Castang’s City

by Nicolas Freeling

  "No blackmail material."

  "I suppose that’s it but I was surprised. I mean nobody asked me for the password, nobody checked me out. I could have been the damn Vice Squad for all they knew."

  "You were just a spare stud," said Castang, at his driest. "Why should anybody check you out? Nothing illegal about a partouze, as long as nobody’s under age and you’re a consenting adult or so I imagine. Very well, go and reduce the exciting performance to police prose."

  The assembly fell silent. A few sideways glances were exchanged.

  "Anybody got a comment?" said Castang in a Richard voice. "Orthez, you’re the expert on the fast-car brigade. Hot-rodding," trying not to sound sarcastic. Orthez had often been the butt for mockery. "No, I’m serious. This doesn’t sound serious, Lord knows. But we’ll have to find out, and you’re in line."

  "I’ve heard rumours – as who hasn’t. Nobody ever propositioned me; I’m not good-looking enough," a slap at Lucciani’s delicate complexion. "It’s known I’m a cop. I mean those of us who have a serious interest in mechanics, we know one another. Out there at the anti-slip school they split up into cliques. But there’s always a bit of overlap. Like I’ve a technical interest, I’ve done a bit of hill trials and stuff. I don’t know the formula-three crowd or the Harley-Davidson types, or to nod to, but they’d know who I was. Stuff like this, you hear of obliquely. A silence would fall when I was around. Nothing much illegal, as you say, but I’m a cop after all, and you never know, huh? And if I were to start asking questions, people would wonder…"

  "And clam up. And this aeroclub?"

  "I’ve been there. It’s the same world to some extent. I mean, there’s nothing surprising about all this, is there?" They all nodded. "But only as regards the fringe, the hangers-on. I mean, motors and that, it’s an expensive hobby. So are planes, or parachuting. You don’t find many who have the money for both, or not seriously. You see?"

  Castang did see. Hangers-on; apt enough description of Thierry. It was hard to take any of this seriously.

  "Try prodding around this aeroclub. And that café where they play pool. Don’t get blown. Lucciani will have to be careful from now on. See if you get a line on this Jackie. Davignon?"

  "A comment? – I’ve none. It’s like Orthez says, you find this sort of thing everywhere, inside cliques. A noisy crowd like that, nothing much at stake, sensation-seekers, no real responsibilities, that’s where you find it most publicised. I don’t want to sound denigrating but you know, where anybody can get in. A crowd like I’ve been looking at, Bertrand and the rubber-goods executives, Magali and her brigade which are just like all suburban housewives only they’re richer – you’d need a passport there all right."

  "You mean they play, but they like to know who they play with."

  "Sure. You don’t get it out in the open like that. It’s no real blackmail material, right: you’d say nowadays who’s going to get excited about a bit of suburban adultery? But plenty of bosses still are very puritanical. This place of Bertrand’s – one of the old family firms, very Protestant: you’ll see that, if you read the dossier."

  "I haven’t had time yet."

  "I know; that’s why I’m telling you. Not ‘what would the neighbours say’ but ‘it wouldn’t do the firm’s image any good’. A gang like that, likes to get off on convention, go to be recycled in Paris – somewhere preferably where the firm is paying," dryly. "Let their hair down among themselves – feel confident, then."

  ‘You’ve been on them long enough anyhow; even from far back your silhouette will be getting familiar. Change over with Maryvonne. Nothing has come of this estranged wife of Didier’s, or the secretary – that’s the kind of milieu you’d expect – am I right, Liliane?" Big square face, heavy muscular shoulders; she hadn’t had much to say. Group sex parties – not much up her street! She had been doodling on a piece of paper.

  "I live by myself," she said. "The only group I see much of is the ones who sing. We do things like plain chant. Others do polyphonic, some of us sing in the Bach Choir, or Etienne Marcel’s gleeclub thing, operetta and stuff. As Orthez said, the circles intersect. He’s right too of course when he says that serious people don’t fool with sex parties – with us it’s not money; singing doesn’t cost much in material. But a mentality: if you’re serious about one thing, you are so about others. But you find fringes everywhere, people who can’t take responsibility or don’t want it: Thierry, like you say. I don’t know how to say this…"

  She pushed across the piece of paper. One doodle was like the Olympic flag; intersecting circles, with different sorts of shading and cross-hatching. Another was of circles that met without intersecting.

