muttering a sort of vague echo to the slurred monologue.
“We’re looking for Lulu,” says Francis.
The owner keeps his eyes on his paper.
“Who? Lulu?”
“Yeah. Lulu le Veau.”
Finally the man looks up at him. With a sneer.
“Le Veau? This isn’t a butcher’s, you know. You’ve come to the wrong place, pal.”
The drunkard, slumped over his glass of white wine, squeals with laughter, then chokes and coughs and spits on the ground, bent double, then rinses his throat by downing the rest of his wine.
“Police,” says Darlac, showing his card. “His name is Lucien Lavaud. We know he’s a regular here, so answer our questions or I’ll close your filthy little dive.”
The wino staggers away to sit at a table. Chair legs squeak on the tiles.
“You should have said so straight away,” says the bar owner, folding his newspaper. “If it’s the police who are asking, that’s different. Anyway, it’ll take my mind off the news, which is not very good. Can I serve you something? On the house.”
Darlac and Francis both refuse with the same hand gesture. The owner leans on the counter and looks around, as if someone might be eavesdropping.
“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him this week. Usually he comes here to eat lunch on Tuesdays and Fridays, but I haven’t seen him since last Friday. He’d normally be here today. But don’t worry, sometimes he vanishes then comes back looking like a fool and buys a round.”
“We’re not worried,” says the commissaire. “You know where he crashes?”
“How should I know that? Somewhere near the train station, that’s all I can tell you. You should know that, shouldn’t you? You’re the police. This man spent five years in prison and you don’t know where he is? If only my brother had been that lucky, during the Occupation: he’d still be alive!”
“Went to jail, did he, your brother? Should we get our violins out?”
“No. Just Buchenwald. Died there in early ’45. Arrested by French cops. Hey, maybe it was you!”
The man has raised his voice a bit. He has rolled up his newspaper and is waving it at Darlac like a truncheon. The commissaire turns his back on him and signals to Francis to follow him over to the exit. As he is about to leave, hand on the door handle, he turns back to the bar.
“It’s better for your brother that he died over there. Otherwise, he’d look like that,” he says, gesturing with his chin at the wino. “They weren’t made for the weak, those Kraut camps. But just so you know, I didn’t arrest him. I didn’t go after that sort. I left them to others who knew how to deal with them.”
He leaves, paying no attention to the gobsmacked look on the man’s face and the gaping mouth—a dark, toothless hole—of the drunkard who lifts his head and stares at the closed door, the greyish light of day reflected in his swollen-lidded, tear-filled eyes.
They drive, each lost in the spiky thorn bushes of his own thoughts, their faces like identical lead-grey skies. Through the windows they stare out at the city submerged in drizzle. The glistening cobblestones rumble beneath the wheels. In ten minutes they reach the bar on rue Son-Tay where Le Veau is a regular.
They spot him as soon as they enter: he’s at the back, facing the street, and he’s reading the racing pages in the paper, cigarette balanced between his lips. A large, round man with short-cropped hair. He’s in shirtsleeves, a jacquard waistcoat straining over his protuberant belly. Darlac notices four old men playing cards in a corner, by the window. A woman smokes an American cigarette while she goes through her cash drawer. She says hello to them, one eye half closed. They do not respond, walking straight over to Le Veau’s table and sitting down. The man sits upright, back stiff against his seat.
“Can’t you sit somewhere else? What do you want?”
“To talk,” says Darlac.
He takes out his card again, and Francis does the same. The man sees only the red, white and blue, having no time to decipher their names.
“Inspecteur Pricipal Germain,” says Darlac. “And this is Inspecteur Gauthier.”
Le Veau sighs, glancing helplessly at the barmaid, who has not missed a word of this.
“And would you gentlemen like something to drink? Because this establishment is for paying customers. You can’t just come here and polish the chairs with your ass.”
“Police,” Francis says, without turning round. “Mind your own fucking business.”
The old men have stopped playing cards and are furtively watching this unfold.
Le Veau tries to sigh, perhaps as a way of staying calm.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “What’s going on?”
“The other day, when you were drunk, you were giving your two pence worth about the arson at place Nansouty, and you seemed to know a lot about the guy who did it. I would like you to tell me where you got this precious information. Just tell us the truth and we’ll be on our way. No-one will be any the wiser, and we’ll leave you in peace.”
“Is that all?”
Le Veau sighs again. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Darlac is gripping the edge of the table as if he’s about to lift it up and throw it across the bar.
“Well, you know,” says Le Veau unctuously, “it was a detective who told me, and I imagine you know as much as he does. So that’s why I don’t really understand what you . . .”
