The Accident on the A35

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  It was clear that, without the necessary paperwork, Maître Corbeil would never permit access to his former partner’s records. Instead, Gorski made a tour of the town’s banks. It was the sort of methodical task he relished, and in a certain way he would have been disappointed if he had been successful at the first attempt. The Société Générale on Rue de Mulhouse was the third establishment he visited. Gorski explained the nature of his visit to the teller. She was a plain girl with a skin complaint, barely out of her teens. She appeared quite flustered by the sight of Gorski’s police ID, as if it was she that was being accused of something. She obediently consulted a set of box files arrayed along the wall behind her, before confirming that the bank did indeed hold Bertrand Barthelme’s accounts.

  ‘But I’m not sure I’m allowed to—’ She looked embarrassed.

  Her name was written on a badge pinned to her blouse.

  ‘Why don’t you let me speak to the manager, Carolyn?’ Gorski said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, relieved to have the matter taken out of her hands. A few moments later, the girl showed Gorski into the office behind the counter. A sharp-faced woman in her forties was standing behind the desk. A pair of spectacles hung on a chain around her neck. Gorski recalled her from a previous case.

  ‘Mademoiselle Givskov,’ he said. ‘I must congratulate you on your promotion.’

  ‘It’s merely an interim position,’ she replied curtly.

  ‘Ah,’ said Gorski. Although she had not invited him to do so, he sat down in the chair opposite the desk. Mlle Givskov remained standing.

  ‘I’m afraid your request is quite irregular, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Are you in a hurry to leave?’

  Mlle Givskov sat down warily, as though the chair was set above a trap door. She was not an easy woman to charm.

  ‘I suppose you must have known Maître Barthelme,’ Gorski said.

  ‘As a client only,’ she replied, as if he had insinuated that she had been his mistress.

  ‘Nevertheless, you’ll be aware that he was a prominent figure in Saint-Louis. Perhaps you also know his wife, Lucette?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘A charming woman,’ said Gorski. ‘Devastated by her husband’s death, of course.’ He then—aware of the theatricality of the act—drew his chair a little closer to Mlle Givskov’s desk and explained in hushed tones that there were certain circumstances surrounding the solicitor’s death that required investigation. Lucette Barthelme was anxious that these enquiries be made as discreetly as possible, and Gorski did not wish to add to the distress of her bereavement.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it would be perfectly straightforward to obtain the necessary paperwork, but that would entail bringing things into the public domain, which is precisely what Madame Barthelme wishes to avoid.’

  Mlle Givskov looked at him for a few moments. She was wearing a light blue cardigan over her blouse. The wool was frayed at the cuff of the left sleeve. Gorski gave her his most encouraging smile.

  ‘Perhaps if I knew something of these circumstances you have alluded to,’ she said.

  Gorski smiled apologetically. ‘I’d be only too happy to tell you, were it not for the need to avoid unnecessary scandal.’

  The word ‘scandal’ sparked a quickly suppressed flicker of excitement in Mlle’s Givskov’s eyes. The fingers of her right hand began to worry at the sleeve of her cardigan.

  ‘Such a request would require the approval of head office,’ she said. Gorski was familiar with the formal tone people adopted when they did not wish to take responsibility for their own actions. She reached towards the telephone on the desk.

  Gorski pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

  ‘I think this is something best kept between the two of us,’ he said. ‘I can assure you that you will have the gratitude of Lucette Barthelme, and I’m sure you would wish to retain her family’s business. I don’t imagine head office would look favourably on the loss of such a valuable account should you wish to make your current position permanent.’

  Gorski clasped his hands on his lap. There was no need to say anything further. Mlle Givskov stood up and walked across to a filing cabinet on the left of the room. She put on her reading glasses and retrieved a file from the top drawer. She turned her head away as she handed it to Gorski, as if disavowing any knowledge of what she was doing.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. He would like to have been left alone to peruse its contents, but he did not want to further test Mlle Givskov’s patience. She flitted around the office, occupying herself with non-existent tasks. It did not take more than a few seconds for Gorski to find what he hoped he would not. At half past eleven on the day of the accident, Bertrand Barthelme had made a sizeable withdrawal from his account. Gorski turned the pages of the document. Similar amounts, increasing slightly over the years, had been withdrawn for as long as the records went back.

