Castang’s City

by Nicolas Freeling

‘Furtherance your demand details service Roger Lallemand…’ A tangle of figures and dates and military jargon in telegraphese. ‘Bad conduct discharge annulled. Discharge medical grounds recommended…confirmed order Officer Commanding Military District no…’ Oh. A snotty ending. ‘Written records deemed confidential…personal dossier…only communicated on receipt of written order made by competent tribunal.’ Ha. Madame Colette Delavigne would have to explain something about the powers of an examining magistrate to the Officer Commanding.

  "Sorry, Liliane. Yes, of course: there must be more to this. Look, girl, I’ve an urgent thing here; I’ll be back to you in an hour." He went to his office. Roger Lallemand, Marine Parachute Regiment number – discharge recommended on psychiatric grounds; get me a girl quick in the communications office.

  "The military district, I want the staff headquarters of this particular regiment, reference their telex of last night, I want the chief medical officer, person to person and I’m here at my desk."

  A long-distance telephone call to South-Western France, down there in the country of Gascons, rugby-players and parachute regiments (all thick on the ground in that part of the world) is no problem now that France is Modern. A voice in no time as clear as that of Ma Bell herself. But military bureaucracy, obstructions, evasions. The gentleman recalled the personage vaguely. It was a year ago and more.

  "Police Judiciaire. I repeat, you’ve a telegraphed mandate for interrogation from Judge Delavigne, possible bearing I repeat on a murder investigation. That’s right; you’re talking to the investigating officer. Pull the file and ring me back, priority message, PJ regional service.

  Obstruction lessened: the voice reappeared, became warmer, shed some light. Roger Lallemand had not been a very good soldier, in fact rather bad. ‘Oh, physically fit, and apt, hm, for service. But this is a demanding service, Inspector. Unstable. Violence, yes, well, nothing in the sense you mean it to mean, um, but a grudge against authority, affectivity problems yes.’

  Castang hastily dragged his man back from the yawning chasm of shrink jargon. ‘Unstable, yes, hyper-excitable yes, disciplinary troubles yes. On expiration of original engagement recommended by his commander for nonrenewal. Not a BCD, no, because well, paratroops can be turbulent and still be good, but a fellow who threatens fellows with weapons, one can’t have that. No. Brief, unsuitable for military operations at combat level, what? Fellow had appealed against this. Wanted to be a paratrooper, a real man, you see the significance, Inspector? So it had gone to the arbitration board, on which sits of course a military psychiatrist, and they’d decided against, and that was that. The findings of that board – ah, that’s a confidential document, Inspector. No no, I can give no details, in any case, if you hadn’t realised, I’m not a psychiatrist, man, I’m a psychologist.’

  Damn all shrinks.

  Rushing out of his office, Castang fell, according to the law of simultaneity, over another shrink, this one a police shrink who had been called to give an opinion about the homicidal husband of last night, who despite having been cooled ever since in the PJ detention unit was still in a deplorably excitable state.

  "I want you," said Castang. "Give me five minutes."

  "Now look, Castang, I truly can’t say anything about that suicide of yours. She’s under care, and I haven’t seen her. I haven’t been called into consultation, and even if I’d the right to challenge the opinion of a colleague–"

  "It isn’t anything to do with that at all."

  "Oh! Oh, well then," made meek by a sense of anticlimax, "what is it?" getting inveigled into the office.

  "I put to you a hypothetical case…" Better said a rambling kind of description, of a party who might, Castang rather thought.

  "Really Castang you do ask the damnedest questions" testily. "By your own admission your observations of this person are of the slightest: you have the cheek to come to me with this jumble sale of hearsay…"

  "Look, I’m only asking whether it would be feasible, a person like that, to incite, to stimulate, to excite into…"

  "Castang, what’s the difference between an impressionist painter and an expressionist?"

  "Huh? How should I know?"

  "Then stop using jargon you don’t know the meaning of."

  "If you tease a dog into biting somebody are you inciting or exciting it? Does it matter? Shit, I’m asking whose fault it is."

  "Reduce your hypothesis to the simplest elements, eliminate all personal elements, I’ll try and give you a very simplistic answer."

