Cold Winter in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  ‘Me first,’ Moncerre said, and followed him into his own room.

  ‘That chap you told me to put a tail on,’ he said. ‘He’s a pro, spotted it, and my man lost him. Sorry. I’ve given him a bollocking of course.’

  ‘It probably doesn’t matter,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s interesting, though. He was sufficiently alarmed to call his superiors in Vichy or Marseille and have them get the Alsatian to warn us off. He’s a pro, as you say, a spook, as you may have guessed.’

  ‘I can’t stand spooks, they always bugger everything up. So, do we?’

  ‘Do we what?’

  ‘Lay off him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. He was using Gabrielle – and others – and this concerns us. He’ll turn up again, if, that’s to say, he ignores my order to get out of Bordeaux, and when he does, you can have a word with him. He’s playing games with us, and I don’t care for that.’

  Moncerre began filling his pipe. He pushed the tobacco down with his thumb, and struck a match.

  ‘I’m at a loss, chief. I don’t know what the hell you are talking about, not really. It might help if you didn’t keep your cards close to your chest. Then I wouldn’t be feeling my way in the dark.’

  He drew on his pipe, and emitted two little puffs of smoke. Lannes smiled and said he wasn’t sure he had any cards. Instead he took the bottle of Armagnac from his cupboard and poured them both a glass. He handed one to Moncerre who downed it straightaway, and told him to fetch young René in.

  The boy was excited, a little pink in the cheeks, and looked, as he sometimes did, like a schoolboy about to present what he knew, or at least hoped, was good work to his master. It pleased Lannes to think that there was still something fresh and puppyish about him, and that he hadn’t yet been worn down by the demands and disappointments of their job.

  ‘I think I’ve got somewhere,’ he said. ‘At last.’

  Moncerre glanced at Lannes, raised an eye, picked up the bottle and refilled his glass.

  ‘I don’t know of course,’ René said, ‘but it’s like this. I did a round of all her pupils again, as you asked me to. Most were still unwilling to say anything, and perhaps had nothing to say, and I don’t mind admitting I was losing hope and on the point of agreeing with Moncerre here that it was all pointless and that we weren’t going to get anywhere. Then – you remember Madame Duvallier, chief, and her daughter Charlotte who told you of the suggestion Gabrielle had made to her – well, I got nowhere with the mother once again, indeed she was like a brick wall, insisting she had nothing to say, and I was just about to leave, thinking it was all futile, when her husband came in. He’s a doctor, quite a well-respected, even distinguished physician indeed, I’ve checked up on that. To my surprise when we had been introduced and his wife insisted again she had nothing to add and I was to tell my chief to stop bothering her or she would lodge a complaint, he said he would see me out because he had to go to the tabac having forgotten to get tobacco for his pipe. Well, I suspected this was an excuse to speak to me alone, and so it proved, because he said he had something to tell us – ‘Oh, not a confession, nothing like that,’ he laughed, – but I don’t know, he was decidedly edgy, I thought. Anyway we made an appointment for him to come here this afternoon, at four o’clock. What do you think, chief, is that all right.’

  * * *

  Dr Duvallier was on time, which made Lannes wonder if he was eager or anxious. He allowed René to take his Homburg hat and dark velvet-collared overcoat, settled himself in the chair opposite Lannes’ desk, and began to fill his pipe from a leather tobacco pouch. His hands were steady but a few wisps of tobacco fell on to his waistcoat. He smiled, and said, ‘I feel I should apologise for my delay in speaking to you, superintendent, and indeed I would reproach myself if I had realised sooner how things stood. But you must understand I knew nothing of the circumstances of Madame Peniel’s death till very recently. You may find that hard to believe, or indeed understand, but the fact is that I gave up reading the newspapers the day the Armistice was signed, and my wife did not tell me of your own visit, superintendent. You may find that also difficult to believe, but the truth is that Madame Duvallier prefers not to speak of what she finds distressing or unpleasant. She suffers from anxiety, you understand. Consequently it was only a few days ago that I learnt of what Charlotte had told you and of the allegations relating to Madame Peniel. Perhaps I should say that Charlotte is my stepdaughter, the child of my wife’s first marriage. Her father was one of my closest friends, we were like brothers indeed as well as being colleagues, and when he knew he was dying he told me it was his dearest wish that I should care for his widow and daughter. But Charlotte and I are not easy together. She’s a difficult girl, withdrawn, and one who resents me as an interloper. You understand?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that she wasn’t speaking the truth when she told me of Madame Peniel’s improper suggestions?’