  Mlle Givskov was watching him from the corner of her eye.

  ‘I see that Maître Barthelme made a regular withdrawal every Tuesday,’ he said. ‘Did he make these in person?’

  Mlle Givskov did not look at him as she spoke. ‘No one else was authorised to access the account.’

  Gorski thanked her and stood up. As she showed him out, he said, loudly enough to be heard by the other members of staff: ‘Of course, I understand your need to protect your client’s privacy, mademoiselle.’

  A look of gratitude passed across her face.

  Outside on the pavement, Gorski exhaled slowly and walked the short distance back to the gendarmerie. In his office he sat staring at the telephone, the fingers of his right hand beating a rhythm on the surface of his desk. He lit a cigarette and stood at the window smoking. The old woman with the battered shopping trolley was walking slowly past on the opposite pavement. She paused for a moment, as if utterly exhausted. Then she continued on her way. Gorski watched her until she was out of sight. He reminded himself that it had been some days since he had called in on his mother.

  He resumed his seat. He had no choice but to share his findings with Lambert. Not to do so would constitute withholding evidence from an investigation. Why then did he feel a certain reticence? Only a week or so ago, nothing would have pleased him more than to furnish his city colleague with information about a murder case. Yet the feeling that he was setting in motion a chain of events over which he could exert no control gnawed at him. It was important to think through the implications of what he had discovered. He himself had leapt to the conclusion that Barthelme had made the withdrawals to pay Veronique Marchal for her services. But this was no more than a supposition. The money might have been used for any number of purposes. Lambert would be untroubled by such scepticism, however.

  Gorski stubbed out his cigarette. While there was no question of keeping the information to himself, he was under no obligation to call Lambert immediately. He would pay a visit to his mother first. It would give him a little time to settle his thoughts.

  As he exited the station, a dark blue BMW pulled into a reserved parking space in front of the building. Gorski paused at the top of the steps. Lambert got out of the car.

  ‘Georges!’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect a welcoming committee. So this is the kingdom of Saint-Louis.’

  Gorski glanced around. There was something incongruous about seeing Lambert in the drab surroundings of Rue de Mulhouse, as if an exotic animal had escaped from a zoo and was prowling the streets. Gorski stepped onto the pavement and the two men shook hands.

  ‘I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I’d drive down and get a feel for the place. You on your way somewhere?’

  Gorski did not have the wherewithal to invent something. ‘I was just going to visit my mother,’ he said, immediately regretting his words. ‘She hasn’t been so well,’ he added, as if this would somehow make it an acceptable mid-afternoon activity for a chief of police.

  ‘Well, I’m sure Old Mother Gor
ski can wait, eh? Where’s good for a tête-à-tête around here?’

  Gorski had no desire to explain to Schmitt or anyone else what a Strasbourg detective was doing in Saint-Louis. He quickly led Lambert off in the direction of Le Pot. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Lambert did the same. Everything about the Strasbourg cop had the effect of accentuating the drabness of Saint-Louis. His face was too handsome, his suit too well cut, his hair too blonde and well groomed. Even his confident gait contributed to the effect that he was an actor striding through a badly painted backdrop. In Saint-Louis, it is frowned upon to have good posture, or to walk purposefully along the street as if one is in control of one’s own destiny. If asked how one’s business is doing, the customary response is: ‘Could be worse,’ or ‘Just about surviving.’ Anything more upbeat is reckoned insufferable boasting. Personal achievements should be dismissed as flukery and mentioned only after an extended period of arm-twisting. It is regarded as a great misfortune for one’s daughter to be too pretty or one’s son to be too bright. In Saint-Louis, as in all provincial backwaters, the inhabitants are most comfortable with failure. Success serves only to remind the citizenry of their own shortcomings and is thus to be enthusiastically resented. So, as Gorski struggled to keep up with the striding figure of Lambert, he suffered a two-fold embarrassment: first, because he did not wish to be seen with someone who blatantly did not subscribe to the local ideology of mediocrity; and, second, because it was humbling to have Lambert behold the modest nature of his dominion.

