Castang’s City

by Nicolas Freeling

  "He’d no business having one at all: it doesn’t improve my opinion of him." There wasn’t anything to say to that…

  The baby appeared, in the classic phrase ‘falsely genial in a knitted coat’. The moment it caught sight of him it started to yell.

  "Can’t stand the sight of me."

  "Oh, you look no worse than most fathers," said the nurse; "your main problem is you’ve got no tit. All right all right, a moment’s patience you." It laid hold in a frenzy of greed, with an open hand solidly implanted upon Vera’s breast.

  "Just look at its great paw," she said fondly. "It will settle down in a minute and then you can talk."

  "Wasn’t going to talk anyhow with a nurse there. Sit gazing admiringly at all this magnificent arrangement."

  "Its main trouble is it drinks much too fast and chokes itself… there, what did I tell you," dragging the child away; it let go with a sticky plop and showed symptoms of frustration. "Full of wind now: you stay quiet, you hear, and stop bashing me in that aggressive manner. Yes; go on…"

  ‘Sorry," he said, catching a yawn. "There were alarms in the middle of the night."

  "What, at home?"

  "No no, at work. Another affair altogether," mendaciously, or so he drearily suspected. "Young Maryvonne got into a slight flap and I had to go bail her out."

  "Is that the foxy one? I think she’s very nice."

  "I didn’t know you knew her."

  "I don’t, really. She came to see me with Fausta: I like her. She said she was working with you. Thrilled about that, Fausta says."

  "First time she’s had a chance to show her paces." Vera could get all sorts of weird notions in her head, but wasn’t going to be jealous about policewomen.

  "Now sit up, you, and stop falling asleep." Not him – his daughter. He could see the point. He would be all for drifting off with a tit in his mouth right now.

  "I’d better go and have something to eat too: my stomach’s rumbling something chronic."

  "See you have an early night. My dinner’ll be coming soon but nothing to offer you. I even lick the yoghurt pot out."

  "I’m delighted to hear it. These girls looking after you all right? No nurse, I’m just off; I’ll be in this evening. Makes me hungry, you know, sitting admiring that monster shovelling down the steak and chips."

  "Can I have some cotton wool?" asked Vera. "I’m all milky here."

  Noelle was in bed too, Thérèse had told him sourly. But if he called, she admitted with reluctance, she’d asked that he be sent up to see her.

  "Who is it? Oh it’s you. No, I want to see you. Open the shutter, would you? Draw the curtain back. I know I’m a sight: I just don’t care."

  He let fresh air in on all the perfumery. It was raining outside steadily with a moist fresh smell. The rain falling had a calming, incantatory effect.

  "No, leave the window open; it’ll do me good," sitting up in a lacy nighty. "Chuck me my woolly, will you? No, I’m not in the habit of receiving strange men while in bed: once more, I just don’t care." Her face was puffy and patchy, her eyes red. "Take a drink. No, I don’t want any. I’ll admit I’ve been drinking, a thing I seldom do. When you rang up in the middle of the night…and later when you sent that young woman around…this, I may tell you, just about takes away my last resources. I’m going to stay in bed, and I’m going to pray for sleep. No, I wasn’t asleep. I thought you’d be coming: I asked Thérèse to tell you… I want the true answer to one question. Are these two deaths linked?"

  "It’s too early to say, and we don’t know. The most I can tell you – no, believe me, it’s all I know myself – is that it can’t be excluded."

  "Is there anything that will help you tell?"

  "It’s barely possible the autopsy will give us some pointer. No, there’s always an autopsy in cases of sudden death like this. No, please don’t interrupt for a minute; let me make myself quite clear. There’s no sign of this being anything but an accident, and it’s not unheard of in circumstances like these. I mean a person who has had an emotional shock like losing a close relative in violent circumstances may very easily be carrying unsuspected fallout from that shock. It happens. One may be distracted or unusually clumsy. Do you understand? There’s an accident-proneness, to use a piece of professional jargon, that might not otherwise exist."

  "So why an autopsy?"

