by Allan Massie
Thinking of it now, he found he envied Alain and Léon – yes, and little Jérôme too – who had had the courage to break free and join de Gaulle, while he had remained tied to his duty, persuading himself he was not only acting honourably but was doing what was necessary to protect his family. Well, he wasn’t alone in such self-persuasion, but where had it got him?
He drank his Armagnac, and, resisting the temptation to return to the bar, and have another and another and another, headed for the bureau of the railway police. The clerk, a middle-aged bald man, nodded when Lannes produced his badge and asked to speak to the senior officer on duty. Without removing the stub of the cigarette from the corner of his mouth he jerked his thumb at a door behind him.
‘You’d a shooting here this morning,’ Lannes said.
‘I wasn’t on duty then and know nothing about that. They may help you through here, and then again they may not. I wouldn’t count on it if I was you.’
He lifted a shelf to enable Lannes to pass behind the desk and sighed deeply.
Lannes knocked at the door and, receiving no answer, opened it. A young police lieutenant was sitting with his feet up on the desk. He was smoking a pipe and reading a comic magazine.
Lannes identified himself and again said, ‘You’d a shooting here this morning, I understand.’
‘So I’m told, but I know nothing about it. I came on duty only at midday.’
‘I see. Who found the body?’
‘Couldn’t rightly say.’
‘Surely the information was logged in.’
‘Suppose it might have been.’
‘Then, look it up, will you, unless you want to be put on a charge for negligence, insolence and obstruction of an officer of the police judiciaire in the performance of his duty.’
‘Case been handed to you, has it?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Expect it is, really. My superiors are inclined to get tetchy when there’s interference from another branch of the police. Not that I give a damn, you understand.’
‘Really?’ Lannes said. ‘You surprise me. Is there anything you do give a damn for? No, don’t bother to answer that. Just give me the information I need.’
***
‘Six-thirty in the morning. Not many people about, and not only because it’s difficult to run trains these days, with half the lines blown up.’
The officer, to whom he had been reluctantly directed, a weary-looking middle-aged man, removed his cap and scratched his head.
‘It’s not the first murder we’ve had in recent months, you understand. But it’s a surprising one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s unusual for people to arrive to remove the body even before a doctor has examined it. You’ll grant me that?’
‘Certainly, and who were these people?’
‘The Milice. That’s why nobody questioned them. Tell you the truth, superintendent, it surprised me to find they were still active, still capable of this sort of professionalism. Frankly, I rather thought the Resistance had more or less taken over, shut them out. But they were quick enough, make of that what you please.’
‘Who identified the body then?’
‘Nobody, far as I know. There wasn’t time and in any case he had been stripped of any identification he was carrying. His wallet and papers had gone, you see.’
‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘So there’s little doubt it was an execution.’
‘A bullet in the back of the head, sounds like that, don’t it?’
And yet, though the railway police had no name for the victim – and were evidently happy to write the case off as being the kind of thing better not investigated – Edmond had heard of it within hours and knew – or believed? – that the dead man was Fabien.
‘Who reported the crime? You must have a note of that.’
‘Certainly. Even the boys who were on duty this morning aren’t that slack. A Monsieur Pomathios. He’d arrived, by his account, on an early train from Biarritz. I’ve checked and there was such a train. Some of them, you know, are still running.’
‘You’ll have his address, I hope.’
‘Here it is, 47 rue Xantrailles. Mériadeck, isn’t it?’
Rue Xantrailles, where the Catalan Cortazar had been murdered in his apartment; coincidence surely.
‘Yes, Mériadeck. You’ve been helpful. Thank you. And you should tell that young lieutenant at the desk to wake up.’
‘That would be pointless. He’s a washout. An uncle got him the job to prevent him for being conscripted for labour service in Germany. Pity, really. If they’d put him to work in a factory, he’d have mucked up their war effort.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been helpful.’
***
There was no concierge in the building, but a card fixed in a metal holder on the wall to the left of the door directed him to an apartment on the second floor. He rang the bell and waited, lifted a knocker and banged it hard. He heard shuffling feet and the door was opened a few centimetres on a chain.
‘Police judiciaire.’
‘Oh Lord. Wait till I unhook this.’
Monsieur Pomathios was a small thickset man with a bald head and thick grey moustache, He was in shirt-sleeves and braces. When he turned away Lannes saw that his trousers sagged and he was wearing carpet slippers.
‘You’d better come into the parlour,’ he said.
It was a small stuffy room, over-furnished and Lannes had the impression that the window that looked on to the street hadn’t been opened in a long time.
There was a half baguette on the table with a hunk of cheese beside it.
‘I thought I’d eat but I’d no appetite. I’ve never known a day like it. I thought somebody might come to question me, but I have to say the police at the station seemed happy to be rid of me as quickly as possible. Which surprised me. Police judiciaire, I think you said you are.’
‘Yes. It’s my job to investigate cases like this. You’d come in on the early morning train from Biarritz, I’m told. What were you doing there?’