  Duvallier applied a match to his pipe and puffed vigorously.

  ‘Not at all, not at all. I wouldn’t accuse the girl of lying, perhaps not even embroidering. Exaggerating perhaps, because I have to say that the story she told you surprises me. I had known Gabrielle, Madame Peniel, for a long time; she is one of my patients – was one of them, I suppose I should say – and she always seemed a lady of the utmost respectability. However, that’s irrelevant. My reason for coming here is quite different. She consulted me a few days, perhaps a week, before her unfortunate death, complaining of insomnia, anxiety, loss of appetite. I diagnosed a condition of hypertension – not remarkable, certainly not uncommon, in these terrible times. I prescribed a simple sedative, a placebo really, such as I have often found effective, and, to be honest with you, superintendent, thought no more of it. You must understand that I have many patients and quite a few of them in a comparable state of distress or anxiety. Indeed I would go so far as to say that there is an epidemic of anxiety, the causes of which are not identifiably personal. You understand?’

  Lannes lit a cigarette. An epidemic of anxiety? Who was free of that? Marguerite might be said to be one of the sufferers, but…

  ‘And you identified no objective reason for her state of mind?’ he said.

  ‘None at all, and now I reproach myself. I’m a conscientious doctor, as I’m sure my patients would confirm, but, like so many in my profession, I’m overworked, all the more so because, as you will know, so many doctors here in Bordeaux were Jews who are now forbidden to practise. Consequently one may give in to the temptation to seize hold of the simplest explanation, as, in this case, I confess I did. It is only now that I have concluded that the poor woman may have been afraid, and evidently had reason for her fear. This distresses me. You understand?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Lannes said. ‘Your distress is indeed understandable. However, I notice that you referred to her as Gabrielle. Does this mean that you knew her socially as well as professionally? Were you friends, or perhaps more than friends? Please don’t be offended by the question.’

  The doctor smiled.

  ‘I am not someone who takes offence easily. Your question is natural, eminently reasonable, superintendent. But the answer is “no”. If I spoke of her as Gabrielle, that is because it is how I first knew of her when she was dresser to Madame Jauzion, who is also one of my patients, one of my most distinguished patients, as I’m proud to say.’

  ‘And then Madame Jauzion dismissed her,’ Lannes said. ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘That was no concern of mine, and I have to say that Gabrielle never spoke of it. Indeed it was only subsequently that she became my patient, and, if she said anything, which she may not have, for naturally it was none of my business, it was only to imply that she preferred to pursue her career as a music teacher. In which, as you will have gathered, I’m sure, she was very successful. That was why I recommended her to my wife when Charlotte expressed a desire to learn the piano. Which now, regrettably, seems to have been a mistake on my part, as I’m ready to admit. How rarely, superintendent
, do even the most insightful of us know other people as well as we suppose we do! No doubt this is a conclusion that you will have reached as a policeman. Which brings me to my other reason for presenting myself here. I fear that you and your young inspector here may have formed a poor opinion of my wife, may indeed have thought her obstructive. I wish to apologise on her behalf. Madame Duvallier is a very private person who resents what she perceives as intrusion in her life. But I ask you not to judge her by her manner. She too is a prey to anxiety. I think that is all I need say.’

  Lannes thanked him for coming. Then, as René rose to hold out the doctor’s hat and coat, said, ‘One other thing. I wonder if Madame Jauzion’s uncle, the advocate Labiche, is another of your patients?’

  Duvallier, one arm in his coat, turned to look Lannes in the face.

