End Games in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  The priest examined his fingernails, but remained silent.

  ‘You’re Madame d’Herblay’s parish priest,’ Lannes said. ‘I was commissioned to find her granddaughter. Marie-Adelaide. I thought her father knew where she is, but it seems he doesn’t? Finding her is my only immediate concern, at least till I’m officially reinstated. Do you know the answer?’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ the priest said. ‘I can’t even help myself.’

  ***

  A strange, inconclusive meeting, Lannes thought. Yet Fabien, hurrying for his train, had seemed satisfied. He had set things in motion, even if Lannes had little idea what they were. Nevertheless, it was clear that something was expected of him, and that all three of them had reason to fear Labiche who held damaging information on them, even on Fabien despite his air of self-assurance. There had been a moment as he left when, drawing Lannes aside, he said, ‘The gun that killed Félix? I suppose you disposed of it? A pity. Not that obtaining a gun that’s hard to trace is any sort of problem, is it?’ Was he hinting that Lannes should rid them of the advocate? Ridiculous notion. And Edmond de Grimaud’s remarks about Pilar. What did they signify? None of it made sense, and yet Lannes knew that something was expected of him. Why else had Fabien responded to Jean-Pierre d’Herblay’s appeal when he had shrugged his shoulders ignoring Bracal’s?

  ***

  When he entered the apartment, it was a relief to find that Marguerite wasn’t alone, but was sitting there with her mother. She looked up as he entered, said ‘Jean’ as if he had just returned from a normal day at the office, and added, ‘You see, Maman is much better.’

  He kissed her, again like a dutiful husband who comes home at the same time every evening, and she didn’t quite turn her head away to avoid his kiss. He turned to Madame Panard and said he was happy to see her on the way to recovery.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m that,’ she replied, ‘far from it, I have to be very careful, but, by the mercy of God and the Holy Virgin, I’m still alive. You’ve been away yourself, Marguerite says, you should remember it’s your duty to look after her, especially in the absence of our dear Dominique. I worry about the boy, you know, whether he takes care of himself and gets enough to eat. Not that any one of us can claim to get that, and Albert says it will be worse still if these hooligans of the Resistance take over. Thieves and scoundrels, he calls them.’

  ‘Where’s Clothilde?’

  ‘That nice boy, Maurice, Dominique’s friend, called and they’ve gone out for an ice-cream.’

  ‘Has he word of Dominique?’

  ‘Only that he is well, which is one worry less.’

  ‘He should be at home,’ Madame Panard said. ‘A boy like that, heaven knows where in these troubled times. I’m not surprised that my heart started racing nineteen to the dozen. It’s worry and anxiety sets it off, the doctors say.’

  ‘Well, we’re happy to see you out of the hospital and at home.’

  It was almost as if he had never been where he was for these weeks.

  V

  He left early the following morning. Marguerite had said she was glad he was back safe, but little more. Perhaps she blamed him for her own brief arrest, with reason of course. They moved politely around each other, warily as if any word spoken would be the wrong word, and he knew she was pleased to have her mother there, as intermediary and excuse for saying nothing that mattered. Clothilde had received him ecstatically, leaping into his arms and hugging him, but when he asked Maurice about Dominique, the boy flushed, stammered and said he was well as far as he knew but the Chantiers de Jeunesse were finished, which was why his father had brought him back to Bordeaux. Then he left, saying he was sure they would want to be alone as a family.

  It was a beautifully fresh morning and yet the streets were almost deserted. Everyone would be waiting to see how things turned out; only then could they know what it was safe to do or say. It was like the last weeks of the school year when all the work has been done, exams taken, and it’s a question of how to get through empty and meaningless days before the release of the vacation. Only now the days weren’t that; the truth, he sensed, was that there were too many meanings and they clashed with each other. Moreover, a pall of shame hung heavy as river mist over the city. There couldn’t be anyone who didn’t have cause for shame.

  He turned into the rue Belle Étoile, to the house where poor Gaston had had his secret apartment where he taught his students and received his boyfriends, where he had also been so horribly tortured and killed. There had been an old lady, he remembered, in the apartment on the other side of the staircase who had heard nothing and spoke of him with admiration, first of all because her cat had taken to him. Gaston had entrusted her with a paper relatingto his sister-in-law Pilar, a paper with the information his murderers had been seeking. He wondered if the old lady whose name he had forgotten was still alive; she had been fragile in 1940. No matter; it wasn’t her he had come to see, though he thought he might look in on her later.

  The concierge recognised him.

  ‘If it’s Mam’zelle Haget you’ve come to see again, you’ll find her in, though she goes out more often than she used to. I’m pleased to say she’s taken a grip on herself, fewer empty bottles since her friend moved in with her. I wasn’t sure about that because the apartment was let to her as a single tenant, but as she said, it’s wartime and things are difficult for so many people. Which I couldn’t deny. In any case, you can see now that she is really a well-brought-up young lady, which I assure you wasn’t apparent before, what with the bottles and that Boche officer calling on her. But that’s all in the past, I’ve no complaints now, it’s all respectable and we’ve really become quite good friends. So I hope she’s not in trouble with you lot, that would really disappoint me, to think I’d got her wrong again.’

