by Allan Massie
He looked better when he came back. He had washed his face and his hands were no longer shaking. Lannes wasn’t surprised. He had been here often before; there are moments when a policeman becomes a priest or psychoanalyst, offering, providing, the relief of confession which is welcome whether the terror of condemnation is lifted or still hangs heavy.
‘So you realised you weren’t the man she wanted,’ he said. ‘That must have disappointed you?’
‘Yes of course it did, but when it came to the point it didn’t surprise me.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well I couldn’t do what I thought she wanted, and so it was good to find that really she didn’t want it from me, that I was only a sort of excuse. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ Lannes said. ‘Let’s go back to Labiche. You say at first you thought it was just for his amusement that he suggested you approach the girl, but it wasn’t that, was it? He had seduced her when she was a little girl? Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she’s too old for him now?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he came here, and you both went away with him, and then you returned alone, without the girl. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘This puzzles me,’ Lannes said. ‘Wasn’t she horrified to meet him again? It would be only natural if she was.’
‘You might think so, but she wasn’t. She was excited.’
‘By Labiche? That doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘Not by Labiche. Whatever you suppose or think natural, she was indifferent to him. That may, as you say, make no sense to you, but it’s how it was. It was what he promised that excited her.’
‘And what was that?’
‘To take her to her father.’
‘Her father?’
‘Yes. She talked about him at night, every night. He was the one she wanted, the only person, as she said, that she had ever loved, and she hadn’t seen him for years, seven years, not since she was twelve, and even then only in secret because his mother, her grandmother, had cut him off and forbidden him to see his daughter. He was a friend of Labiche and Labiche was acting on his behalf. He wanted her back and this made her happy. So she said goodbye to me with a smile on her face.’
‘And then you collapsed? Why was that, Aurélien?’
‘For two reasons. First because I realised I will always be what I am and I wanted to kill myself, but know I don’t have the courage to do so. And, second, because I am afraid of Labiche. I know this doesn’t make sense, because if he does what he threatened to do if I talked, I might get what I want and be dead. But two things that separately don’t make sense nevertheless reduced me to the state you found me in.’
‘And now?’
‘Now? I don’t know. I’m sure of nothing. I suppose my sister will look after me, as she always has. Unless you … ’
‘I’ve nothing to charge you with,’ Lannes said. ‘You may have been a fool, deceiving yourself, but you’re not a criminal. As for your sister, I can see that she’s an unhappy woman herself. Perhaps it’s your turn to look after her, Aurélien, now that you’ve unburdened yourself. So eat the bread and cheese she brought you. And leave Labiche to me. I assure you, his time’s running out. Not because of this, certainly, but because the world is shifting.’
XIII
Well, he didn’t doubt the truth of what the wretched Aurélien had told him. So he had solved the mystery, such as it was, even if he hadn’t found the girl, and could report to St-Hilaire. That might be enough. He hoped it would be, for he had no wish to confront Labiche himself. As for his last words to Aurélien, the world might indeed be shifting, the Allies’ invasion couldn’t be long off and it was clear Germany was losing the war on the Eastern Front, but Labiche? Perhaps he would indeed be arrested and put on trial as a collaborator and organiser of the deportation of the Bordeaux Jews. But he was resourceful. He had friends, men of influence, who would doubtless speak up for him, and there were surely others of whom he knew much to their discredit who would pull strings on his behalf in return for a promise of silence. Lannes was still enough of an old Radical to be sceptical about the likelihood of punishment being meted out to the rich or the well-born and well-connected, no matter what they might be guilty of. It was the little people of no importance who would suffer for their collaboration. A picture of Yvette being rabbled and humiliated came horribly to mind.
He mounted the stairs to their apartment. How sad to be reluctant to come home at the end of the day. How long was it since Marguerite had greeted him with a smile? How long since they had talked easily together? It was almost a relief to hear his brother-in-law Albert’s voice when he opened the door. Even Albert’s conversation which always irritated and often depressed him was preferable to chilly silence. Now he shook hands with him and told him he was welcome as he always was, the lie, which was less of a lie today, coming easily to his lips. Once Alain, who detested his uncle, had charged him, angrily, with hypocrisy because he tolerated Albert’s opinions and didn’t argue with him, and he had replied only that family was family and it was necessary to maintain civil relations. Alain had glowered and said he believed in honesty and plain speaking, and in any case he saw no reason to treat repulsive opinions with respect, no matter who uttered them. He loved Alain’s commitment, but said it was a question of good manners too, and moreover he shouldn’t upset his mother.
‘Isn’t Clothilde home? Her film must have finished hours ago.’
‘No,’ Marguerite said, ‘she’s spending the night with her friend Marie-Louise. They’re having a party for her name-day. You would remember if you paid as much attention to your family as you do to your work, or to whatever you now do outside your home where it seems you prefer not to be. Your friend, that Moncerre, telephoned. He wants to see you, he didn’t say why and of course I didn’t ask. Meanwhile, if it’s of any interest to you, my mother is ill again. They’ve taken her to hospital. Albert and I have just been to visit her. She said to give you her regards, as she always does, I can’t think why since you never go to see her yourself.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lannes said. ‘What is it? Is it serious?’