  "You’ll read it in the paper and for once it’ll be true: in the circumstances of Monsieur Marcel’s death we are conducting a routine enquiry into his meetings and acquaintanceships: that’s natural, we’ve been over every aspect of this, you and I. This enquiry is controlled and directed by the examining magistrate, the Judge of Instruction appointed by the Procureur in all cases of homicide. The Judge does not know whether any conceivable link may exist beyond the one I’ve just mentioned, which the doctor calls traumatic shock and which is just what you’ve got."

  "I know. I’m not calling him; they go ploop-ploop and give you a sedative. Tell you not to drink. I drink very rarely but when I drink I DRINK," yelling. He gave her one.

  "This is thus an extension of the same routine. Judge wants a post-mortem. Okay? When I know – this evening – I’ll phone you. Now get some sleep. There is nothing you can do. I’ll ask Bertrand to look after the business details for you; is that a good suggestion?"

  "Yes it is. Sorry I yelled. Thierry’s no use in a situation like this; he just gives way to it. Perhaps you’re aware that he is my favourite."

  "Yes. Has it any importance?"

  "None. He needs me more. Didier – was always a self-contained character, much the stronger of the two. I don’t know why. We’ve always got on well… He was my son, Castang, my son though: you realise that? Oh well, you can’t do anything I suppose and neither can I. Wait and see, and suffer it all passively: I’m not good at that. Leave me then, would you? Be a dear and tell Thérèse I don’t want anything to eat."

  "Where’s Thierry?" he asked Thérèse.

  "In his room."

  "Boozing?" His voice was too knowing and too tolerant, because every bristle on the porcupine rattled menacingly.

  "Is that something for you to feel superior and humorous about?"

  "No."

  "He’s in no state to talk. The boy’s sick."

  "Yes."

  "His father and now his brother. Dead people are just like cabbage to the likes of you. Something to poke at with your foot, while looking to see if there’ll be more rain. To us – our family. Thierry is a human being, and he takes it hard."

  "You, too."

  "I stay on my feet. With the help of prayer. I try to do that which is asked of me."

  "And I, Mademoiselle, do exactly the same."

  Magali opened her front door, looked at him without surprise, said simply, "Come in." She showed him into the living-room, went out again. Bertrand was sitting at a large flat desk in a bay, where you might put the piano if you were inclined, or the television set if you weren’t. This was not a musical family, but cultivated just the same: low bookshelves painted white and no television set to be seen anywhere. In the kitchen, where it could infantilise the populace to its heart’s content while the children ate their supper.

  Bertrand was busy with a few handwritten notes. One has funereal faire-part cards printed, and the envelopes typed by one’s secretary, but some one does oneself, with a proper pen and not a ball-point.

  He looked up.

  "Will you forgive me for two moments? Please sit down." Castang sat, studied him, slid idly into day-dream. The look thought proper to ambitious middle management; that formerly found suitable for headwaiters. Nervous and fatigued, knowing and disillusioned; the voice slow and deliberate, the manner elegantly indifferent yet alert to whisk into tense activity at the hint of a vice-president (Marketing) approaching with heavy tread and bilious expression.

  Not for them the pathetic eagerness of the juniors, rushing to pull out chairs and click lighters, unfolding starchy napkins with a snap of the wrist
, bending forward to catch an abstracted mumble with the smartly-shaved and aftershaved face from which intelligent willingness must never, never be absent because make no mistake, the subject of conversation may sound like a glass of Chablis but it’s really MONEY.

  ‘Good morning, John.’ This one’s name is known, he’s been tapped. The rising middle executive is known by the spareness of his speech and waistline, the gentle turn of his head and fine smile in appreciation of a witticism-that-wasn’t; his relaxed readiness to speak upon his cue and only then.

  ‘I think you’ll enjoy the langouste – it’s exquisite this morning.’

  Just so too, at the (enlarged) Council of Ministers once a month, will the State Secretary for Posts and Telegraphs remain smilingly alert. He is less important than anybody, barring always the S. Sec. for Former Freedom-Fighters, and nobody gives a farthing for Him. But he is there; admitted to the magic circle. At some moment, a very great man may say ‘Now how many phones was it we installed in the Oriental Pyrenees last year’ and he must lean ever so slightly forward and unhesitatingly, in low well-modulated perfectly audible voice, deliver the good word.

