by Allan Massie
In bed Lannes drew Marguerite to him and kissed her.
‘That went off all right. The children behaved well, I thought.’
‘I hate it when Albert talks in that domineering way and expresses his opinions so brutally. It makes me ashamed to be his sister.’
‘They’re not his opinions, in the sense that he has formed them for himself. He just repeats what he has heard the mayor and those around him say.’
‘Does that make it better?’
‘Not really.’
She sighed.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s the first of Maman’s anniversaries Dominique has ever missed.’
He drew her more closely to him, kissing her first on the cheek and then on the lips. They made love, gently and without passion. She fell asleep in his arms. Moonlight crept through a gap in the shutters, falling on the silver frames of the photographs of the children on their mother’s dressing-table.
VI
April 14, 1940
He was a great bear of a man, black-bearded and round-shouldered. A ruined bear, Lannes thought, with his limp, heavier than mine, his sagging flesh and bloodshot eyes. Formidable all the same. Dangerous? Perhaps. Hunters always say a wounded animal is the one to fear. He had had too much sense to resist the cops sent to bring him in, but made it clear that he was there, in Lannes’ office, under protest. Still, he didn’t break into complaints, which would have been futile, but sat in the chair, which he filled, and looked surly.
‘Xavier Cortazar?’
‘Javier, with a “J”. I’m Catalan, not Spanish. I must be losing my mind to speak as I did to that kid. I should’ve spotted he was a cop.’
He spoke French slowly, carefully, with a heavy accent.
‘You may smoke,’ Lannes said, and called for coffee. ‘This isn’t an interrogation. You’re not under suspicion. Indeed you’re at liberty to leave whenever you wish. But I hope you won’t. I hope you may be able – and willing – to help us.’
‘Soft soap. Why the hell should I trust you? And what’s this all about anyway?’
‘You know what it’s about,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ve had a look at your dossier. You’ve been here nearly three years, and we’ve no reason to think you have engaged in any activities that would cause the French Republic any anxiety. So as far as I’m concerned you’re clean. You came here first for medical treatment, I see. Is that correct?’
‘I got a bullet in my balls at the Guadaljera. Not an experience I would recommend.’
‘You were in the CNT militia.’
‘I won’t deny it.’
He blew smoke across the desk.
‘Yes, I’m an anarchist. Hitler, Musso, Stalin, fat-arse Franco, the king of England and whoever is Prime Minister of France this month, they’re all one to me and I’ve no time for any of them. Are you going to lock me up for speaking my mind?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lannes said, enjoying the theatrical performance. ‘I might even go some way to agreeing with you. Now drink your coffee and stop playing games. You know why you’re here. I’m investigating the murder of Gaston Chambolley, and, as you told my young inspector, you had some dealings with him.’
‘I won’t deny that. Actually, I liked the poor sod. He was a gentleman and there aren’t many left. That surprises you, eh? That an old dyed-in-the-wool anarchist should praise a man for being a gentleman? But to my mind that’s not a matter of class and still less of money. At first, like I said to your inspector whom I won’t insult by calling him a police spy – me being to my way of thinking a gentleman myself – at first then I thought, “this fellow needs a kick in the arse”, for I don’t care for men of a certain age who run after boys, though that’s a matter of taste, I agree, and it takes all sorts, as they say. It’s just that it revolts me. But I changed my mind.’
‘Why? What made you?’
Javier Cortazar looked up at the ceiling and took a long time to answer. A bluebottle buzzed round the electrolier. Lannes waited, lit a cigarette, drank coffee. A policeman learns when to push the person he is questioning, when to give him time. Patience, Lannes had always told his subordinates, is an essential quality in a cop.
At last: ‘He was after information about his sister-in-law of whom he appeared to be fond. She was Spanish herself and a good Republican. I knew of her by reputation, no more than that. But I was willing to ask questions on his behalf. That was as far as we got. I can’t see as this has anything to do with him being bumped off, and it’s that which you’re investigating, not his politics. Right? Or mine either if it comes to that. He was an innocent, you know. That’s what I trying to get across.’
‘This isn’t a good world in which to be an innocent,’ Lannes said.
He questioned the Catalan for the best part of an hour and a second pot of coffee, inquiring specially, in more than one way, if Gaston had established intimacy with any of the other exiles, if he had quarrelled with any, or asked awkward questions. But he got nowhere. ‘You’ve got it wrong, Cortazar said, ‘it’s nowt to do with any of us. He was an innocent, I keep telling you that, he didn’t know where he was going.’ – as if this settled the matter. Lannes was just about to call a halt when the Catalan said, ‘There was one night he didn’t come alone, or leave alone, I can’t remember which. There was a Frenchman with him who said nothing but gave the impression of listening to everything. I wasn’t comfortable with him.’
‘Can you give a description?’
‘Certainly, for I took good notice of him, thinking he might be a spy of some sort, which is probably the case. Short, stocky, mid-thirties perhaps, brown hair cut short, dark eyes. He smoked English cigarettes, don’t know the brand, a yellow packet.’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘Neither before nor since, and don’t want to.’