‘They don’t know. There are tests to be done. Albert, I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. Thank you for being with me. I dare say Jean will entertain you, as best he can.’
Entertainment wasn’t what Lannes associated with his brother-in-law. Since he had had a glass of that bad wine at the Pension Smitt, he took a bottle of marc from the cabinet, if only to get the taste out of his mouth. Albert accepted a glass and filled his pipe.
‘How ill is she?’
‘Palpitations of the heart,’ Albert said. ‘I don’t think it’s serious, you know what she’s like. But Marguerite worries. She’s worried about you too, Jean.’
‘Did she say so?’
‘Not precisely, not in so many words. But I can tell.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘This suspension. I haven’t enquired about the reason, but you’ll understand that it causes her anxiety.’
‘They’re difficult times,’ Lannes said.
‘Soon to be better. I have it on good authority that the Germans are confident that they will throw the Anglo-Saxons back into the sea. Breaching the Atlantic Wall, that’s a formidable task. And they’re undoubtedly ready for them. You’ll see. When the invasion has been defeated, these rats of the Resistance will crawl back into their holes.’
‘You think so?’
‘I have it on good authority, as I say. And then I hope this suspension of yours will be lifted and things can return to normality. Is there any word of a visit from Dominique? It would do his grandmother good to see him. As she says, she doesn’t have favourites, but you know she dotes on him.’
‘He’s a lovable boy. But there’s no word of a visit.’
‘I’m told they think well of him in Vichy. He has won golden opinions, that’s what I hear. Golden opinions. You must be proud of him.’
‘I’m
proud of all three of the children,’ Lannes said.
It was true, even though it often occurred to him that to express pride in your children was to claim credit that you had really perhaps done nothing to deserve.
‘Clothilde is of course charming,’ Albert said.
The evening dragged on in desultory fashion. They had never been easy together, and now there were so many subjects to beavoided, Alain most of all. And of course the coming months. Lannes wondered if Albert could really be as complacent as he seemed. Didn’t he realise that Vichy was now no more than the ghost of a government, that, if the Boches did indeed defeat the Americans and British as he supposed they would, the Occupation would only be intensified and a new even more pro-German, authentically fascist administration would be put in place. Even Laval’s days would be numbered, his collaboration deemed insufficient, half-hearted, with too many reservations.
At last Albert heaved himself to his feet and said he must be off.
‘I’ll enquire what can be done to have your suspension lifted,’ he said. ‘It would be one less worry for Marguerite.’
The words were futile, for he had no influence. Perhaps the pretence made him feel good.
When he had gone, Lannes took the dirty glasses through to the kitchen. There was a sheet of paper on the table, held down by a salt-cellar. He picked it up. The single, typewritten line read: Ask your husband about his whore at the Pension Bernadotte.
He folded the paper and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
XIV
Moncerre wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was jealous of Lannes. Irritated by him often too. They had worked well together for years. In many respects their abilities complemented each other. But Lannes’ tendency always to see both sides of a case or argument was infuriating. Moreover, Moncerre, whose own marriage was unhappy, even stormy, envied what he regarded as Lannes’ happy family life. He had no children himself, and always insisted he didn’t want any. Nevertheless to be a husband and not a father was in some way to be inferior, incomplete anyway. In truth he would have loved to have a son who looked up to him as a heroic figure. He might have adopted young René Martin as a substitute, but it had been evident from the day he was transferred to the PJ and joined their team that René had eyes only for Lannes. So Moncerre teased him, sometimes cruelly, and in response René took pleasure in disagreeing with him when they were discussing a case. To make matters worse Lannes was likely to take René’s side, and Moncerre found himself the odd one out.
It would be too much to say that Lannes’ suspension was welcome to him, but it certainly wasn’t displeasing. It gave him an opportunity to prove his worth, and he had indeed cleared up a couple of cases successfully. All the same his nerves were on edge and, as René had told Lannes, he was drinking too much and was often incapable of doing any work in the morning until he had steadied himself with a quarter-litre of red wine or a couple of bottles of beer. And now there was a new development which worried him and tested his loyalty.
The day before yesterday he had been visited by an officer of the Milice asking to speak with Superintendent Lannes. Moncerre had explained that he was currently unavailable; it was clear that the man didn’t know of Lannes’ suspension. Moncerre had asked how he himself might help.
‘I doubt if that’s possible,’ the officer said, nevertheless taking a seat on the other side of the desk. He introduced himself as Captain Fracasse and said, ‘Our work is difficult enough.’
‘I’ve no doubt it is,’ Moncerre said, lighting his pipe and wondering what all this was about.
‘More than difficult if we are denied co-operation by other organs of the State.’
‘Quite so,’ Moncerre said.