  "Take somebody with anarchist tendencies: warm in the heart, weak in the head. Ambivalent attitude to authority, I mean a need for firm orders in a strong rigid framework, and a rebelliousness, a need to flout. Physically strong and well co-ordinated, trained in handling weapons. But nervous, dreamy, excitable. Influenceable. A need I think to be liked, to be popular. I’d say surely idealistic, romantic. Affective problems I’ve no doubt. Immature."

  "You don’t need me for that. There are innumerable case histories described in the literature. The majority, probably, of political assassinations…"

  "That’s right."

  "What I cannot do is attempt any attribution of responsibilities."

  "Oh, quite. He’s none too bright," as an afterthought.

  "Sounds simple to me, my dear boy. If you’ve got any material evidence sufficient to justify, arrest him. I can then, possibly, give an opinion upon his state of mind at that moment. What it was at the moment when he was alleged to have committed a criminal act is another plate of stew altogether."

  "Well thanks just the same."

  Hunting about, he found a horrible Dutch cigar, pale grey in colour and of a dusty complexion as though constructed out of fluff from underneath an army bed. It tasted the way it looked: not an aid to thought. He picked his phone up.

  "Get me Madame Delavigne at the Palais."

  "What Palais?" The switchboard girl wasn’t too bright this morning either.

  "The Palace of Justice – please," patiently. He made a little list of palaces while waiting. The Elysée, the Palais-Bourbon, the Grand Palais, the Petit Palais, Chaillot, the Luxembourg… "Hello."

  "Yes, Inspector?"

  "I’d like to see you on a matter of urgency."

  "In an hour’s time, Inspector," fairly frigidly. Ring up your dentist and cry eagerly that you’ve a tooth that’s giving you hell, and he’ll ask in the same chilly tone why you didn’t come months ago.

  The Bridge Circle was a town house of the period when it was fashionable to have residences imitating country houses, of manorial aspect, in gardens with laurel bushes and a cedar tree. Of earlier date, and much more prepossessing, than the house in the Rue des Carmélites; kept nicely painted, with a chaste brass plate. Much furniture of the time, plush and mahogany, carved and gilded candelabra and mirror-frames carefully dusted and polished: two Spanish maids doubling as waitresses, a concierge and his wife (who can cook) and in a flat above, a steward, or secretary, or whatever he calls himself. Not at all enthusiastic about the Police Judiciaire.

  "You’re aware that the Procureur de la République is one of our members?" bleakly, as a warning to behave.

  "I’m aware. Equally, you’re aware that a PJ officer has powers of interrogation, and also of coercion? That the public is obliged to reply, in aid or furtherance of an enquiry? Discretion, where not covered by a legally defined professional secret, cannot I’m afraid be invoked."

  "I’m aware," bowing very slightly and not asking the police to sit down.

  "Monsieur Jouve is a member. Monsieur Jacques Maresq is also a member? Or a guest?"

  "A country member. Occasional."

  "You can confirm that both were present last night?"

  "I believe I can recall seeing them both."

  "A special occasion of any sort? Perhaps a competition, or a committee meeting?"

  "An ordinary evening."

  "I ask since Monsieur Jouve as I believe has a regular evening, and as you tell
me Monsieur Maresq is an occasional visitor."

  "There is nothing untoward. Members come at their pleasure."

  "People habitually play with the same partners?"

  "Some do, some don’t."

  "Did these two gentlemen in fact play together?"

  "I believe I can say they did not."

  "Are they friendly?"

  "All members are friendly. I’m afraid I have no information about the stage of warmth of any personal acquaintanceship. We have a rule of informality."

  "My question is this. Were these two gentlemen at any time last night seen in conversation together?" The man did his act, pursing lips, putting fingertips together.

  "You are doubtless unaware, Inspector, of our arrangements, but apart from the card rooms there is a library, a small bar and buffet, smallish rooms for various purposes, the cloakrooms. I circulate, to be sure. You may say that my duties imply having, as it were, an eye and an ear everywhere. It would be a mistake to imply that I allowed either to be intrusive."

