Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘I did.’

  The butler brought in a tray with a carafe of red wine and three glasses. He poured them each a glass, and when he had closed the door behind him, St-Hilaire said, ‘I asked Mademoiselle Jauzion to join us. I hope this doesn’t embarrass you. It was at her request that I wrote to you. She has something to say to you, some information, I gather, to impart – when she has repaired her maquillage, as she is, I presume, doing now.’

  She was wearing a trim dark suit – costume, Marguerite would have called it – beautifully cut – Chanel, perhaps, though the name came to his head only because she was the only designer he could think of. But it was certainly à la mode – or à la mode of 1939 anyway, he was sure of that. The shirt below it was cream-coloured with a high lace neck, and whatever repairs she had been making to her face had given her a mask which expressed nothing. He wondered if she was nervous, and yet it was she who had invited this meeting. She settled herself in a high-backed chair, crossed her silk-stockinged legs elegantly, and met his gaze, then looked away. St-Hilaire gave her a glass of wine which she placed on the little table beside her chair without bringing it to her lips. She took a cigarette from a silver case, fitted it in an amber holder and waited for the Count to light it. She inhaled deeply, and then, blowing out smoke, said, ‘She was my dresser for five years, Gabrielle I mean. She was efficient and orderly, and I relied on her. I never liked her but she had my respect, and then I found it necessary to dismiss her. Does this interest you, superintendent?’

  ‘Assuming you are speaking about the murdered woman, Gabrielle Peniel, anything you might have to tell me about her interests me. We know so little.’

  ‘Please sit down, superintendent. You unnerve me, standing there.’

  He didn’t believe this for a moment; yet did as she asked.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why did you find it necessary to dismiss her?’

  ‘Good dressers are hard to come by, and important for someone in my position. Nevertheless, I couldn’t keep her after I learnt that she enjoyed a certain relationship with my uncle the advocate. I believe Monsieur de St-Hilaire’ – she turned towards the Count with a smile – ‘has spoken to you of my uncle and … ’

  She paused and St-Hilaire intervened.

  ‘There’s no need, Adrienne, to say anything about that. I’m sure the superintendent understands perfectly what you refer to, and how you suffered.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Lannes said. ‘But this relationship between Gabrielle and the advocate. What do you imply by the word?’

  ‘Not what the world might suppose,’ she said. ‘That wouldn’t have been her way. Gabrielle was a lesbian.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you have already learnt that?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That didn’t concern me. Why should it? The tendency, if I may call it that, is quite common in the theatre. Elsewhere too, I suppose. She had a particular friend, a young dancer. Kiki she was known as. It was a passionate relationship; they used to have terrible quarrels which, I may say, rather amused me. But that wasn’t why I dismissed her. What she and Kiki did together was no concern of mine. I hope that doesn’t shock you, superintendent?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  She picked up her glass and sipped the wine, a small delicate sip. She ran her tongue over her lips.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, ‘you must be hard to shock. There’s another policeman in my story by the way. But I’ll come to him later. This is more difficult than I had supposed it would be, even more difficult … ’ – she turned towards St-Hilaire as if looking for support.

  He said, ‘I’m sure Superintendent Lannes is happy for you to take your time, tell the story in your own way.’

  ‘I’m accustomed to speaking other people’s words,’ she said. ‘I know how to deliver an author’s lines. But this … Kiki was a nice girl, a silly little fool who didn’t know what she wanted or who she was, which perhaps wasn’t surprising since she was an orphan raised by nuns in a convent where they cared for abandoned children. Perhaps that is why I felt a tenderness for her. Being abandoned in childhood is another form of abuse, isn’t it? The world is a rather horrible place, you know. That’s why I have the reputation of being aloof. I have steeled myself against it, and the face I present to the world is a cold one. I display emotion only on the stage. Off stage I wear a mask. Do you understand?’

  ‘Please continue,’ Lannes said, ‘when you feel able.’

  ‘There are horrors everywhere,’ she said, ‘but you must know that. You know my uncle, don’t you?’

  ‘I know your uncle.’

