by Allan Massie
The coffee was as bad as the colonel had said it would be.
‘You know that we broadcast to France. It’s important. Wars are won by words as well as by arms. The French people must be informed. They must be encouraged. They must be given hope, the assurance that the war will turn, the Occupation end, and France resume its rightful place as a Great Power. I’ve listened to you in our discussion groups, in the debates we stage. Much of what you have said is nonsense – that’s understandable, you’re very young – but you’ve a nice voice. It’s a light one, admittedly, but even when you are speaking nonsense your sincerity rings through. I like that. So this is how we shall use you: to address the youth of France. Do you write poetry?’
Jérôme felt himself blush.
‘It’s not very good, I’m afraid.’
‘Just as I thought. Still: a young poet speaks to his generation. That sounds all right.’
* * *
Alain had an appointment in London. Alerted by a comrade he had volunteered for missions in France and been summoned to the BCRA (Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action).
And for Léon? Nothing, though he had volunteered for the same service.
‘It’s because I am a Jew,’ he thought. ‘Even here this pursues me, though there are many Jews in the Free French. Where else should we be?’
* * *
First, however, they had three days’ leave in London. They stayed at a YMCA, within sight of the Palace of Westminster and the sound of Big Ben. They went to the theatre, the Old Vic where they found Shakespeare’s language incomprehensible, even though all three had read, even in Jérôme’s case studied, Hamlet. Then they crossed the river and walked up Charing Cross Road through Leicester Square and on to the Café Royal for supper.
‘Oscar Wilde used to drink here,’ Jérôme said. ‘Just think of that.’
* * *
Alain presented himself at the office in Duke Street. The sentry checked his name, told him he was early and showed him into a waiting room. There were pre-war French magazines on the table. He chose the NRF (Nouvelle Revue Française), but found himself unable to concentrate on the text, and turned to the English humorous paper, Punch. A couple of the cartoons made him smile, but the articles he skimmed seemed feeble. If I was English they might make me laugh, he thought; what a strange people they are.
‘Colonel Passy will see you now,’ the sentry said, and introduced him.
Alain saluted with brio. The colonel, who seemed middle-aged but nevertheless had something boyish, even mischievous, in his expression, did not rise from his desk, but waved a hand indicating that Alain should sit down.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ve volunteered for missions in France. Very well, there are some things I must tell you, and you must consider them carefully. You are wearing a uniform, an honourable uniform, but the secret war isn’t the one you’ve been training for. And first, I must tell you that the lives of others will depend on your conduct; you don’t have the right to put them at risk. You’ll be alone and without the protection of the uniform you are wearing now. If a soldier in uniform is captured, he’s sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. That wouldn’t be your fate. You would be questioned and tortured. We’ll supply you with a cyanide pill, which you can bite on if you think you can’t endure the torture. Do you understand? You’ll work alone, no contact with comrades except when the service demands it. And it goes without saying that you must not look up old friends or your family. Absolutely not your family. No contact, no communication, that’s the rule. I repeat: you’ll be alone, live alone, take your meals alone. No days off, no Sundays, no Saturdays, no leave. You’ll be in the front line, twenty-four hours a day, because the Vichy police and the Gestapo work round the clock, and you will always be in danger of arrest. As for that, if you withstand torture and don’t take the poison, you’ll either be shot or sent to a labour camp in Germany where you’ll probably die in any case. Do you understand what you are letting yourself in for?’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘So think about it, reflect on it. If you don’t think you’re up to it, you can withdraw your application. There would be no shame in doing that. It would show you are clear-thinking and intellectually honest. We can’t afford to have people who are not up to it. Right?’
‘Right, sir. I shall reflect, as you advise, but I don’t think I shall change my mind.’
‘Very well. Reflect, and meanwhile au revoir.’
Alain said: ‘I have a comrade, a friend who has also volunteered.’
The colonel opened a file and consulted it.
‘Léon Fagot? Jewish, yes?’