‘Not only denied co-operation, but actively obstructed. You understand that we are charged with the elimination of these traitors who call themselves the Resistance. This is why I must speak to Superintendent Lannes. Will you please tell him to get in touch with me. Here is my card with the telephone number to ring. I’ll expect a call within twenty-four hours. Otherwise I shall have take action such as I would wish to avoid.’
***
‘Fracasse won’t be his real name,’ Lannes said. ‘Le Capitaine Fracasse was a nineteenth-century novel. By Gautier, as I remember. I think he was a mercenary or soldier of fortune, perhaps in the Thirty Years War. I haven’t read it since I was a schoolboy.’
It was ten in the morning. They were in the Café des Arts, Cours de la Marne, one of Lannes’ favourite bars. The old waiter, Marcel, had brought him an Armagnac and a cup of bad coffee without having to be asked. Lannes took a mouthful of the brandy and tipped the rest into the coffee.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Moncerre said.
His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked away and called to Marcel to bring him another quarter-litre.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ he said, ‘beyond assuring him that I’d pass the message on. But it’s obviously trouble.’
Was there a note of satisfaction in his voice?
‘I think I’ve a right to be told. As it is, I felt like a fool. Obviously I didn’t tell him you are suspended from duty, though I’ve no doubt he’s likely to find out that you are.’
‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘I suppose he will.’
‘So what’s it all about?’
‘I’m not sure that you want to know,’ Lannes said. ‘I think it’s better that you shouldn’t. Then you’re not involved.’
‘That’s typical,’ Moncerre said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Typical of you. You keep your cards so close to your chest that they stick there. “I think it’s better that you shouldn’t know” – is that the way to speak to me? We’ve worked together for years, I think of you as a mate, but when it’s an important question, you freeze up.’
‘It’s for your sake.’
‘Don’t you trust me? I bet if it was young René who’d been asked to pass on the message, you’d tell him what it was about.’
‘No I wouldn’t. I certainly wouldn’t.’
He drank his coffee and lit a cigarette. Was he being unfair to the bull-terrier? Didn’t he in fact trust him and wasn’t Moncerre justified in feeling aggrieved?
‘All right,’ he said, and recounted the incident in Chez Jules.
‘You’re a fool,’ Moncerre said. ‘It’s a real mess.’
‘So it is. That’s why I said it was better you knew nothing about it. And I suggest that you still don’t, that you haven’t seen me to pass the message on. That won’t surprise him when he learns that I’m suspended.’
‘He’d still want to know why I didn’t tell him.’
‘Oh, you can always plead loyalty,’ Lannes said, ‘esprit de corps. How’s work, anyway?’
‘No problems I can’t deal with,’ Moncerre said.
‘That’s good. I’m glad to hear it.’
***
When Moncerre had left him, saying with some satisfaction that he had work to do even if Lannes didn’t, he fingered the sheet of paper in his inside pocket. It was like Marguerite to have said nothing, merely leaving it for him to find. She had been asleep when he joined her in bed, her face turned towards the wall. He had let his hand rest lightly on her thigh as he had so often done, tenderly and lovingly. Had he hoped for a response, hoped to hear her give a little sigh and ease herself towards him?
It was a time of anonymous letters, denunciations. They had been inundated with them in the PJ ever since the early days of the Occupation. Many were trivial, if malicious: the writer had a neighbour engaged in the black market. Others were more serious: the authorities should know that Madame X was sleeping with German soldiers. More recently there had been accusations of harbouring Jews or of involvement in the Resistance. He had been in the habit of ignoring them, and disobeyed the requirement to file all such communications. The wastepaper basket was the place for them. But this was different. He couldn’t just stow it away in a corner of his mind and pr
etend that it had never been delivered. That’s what he would have done of course if he had intercepted it. But Marguerite had read it. He could tell her it was a lie, Yvette wasn’t his whore. This would be true. He didn’t think of her like that. But he had committed adultery in his imagination; he was indeed, as he sat at the café table smoking a cigarette, picturing Yvette offering herself to him. It came to him that if – when? – she did so again, he might …
He turned away from the image of what would so desirably follow. But why should he continue to say no, since he couldn’t hope that Marguerite would believe that he hadn’t done what he was accused of doing? Why not go straight to the Pension Bernadotte?
He didn’t of course. He retained that much self-respect. Instead, he sat for some time, scarcely even thinking, sat like a boxer on his stool in the interval after a round in which he has taken a pummelling and doesn’t know if he can answer the bell. Then, reckoning that Moncerre wouldn’t have returned to the office yet, he rang the PJ, had himself put through to René Martin, and asked him to meet him that afternoon in Gustave’s bar behind the Gare St-Jean.
Moncerre’s information was worrying too. He couldn’t suppose that the Milice, this Captain Fracasse, whatever his real name might be, or the young lieutenant himself, wouldn’t soon learn that he had been suspended and hadn’t therefore been entitled to interfere with the lieutenant in the course of his duty. He would doubtless be suspected of being in the Resistance himself, all the more suspect, perhaps, as a frequenter, they would suppose, of a disreputable bar.