‘What was I doing there? You may well ask. Yes indeed. I’m a commercial, see. My line’s ladies’ underwear, good quality, I’ve always dealt in good quality, but you’ll understand, what with the Occupation and all, trade’s been poor. There are some businesses, superintendent – it is superintendent, isn’t it – that have done well out of the war and the Occupation, but ladies’ underwear isn’t one of them. And it’s not just trade that’s been slack. My employer, I have to tell you, well, he’s no longer in Bordeaux. A Jew, you see. I don’t need to say more, do I. As decent and straight a man as you could find anywhere, and a good Frenchman, we served in the same infantry regiment in our war. That’s how I knew him. Well, I used to have a shop of my own, but when the wife died ten years ago, well, I ran into difficulties. She was the business brain, you see, and that’s when Reuben Marks offered me a job and, what’s more, invited me to come to share this apartment with him, he being a widower too and lonely himself, you understand, I didn’t hesitate the time it would take me to cross the road. You couldn’t have a better friend than Reuben was to me. So, when they started the rafle of the Jews – a right disgrace that was – he said to me “Pommi” – which is what he called me – “Pommi, I’m leaving everything in your care. Keep the business going and when I come back, we’ll settle up.” Well, I’ve done what I can, but trade’s been poor, as I say. Still, things look brighter now, so the day before yesterday I said to myself, I’ll just pop down to Biarritz, we used to do well there, and see if I can drum up some orders. Which I did, and with some success I’m glad to say, but whether poor Reuben will be back to profit from it, well, we won’t go into that. It’s a bad wicked business in my opinion.’
‘So you stayed overnight in Biarritz,’ Lannes said.
‘Not of intention, but I got delayed, talking to an old customer, and then caught the first train I could. Feeling like death myself, if I say so. That�
�s why I went to the buffet when I arrived, for a nip and a coffee and a piece of bread. And that’s where I saw the dead man, not that he was dead then, you understand. It was the linen suit he was wearing caught my attention, it’s not only ladies underwear I’ve an eye for. Good quality it was, and well cut. I notice such things.’
As he spoke, Monsieur Pomathios nodded his head up and down like a mechanical doll, as if he was numbering the points of his narrative.
‘Was he alone?’
‘At first he was, standing at the bar drinking his coffee. He looked at his watch a couple of times, so, if I’d thought about it then, I’d have assumed he was anxious not to miss his train. But I thought that only later, you understand.’
‘You say, at first … ’
‘Yes, because he was joined by two others whom he was evidently expecting because they shook hands straight away.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Indeed, yes, because I’ve got what is called a noticing eye, as you have doubtless realised. One was a stocky fellow wearing a trilby hat and a buff-coloured or yellowish trench coat, even though it was a fine morning and good weather is forecast. But it was the other man I recognised and the sight of him … well, superintendent, I’m ashamed to say it, but for years I’ve had trouble with my bowels being loose – it’s not a nice topic of conversation. And I wouldn’t mention it but for the fact that the mere sight of him had me hurrying to the toilet with what I can only call considerable urgency.’
‘To the public conveniences,’ Lannes said, ‘even though there’s a toilet in the Buffet de la Gare?’
Monsieur Pomathios nodded again as if acknowledging that Lannes’ question was reasonable.
‘Indeed there is,’ he said, ‘but to reach it I’d have had to pass close to them, and even the sight of that bastard of a lawyer had me near soiling myself. You may know him, superintendent, indeed I expect you do, for he’s what they call a prominent citizen, a member of the body set up to get rid of the Jews like my poor friend Reuben. And hadn’t I myself gone to plead Reuben’s cause to him and been dismissed with contempt and a warning that any more lip, as he said, and I’d find myself going the same way as the Jews?’
‘Monsieur Labiche?’
‘That’s right. I’m not one to pass judgement on my fellow men, there’s good buried somewhere in most of us, I like to think, but if anyone deserves to rot in hell it’s that lawyer. To think of how he spoke to me of these poor Jews, it sickens me even to remember.
So that’s why I made for the public convenience, and I got into the cabinet to do my business just in the nick of time, which was a great relief. Then when I’d finished and had hooked up my braces and was getting my suit jacket on again, I heard this noise, a sort of squelch or phut, and the sound of a man falling. I thought someone had had an accident and stepped out to see if I could help. But there the poor gentleman was, lying with his face in the urinal and his beautiful linen suit filthy. I don’t mind telling you I started to retch.’
‘But did you see anything else.’
‘Only, as I told the railway police, the back of that trench coat rounding the corner out of the toilets. It surprised me that they didn’t seem much interested.’
Not sufficiently so to mention it to me, Lannes thought.
‘Thank you, Monsieur Pomathios,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful, a model witness.’
‘I’ve always prided myself on my eye, never been one to miss much. You can’t be a good salesman if you’re not a noticing man.’
‘I suppose not. Meanwhile I would be grateful if you would come to my office this afternoon to look at some photographs. It’s possible that you may be able to identify the murderer. Shall we say five o’clock?’