‘On his mother’s side, I believe, sir, but a French patriot.’
‘No doubt, no doubt, and we can make use of Jews. But it would be even more dangerous for your friend, you understand? As it happens, I have a report on him, an interesting one.’
Afterwards, Alain said, ‘I can’t say anything, but I think you’ll hear from him. Indeed I’m almost sure you will, Léon.’
XI
Bracal leant back in his chair, his eyes closed. The silence prolonged itself. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the light outside was already fading. Lannes lit a cigarette. The headache which had begun just after lunch was worse. A bluebottle buzzed round the electrolier that hung over the desk. Bracal sighed.
‘He hasn’t been to see me,’ he said. ‘I rang Vincent as you asked.’ He opened his eyes. ‘As far as he knows the man is still in Marseille. This doesn’t mean anything of course; I don’t need to tell you that. Vincent’s all right, old friend of mine as I told you, trustworthy, reliable, but these spooks don’t let their right hand know what their left one is up to. Still, I don’t like it, any of it, and these photographs … ’
‘They’re intended to compromise me.’
‘Undoubtedly. But the boy, you tell me, is no longer in Bordeaux.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I won’t ask you where he is. I don’t want to know.’
‘I couldn’t tell you even if you did.’
‘Good.’
Bracal pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He took a bottle of cognac and two glasses from the cupboard, and poured them each a drink. He splashed soda into his own one.
‘The Resistance,’ he said. ‘Do you believe the dead woman was working for them?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Or did they kill her?’
‘That’s possible too.’
‘We’re public servants,’ Bracal said. ‘We take our orders from Vichy. No question about that. But what is Vichy? Is everyone there of the same mind? This chap you call Félix, for example. Is he working for the Resistance on the sly, or is he trying to compromise it and undermine it? These spooks love playing for both sides. Half of them are as twisted as a corkscrew. What do you think?’
Lannes tilted his glass, watched the brandy swirl round, took a sip; good brandy, not the sort of stuff you should put soda in. But Bracal might be one of those who preferred to make his drinks last, and indeed he was even now topping his up with more soda. A careful man. Likeable too. Trustworthy – the word he had applied to his friend Vincent. Lannes had no reason to think he wasn’t, and yet, these days, who could be sure of anything?
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, ‘but these entertainments.’
‘Yes?’
‘The story’s credible, no matter which side he’s playing for.’
‘But then, why kill her?’
‘Perhaps she’d been turned.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I was told not to pursue the investigation. That was the message. From Félix, as it appears.’
‘From Félix?’
‘So it would seem. But … ’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know. It’s complicated and I admit that I’m confused. At a loss, really. On the other hand, if I hadn’t got that message, I’d have pursued a quite different line, nothing to do with the war, th
e Occupation, the Resistance.’
Bracal’s fingers began a little dance on the desk.
‘The question,’ Lannes said, ‘is: do I obey? Do I drop the case?’
‘I can’t advise you to do that. If, as it may be, it’s the Resistance – let’s call it the Resistance – that killed the woman, abandoning the case would look suspicious. Suppose you’re right, and the dead woman had been turned, then either the Boches or someone in the administration must be curious. At the very least they would want to know why the investigation wasn’t being pursued. You and I, we’d both come under scrutiny. I don’t have to remind you that your own sheet isn’t completely clean – in their eyes. You have to give at least the appearance of activity. But it would be a good thing if this Félix was to disappear. He’s evidently an awkward customer. That’s the impression you’ve given me. An awkward fellow, but I have the feeling that he’s worse than that; that he’s a fool. I’ll have another word with Vincent. Meanwhile it might be a good idea if you were to arrest someone. This chap Peniel, who claims to be the dead woman’s father, perhaps. Haul him in for questioning, bang him up in a cell for a few days, and see what you get from him. You can manage that, can’t you? Have a word with Vice too. Perhaps charge him with living on immoral earnings, procuring minors for purposes of prostitution. That might be best, don’t you think?’