  ‘One day I found Kiki in tears. She was distraught, shaking with sobs. It was embarrassing. I thought she and Gabrielle had quarrelled again. They did, quite often; Gabrielle had a quick temper, a vile one. I think she hit her sometimes. But Kiki usually shrugged it off, with a laugh even. ‘I’m a child of the streets,’ she would say, ‘I don’t take things like that too seriously.’ But … she had a sister, she told me, several years younger than herself, also being reared by the nuns. Kiki used to take her out for the afternoon. One day, at Gabrielle’s suggestion, she brought the child to her apartment, for tea and cakes. They never got cakes in the convent and the child, I can’t recall her name, was happy, and Gabrielle at her most charming. She was charming, when she chose. She played the piano and the little girl danced for her. Kiki too, I suppose. I’m sorry, I’m not telling the story well. It’s because I’m embarrassed. Fortunately there’s not a lot more of it. Gabrielle made much of the girl, and she was delighted by the attention. Kiki insisted she wasn’t jealous. Why should she be? Her sister was only a child. Then one day when she collected her from the convent and suggested they might visit Gabrielle, the child began to scream. It was terrible, Kiki said. She never wanted to go there again. Kiki pressed her, and it came out. Gabrielle had taken the child out one afternoon, without telling Kiki, given her cakes and orangeade, and introduced her to my uncle. Need I say more? Naturally I dismissed her. In truth I couldn’t bear the sight of her after I heard what she had done. I was trembling myself. She laughed at me. It was intolerable.’

  The previous year when he was investigating Aristide’s death, Lannes had summoned the advocate to his office, and had shown him a horrible and compromising photograph he had been sent of Labiche sitting on a couch with a naked girl who must have been no more than twelve. ‘This means nothing,’ the advocate had said, ‘and in any case she gave what she would be giving to any young lout in the back streets in a couple of years.’ Or something like that. Lannes had done nothing. There was nothing he could do. The advocate was, as the Alsatian said, ‘one of the Untouchables’, a man of position, honoured by the regime with a post in the Commission set up to deal with what they called the Jewish Question.

  He had been ashamed. Of course he had been ashamed. Now, for the first time in their acquaintance, he warmed to Adrienne Jauzion. She was gripping the arm of her chair hard, her knuckles white. They were comrades in shame. He glanced at St-Hilaire whose face registered nothing, but who now rose and laid his hand very gently on Adrienne’s shoulder.

  ‘But there is more?’ Lannes said.

  She shook her head. He got up, walked over to the window. The light was dying in the deserted street.

  ‘I have to ask you this,’ he said. ‘Do you know what became of the little girl?’

  ‘No.’

  The word was so quietly spoken that the sound was little more than a breath.

  ‘And Kiki?’

  ‘She went away. She said she couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Gabrielle. But she’s back. I saw her last week, in a café in the Place de l’Ancienne-Comédie. She was with a German officer. She pretended not to recognise me when our eyes met.

  ‘I’ll have to speak with her. You realise that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I realise that. But I don’t know where to find her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.’

  ‘No,’ Lannes said. ‘You were right to do so. Y
ou know you were right. But you mentioned a policeman?’

  ‘I did? Yes, of course I did.’

  She turned round to face Lannes again, glanced towards the Fragonard painting and murmured, ‘So beautiful, if only … the policeman. I don’t recall his name. Kiki knew him. I can’t remember why or how, perhaps he was a neighbour. She told him what she believed had happened and he promised to make inquiries. Then he came to her a few days later, and said there was nothing to be done. It would be useless to lodge an official complaint, he said. It would be only the child’s word that anything untoward – that was his word, I recall – had happened. Kiki would be liable to have an action for slander brought against her if she repeated the accusation she had made to him. He was sorry, he said, but that’s how it was. For your own sake, he said, keep your mouth shut. Those were his precise words, I remember them well.’

  ‘There may be something in the files,’ Lannes said, though he doubted if there would be. ‘I’ll need to speak to Kiki. What was her real name?’