  "I’d like to see the premises if I may, and I’d like to put a few questions to the staff."

  All very correct, and decidedly ‘routine’, and, very often, pretty inconclusive. In the event he got what he was looking for. The establishment catered well for the creature comforts. There was a very pleasant little cellar. Certain of these wines had been supplied by Monsieur Maresq; what could be more natural? A motherly Spanish lady had had her attention called to the condition of one of these bottles, by Monsieur. She had in consequence noticed him. Monsieur Jouve did not drink when playing. It was easy to recall, thus, serving two glasses of sherry in the little room next to the committee-room, at around ten in the evening. The two gentlemen were sitting thus quietly together. No raised voice, no sign of trouble or nervousness. The talk had dropped, as was normal, when she brought her tray. Monsieur Jouve signed the chit: here was the chit. She did not in any case listen to the talk of members, Monsieur.

  "That is very clear and I’ll trouble you no further. It is possible, simply, that you may be called on to confirm this."

  "But there is the chit."

  "Yes, and the other gentleman was Monsieur Maresq: there is no possibility of an error."

  "There is no possibility. The gentleman had spoken sharply, that the label was dirty, and torn. Monsieur the Secretary knows well, that my service is not slovenly."

  "There is no criticism of your work, Madame."

  It was not, of course, evidence of anything. Two members of a bridge club having a glass of sherry, discussing the present price of Michelins, on the stock exchange.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  THE MANDATES OF THE MAGISTRATE

  Having taken particular pains to be just a little late at the Palace of Justice he was quite happy to be kept waiting no more than a quarter of an hour. She listened to his argument with no very great enthusiasm. Her manner could be called polite.

  "So you’ve got these three, or possibly more, malcontents, talking a lot and bragging – but from there to plotting and carrying out an assassination, there’s a wide gap."

  "I’d say I feel sure there’s a directive force, organising and impelling. Taking a good deal of pains to stay uninvolved, and indeed unattackable. We’re working on it, and perhaps we can forge links, but we can’t get him on anything. This is exactly the problem. Take these three in, and we’ve probably got three psycho cases, and where are we then?"

  "I’m not by any means convinced that I could issue a mandate for arrest – what have you got? – two lukewarm eyewitnesses."

  "Photographs, and movie – very poor guides to an identification. If I can take this fellow for a start, dress him up in the clothes as described, have an identity parade…"

  "Double-edged. If then your witnesses fail to recognise him, I’ve got no good grounds for holding on to him, your famous evil genius in the background has been tipped off, and what then? What about the others?"

  "If I arrest all three there’ll be an uproar of publicity. And the family will be up in arms too. Thierry… Upset the cart if you lay hold of the horse, and if you touch the cart the horse will take fright. What I thought was, could we take up this fellow on a pretext?"

  Madame Delavigne frowned.

  "I don’t like that, Castang. A mandate as you know must specify the charge." The Code of Criminal Procedure is fussy about warrants, as they are called in England. The police, even officers, cannot arrest persons unless taken flagrante delicto. The judge of instruction, on the other hand, has four different kinds of warrant, in ascending order of severity. It is all very formal and legalistic and concerned about the rights of the citizenry. As also happens with the Bill of Rights, the citizen gets arrested just the same because the police have a catch-all, the garde-à-vue which provides that a person may be held on suspicion for twenty-four hours, after which he must either be released or presented to the magistrate and charged, exactly like Habeas Corpus. Instructing judges vary widely in the latitude they allow the police in these matters, and Colette Delavigne was sticky about form.

  "Something," said Castang, keeping his eye on her, "more or less fabricated that needn’t concern these others. Suspicion of handling contraband or something." It can be so difficult, indeed, to secure adequate grounds for arrest that the police are suspected now and then of planting evidence. It has been known…

  "And have the tribunal throw the case out on grounds of malpractice," on a rising note. Castang, who had been cherishing his rôle as Inspector Robillard of the Customs Fraud Squad, sighed and resigned himself.

  "Why not go down and make a search?" A slight hint of hypocrisy about this. A PJ officer not a simple agent – is entitled to search without a mandate from the magistrate. "You might turn up the gun."