XII
‘It’s quite simple,’ Lannes said. ‘I want to know who her clients were.’
Peniel shifted in his chair.
‘I don’t know why you’ve brought me here. You were told to lay off.’
Moncerre, standing by the window, filling his pipe, laughed.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you that. But I’ve had a word with a couple of my friends in Vice. They’ve had their eye on you for some time. They’d like us to give you to them. What do you say to that?’
‘It’s absurd.’
‘Absurd, is it?’ Moncerre said. ‘Then why are you sweating?’
Peniel looked at Lannes.
‘I just passed the message to you,’ he said, ‘that’s all I know.’
Lannes pushed a couple of the nude photographs of Gabrielle Peniel across the desk.
‘Did you take these?’
‘What if I did?’
‘Your own daughter … ’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Actually,’ Lannes said, ‘I couldn’t care less about the photographs.
They don’t interest me, except for what they tell me about her, and more immediately about you. Which isn’t nice, admittedly, but then you’ve never been nice, have you? I’ve spoken to Yvette by the way. She told me about the little show you wanted to stage with her and a younger girl, no more than a child really. She was disgusted of course because she’s a nice girl.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Or who.’
Moncerre had his pipe going. He crossed the room and stood behind Peniel and put his hand on his shoulder.
‘He doesn’t know what you’re talking about, chief,’ he said. ‘Suppose I take him down to the cells and give him a going over. His memory might return. What do you say?’
Lannes smiled and shook a Gauloise from the packet and lit it.
‘I don’t know about that. He’s protected, you see. That’s what he told me. Protected. So protected that he doesn’t want us to find out who murdered his daughter. What do you think of that?’
Moncerre bent down, took hold of the leg of Peniel’s chair, and flipped it so that both chair and man fell over.
‘That’s just a taste,’ he said. ‘Protected, are you? Get up.’
Peniel obeyed, slowly.
‘I’m an old man,’ he said. He rubbed the side of his face. ‘You’re a brute,’ he said to Moncerre.
‘You’re beginning to get the message,’ Moncerre said. ‘Give me ten minutes with him, chief, and he’ll spill everything.’
‘I don’t think we’re going to need rough stuff,’ Lannes said. ‘He’s going to want to talk very soon, aren’t you, Peniel? Now sit down and tell me where Félix is to be found.’
‘Félix? Don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘The man who gave you the envelope for me.’
‘Met him in a bar.’
Lannes sighed. There were interrogations you could enjoy. He’d experienced many such, usually with professional criminals. They were like a game of chess. But there was nothing to relish in this one. Peniel was a repulsive object, a man who disliked women, as he himself had said and as Yvette had twigged, and also one who had been happy to assist in procuring young girls for men with depraved tastes and in setting up spectacles – sex shows between girls – to excite voyeurs and perverts. But he was also an old man, now caught in a trap – a well-deserved trap – and not knowing who he should be most afraid of: the police, Félix, or his daughter’s clients, whoever they were. Even his defiance was pitiful.
‘I think he thinks he’s in the Resistance,’ Moncerre said. ‘Maybe the Gestapo would like a word with him. Mind you, old man,’ – he leant towards Peniel and patted him on the cheek – ‘with the Gestapo it doesn’t often stop at a word, or so I’ve heard. What do you say, chief?’
‘I think he needs time to reflect,’ Lannes said. ‘Take him to a cell and leave him there. There’s no need to knock him about.’
‘As you say. And what then, chief?’
‘I’ll see you at the brasserie for lunch. Tell young René. Meanwhile there’s someone I want a word with.’