  ‘No trouble. I’m only seeking information about something that may have happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Very well then, it’s the third floor left, as I expect you remember.’

  But it was a plump blonde girl, not Catherine Haget, who opened the door to him. She was wearing only a dressing gown, tied round the middle but revealing her breasts. When he told her who he was and asked for Catherine, she gave him a cheeky smile, called out, ‘Kiki, it’s the police,’ and turned away to lead him into the apartment. Her hips swayed as she walked.

  The room was more fully furnished than when he had been there two years ago. There were soft coverings on the couch and the two mock-Directoire chairs, and several vases of flowers.

  ‘Yes,’ the girl said, ‘when you’re short of food it’s nice to have flowers to smell,’ and giggled. ‘You really are a policeman? What has Kiki done? I’m sure she can’t be in trouble and you’ve come to the wrong place, barking up the wrong tree, as they say. She’s really sweet, you know.’

  ‘I don’t do much barking,’ he said.

  ‘Well, that’s nice.’

  Catherine came through from the bedroom. Like the other girl she too had pulled on only a dressing-gown. Her curly hair was tangled, she was rubbing sleep from her eyes, and smelled of bed. Without a word she flopped down on the couch and smiled.

  ‘You look happy,’ he said, surprising himself.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it? I was in such a state before, wasn’t I.’ She stretched out, took hold of the other girl’s hand, squeezed it, and said, ‘Make us some tea, will you, sweetie.’

  ‘And leave you alone with the handsome policeman? Can I trust you? Can you trust him? All right, all right, dogsbody will do it.’

  And, giving Lannes another ravishing smile, she left them, pretending to flounce out.

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine said, ‘I’m happier than I’ve ever been. It’s all thanks to Lucille. I fell over in the street, drunk. She picked me up, brought me home, put me to bed, joined me there and we just clicked. It hasn’t worn off and it still feels to me like a fairy-story. I adore her, and when I’m in one of my down moods, she gives me a hug and a kiss and tells me not
to be an ass, life’s good. Sometimes I almost believe her. Give me a cigarette, would you please?’

  Lannes produced the packet of Gauloises he had bought at the tabac on the corner, passed one to her, lit it and then one for himself.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb the idyll.’

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Not at all. I’m delighted to see you happy, and sorry only that I’m going to ask you to turn your mind back to a time when you weren’t.’

  She looked away. Did her lips quiver, or was that only his imagination?

  ‘Gabrielle?’ she said, and it was little more than a whisper. ‘But you found the man who murdered her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s been dealt with.’

  ‘I’m glad. She really was a bitch and I came to hate her, not only for the reasons you know, but also because I had once loved her to distraction. You understand?’

  She drew deeply on her cigarette.

  ‘All the same, nobody should die like that, so brutally and without any dignity.’

  ‘Nobody,’ he said, thinking of the countless brutal and undignified deaths and suffering all over France, all over Europe, thinking too of Gaston’s murder, tied to a chair and tortured one floor down from this apartment occupied by these two delicious girls.

  ‘It’s not about Gabrielle,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid it’s going to be painful for you.’

  ‘So can we wait till Luci comes back? To give me moral support. Anyway I’m dying for a cup of tea. That’s good, isn’t it, that it’s tea I want, not that rough red vin ordinaire I used to swig. I scarcely drink any wine now, thanks to her. Remarkable, isn’t it?’

  Lucille returned carrying a tray with three cups and saucers on it.

  ‘I don’t know if policemen drink tea, but I made you a cup all the same. If, that is, you really are a policeman. Has he shown you his badge or whatever,’ she finished by giggling again.

  ‘He hasn’t needed to. I know who he is.’

  Lucille settled herself on the floor, leaning against Catherine’s legs.

  ‘Do you disapprove of us?’ she said. ‘I bet you do. Men always think it’s a waste of girls like us, being as we are.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, as Catherine stubbed out her cigarette, took a sip of tea and began to stroke Lucille’s blonde hair which lay abundantly on her shoulders.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ she said, ‘because if you did disapprove, I’d happily show you the door, tell you to bugger off.’

  She smiled again. A Renoir girl, Lannes thought. It didn’t embarrass her at all that she was giving him a good view of her breasts. Perhaps indeed it amused her.

  ‘I’m sorry but I have to ask Catherine painful questions,’ he explained.

  ‘It’s about my sister, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. Did she look like you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘We had different fathers, she took after hers, a blond, a Belgian

  I think, though he didn’t last long and I don’t really remember him. Then our mother died and she was placed in the orphanage, and you know what happened. It’s horrible.’

  She began to cry. Lucille uncoiled herself and sat beside her on the couch cradling her in her arms.

  ‘Is this necessary?’

  ‘It is. Catherine, I know the man for whom Gabrielle procured your little sister. I’ve seen a photograph of him with a naked girl of about twelve. She was wearing a black mask over her eyes, but she had dark hair. So it was another girl, not your sister. That’s the first thing cleared up. But now I need to find her. Urgently. Might you have any idea who she might have been?’

  No answer, only sobs.

