Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘I have a problem I wish to discuss with you, superintendent,’ he said, and he gave that quick smile which might have been intended to be disarming, but was also perhaps a sign of nervousness.

  ‘Certainly,’ Lannes said. ‘Do sit down.’

  ‘It is rather a delicate matter, and, if you don’t mind, I would prefer not to speak about it here, in your office. As it happens, the sun is at last shining. It’s a beautiful afternoon, even if a cold one – though the cold is nothing to what I was accustomed to recently, or indeed back home in East Prussia. Would you care to take a walk with me, superintendent, perhaps to your delightful public garden?’

  ‘As you like,’ Lannes said; he heaved himself into his thorn-proof English tweed coat, and collected his stick.

  ‘That is kind of you. I was so hopeful that you would agree.’

  The walk was passed in near silence, Schuerle making only the occasional remark about the beauties of Bordeaux or asking about particular buildings. Reaching the garden which was almost deserted despite the fine weather, they settled on a bench. Schuerle looked around, as if to assure himself, unnecessarily, that no one was near enough to overhear them.

  ‘Charming,’ he said, ‘quite charming. You find my approach unorthodox?’

  ‘Unusual, certainly.’

  ‘Good, good. You wonder why I am behaving in this manner, especially since Lieutenant Kordlinger advised that you were not to be trusted. Does that surprise you?’

  Lannes lit a cigarette.

  ‘Not greatly.’

  ‘He described you as obstructive and ill-disposed to the requirement that the French police collaborate with us. He went so far as to request of your superiors – would that be the Prefect ? – that you be dismissed, then appears to have withdrawn his request. I find this strange. Don’t you, superintendent?’

  ‘No doubt he had his reasons.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  Schuerle took an envelope from his briefcase and passed it to Lannes.

  ‘This makes me feel as if I was engaged in espionage,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve already seen the photographs. I suppose it is the boy who was employed to incriminate poor Schussmann and you with the boy. You wonder how they came into my possession? Evidently you have enemies, superintendent. Kordlinger required you to find and deliver the boy – the degenerate boy, I believe he said. You failed to do so, and yet evidently you knew him. What do you have to say?’

  Lannes turned his head to look Schuerle in the face. He was smiling again – perhaps it was a nervous tic, consequence even of his war wound, not a genuine smile. But it looked like one.

  ‘Kordlinger threw me into a cell,’ he said, ‘and had a couple of heavies beat me up. I’d nothing to tell him then. Now we’re chatting on a bench in the public garden, and I’m wondering why.’

  ‘I looked up your dossier. You were wounded at Verdun, decorated too. The Médaille Militaire, wasn’t it? My father fought there also. He was not so fortunate. He was killed. I was a child, never really knew him. My hero father.’

  He stretched out and took the photographs from Lannes. He put his finger on Léon’s face.

  ‘Nice-looking boy. Where is he now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He got out of Bordeaux.’

  ‘With your help?’

  ‘If you say so. As you like.’

  Schuerle began to tear up the photographs. His damaged left arm made it difficult, but he tore them across again and again, into tiny bits, put them back in the envelope, tore that across too, got up and stuffed it all into a rubbish bin, thrusting the compromising evidence out of sight under the newspapers that someone had discarded there.

  ‘We don’t need these. There will be other prints of course, and the negatives, but we don’t want these ones to fall into the wrong hands, do we?’

  Lannes dropped his cigarette under his heel and lit another. He was surprised to find that his hands were steady.