  ‘Three thousand seven hundred and thirty-one, Mr President.’ Lean back very quietly with the silent prayer that is always the same. Loving Jesus, don’t let me be on the shit list; let it be someone else’s turn to be given Rat Week.

  "I beg your pardon once more," said Bertrand politely. His face might in fact be stamped with the rubber goods once you knew, but looked, to the stranger, human. He was the same age as Castang but dressed much better. A cop may be bald, thick, or sweaty, or even smell not very nice. An executive may be none of these things, unless of course he’s a technical wizard liable to be hired by the opposition. "You can imagine, this is a very trying day, and these must go off. Magali, surely you can find something to offer Monsieur Castaing." They always make sure to get your name right and very slightly wrong. It was not offensive; nearly everybody with this quite common name is called Castaing.

  She had been sitting silently behind him; floated up.

  "Nothing, thanks."

  "I’ve been anxious to meet you. Thanks, I don’t smoke. Please do."

  "Thanks, I prefer these. You know my function and purpose, and you don’t need tedious explanations. The judge wants more information as was to be expected. There’ll be a post-mortem report by tonight in all probability, and it will confirm the Fire people’s report of unlucky combination set of circumstances; of course it is a silly thing to do, having an electric gadget near the bath, but it is an old cramped building. I’ve just come from Madame Noelle Marcel, who’s feeling badly under the weather as was also to be expected, and I’ve understood that you’ve taken charge of formalities, which is a weight, simply, off everyone’s mind. It is not my superior’s intention to create any publicity, any disquiet, any public – or private – rumour. Commissaire Richard, in conjunction with the municipal authorities, is determined to keep all this on an even keel with no inflated emotion, while we see that the admittedly obscure motives for the assassination are disentangled. Authors brought to book, goes without saying.

  "My instruction is thus clear, to conclude this – we generally term it a neighbourhood inquiry – as soon as may be without pestering the family. Inescapably, I’m a pest. Since I did not know your brother-in-law, and my colleague had only a superficial meeting with him, I’d be most grateful for as exact a portrait as you feel able to draw for me." Ouf, the hard day. Drawing along, and night would come, and would it be less hard? Kind night, don’t bring anything but home and music – chosen by Vera – and plenty of sleep. But first – Didier.

  FOURTEEN

  DIDIER

  Bertrand took his time. He settled himself in the armchair – creamy pale leather, nicely chosen to fit his personality; light, modern, uncumbrous, of good design and execution – and crossed his legs.

  "Magali, I’m tired, and so are you, and I think we might manage to overpersuade Monsieur Castaing; I suggest a bottle of champagne. To make one thing clear, Inspector, there’s nothing I could or would say on this subject outside my wife’s presence, so do not be tempted to interpret the notion as a manoeuvre – it isn’t. I’ll be totally frank, and it may be somewhat bleak, and you can make – will make – your own interpretation. Didier was of course my brother-in-law, Magali’s eldest brother: quite a few years between them, not very much in common, and he was a person who confided little in others. Even as I gather in childhood remote, self-contained, and cool. Thanks, darling, will you see to opening it; that will do us all good.

  "I’ve little enough to tell, really. I knew him very slightly, and he did not seek to enlarge the acquaintance. In family gatherings he had the habit of appearing as late as he decently could and staying as short a time as possible. He showed no enthusiasm towards his sister, nor interest in her family; he never, for example, took notice of our children, their births, our anniversaries. If we met him, it was at our father’s house. Personal contact was thus at a minimum. In business our paths did not cross: I can recall seeing him on the odd semi-public occasion of a chamber-of-commerce nature. I’ve never been in his house, he’s never been in mine – when we met we both uttered the usual social formulae of artificial cordiality. To say thus that I detested him or he me would be a crude exaggeration: we didn’t know one another sufficiently well. You can take it that I didn’t like him, and I can take it – I always did take it, without seeking explanation – that he didn’t like me. Both Etienne and Noelle were well aware of this, and had too much wisdom, or sense if you like, either to comment or to interfere. With them I’ve always been on a comfortable footing of mutual respect and cordiality, and wherever the relation touched Magali, of affection. I liked and like them both. Whereas Didier I do not know, and was never curious enough to wish to know…"

  "Would you attempt any definitions to the antipathy, which was more instinctive than anything else? Here’s to you; I could wish the occasion happier but you understand it’s my misfortune as a police officer to be uncomfortably close to disasters."