* * *
A Mercedes was standing outside the house in the rue d’Aviau. As Lannes approached, the old count’s eldest daughter, Madame de Thibault de Polmont, came down the steps. She was wearing a fur coat and fur hat and was escorted by a middle-aged German officer with several lines of ribbons on his chest. The driver held the car door open for her. Both got in and it drove away. Lannes waited till it was out of sight before approaching the house and ringing the bell. As on his first visit – more than two years ago now – it was several minutes before the door opened.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ old Marthe said, and sniffed. ‘Since you’ve come to the front door this time, I suppose it’s not me but his lordship you want. You may get some sense out of him and then again you may not.’
‘How are you keeping, Marthe?’
‘What’s that to you, or anyone? I live as I’ve lived since the old devil was killed, and you did nothing about that.’
The ‘old devil’ was the Comte de Grimaud, whose mistress she had been more than half a century ago and who even in their old age would have his hand up her skirt. They had bickered like cats on a rooftop and neither would have admitted what Lannes believed to be the case: that each was the only person the other had ever truly loved. She had a right to be disagreeable, and Lannes respected her sour temper, even liked her for it.
‘Madame de Thibault de Polmont looks well,’ he said. ‘I just saw her leave with one of her German friends.’
‘The silly old bitch. I’ve no time for the pack of them.’
Jean-Christophe, who was now the Comte de Grimaud, was sitting in the high-backed, winged chair in which his father had first received Lannes, and which he had, as it were, annexed as soon as the old man was buried. He wore a plum-coloured velvet smoking jacket and black-and-white checked trousers and his yellow shirt was open at the neck. A decanter of port and a half-empty glass stood on the little table by his side. He was already bleary-eyed and, perhaps because Marthe hadn’t troubled to introduce Lannes but had merely opened the door for him, it was a moment before he recognised his visitor. When he did so, he drained his glass and said, ‘I’ve done nothing. You’ve no right to disturb me. You’ve no right to be here.’
Each time he had met him, Lannes had felt both pity and repulsion. It was more than ten years since the man had narrowly escaped a prison sentence on account of his sexual tastes which were directed towards young girls. His father had employed all his influence, which was cons
iderable, to get the charges dropped; influence and money, for he had paid off the parents of at least three girls. He already despised his son, and perhaps it was the harsh contempt he had always shown him which prevented Jean-Christophe from ever coming to maturity. Lannes didn’t know whether there was indeed an explanation for such tastes, or whether viciousness was innate. Perhaps you could never be certain about such things. Perhaps indeed men like Jean-Christophe were to be pitied. That didn’t, to Lannes’ mind, make their behaviour forgivable or less repulsive. To take advantage of children. Well, he thought of Clothilde as she had been at the age of eleven or twelve …
‘I’m investigating a murder,’ Lannes said. ‘That gives me the right. But it’s information I want. I’m not accusing you of anything.’
It would have been ridiculous even to pretend to do so; he knew very well that the wretch in the chair was incapable of the act of self-assertion which murder so often is. It was no surprise to see him refill his glass and take a gulp of the wine.
‘A woman called Madame Peniel has been killed. You knew her of course, you and your lawyer, Monsieur Labiche.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve never heard of the woman.’
The count dabbed his temples with a red and white spotted handkerchief.
‘I’ve spoken to the man who says he was her father. Édouard Peniel, formerly known as Ephraim. He’s in one of our cells now.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, but he’s a liar. Whatever he says will be a lie.’
‘Undoubtedly he’s a liar,’ Lannes said, ‘nevertheless … ’
‘I hadn’t seen him for years and then he came here one day.’
‘And so?’
A tear trickled down the count’s fat cheek and when he reached out for his glass his hand was shaking and he didn’t dare take hold of it.
‘You despise me, don’t you? But you don’t understand, nobody understands what it’s like to want something so much and to be afraid. Afraid of myself and of … do you know what comes between me and sleep? Night after night? I run my hand up a young girl’s skirt and stroke her soft thighs. That’s what I do in my mind and for a moment I’m happy. But that’s all it is, I can’t help myself, and then when I do fall asleep I have nightmares. I told him to go away. I haven’t touched a girl, a real girl, for years, and I told him to go away. You must believe me.’