  ‘I think she probably came from the orphanage too. You don’t happen to have a photograph of your sister and the other girls?’

  ‘What do you want it for?’ Lucille said.

  ‘To destroy the man who bought them.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case … ’

  She untwined herself and got to her feet.

  ‘It’s all right, darling, I know where you keep that photograph. He has to have it. He may be a policeman but he’s on the right side. I won’t be a minute. Just leave her alone now, will you?’

  Lannes lit a cigarette, got up and crossed to the window. The sun was high now, but the street below was deserted. A woman was hanging out washing on a metal frame attached to the window of the top-floor apartment opposite. Two small boys with cropped hair came running round the corner, passing a rugby ball to each other.

  ‘Here … ’ Lucille thrust the photograph into his hands. It was ragged at the edges and blurred in the middle but the half-dozen girls were clearly identifiable. There was one blonde, Catherine’s sister. One of the others had dark curls cut short; that fitted his memory of the photograph of Labiche, but he would have to check.

  ‘Do you know any of the other girls? This one for instance?’

  She shook her head.

  Lucille said, ‘Stop it. She doesn’t know and she doesn’t want to know. Take this away with you and ask them at the orphanage. You probably won’t get an answer. If the nuns suspected something nasty was going on, you certainly won’t. But you can try and it’s your best hope. Now leave us alone, please. You’ve upset Kiki, done enough harm for one day stirring up bad memories I’ve tried to get her to wipe out.’

  She looks strawberries and cream, this girl, Lannes thought.

  ‘You’re quite tough, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve had to be. As you’ll have gathered I don’t care for men and have good reason not to.’

  ‘No exceptions?’

  ‘Don’t fish for compliments, Mr Policeman. But if you nail that bastard, I’ll think well of you.’

  ‘I will if I can. Now you look after Catherine.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me to do that.’

  It was only when he was half an hour away from the house that he remembered he had intended to ask the concierge about the old lady with the cat. No matter; his fingers stroked the photograph in his pocket. It was good that Lucille had been there.

  VI

  Old Joseph, the office messenger and doorkeeper, greeted him with a handshake.

  ‘What times we live in,’ he said. ‘Suspending you, I never heard the like of it. You’ll be surprised to know that your boss is in, and that’s a rare event, I don’t mind telling you.’

  The Alsatian was indeed there, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk, which was bare of papers or any evidence of work.

  Lannes said, ‘Judge Bracal told me that my suspension was about to be lifted. I haven’t heard anything. So I thought I’d call in to ask you if you have.’

  ‘Nothing, Jean. Not a word.’ He didn’t remove his feet and added, ‘Not that anything matters now. After all, it was the Boches who insisted you should be stood down and there was nothing I could do about it. But they’re not going to be about much longer, and then … who knows? So if you want to resume work, it’s fine by me. Everything’s in a state of confusion and I haven’t seen Inspector Moncerre for more than a week. Not that it matters. Nobody’s been murdering anybody, except as what they will call war-work. For the moment the PJ is utterly superfluous. What do you think the reckoning will be? For my part I’m happy that we have served France to the best of our ability in difficult times. I expect you agree with me.’

  His voice was slurred and it occurred to Lannes that this was the first time he had seen the Alsatian drunk.

  ‘Young René handed on the cigars,’ Schnyder said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Lannes said, and left him for his own office.

  But there was nothing for him to do there. Of course there wasn’t. He was as idle as the Alsatian, every bit as much at a loose end. In limbo – the words came to him. In limbo and also confused – he wasn�
��t even sure why he had come in. His presence had disturbed a butterfly which had been snoozing in the sunshine that lay on the corner of his desk. It fluttered against the window pane. How long did butterflies live? He sighed. There was indeed no point in being here.

  But it was no better outside. He wandered the streets aimlessly. It was as if his weeks in detention had sapped his will, and he was amazed to think that only a few hours ago, in Catherine’s apartment in the rue Belle Etoile, he had felt full of energy and purpose. Now he was as empty as that wretched Aurélien or his broken sister. When he was young and the priests spoke of the Seven Deadly Sins he had never understood why Sloth was included among them. Surely his own reluctance to get out of bed on a cold morning wasn’t a sin of any magnitude? Of course it had been explained to him that Sloth meant more than that: that its real meaning was accidia, a weariness of the world, of God’s Creation, He had nodded obediently, scarcely interested. It wasn’t a sin to which he supposed then that he would ever be drawn.

  His wandering had taken him to the Place de la Cathédrale, and he saw Father Paul crossing the square. Their eyes met, each looked away, but then, to his surprise, the priest approached him.

  ‘You don’t think much of me, superintendent,’ he said, ‘and I can understand that. Nevertheless I should like to talk with you.’

  They walked in silence for some minutes till they came to the Bar Méteo to which Lannes had first been summoned by the spook who called himself Félix. It would do as well as anywhere. The patron greeted him with a nod in which he might have detected wariness – but who wasn’t entitled to be wary? They took a table in the back corner of the bar which was in any case deserted, and Lannes ordered an Armagnac, the priest a bottle of Vichy water. Lannes lit a cigarette and waited. The priest took a gulp of water.