XVIII
He felt elated as he descended the stairs and stepped into the street. The little commercial salesman was indeed what he had said, a model witness. And, though by his account it surely wasn’t Labiche who had murdered Fabien, he was evidently involved, sufficiently involved at any rate to justify bringing him in for questioning. And indeed he might have fired the shot; Pomathios had seen only one man leaving, the fellow in the trench coat, but it was quite possible that Labiche had been a step or two ahead of him. He would put that possibility to Bracal anyway. But it was the trench coat and the description, however brief, of the man wearing it that interested him. Interested and disturbed, he had to admit. Sketchy as it was, it fitted Sigi who had returned, unexpectedly he thought, to Bordeaux, and who had long been, he believed, a gun for hire. And the fact that Edmond knew that the dead man was apparently Fabien, even though the railway police hadn’t identified him – didn’t that point to Sigi? Yet it was odd. Why should Edmond have mentioned it to him? Lannes hadn’t been serious when he asked Edmond if Sigi had shot Fabien, or not wholly serious, had intended to do no more than rile him, but now it seemed likely that his question, plucked out of the air, had been a good one.
The sun was high in the sky and hot, a beautiful late summer day. He was near the Pension Bernadotte, and was tempted to call in on Yvette, only of course to reassure himself that she was well and safe. But, when he approached the building, he saw old Mangeot standing in the doorway, taking the sun in shirt-sleeves, and picking at his teeth with a matchstick.
‘You’re out of luck, superintendent,’ he said. ‘She’s not at home. Out drumming up trade, I expect. She’ll have to make do with the natives now that the Boches are on the run.’
‘Enough of that,’ Lannes said. He stepped forward and took hold of Mangeot by his shirt collar. ‘Enough of that,’ he said again. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ve done well enough out of her, taken your cut, haven’t you? There are difficult times ahead. I’ll ask you to keep an eye on her and hold you responsible if anything happens to her.’
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, superintendent.’
‘Don’t you? Just remember you’ve a licence to lose. You’re in my sights, Mangeot.’
It was worrying. He had no doubt Yvette would be in danger, for there would be people who knew of her dealings with German soldiers. He had warned her to steer clear of them, and perhaps she had done so recently, but there were others, besides Mangeot who would remember the young blond German she had called Wolfie, whom she had spoken of with affection so that he had suspected her interest in him had not been merely commercial. Horizontal collaboration wasn’t something that would be overlooked. He had warned her, and she had smiled and said, ‘What’s a girl to do?’ And Wolfie, she had said, was a sweet boy who missed his mother and had never wanted to go to war.
Back in the office he had old Joseph take a note through to Bracal asking for an appointment. He sat at his desk smoking and thinking of Fabien, taken by the urgent need to pee, taken by surprise as he stood at the urinal. Whatever the outcome of his meeting with Labiche and the other man – Sigi? – he had surely been taken by surprise, never suspecting that he was in danger. Did that suggest that his conversation with Labiche had been satisfactory? He had made an impression on Pomathios, or at least his beautiful linen suit had.
Joseph came back to say that the judge was not in his office, but he had left the message with his clerk.
‘But, surprise, surprise,’ he said, ‘the Alsatian’s at his desk and asked me to say he would like to see you if you came in. I didn’t let on you were here already, in case you preferred to keep clear of him.’
‘Thank you, Joseph, but you can tell him I’ll be with him in ten minutes.’
The picture came to him of Fabien sitting opposite him, almost two years ago, here in his office, self-assured, sardonically dismissive of the Alsatian as one who preferred not to know what it might be uncomfortable to know, and smoking his long black Italian cigar. At their last meeting in the Café Régent Fabien had seemed confident he could effect the passage from Vichy to whatever New Order took its place, to Gaullism – surely he would manage that on account of old connections – but perhaps not to the Communists. He sighed and
went through to the Alsatian’s office.
Like everyone Schnyder was shabbier than he had been when he arrived in Bordeaux in 1940. The double-breasted grey suit was unpressed, there were flakes of dandruff on the collar, and the tie spotted with white horses was a little frayed at the knot. But he still had the air of a man confident of his own abilities, and the hand with which he waved Lannes towards a chair still clutched a fat cigar.
‘Strange times,’ he said. ‘The word is the Germans will be gone in a couple of days. Do you know, as I walked through the city this morning, it felt like a theatre in which the audience is waiting for the curtain to go up, and is puzzled, even worried, by its delay in doing so. After all, Paris has already been liberated, but nobody here dares to make a move. It’s as if the audience is wondering if something has gone wrong behind the scenes and is afraid the play will never start. Of course, I’ve been here long, enough, Jean, to have learned that you Bordelais like to keep your cards hidden, don’t like to show your feelings till you’re certain it’s safe to do so. But it’s going to be all right, you know. I have that on good authority. Plans have been made for an orderly transfer of power, to the FFI, but I can’t see why this should affect us. All we have done over the years of the Occupation has been to perform our duty. I think we can congratulate ourselves on having managed to steer clear of politics. Yes, I rather pride myself on that. We’ve served the State, we’ll continue to serve the Republic. A seamless transition, that’s the thing.’