‘But you would recognize him?’
‘Certainly, because you could see he thought we were trash, and I didn’t like that.’
‘Good. Then you’ll please let me know if he comes your way again.’
When the Catalan had been shown out, Lannes called in Moncerre to join him and young René.
‘We’ve made some progress,’ he said. ‘I think you’re right, Moncerre, and this isn’t a sex-crime but political. And that’s why they’re so keen to close it down. On the other hand we’ve got nothing to open it up, nothing that might persuade or force Rougerie to rescind his instruction.’
Moncerre, the bull terrier, had been using a match as a toothpick. He now removed it from his mouth, broke it in half, and said, ‘No chance of that with what we’ve got which is no more than fuck-all.’
‘Quite. So I can’t authorize you to pursue investigations. Not officially, that is. Does the description of the Frenchman mean anything to you.’
‘Sure: short, stocky, brown hair cut short, it describes several hundred of our worthy fellow citizens. You can see half a dozen that fit that description on every café terrace in Bordeaux. Very helpful. On the other hand, the English cigarette – not many people smoke them, even in Bordeaux. Paris may be different of course. I don’t know.’
Like a true Bordelais, Moncerre thought Parisians stuck-up and not to be trusted.
‘I spent a holiday in England last year, ‘René Martin said with a blush, ‘and I think the brand is called Goldflake.’
‘That takes us a long way,’ Moncerre said.
‘Not far, I agree,’ Lannes said. ‘Nevertheless we know more than we did.
VII
April 16, 1940
Judge Rougerie was very small, pot-bellied, pink-faced, with tufts of fleecy white hair that sprang out horizontally just above his ears. There was a certain charm to his manner when he was in a good temper, for then he always seemed on the point of telling a funny story, even if Lannes had never actually heard him do so. But he looked ridiculous when displeased, and this always awoke a curious sympathy in Lannes.
‘I should have thought my instructions suf
ficiently clear,’ he said.
‘Indeed they were, and the case was set aside, the file closed. I conveyed as much to Henri Chambolley, who, though naturally disappointed, understood.’
‘So you say, superintendent. But why do I now learn that you have been questioning a certain Spaniard by name of . . . ’ he shuffled his papers . . . ‘His name is immaterial – about a case which I have made it clear was to be regarded as dead? Answer me that, please.’
Lannes was more interested to find that the judge had learned of Cortazar’s visit to his office than perturbed by his anger.
‘And why wasn’t it reported to me, as proper procedure requires?’
Really, the little man’s indignation made him look more than ever like a character in a comic film!
Lannes scratched his right eyebrow.
‘It sometimes happens,’ he said, ‘that we in the police judiciaire come to learn of things which may or may not have a bearing on a case in hand, or even, as in this instance, on one where it has been decided that it is vain to pursue inquiries. In such circumstances it is a routine matter to check the information in order to determine whether it makes any material difference to the position in which we find ourselves. Naturally, this is usually done in an informal, even, if I may say so, unofficial or scarcely official manner. As in the case of the Spaniard you mention. I did indeed question him, but he added nothing to what we already knew, which, as you are aware, is very little. Therefore I had no reason to approach you with the suggestion that it might be expedient to re-open the case. That is the long and short of the matter. Had my conversation with him – and it was a conversation, not an interrogation – which is why I have filed no record of it – altered my view of the matter, then I should have immediately acquainted you with what I had learned. But since it didn’t and since I learned nothing, I saw no reason to burden you with it. Like so much police work, it yielded no useful result.’
Was he protesting too much? It seemed not. Rougerie nodded, twice, and took snuff.
‘Your explanation is satisfactory. Naturally with all my responsibilities I have no wish to be burdened – as you perceptively put it – with the minutiae of police work. Nevertheless it was displeasing to be informed by a third party that you were pursuing an investigation that we had agreed should be laid aside.’
And who was your third party? Lannes thought.
Back in his office Lannes summoned Moncerre and René, and suggested they cross the square to the Brasserie Fernand for lunch. As usual Fernand, grandson of the brasserie’s original Fernand, greeted Lannes as a favoured client and showed them to a corner table in the back room where their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
‘It’s a cold day,’ he said, ‘cold for April certainly. So I recommend the cassoulet and a couple of bottles of good St Emilion. We shall all be glad of such comforts if the war turns against us, as I fear it will.’
Lannes at once pictured Dominique in his trench or wherever he found himself behind the Maginot Line, and felt a tremor of fear. But he didn’t resent Fernand’s pessimism – he had a son in the front line himself, and the scar on his right cheek was his legacy of the old war, in which indeed he had been decorated with the Médaille Militaire.
‘And first,’ Fernand said, ‘some escargots.’
Lannes led the conversation away from the war, in his own interest and also to avoid embarrassing young René who had sought permission to transfer from the PJ to the army and been refused. Lannes knew that the boy had had to endure abuse from some who thought him a shirker.
The cassoulet was all Fernand had promised, the preserved goose full-flavoured and the sausage fine and spicy.