  So it was a relief to enter Le Pot, a place that made a virtue of its shabbiness. Lambert did not, of course, enter with the customary meekness of the establishment’s habitués, and the eyes of all those present were immediately drawn to him. The company consisted of three people: the proprietor, Yves, who was dressed with his customary disregard for the norms of hygiene; Lemerre, whose shop was a few doors down the street and who regularly dropped in for a snifter between customers; and a middle-aged former schoolteacher who never ordinarily raised his eyes from his copy of L’Alsace.

  ‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Lambert declared in jovial fashion, recklessly laying waste to the code of silence that existed between them. The schoolteacher lowered his eyes to his newspaper. Lemerre turned to Yves and muttered something under his breath. Yves returned Lambert’s greeting with an impassive upward nod of his head and asked what they would have.

  ‘Two beers,’ Gorski replied, in an attempt to gain some control of the situation.

  ‘Splendid place, Georges,’ said Lambert as they took a seat at Gorski’s regular table. ‘I bet you never have to pay for a drink in here.’

  Gorski put his hand to his forehead, as if shielding his eyes from the sun. He lit another cigarette and offered the packet to Lambert. Yves placed two glasses of beer on the table between them.

  ‘Give me one of these hotdogs while you’re at it,’ Lambert said, gesturing towards the boiler on the counter from which Le Pot derived its characteristic aroma. ‘And be a good fellow and turn the radio on, will you? We’re hoping to have a private conversation here.’

  Yves looked at him implacably, before responding with a single word: ‘Mustard?’

  ‘Plenty of it,’ said Lambert. ‘And one for my friend here as well. He looks hungry.’

  To Gorski’s surprise, Yves did as he was asked and the tinny sound of pop music did a little to alleviate the atmosphere in the bar.

  Gorski leant over the table. ‘So what brings you down here?’ he asked.

  Lambert took a slug of his beer. ‘You didn’t return my calls,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gorski. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Busy visiting your mother?’ said Lambert.

  The hotdogs arrived on paper plates. Lambert took a large bite. Mustard spilled down his chin. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.

  ‘How’s the case?’ Gorski asked.

  Lambert gave a long, slow nod. His mouth was full.

  ‘I paid another visit to our friend the professor,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Gorski wondered aloud if Weismann had had second thoughts about seeing Barthelme.

  Lambert swallowed the remains of his hotdog and wiped his mouth with the paper napkin provided. He leaned in close over the table and for the first time lowered his voice. Over his shoulder, Gorski could see Lemerre and Yves straining to hear what he was saying.

  ‘Quite the contrary, Georges. I got him hook, line and sinker. Reeled the old onanist in like a fat carp. You ever do any fishing, Georges? We should do that sometime.’ He drained the contents of his glass and gestured to Yves for two more. ‘I told him straight out. “Prof,” I said, “We’ve got someone else in the frame. You can forget about the guy you saw on the stairs.” And, of course, you could see he was devastated. He got me by the sleeve and dragged me into his apartment. “But Inspector,” he told me, “since you were here last, it’s all come back. I saw him several times. I even spoke to him in the stairwell now and again.” So I asked him what they talked about. “Just good day, nothing more than that,” he said. “But it was certainly the man in the photograph. A tall man with a beard.” I told him that it didn’t matter, that we had someone else, but he wouldn’t let it go. Then he told me he’d seen Barthelme on the night of the murder. He couldn’t swear to the time, but he had happened to be looking out of his window and saw him enter the building. Even then I insisted that it didn’t matter, so he told me that he had gone to his front door and looked through the peephole and seen Barthelme go into Mlle Marchal’s apartment. Hook, line and sinker, ha ha.’