  ‘The boy is Jewish, isn’t he?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I was brought up by my grandfather, my mother’s father,’ Schuerle said. ‘A Prussian of the Prussians, a Junker, with an old-fashioned sense of honour. He’s dead now too. He shot himself, like that wretched Schussmann. He was ashamed, you see. He was a hard man, hard on himself and others, hard on me when I was a child, but he knew right from wrong, good from evil, and he was ashamed. He was proud of our family history which goes back a long way, to the days of the Teutonic Knights actually. He disliked the Jews, you would call him anti-Semitic, but nevertheless he said that many of them had fought bravely for Germany in the last war, and he detested the anti-Jewish laws and Kristallnacht – you know what Kristallnacht was, superintendent? of course you do – and he shot himself on the day the Wehrmacht marched into Poland. He left me a letter saying, “Fight for Germany, not for these scum” – a difficult instruction to follow. Well, I’ve done my fighting for Germany’ – he touched his left arm with his right hand. ‘Who do you think will win the war, superintendent?’

  Lannes experienced a surge of happiness.

  ‘Germany – the Nazis – will lose it.’

  He had never supposed he might say such a thing, openly, without hesitation, in such circumstances.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘they may have lost it already.’

  Schuerle turned his face towards him. There was a dampness under his right eye, as if a tear had trickled from behind the leather patch. Lannes wondered if there was an eye still there, and then, absurdly, if an empty eye socket could weep.

  A little dog ran past them chasing a ball, and a small boy followed, laughing.

  ‘There are many in Germany who have arrived at that conclusion. I know some of them well, friends of my late father, brave men and German patriots like my grandfather, some also who were fellow students of mine. They would like to act, but whether they can … ’

  He broke off, leaving the speculation hanging.

  ‘You wonder why I am telling you this,’ he said.

  ‘It would be surprising if I wasn’t,’ Lannes said.

  ‘I’ll come to that in a moment. Let me just say now that I want to avoid trouble. You’re investigating a murder, I understand, the killing of a woman called Gabrielle Peniel. That is so, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s no secret, no secret either, that I haven’t got very far. Do I take it that you have an interest in the case? That the German Army has an interest?’

  ‘That would be a reasonable supposition.’

  ‘Which invites the question: do you want the case to be solved or would you prefer that it was abandoned?’

  Schuerle smiled again.

  ‘You may not believe me but my superiors have no answer to these questions. I assume you know more about the dead woman than we do, but I would also guess, superintendent, that you have decided that the motive for the murder was political – using that word in the broadest sense. She was engaged – you will know this already – in activities that were discreditable.’

  ‘I know about these activities and I have reason to think that they compromised people in high places, even, perhaps – I say no more than perhaps – German officers. Is that what you are afraid of?’

  ‘Shall we say that my superiors would not wish … I don’t need to spell this out. On the other hand you will, I’m sure, understand that this murder – the style of this murder … you see what I mean?’

  Lannes did of course. Had the Boches decided to get rid of Gabrielle, there would have been no need of that elaborate stage set. They would simply have arrested her and she would have disappeared into a concentration camp. And if they knew about her activities and ignored them, then it was because they had indeed turned her, and she was spying for Germany. Which led him straight back to Félix – except that he couldn’t understand why he in his turn had stage-managed that charade; it would have been so simple to shoot her. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘There,’ Schuerle said, ‘I’ve delivered the message w
ith which I was entrusted. You will doubtless act on it as you think fit. If I may express a personal opinion, it is strange for me after what I have seen in the East to find so much time being spent on the death of a loose woman. Strange, yet also oddly comforting. It suggests that something worthwhile may survive this terrible war.’

  ‘You speak French very well, lieutenant.’

  ‘My mother adored France. We often spoke French when we were together. On her mother’s side she was descended from Huguenots expelled from France by your Louis XIV. Perhaps you know that two hundred years ago a third of Berliners belonged to Huguenot families and still spoke French among themselves rather than German? Some day our two peoples must be reconciled in a Europe that has turned its back on war.’

  ‘There are many in Vichy who agree with you, Monsieur Laval for one. He is eager for France to take a leading role in your Führer’s New Order of Europe.’

  ‘My Führer’s? Not that Europe, his Europe, you understand. Nevertheless, in my opinion, superintendent, any French Resistance now is a mistake. It will cause suffering and it will divide France deeply. Perhaps you think it is not my part to make such an observation.’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ Lannes said.