‘Makes you proud to be French, a dish like this,’ Moncerre said, mopping up the juices with a piece of bread. ‘Good there’s something that still does.’
Lannes reported his conversation with the judge.
‘Interesting? Yes?’
‘I don’t like it,’ Moncerre said.
‘What do you mean?’ René said.
Moncerre smiled. He was always pleased to find himself a step ahead of a colleague. It was, Lannes thought, one of his weaknesses as a policeman.
‘It’s obvious, kid,’ Moncerre said. ‘We’re being watched. They’re keeping tabs on us.’
‘Who are?’
‘That’s asking. If we knew the answer we’d be half-way home.’
‘The immediate question,’ Lannes said, ‘is how we rate on disobedience.’
‘We rate high,’ Moncerre said. ‘You always have, chief.’
‘I don’t like being leaned on, or spied on. That’s certain. But the truth is we really know almost nothing. Our only lead is that man the Catalan described, who smokes English cigarettes. What did you say they’re called, René?’
‘Goldflake.’
‘Goldflake. Whoever he is, Monsieur Goldflake has protection. I think we can assume that. But I don’t like to see murder going unsolved and unpunished. It’s a prejudice of mine. It offends me.’
‘Offends me too,’ Moncerre said. ‘So we ask around.’
‘That’s right. We start to make nuisances of ourselves and maybe we’ll stir something up. Get Monsieur Goldflake to break cover. René, now that we’ve talked with your friend Javier, it would be quite safe for you to look him up again, stand him a couple of drinks, see if you can loosen his tongue, and use your Catalan to talk with some of his comrades. If they see that Cortazar has accepted you, they may be ready to talk, and it’s possible that one of them may know more than he does. All right?’
‘Absolutely, ‘René said, delighted to have been trusted with this responsibility.
Moncerre said, ‘I’ve a couple of snouts I’ll sound out. They may know something. No harm in trying.’
Fernand brought them coffee and a bottle of Armagnac with four glasses.
‘I’ll join you if I may. The way things are, it’s perhaps a patriotic duty to drink as much of my good Armagnac as we can – before the Boches get here and requisition it.’
‘You don’t think that’s likely, do you?’ René said.
‘Don’t I? Who knows? Let’s just say it’s not a possibility I’m inclined to discount. The news is not exactly encouraging. Sounds as if the English are on the run from Norway.’
‘Oh well, the English, they’ve never been the best of allies,’ Moncerre said.
He picked up his glass, ‘Vive la France, all the same.’
VIII
April 16, 1940. Afternoon.
Lannes limped across the public garden towards the rue d’Aviau. The breeze was still cool, but the sun had come out and the young leaves of the chestnut trees, damp after early morning rain, sparkled. To his surprise he found himself almost happy, effect of Fernand’s bracing pessimism perhaps. Or, more likely, the Armagnac.
Or the combination. Also the eagerness to step out of line that both Moncerre and young René had shown. He stopped a moment, leaning on his stick, to watch the puppet show which had drawn a crowd of perhaps twenty small children, with mothers, grandmothers or nursemaids, and hummed a tune – ‘La vie qui va’ – which the young singer Charles Trenet had made popular a year or two back. He would speak briefly to the count, tell him he had got nowhere, that he didn’t think the matter worth pursuing, ask him if he wanted these loathsome letters back, and then go home, enjoy a family evening, and the shoulder of lamb with which Marguerite had promised to make his favourite navarin with lots of spring vegetables. For a moment, in the growing sunshine, even his anxiety for Dominique was stilled. The English might indeed be pulling out of Norway, but Norway was far distant. Bordeaux was tranquil and the promise of Spring at last real this afternoon.
The old woman, Marthe, opened the door after keeping him waiting even longer than on his first visit.
‘So it’s you again. I don’t know as the count can see you. He certainly shouldn’t. He’s poorly.’
Nevertheless she stepped aside to let him enter the hall which, in contrast
to the sun lighting up the street, appeared even more gloomy and sepulchral.
‘People bother him. There’s Monsieur Edmond down from Paris and that aye puts him in a state. Not but what it’s his own fault, the stubborn old fool.’
‘You’ve known him longer than anyone, I suppose?’
‘And what if I have? What’s that to you? Nothing to my mind. But I’ll tell him you’re here. You’ll be no worse for him, I daresay, than the rest of them.’
She shuffled away in her carpet slippers which made no noise on the parquet floor. He rather took to this crabbit old woman who so evidently had no time for him, or apparently for anyone except the count whom she no doubt bullied and bossed even while she cosseted him. He heard a door close overhead and knew that someone was watching him. He turned away, giving his attention to a large still-life, dark and too heavily varnished, which dominated one wall: a painting featuring, as far as he could make out, more dead animals and birds than seemed credible. Extraordinary to think that someone had chosen to buy it. But it had doubtless appealed to the taste of 1860 or thereabouts.
‘He says you’re to go in, but I’ll ask you not to stay long and not to upset him. It’s me that will have to sit up half the night if he has one of his turns.’
‘I’ll be careful and as quick as I can.’