  "Tangential?" suggested Castang.

  "That’s the word. The fringe groups of an activity – they form a clique. It’s the being unserious that holds them together. That’s where you get the gossiping and backbiting, the sort of – lack of self-respect. The ones who are a bit neurotic, or have a screw loose. And you often find they have a leader. Who isn’t neurotic at all. But is ready to exploit those who are…"

  "Go on," said Castang, sufficiently impressed by her reasoning to be listening carefully.

  "Well, if I’m not talking cock. That sort of person is where circles touch. Like – look at small ads," sounding now like Monsieur Bianchi. "The silly-sexy, you know, broad-minded couple, anxious to meet those with similar interests – you’ll always find people exploiting that. Phony marriage bureaux and pederast bars. Look, I’ve – with Maryvonne here – been looking at that family while you were away. Etienne Marcel I knew a bit about – the music you know – well, he was terribly serious about all he did. Municipal fiddles and kickbacks, I suppose you can’t be a Councillor and an Adjunct Mayor without getting involved somehow with a lot of shady people. That’s Richard’s area. But in his side interests – no, serious and hardworking. And you know Noelle enough… But moving on the fringes of these worlds… Didier was a sort of fringe-person. I’m being hopelessly vague."

  "We’ve got nothing. Got to connect it up any place we can. The judge would hold up her hands, we’d be laughed out of court. Know nothing, so fabricate something. But something’s there."

  "And this Jackie. Lucciani didn’t notice, but the people one phones up to organise girls… The small-ads again. There’s an exchange and mart in people, as well as in second-hand cars. Or look at the way dope gets handled. Junk comes with other junk – the fellow who knows how to get a fur coat, real cheap. But it’s too vague to take seriously, I suppose," shrugging. "What Richard would say…"

  "I don’t know… Maryvonne, you’ve been very quiet."

  "I couldn’t make much out of Noelle. Or the pub. The brothers. These are the real people, aren’t they, the classic ‘kleine Leute’. They work, more or less as little as they can, in ordinary jobs, and they club together, and they play the horses, and the lotto, and they’d gamble on the football forecast if we had one, or play bingo. And somebody’s got to organise that, and make money out of it, and Marcel did, and Noelle does. Didier’s affairs – a lot of little tax frauds. I tried Massip but he doesn’t want to know and who blames him. I put the papers into a file. That secretary very tight of mouth of course – a cow that woman. Frightened of me naturally. And Clothilde…she’s another fringe person."

  "You sound as though you don’t like her."

  "Like her? – what’s that got to do with it? No I don’t like her, or from what I know of her, which is little. There’s not been much I could get into a report. But people don’t like her much. She’s very sweet, and she’s funny, and amusing, and she has this act of being always fiddled. I think she pulled the wool over your eyes. I’m sorry."

  "No, go on."

  "Well, I’m a woman. I find her false, and sly. And on the make. But I haven’t got close to her at all, naturally. The light surveillance act is necessarily superficial. Get close enough to become interested, and you’re blown. You are only there to log movements, note meetings, obs
erve a general manner."

  "Remember this is a report I haven’t read yet."

  "It’s not worth reading and so said Liliane. The riding-club. She’s a bit marginal there, as you can understand, among the high bourgeoisie."

  "Divorced woman Kept woman. Living marginally."

  "Right. And she works part time in a dress shop, so of course some of them are her customers. And she does secretarial work at one of those lose-weight places. And she does fill-in things in a hotel, reception or bar or taking orders, at weekends. The horse is very expensive."

  "She didn’t take money, from Marcel."

  "No, but the rent, of that little house. Which is quite high."

  "We’ll look a little further into Clothilde. Openly. She was after all in an equivocal position."

  "Richard went, you know. Just as a pounce."