  ‘Haget, Catherine Haget. But I’m sure she didn’t kill Gabrielle.’

  ‘I’ve no reason to think she did. But I’ll have to speak to her.’

  ‘And my uncle?’ she said.

  ‘And your uncle. Eventually. Finally, did you ever meet Gabrielle’s father?’

  ‘She never spoke of him, to my knowledge.’

  XIX

  ‘You must be waiting for someone. A pretty boy like you, sitting alone here. I’m astonished you haven’t been snapped up already.’

  Léon looked up from the marble-topped table. The speaker was a stout middle-aged man in a charcoal-grey double-breasted suit. There was a pink carnation in his buttonhole and he gave off a whiff of an expensive Cologne.

  ‘Yes, I’m expecting my friend,’ Léon said.

  ‘As I feared, but perhaps you will have a glass of champagne with me while you wait.’

  He waved vaguely, and a waiter appeared to take his order.

  ‘I’m meeting someone myself,’ he said, and settled himself on the velvet-covered banquette beside Léon. ‘He’s always late of course, the privilege of the young and beautiful.’

  Perhaps Léon looked puzzled, for the words were repeated in French.

  ‘Perhaps it’s better that we speak your language and a pleasure for me too, since I have a great affection for your country. Allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Edwin Pringle, Sir Edwin actually, and I am a Member of Parliament, for my sins. And you are?’

  ‘Léon.’

  ‘And serving gallantly with the Free French. Have you met de Gaulle? What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s a great man.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, though one with atrocious manners.’

  He laid his hand gently on Léon’s thigh.

  ‘I confess,’ he said, ‘to having a certain sympathy for the Marshal. But I’m afraid he’s doomed, poor old man. Ah, here’s the champagne. It’s in short supply, you know, but they are kind enough here to keep some bottles for me. I’m sure you will find it more agreeable than that doubtless atrocious coffee you have ordered. And are you excited by these North African landings?’

  At the moment Léon was more embarrassed than excited. Was it etiquette to ask a Member of the British Parliament to take his hand away? Or to remove it himself? But could you do that and still drink the champagne he offered you? Fortunately the matter resolved itself, Sir Edwin taking a leather case from his inside breast pocket, extracting a cigar, and occupying himself in clipping its end.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s the last survivor.’

  ‘I prefer cigarettes,’ Léon said, relieved. ‘We don’t know much about what’s happening there yet. There are all sorts of rumours.’

  ‘De Gaulle was in the same boat, you know. He had been kept in ignorance of the Americans’ plans – they don’t care for him in Washington, you know – which between you and me and the bedpost is a point in his favour. I’m not greatly enamoured of our American friends myself, since they are determined to destroy our Empire – and yours too, dear boy – just as soon as they have finished with little Adolf. I’m told that when de Gaulle learnt of the landings, he said he hoped Vichy would throw them back into the sea.’

  ‘That’s funny. Someone in our barracks said exactly the same thing.’

  ‘You’re a contrary lot, aren’t you? Winston had to calm the General down over lunch. Otherwise, Lord knows what sort of trouble he’d have made. And what do they have planned for you, dear boy? Nothing too dangerous, I hope.’

  Léon hesitated. He had an interview with Colonel Passy fixed for the following morning, but he mustn’t say anything about that. He shrugged his shoulders, said ‘it’s not clear yet’, and was relieved to see Jérôme standing at the door and scanning the room. He waved a hand to him.

  ‘Why, your friend’s little Jérôme,’ Pringle said. ‘How delightful! We met at a party last week. He’s really charming. You’re a pair of charmers.’

  Jérôme made his way between the tables, leant forward to peck Léon on the cheek, and extended his hand to Sir Edwin.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, speaking in English ‘I’m late, and we can’t stay. We’ve an important appointment and we’re already late for that too.’

  ‘You’ve time for a glass of champagne, surely.’

  ‘I would love to, but I daren’t, we’ll be in trouble if we are any later. Another time perhaps. Come on, Léon.’

  Out in Regent Street, he hooked his arm into Léon’s.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘What’s this appointment we have?’