  Schuerle got up, held out his hand which Lannes took, and turned away.

  * * *

  He didn’t think anything … well, if by that he meant only that he preferred not to respond to Schuerle’s observation, it was true enough. Truer, certainly, to say that he preferred not to think about the day of reckoning. If St-Hilaire’s analysis was correct, and if, as he had – rashly? – told Schuerle, Germany – the Nazis – might already have lost the war, there was worse in store for France and the French people than anything they had yet experienced since 1939. It had been hard in the summer of 1940 and the months that followed to know how to act. His own difficulties and the opposing loyalties of his sons were evidence of that. But now Resistance was stirring and would provoke a Counter-Resistance, just as the Revolution of 1789 had provoked a Counter-Revolution, the Red Terror a White Terror.

  He rubbed his hand over his brow, and realised how cold it had turned when he felt the skin of his palm against his forehead. Yet he could not summon up the energy to move. There was a rustle of wind; a few last leaves from the chestnut tree floated past him. The light was beginning to fade. They would soon be closing the garden. Yet he continued to sit there, smoking. He had liked Schuerle, a decent type, probably doomed; how close was he to those friends of his who ‘would like to act’? He had no doubt, it was clear, what that action might be.

  The park attendant approached him.

  ‘We’re about to close, sir. It’s time to leave the garden … sorry, superintendent, I didn’t recognise you. You remember me? I was the one who found that body in the bushes over there last year. I never heard if you discovered who killed the old gentleman. There’s been no word of a trial.’

  ‘I know who killed him,’ Lannes said, ‘but there won’t be a trial. There’s no case for one.’

  ‘Like that is it, sir? It’s a sad world we live in. Things were different when I was young.’

  ‘So they were,’ Lannes said, getting to his feet and leaning on his stick. ‘And you’re right. It’s a sad world we’ve survived into.’

  XXIII

  Fernand’s son Jacques was in the waiting room when Lannes arrived the next morning. He got to his feet as soon as he saw him and then hesitated as if he was nervous of being thought presumptuous. Lannes shook his hand and led him into his office.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here. I hope it’s nothing bad. Your father’s all right?’

  ‘Yes of course, no reason why he shouldn’t be, is there?’ This wasn’t true. There was every reason why anyone might be in trouble, or at least difficulties.

  ‘Then I suppose it’s Karim? Yes?’

  ‘That’s right. He came round to the kitchen door yesterday, just when we were about to close, and said he had a note for you which he didn’t dare deliver himself. I don’t know why and I didn’t ask him. No business of mine, I thought. But I hope he’s not in the shit. I quite like him, you know, though I wouldn’t trust him round the corner. Anyway, I promised I’d hand it to you – in person, he said, make sure it’s in person – which is why I’m here. Is he in the shit?’

  He handed Lannes a grubby envelope.

  ‘He’s in trouble,’ Lannes said, ‘because of what he is. But it’s not really his fault. Give my regards to your father.’

  ‘Of course. I have to say he wasn’t pleased to find Karim hanging about. Do you want me to keep a table for you today?’

  ‘Thank you. Do that, though I can’t guarantee.’

  ‘There’ll be blanquette de veau. One of your favourite dishes as I remember.’

  ‘We’ll try to be there.’

  The note was brief.

  ‘I’m ordered to meet him 12 o’clock at the Bar Météo tomorrow.’

  The word ‘ordered’ was spelled wrong.

  12 o’clock? Well, he would surely miss out on the blanquette de veau. Unless…he didn’t know; would have to see how it went. Meanwhile there was paperwork to be dealt with; none of it of any importance, but the business of dealing with it was at least a distraction. He wondered if Karim would obey orders and keep the appointment, or if he had sufficient faith in him to skip it. Probably not; he would remember Félix’s threats and be afraid.