  ‘I fail to understand the relevance of your question which, however, I am happy to answer. Certainly he is and a most distinguished personage, as you will know. However, we have few dealings. His health is excellent.’

  ‘Not another who suffers from anxiety then?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  He allowed René to help him into his coat.

  ‘If I am permitted to ask,’ he said, ‘are you making progress? Are you close to discovering who killed the unfortunate woman in what was, I gather, such an appalling way?’

  ‘You may ask, of course,’ Lannes said, ‘but we too have our professional secrets.’

  ‘Of course. I understand perfectly.’

  When he left, Moncerre said, ‘That question wasn’t an afterthought.’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was. I really don’t think it was. And I find it improbable that he didn’t learn the circumstances of Gabrielle’s death – as he put it – till recently. Which makes his real reason for coming here a matter of some interest to us.’

  XXVIII

  Bracal’s long fingers tapped a little tune on his desk, a habit, Lannes had observed, when he was thinking. At last he said, ‘I got nothing from the man Peniel, I’m sorry, even ashamed, to say. He’s a wretched type, obviously, and you usually find that there comes a time when fellows of that sort crack under questioning. You’ll know that yourself of course. Anyway I’ve handed him over to the Vice Squad, and they’ve banged him up. So he’s available whenever you think you may want him again. He can’t do a disappearing act.’

  ‘I’ve a notion,’ Lannes said, ‘that he may feel safer where he is.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps. You probably understand the type better than I do.’

  This was doubtless true. Like all investigating magistrates, Bracal would have little experience of getting his hands dirty. They dealt with crime as if it was an abstract proposition. In common with most policemen Lannes had been accustomed to feel a mild contempt for these gentlemen in well-cut suits who never had to descend into the gutter, but supposed they could solve cases from their desks – and this without any of the understanding, which comes from practical experience, of the dark impulses that may bring a man to the point of murder. Nevertheless, Bracal was one of the better ones. Lannes had come to find him sympathetic, even to respect him.

  ‘Things are going to get worse,’ Bracal said, ‘before they get better. Which I’m sure they will, even though better times for France may prove difficult for those of us who’ve stuck to our posts and done our duty as we perceive it in these dark years. I don’t deceive myself about that. Collaboration has been imposed upon us. We’re compromised. Which is why I would advise you to turn a blind eye to anything, in this case or another, which seems to involve the Resistance. I’m speaking as a friend, Jean, if you will allow me to call myself that, not as your superior.’

  He got up and poured them each a glass of cognac, as before drowning his own in soda water.

  ‘It’s going to be a strange Christmas,’ he said, ‘a miserable one for many. What are your plans?’

  ‘My son Dominique came home yesterday for the holiday, bringing a friend with whom he works in Vichy. The boy’s father’s a minister there. Edmond de Grimaud. You probably know of him.’

  ‘Indeed, yes, I used to subscribe to the review he edited. On account of the literary pages, which were of high quality, rather than its politics. Your son’s happy in his work?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Bracal’s fingers resumed their little tune.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘So much idealism, so much folly. I trust your son is not too committed. It’s going to be so difficult to come out of this well.’

  For a little neither spoke. There were such silences, unavoidable silences, Lannes thought, all over France. You were tempted to say just what you thought, and then put the temptation aside. Bracal was probably worried that he had already gone too far in what he had said about the Resistance and about his lack of enthusiasm for the political line taken by Edmond de Grimaud’s review. He had spoken ‘as a friend’, but nobody could be sure of how far friendship might stretch. What could any of them take on trust?

  ‘Vichy has lost North Africa,’ Bracal said, picking up his glass and sipping the brandy-and-soda. ‘That seems clear. The assassination of the Admiral was convenient for all sorts of people. For everybody really. Nevertheless, the Germans are still here. There’s going to be no early end to the Occupation. We have a difficult year ahead, perhaps more than a year. Some day the Americans, and I suppose the British too, will try to form what I believe they are calling the Second Front against Germany here in France, but that day is a long way off, I fear. I don’t think I need say any more. I may already have said too much. You understand? Meanwhile what are your immediate plans?’