Darlac smiles. It’s such a rare occurrence that Francis frowns, watching it happen, noticing his hands turn white as they grip the table edge more tightly.
“This is a very serious case, so we’re double-checking everything,” says the commissaire. “We’re corroborating every witness statement.”
“It was Inspecteur Mazeau. I know him a bit. I . . . Let’s just say I have an arrangement with him, and he trusts me.”
“Eugène Mazeau?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. You know him?”
“Of course! We work in the same department. He’s a good cop. It’s typical of him to have a valuable guy like you as a contact. So, what did he tell you about this arsonist?”
Le Veau tenses, taken by surprise.
“You should know that already, shouldn’t you? I thought he worked for you?”
“I told you: we’re double-checking everything. I’ve decided to start again from scratch, so I’m going over every statement, and you’re one of our most important witnesses.”
The man puts his hands flat on the table, sitting up straight as if he’s about to impart a military secret.
“He told me this man would never be caught. Or not alive, anyway. And that he wouldn’t stop until he’d finished what he’d set out to do. You know, mission accomplished, as they say. To be honest, it seemed like Mazeau knew the guy—he seemed so sure about him.”
“Really?”
Le Veau waves his chubby hand in front of him.
“Yeah, well . . . That’s the impression I got. But you know what he’s like, Inspecteur Mazeau: he likes to talk, and he tends to exaggerate a bit. Sometimes he even kids around, so I take what he says with a pinch of salt . . .”
“Very wise,” says Darlac, suddenly standing up. “Anyway, you’ve earned some brownie points. You seem like a serious guy to me; someone we can count on. And, you know, I’m not the sort of guy who goes around doling out compliments. Thank you.”
He holds out his hand to Le Veau, who takes it weakly, a shadow of hesitation in the gesture, then shakes it while staring at the strange expression on the cop’s face, which is twisted into a weird rictus grin.
“I might need you again. Where’s the best place to find you?”
“Oh, I don’t go far these days. I give Simone here a hand, make a bit of grub for the regulars.”
Francis is also on his feet, and he now walks up to the bar, where Simone is nervously smoking, close to the telephone.
“You see? There was no need to get all worked up, was there? Words are one thing, but it
’s the thought that counts, don’t you think?”
“Hark at you, a cop philosopher!” The woman grimaces. “Please don’t forget to open the door on your way out, by the way. I would hate to see it smack you in the face.”
They go to their car and jump quickly inside to escape the rain.
“So?” says Francis.
Darlac does not reply. He stares through the window at the grey sky and the rain-drowned city.
“So . . .” he says after a while. “So Jeff and you are going to take care of this Veau. Do what you want to him—escalopes, blanquette, I don’t care. But I don’t want to see him again. Do it tonight. Before he has a chance to speak to Mazeau. Just make sure there are no witnesses. You spoke to his missus, so she’d be able to identify your ugly mug without any problem.”
“I know a cabin in the woods near Biscarosse where no-one would disturb us. Who’s this Mazeau?”
“He began his career in ’37, when I was made inspecteur principal. He joined the department, and I was sort of responsible for training him. He’s a fixer with an eye for a good scheme. The kind of smooth talker who could sell second-hand shoes to a man with no legs.”
“That could be useful, putting one over on people, when you’re a cop.”
“He’s small-time though. Anyone with half a brain can see him coming a mile off. He looks like the sort of priest who has it off with choirboys. During the war, he chose the right side at the right time. He always manages to hedge his bets. And he’s a waste of space as a cop: he wouldn’t be able to find his dick in his underpants if you told him it had gone missing. But he knows which asses to lick. Anyway . . . One thing’s for sure: he has nothing to do with the arson investigation. Which means that he really does know something through his other informers. Which means that he knows who this fucker is. Mazeau is one of Laborde’s men though, and that is a problem. It means we’re walking on eggshells. We’ll have to tread carefully here, for a change.”
“Maybe it’s the other cops on the case who’ve been talking and he’s just repeating what he’s heard.”
“No. The men don’t think like that. They don’t pose those sorts of questions about this guy’s determination or the mission that he’s on. No . . . They’re up to their necks in this investigation, saddled with all these witnesses who’ve seen and heard nothing . . . They’re all floundering in that shit heap. As for me, I just play dumb whenever the link with me comes up. With Couchot, they asked me why someone would attack one of my cousins, after what happened to Elise. My daughter is under protection, even if I don’t think he’ll attack her again. That was more of a warning shot. And we’re going to look into every person I know or I used to know in the past. When I’ve found his motives, I’ll have found my man. Maybe I’ll even find him before I find his motives. And if that happens, you can bet your ass I won’t waste any time trying to understand them.”
After the War Page 21