  "Some hope! The gun’s the first thing any murderer, however psycho, knows how to get rid of."

  "Then if your eyewitnesses fail you I don’t see much for it. If you’ve really got hold of the right one, you’ll have to hope the one or the other will get rattled." He sighed again, and left. "Don’t see much for it," said Richard in the same tone. "Pull a gag like this, your witnesses fail you, you’ve nothing but to turn him loose: you’ve tipped your hand and for nothing. Clap the lot then under a twenty-four hour surveillance on the hope someone’s nerve will go and he’ll do something silly. Not an exciting prospect.

  "You’ve no motive, Castang; these people are catspaws. There are arguments for picking up this librarian individual, and even better ones for leaving him; his mind’s expanded that far there’s nothing left of it. Thierry you can’t very well touch: too far dug in.

  "Furthermore there’s a second assassination."

  "Didier. I don’t see how it can tie in, or how one can make anything of it at all. I haven’t thought of it."

  "I on the other hand have thought of it a good deal."

  "We can’t even be sure it’s a homicide, except on very slender grounds of an expert opinion. There’s no connection with any of these people unless you count the family tie. Or with Maresq, who is I’m convinced the moving spirit behind all this, though why or how the Lord alone may know."

  "Maresq," said Richard, testing it. "Somewhere at the back of my mind, if I could just get hold of it, is the suspicion I’ve heard this name before. Now if I could recall in what context…"

  "A link," said Castang slowly, "with Thierry. A link, which it seems reasonable to question Monsieur Jouve about, with both Marcel’s son and his son-in-law. I’ve been wondering increasingly whether Noelle’s peculiar behaviour may not have something to do with this. That effing shrink won’t let me anywhere near her, but it’s only a question of time. Somewhere there’s a fact staring me in the face, if I knew where to look for it."

  Richard was staring at his blotting-pad, as though a carrier pigeon had just alighted there.

  "Questioning Bertrand," went on Castang remorselessly, "isn’t going to get me anywhere. He knows Monsieur Maresq. Why yes, they occasionally play bridge together
. They may have some present or projected business connection. Then what? It’s evidence of nothing at all. All these people have only to keep silence, and wait for us to get tired. We’ll never get a shred of legal proof."

  Richard’s hand and wrist, which had been flexing and stretching like a serpent uncoiling from a nice sleep in the sun, was reaching slowly out towards the telephone.

  "Would it be possible," asked Castang, "to throw a horrible scare into Thierry by suggesting we know why his mother attempted suicide? Mm, he’s a cool card. And if it backfires – again, we’ve nothing."

  Richard wasn’t listening: he had picked his phone up.

  "Massip… Massip, you recall we went through Didier Marcel’s files, in an effort to discover anything questionable. It seems to me we made a record… Do you still have that paper anywhere round the office? Bring it up here would you." There was a satisfied look on his face, as though the snake had just swallowed the pigeon and was now digesting peacefully. Massip, whose office was always tidy and who never lost pieces of paper, entered with a few carbon flimsies stapled together.

  "The originals must be in Fausta’s file. It’s not of any use – only a list of his house-dealing activities."

  "Who was it made this?" asked Richard taking it. "Maryvonne was it?"

  "No no; some clerical boy downstairs."

  "As you say, house deals – nothing interesting there. Builders, and building promoters – ditto. Agency stuff, split-commission deals, all very normal. Rents collected for property owners. I knew I’d seen this before. Run of the mill stuff, as you say, Massip, it went into Fausta’s file and the other copy, since Didier’s death has an interrogation mark hanging over it, to the examining magistrate. And somewhere along the way, I cast a perfunctory eye upon this mess of boring paper. Just shows you how easy it is to miss things, Castang – there’s your link; letter M. The thing’s in alphabetical order."

  "Maresq, Jacques. Delestang et Cie. Rue des Ecuries no 26. Where is that?"

  "Big, old houses. Side street somewhere off the Boulevard Wilson." This in turn stirred something small which writhed an instant at the back of Castang’s mind, but he could not tell what it was.