  ‘I think I’ll have another chat with our friend Peniel.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that one. You think the case is still worth pursuing? You intend to get to the bottom of it?’

  ‘But naturally. What else should I do?’

  He didn’t say what he had often thought: that it was only by continuing his investigation as if there was neither war nor Occupation that he could maintain his self-respect, even perhaps – the thought came to him – his sanity.

  ‘It’s taken a turn,’ he said, and recounted the conversation with Dr Duvallier. ‘The more I think of it, the more it puzzles me, and I even begin to wonder if I have been approaching the case from the wrong angle, and that the involvement of the spook who calls himself Félix may have been a red herring. One of my inspectors, Moncerre, has insisted from the first that it was what he calls an old-fashioned prewar crime, by which he means that it is a private domestic affair, nothing to do with the war or the Resistance. I should say I’ve no evidence to support this view. Yet it’s tempting to incline towards it.’

  This wasn’t true, or not quite true. He really had no opinion on the matter, but he had been afraid that he would be ordered to set it aside; and Bracal’s disordered manner had sharpened this fear.

  ‘Duvallier?’ Bracal said. ‘The name means nothing to me. But if this is your line, well, it seems harmless to pursue it.’

  There was a knock on the door. Bracal’s clerk came in and said that the German officer charged with liaison, Lieutenant Schuerle, would like to see the judge. Bracal sighed and assented.

  ‘Carry on, then, Jean,’ he said.

  As Lannes rose to leave the office, Schuerle extended his hand and smiled.

  ‘Superintendent Lannes,’ he said, ‘I trust I haven’t importunately interrupted your meeting? In any case it’s a pleasure to see you. I would be interested to have another conversation. Perhaps we can arrange that very soon? After Christmas perhaps? Meanwhile I offer you the compliments of the season.’

  ‘And to you,’ Lannes said.

  He looked at his watch as he descended the wide marble staircase. He had made an appointment to meet Michel for lunch at the Café Régent. He was late already. He hoped the boy would not have gone away.

  XXIX

  Michel was alone on the terrace, his head bent over a newspaper. It was a bright
day, bitterly cold, a keen wind blowing from the east, but he was wearing only a dark-coloured jerkin over an open-necked blue shirt. Lannes paused and watched him for a moment. It was going to be a difficult conversation and he wished it wasn’t necessary. The old waiter, Georges, approached. They shook hands and Lannes said they would eat inside. Hearing his voice, Michel looked up and got to his feet. Lannes was again conscious of his beauty. No wonder Clothilde was in love with the boy. But it was disturbing, this Aryan poster-boy perfection.

  ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

  ‘It’s no matter, sir. I was content reading.’

  The newspaper was Je suis partout, which Lannes despised and detested.

  ‘There’s a wonderful article by Robert Brasillach.’

  ‘Ah yes, he used to write well about the cinema and Clothilde’s mother has enjoyed his novels.’

  No point in saying he loathed the violent language and anti-Semitism of this devoted advocate of ever-closer Collaboration, or even that he suspected Brasillach was one of those intellectuals for whom words are a drug so powerful that they become so completely divorced from reality that he didn’t consider that what he wrote might have consequences in the real world of action, not opinion.

  The plat du jour was a cassoulet which would undoubtedly be mostly beans. Lannes handed over his ration tickets, a required formality that Fernand usually dispensed with at his brasserie, in his case anyway. He ordered a half-litre of the house Médoc which he knew to be much better than many expensive bottled wines.

  ‘Clothilde’s brother Dominique has arrived from Vichy. He’s very eager to meet you.’

  ‘Me likewise.’

  It was difficult to know how to begin. He would be saying things which Michel would not want to hear and which it was probable the boy would resent, thinking he was not entitled to speak to him in this way. And yet if he was really serious with regard to Clothilde, Lannes was entitled to have his say. Nevertheless, while they ate he spoke of Dominique’s work.