  ‘There isn’t one. I made that up to get away. He’s a notorious old pederast.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, yes I know, but … we met at a party last week and I hadn’t been there ten minutes before he was proposing bed. I tell you, I had the greatest difficulty in escaping from him. Fortunately he was distracted by the arrival of a gorgeous boy in RAF uniform.’

  ‘He told me he was a Member of Parliament.’

  ‘Oh yes, he is, but out of favour. They say Churchill can’t stand him. He was a fervent Munichite and had lots of German friends. Or so they say. I’m told he’s very rich, but all the same … oh, it is good to see you.’

  ‘And you. Where are we going?’

  ‘A Soho pub first, I think.’

  ‘I don’t want to drink much. I’ve got this appointment in the morning, remember.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is there any word of Alain?

  ‘No. None. But there couldn’t be, could there?’

  ‘I know, but I can’t help hoping. And worrying.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And after the pub?’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’

  * * *

  Hours later, Jérôme turned on his side, and leant on the point of his elbow.

  ‘I don’t suppose we will ever do this again,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to just once. You don’t regret it, do you?’

  ‘Regret it? Why should I?’

  ‘Because we’re not each other’s type.’

  ‘I don’t know what my type is.’

  ‘Yes, you do, it’s Alain.’

  ‘That’s crying for the moon.’

  ‘I suppose we all cry for the moon, people of our temperament. I know I do and it’s unattainable. You remember that Fascist boy back home in Bordeaux I told you I was crazy about? I still am. I think of him every day. Stupid, isn’t it? Ridiculous really. All the more so because far from giving me any encouragement he made it clear he had no time for me. Quite the opposite indeed. Which doesn’t stop me from dreaming about him.’

  ‘So we’re both stupid,’ Léon said.

  It was strange, lying there, with Jérôme’s leg resting on his, and listening to the night near silence of London. He knew Jérôme was right. They would never do this again. It was a sign of affection, nothing more except perhaps loneliness, though he couldn’t believe
Jérôme was lonely – so many people had greeted him and chatted with him and been evidently pleased to see him in the two pubs they had visited; the one Jérôme had told him was known as the French, because its proprietor was indeed a Frenchman called Gaston, with huge moustaches, and it was frequented by other members of the Free French because it always had stocks of Algerian wine and Pernod or Ricard; and the other called, he thought, the Fitzroy, which was said to be a haunt of poets, and where everyone had been drunker than he found comfortable. Jérôme had been at home in both of them, and he hadn’t. He didn’t belong anywhere, that was the truth.

  Jérôme leant over and kissed his cheek.

  ‘I must tell you,’ he said. ‘De Gaulle came to the studio the other day. He was about to broadcast to North Africa. I was introduced to him. He’s so tall that he made me feel as if I was back in primary school. When he heard my name, he said he had been at St-Cyr with my father, in the same class actually. “A very gallant officer,” he said, making me feel even more inadequate as the pansy son of a heroic father.’

  ‘You shouldn’t think of yourself like that. Would your father have been here, do you suppose?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I was only five when he was killed. Actually, from what I’ve heard, I suspect not.’

  ‘Well, then, that makes you more adequate than he might have been.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ Jérôme said, and kissed him again. ‘But sadly it’s not true. We both know that really.’

  * * *

  Léon was early for his appointment with Colonel Passy, but half an hour after the time he had been given he was still waiting and had smoked five cigarettes. There were only two left in the packet – Woodbines, he didn’t much like them but they were cheap. Jérôme had made him a cup of coffee on the gas ring in his room, delicious real coffee – ‘Smuggled, of course,’ Jérôme had said – but he had been too excited to eat anything, and now felt sick with apprehension. The waiting room was cold and stuffy at the same time, and the other occupant was a middle-aged man in a brown suit, rather than uniform, who had a head as round as a cannonball and a neck as thick as a Prussian’s. He looked at Léon as if he knew him for what he was and didn’t like it. Somewhere, along the corridor, a door slammed. Léon twisted his fingers round and round. A pigeon landed on the window ledge and pecked the glass.