  He stamped the last document, appended his signature, and summoned Moncerre from the inspectors’ room.

  ‘I’m off to the Bar Météo to meet a chap,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave together – I’ll try to make sure of that. And then I want you to put a tail on him. He’s an elusive fellow and I don’t want to lose track of him.’

  * * *

  As Lannes entered the bar Félix leant forward and slapped Karim hard on the face. Gaspard behind the counter looked as if he was about to move, but Lannes shook his head, and he did nothing. Lannes asked for an Armagnac and crossed over to the table in the corner where they were sitting.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘You can be off, Karim. Make yourself scarce.’

  The boy opened his mouth as if about to speak, caught Lannes’ eye, got to his feet and made for the door. Lannes watched him break into a run as soon as he was in the street, and sat down. Félix fitted a cigarette into his amber holder, lit it, and leant back, blowing smoke in Lannes’ face.

  ‘Another of your boyfriends, superintendent? First the Jew boy, now this Arab scum.’

  ‘I’m not the rapist. Nor the procurer.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You know we’ve arrested Peniel. So don’t pretend ignorance. He’s been talking too. You didn’t think he’d keep silent, did you? A fellow like that.’

  ‘So do you intend to arrest me too? That wouldn’t be wise, superintendent.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve come to that point yet,’ Lannes said. ‘After all you’re a patriot, aren’t you? That’s what you told me last summer. Everything you are doing is for France, isn’t it? What Gabrielle was doing, that was for France too, wasn’t it? Which leaves me speculating as to the reason for her murder. Not – I don’t mind telling you – that I have made much progress. I don’t think you killed her yourself. That ridiculous theatrical set-up isn’t your style, is it? And in any case, Peniel is sure you didn’t; his own daughter, he was happy to employ her on your behalf to play dirty games – but no more than that. I may be wrong, but it seems to me unlikely that even a rat like Peniel would happily be an accessory to his daughter’s murder. I had the impression that he had some feeling for her, even affection. Still, I think you can tell me some things that would interest me. Can’t you? That’s why I’ve come to invite you to have lunch with me. Do you like blanquette de veau? They have it today at a brasserie I know. There are usually German officers there, I should warn you, but that won’t embarrass you, will it? Even though you are a patrio
t.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s a difficult concept, isn’t it?’ Lannes said when he had greeted Fernand and asked to be given a table in the corner of the room, and they had settled themselves at it. ‘Patriotism, I mean. Everyone’s a patriot these days, aren’t they, even if they are on opposite sides. But your game? I don’t understand it. Indeed I have to say that I find it childish. First Léon, now Karim – what do you hope to achieve? Or do you just delight in mischief ? And then you play games with me too, sending Peniel with these photographs and then sending other copies of them to the Boches. You want to compromise me, that’s obvious, but to what purpose and on whose behalf? I’m really interested. Peniel gave me to understand that

  you were working with the Resistance, and that you were using Gabrielle as a fly trap. He convinced me at first, which isn’t surprising since I knew you had used Léon to ensnare poor Schussmann, and then Karim told me you had spoken of a German officer with a taste for brown boys. And then there is Colonel von Feidler. But I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not so sure because none of it makes sense. Not good sense anyway. That’s why I thought we should have a chat. They have doubts about you in Vichy too, but I suppose you know that, since you were relegated to the office in Marseille. Can’t do much harm pushing paper, they told me.’

  Félix made no reply. He looked at ease, a smile on his face, one that gave a sense of superiority, security anyway, confidence that there was nothing to alarm or even disquiet him in Lannes’ words. He didn’t touch the glass of St-Emilion that Jacques had poured him, but dug his fork into the mushrooms à la Grecque. Lannes was content to wait. Silence was always a weapon, but one each was employing now against the other. The blanquette de veau arrived; it was as good as ever. They both ate without speaking, like chess players plotting the next move.