  Gorski forced a laugh.

  ‘And’—Lambert gave Gorski a theatrical wink—‘it turns out that the good lawyer stopped by in our favourite bar after the deed for a quick snifter to calm his nerves. My friend Bob recognised him straightaway when I showed him his picture. Knocked back two brandies at the counter. Apparently he appeared to be in a state of some agitation.’

  Gorski felt nauseous.

  ‘So that’s my news. How about you give me yours. How’s the money trail?’

  Gorski related in some detail how Barthelme’s papers had been gathered up by his business partner and how he had, for the sake of discretion, thought it wise to keep matters off the record for the time being.

  ‘I like your thinking,’ put in Lambert.

  Gorski took his time relating how he had traced Barthelme’s accounts to the Société Général, hoping that by burying the solicitor’s withdrawals in a mass of irrelevant detail, he might somehow lessen their significance. He eventually delivered the salient piece of information with a dismissive shrug.

  Lambert looked at him with a grin. ‘You’re a character, Georges, I’ll give you that.’

  Gorski shrugged. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest that this money ended up in Mademoiselle Marchal’s hands,’ he said.

  ‘No evidence?’ Lambert laughed. ‘So, what do you think he was doing with it? He wasn’t donating it to the local orphanage, was he?’

  Gorski spread his hands. ‘I just can’t help thinking—’ he began.

  ‘That’s your problem right there, Georges,’ said Lambert. ‘Too much of this.’ He tapped the side of his forehead exactly the way Ribéry used to. ‘You think police work is all about brainwork. It’s not. It’s about telling a story. A judge is no different from a child. He wants to hear a good story, and when you tell him one he’ll fit the evidence to suit it. I’ve see it a hundred times.’ He raised his index finger. ‘Let’s take an example: a man—upstanding pillar of the community—has been married for twenty years. But if you scratch the surface, you find that all is not as it seems. He and his wife keep separate rooms. Once a week he withdraws a large sum of money, tells his wife he is dining with business associates, and drives to a neighbouring city where he indulges his more exotic desires with an accommodating mistress. But then something goes wrong. Perhaps the accommodating mistress ge
ts greedy, or perhaps their activities simply get out of hand, but in any case, our pillar of the community strangles her and makes his escape. As he drives home, he’s overcome with remorse and steers his car off the road. Or, perhaps, in his state of agitation, he loses control of his vehicle. It doesn’t much matter. But you cannot tell me, Georges, that that is not a compelling story.’ He spread his large hands across the table to suggest that his version of events was indisputable.

  ‘It might be a compelling story,’ said Gorski, ‘but that doesn’t make it true.’

  Lambert gave a dismissive laugh through his nose. He raised his glass and took a good swallow, leaving a caterpillar of foam on his top lip. A few minutes later, he scraped back his chair. He went into the WC and urinated noisily. In his absence, Gorski hastily paid Yves for the beers. He walked Lambert back to his car and the two men parted on the street. Gorski waited until he had driven off, before continuing along Rue de Mulhouse.

  It was perfectly obvious why the proprietor of Lambert’s little bar would do whatever was asked of him. What Gorski found harder to understand was why Weismann would do the same. Of course, Gorski had come across his share of busybodies over the years, the sort who felt that involvement in a police investigation endowed them with a certain status; a status that increased in relation to the gravity of the crime in question. But Gorski had never known a witness to so enthusiastically fabricate evidence in a murder case. Perhaps Weismann was simply a highly suggestible individual, who, in his eagerness to curry favour with Lambert, had come to believe the truth of what he was saying. Or perhaps—and if one was dispassionate, the idea could not be entirely dismissed—Weismann really had seen Barthelme on the night in question. Gorski, however, remained unconvinced and was left gloomily pondering the historian’s motives.