  "It won’t cause him embarrassment," said Magali in her low voice, hard but attractive. Yes, in this light you’d call her pretty; even very. And competent; the bottle had been opened without fuss or noise or nonsense about ‘a man’s job’. "But perhaps it’s my rôle to answer. Didier never was an attractive person. Selfish with toys as a child, as I recall, cold at all times, and with our mother’s charm but quite without her spontaneity, and our father’s quick friendly way without his vitality and genuine interest in everyone. There was always something unpleasantly self-seeking. He had a nice wife. Salome, I always liked Sally and she did her best but he was deplorably insensitive towards her and I had every sympathy when she said firmly she’d had enough. We weren’t close and she was too proud to seek sympathy, and didn’t confide in me – I’ve no details. But he did not behave well."

  "He remained close to your parents?"

  "With ups and downs – on the whole perhaps it’s fair to say yes. They weren’t too pleased either about Sally, but there was a family loyalty too. With Noelle he always got on well, but he was her eldest son and she never forgot that – to his credit, nor I think did he."

  "And his other brother?"

  "Their characters are so different… Didier was determined not to live in Papa’s shadow and held him at arm’s length as soon as he was able, whereas Thierry’s abiding characteristic is of course his laziness which is colossal."

  "What’s your view of Thierry?" inquired Castang of Bertrand, whom he was beginning to find sympathetic. Not that his heartbeat was noticeably quickened, but racist tendencies were simmering down to manageable proportions. The man was talking naturally; had unstiffened. It might be the champagne, which should really be classed as a valuable social medicament, and reimbursed by the Sécurité Sociale.

  Had he known, Bertrand was thinking exactly the same. Frankly, one had thought earlier that the least this man Richard could do was c
ome himself. Said, by one or two golf-playing acquaintances, to be someone with his head screwed on the right way, who could be trusted to know his way about. Magali’s account of this one hadn’t been too reassuring. Not perhaps a total farmer; knew how to hold his knife and fork, and wouldn’t knock glasses over. But… However, it seemed that Richard’s collection of rugby-playing barbarians had perhaps an exaggerated reputation. Fellow looked like an orangoutang, but had reasonable manners, if stiff. Had loosened up a lot: a glass of good stuff hadn’t been wasted on him. Was sitting back now unwound, with an ankle crossed on his knee like the English…

  "Thierry…in a way I quite like him. I oughtn’t to say that, because really he’s a barefaced parasite, but he carries it off well."

  "Does he do anything at all?"

  "He’s brains enough. Forever starting things, but never finishes them. Been in half the faculties of the university and out again. A smattering of knowledge in half a dozen subjects, and a clever trick of appearing to know more. He uses people. The truth is that he discovered early on how to sail skilfully in his father’s wake and get towed. He does well at that. Did – what he’ll do now, I wonder: his father’s death will have been a blow to an accomplished parasite. Etienne got him a job once in the administration; he claimed he couldn’t work in offices because of an allergy to dust, gave him hay-fever he said. Came up with a doctor’s certificate to prove it. Recently he’s been adopting a drop-out hippie stance, says he needs nothing and has no use for money. Philosophising he calls that. He’s Noelle’s pet, of course; Thérèse adores him; Etienne was absurdly indulgent to his every caprice. Four square meals a day, plenty of comfort, plenty of pocket money. He can be extremely good company when he rouses his wits. I’ve something of a soft spot for him, which Magali says just shows how he gets away with murder – sorry, that remark was in bad taste, wasn’t it. Just the sort of thing that would make Thierry dissolve laughing."

  "It wouldn’t be quite so funny if it were the truth."