  "Ah yes. To see if she had any papers or stuff of Marcel’s. It was an idea he had."

  "She did too. Said brightly she’d never thought of mentioning it to you: it hadn’t occurred to her as being of importance. But it was only stuff about the house. It was his house, you see. He kept that quiet. The registration was a bit phoney."

  "Because of her? Or because of tax? Bit of both, I suppose. Mm, just a bit of departmental arranging. Or not really criminal – just fringe. Nothing more?"

  "No. She had a wide acquaintanceship. You wouldn’t say she had any really close friends much. People drop in on her. Men and women. Nothing to point anywhere, one way or another."

  "Mm," said Castang.

  He rushed home, too late for the local shops which had all closed. Had to go to a huge supermarket that stayed open. A bore. But ‘the family’ couldn’t live on tins. There was nothing much out of the way for him, about this. When Vera was paralysed he’d done all the shopping.

  TWENTY THREE

  CLOTHILDE

  The weather was still the same, which was never the same two half-hours running. The sun came out and blazed hotly; a heat intolerable because of humidity. The most inoffensive meadow became a steaming great jungle full of biting insects. The sun went in, and another cloudburst caught you in your shirt, left you sodden and shivering.

  It played nasty jokes, like snatching your hat off and emptying a bucket of stinging hail upon your ears.

  Even in the city everything that was green and grew, grew too much and too fast. Crowds of flowering shoots poked menacing fingers in your mouth; riots of vulgar foliage slapped you in the eye. It had a lusty smell, like a girl gymnast just off the floor. So, as a trainee posted to crowd control, not yet in the Police Judiciaire, had he first seen Vera, pungent from her ground exercise, pulse hammering in the muscled throat. He’d been standing by the barrier watching – a gymnast himself in a small, police sports club way. He’d said a joking word to her in his funny, broken German.

  Wind came in violent gusts, snapping off the fragile, rain-heavy young branches and scattering them in the street. The trees didn’t mind. They were growing so much and so fast. Even in the concrete desert they could afford to show arrogance. In prim suburban streets robust and rustic trunks of wood came and leaned on fences, laughing at the scrawny little trees cowering inside.

  She hadn’t understood, and smiled nervously. That was on the first day. A week later, at the end of the competition, the moment when tensions were relaxed and even the watchfulness of women trainers straying (the children allowed to stuff themselves with indigestible food, and even drink a glass of champagne) she had appeared, hair neatly combed, clutching a pathetic overnight bag. Age nineteen. Gawd, like something out of the Constant Nymph. "I’m running away" she said calmly, much too calmly. A lot of trouble she’d brought with her. Ten years back. A lot, and very little.

  The Czechs started by making a great fuss, and then suddenly changed tack, laughed it off. No loss. Lousy gymnast anyhow. Only brought as substitute for a good one. Disruptive, disobedient girl. Nasty little bourgeois whore.

  He’d had a fearful black eye. "You weren’t put there to seduce little iron-curtain girls" screamed his commissaire. Seduce! If they could have seen her…arms and legs tight-crossed, glaring at him. Nothing had ever been more difficult to get into bed. What a bashing the child had taken. He’d taken one too. Lucky for him he’d passed out from police-school already, and with a high mark. He hadn’t been punished finally. Been sent here, and not to Paris. This was his home, now. He didn’t regret Paris. Vera didn’t regret Bratislava. Scarred, yes, but resilient.

  They’d watched the last gymnastics championship together on the television, perfectly detached and professional. Unselfconscious hard little behinds. Tanned thighs barred with chalk powder. The dignity of these children…

  "The Hungarians are excellent."

  "The Russians aren’t that much, really. Except lovely Nelli."

  "She’s worth the other five. Ha." Curt laugh from Vera. "Comaneci has bloody well insisted that she was going to wear underpants."

  A drink at the end. "Kim should have had all the gold medals."

  "Including a few given to the men. So – to Nelli?"

  "Yes, I’m all for married gymnasts myself. Their rhythms are better." The wind took his hat off as he got out of the car. He was tired. There was lead in the boots. The bushes on either side of Clothilde’s little gate leaned over and brushed against him. His hair needed clipping too.

  She let him in looking much the same as last time; a lot of silk scarf and jumper, well-cut skirt swinging on those long segments. She got clothes cheap, of course, from that dress-shop. Even so, she had plenty of money to spend. Well, a few part-time jobs, not declared to the tax office or the social security – she’d be making more than he did.

  "I thought I was finished with the police. After Mr Thing was here, and turned the desk upside down."

  "One is never altogether finished with the police, you see, as long as a homicide investigation continues."

  "So I see. I begin to feel quite guilty. What happens, when you don’t catch anybody?"

  "These cases aren’t necessarily classified. They can go on for years. They may lie dormant. Waiting for a little fact, trivial-seeming."

  "How many years?"

  "There’s a prescription. After a certain number, a criminal act is deemed in law to have become extinguished. Otherwise there would be cases stretching back to the years after the war."

  "And during the war?"

  "No – the Germans destroyed all the criminal files when they left. Since then – it’s all there in the archive. Paper, paper. It’s what most of our work consists of."

  "So that I’m going down in the archive?"

  "As a witness, yes. Not in the archive. You’re part of a very active file," pleasantly.

  "This is a sobering thought. I’d like to know why. I had decided you’d understood – that my connection with Etienne was at best – well, narrow. And that you had gathered all the information relevant to it, on your last visit."

  "What did Monsieur Richard say?"

  "Is that his name, who was here?"

  "Yes, he’s the Divisional Commissaire. My chief."

  "He asked quite politely whether Etienne had left papers here, and might he look. Rummage, was his word. He did, too. Was that just a pretext? He came really to take a good look at me?"

  "He didn’t say, or not to me."

  "At least he didn’t make any indecent proposals, as you did, even as a sort of nasty joke."

  "Yes, that was unfair. I did apologise. I will again."

  "I’ve put it out of my mind. Well, what is it you’re poking at now?"

  "As you say, your connection is narrow. Tangential was a word used, in discussion. Fringe, was another, as I recall. There are other figures like yourself, standing as it were on the rim of Monsieur Marcel’s circle."

  "I haven’t much interest in them, whoever they are, since I don’t know them. I’m interested in what importance, or significance, I can possibly have."

  "You had concluded there was none?"<
br />
  "Concluded – I don’t know what I concluded. It’s a final sort of word. I’d assumed – you said something about a Judge of Instruction, she might ask to see me. I’d heard nothing, I suppose, yes, I concluded that the matter was finished with. You promised me discretion, if I was frank with you. I’m not all that ashamed about my relations with Etienne, but I don’t exactly go flaunting them from the housetop."

  "I’ve come to call on you in mid-afternoon, anonymous in an unmarked car. Nothing indiscreet in that, is there? Friends and acquaintances do drop in? It wouldn’t arouse gossip? Or you wouldn’t care that much if it did?"

  "Of course not – I wonder simply why you choose so to spend your time. And mine."

  "But I’ll tell you perfectly frankly. We speak of a circle, as a loose image for friends and relations. People like Etienne Marcel have several. Some business, others personal. Figures like yourself, as we agree peripheral, they have their own circle. These groups often interlock. In this way, a man does not know fifty or a hundred people. He knows ten thousand. One of those ten thousand killed Etienne Marcel."

  "I’m afraid I’m completely confused, and that I haven’t followed at all."

  "Take yourself. You’d say your circle of acquaintance was small. Then start including the people whom you know at work. Customers, say, at the shop, or guests at the restaurant. Whose names you know, with whom you’d exchange a few friendly words."

  "You seem to know a good deal about my rather boring doings. Again, I had no idea I was such an object of interest."

  "That’s commonplace routine. Exactly the same if you want to do business with, say, an insurance company. They like to gather a bit of information – stroll round the neighbourhood, does this lady seem a trustworthy sort of person? Banks do it, if you ask for an overdraft. Nothing secret or indecently prying, really. We do the same. It’s to be expected. Your phone isn’t tapped."

  "I should certainly hope not: I shouldn’t hesitate to complain if I thought it were."