by Allan Massie
Back at the office René greeted him with the news that over the week-end the Spanish refugees had been rounded up and taken off to a camp.
‘I talked to a couple of the gendarmes, but they weren’t at all forthcoming. “Orders,” they said. “Question of national security. Should have been done months ago.” I don’t myself know that it matters – to us, I mean – for I did manage to speak to some of them on Friday evening and got nothing useful. Another dead end, I’m afraid.’
There was a knock at the door. Old Joseph shuffled in.
‘It’s the new commissaire. He’s arrived a day early. Very keen, you might say. It’s not right, is it. He wants to see you, superintendent. “If it’s convenient to you,” he said. Don’t know what he’d say if you replied it wasn’t.’
‘Right, Joseph, tell him I’ll be with him in five minutes.’
‘Have you anything for me?’ René asked.
‘You’d better write me a report of your conversations on Friday. Then we can file it and forget there ever was a dead man called Javier Cortazar.’
The new commissaire was behind a bare desk in the office that had been untenanted for months now. It had been suggested that Lannes, as acting head of the PJ, should move in there, but he had declined. He was glad of his refusal now. It might have looked as if he was expecting promotion to the job himself. Never likely; there were too many black marks against him for him to be promoted here in Bordeaux.
The new man got to his feet, came towards Lannes, and held out his hand.
‘Gustave Schnyder,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, superintendent Lannes. So I have the advantage of you. You’re a bit of a maverick, they say, which is presumably why you haven’t got this job which you might think yours by rights.’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Lannes said, ‘and besides I knew they’d bring in someone from outside.’
Schnyder gestured to him to sit, himself crossed to the window and looked out.
‘Smoke,’ he said, ‘by all means. I’m a cigar man myself.’
Lannes watched him. The new commissaire was solid, blond, fair-skinned, big-bottomed.
‘It’s always the same,’ Schnyder said, ‘Bring in someone who knows nothing about the place. I see from your file you were sounded out about promotion, as commissaire, to – where was it? – Nantes? Tours? But you weren’t interested. Why was that? Because you thought you’d inherit here?’
Lannes drew on his cigarette and smiled, ‘As you said, they always bring in an outsider. I would have been that outsider in Nantes. But I’m a Girondin. So is my wife. We have children in school.’
‘So you’re a contented man? Not ambitious?’
‘Have you ever met a contented policeman?’
‘Can’t say I have. We’re all fucked-up, one way or another. Come, we’ll go to lunch. You can tell me what fucks you up and bring me up-to-date on your cases and the sort of crime we have to deal with here. Remember: I’m the outsider. I know nothing.’
‘We’ll go to Fernand’s.’
In the back room, at the corner table, as usual, under the mural – bad mural of d’Artagnan defying the Cardinal, painted by Fernand’s younger brother twenty years ago, now mercifully faded. Introductions made. Fernand suggested the carré d’agneau, with paté de foie gras first.
‘It’s as good as you’ll get in Strasbourg,’ he said to Schnyder. ‘A special occasion, your first lunch in Bordeaux? Then a bottle of Cheval Blanc ’28. That’ll be on the house, to honour your arrival. Besides, I’m eager to have my best wine drunk up, things being what they are like to be. What can’t be drunk must be buried.’
‘Pessimistic cove,’ Schnyder said, ‘but he’s got me with that crack about Strasbourg. I’m an Alsatian which, as you will understand, puts me in an anomalous position just now. I was born a subject of the Kaiser. My elder brother was killed at Verdun – his name’s on the wrong memorial. So what does that make me? A Frenchman, certainly, since I was sixteen. But before then? A German, unwilling one if you like.
‘A Rhinelander?’ Lannes suggested.
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘A European?’
‘Whatever that means. I have German cousins, you know. On the other hand my mother’s father left Alsace and moved to Paris when the Germans annexed the province in 1871. Opened a brasserie across the square from the Gare de l’Est – another cousin runs it now. So this war makes no sense to me, or would make no sense if it was just against Germany. But that’s not how it is this time. The Nazis are scum, crazy scum. I hope you agree.’
He cut himself a piece of the paté.
‘Good, very good. The boss – what d’you call him? – Fernand, is it? – was right, just as good as in Strasbourg. So?’
‘I’m a radical,’ Lannes said.
‘Which means you don’t like the rich, don’t like the Reds, and apart from that, have no politics. Right? I’m told you’ve a son at the Front.’
‘My elder. And you?’
‘No children, which has been a sorrow and is now a relief. A couple of years ago I’d have envied you. Not now. Tell me about Bordeaux because really I know nothing. I’ve never before now spent as much as a week south of the Loire. Are you Gascons all fire-eaters, as they say?’
What to reply? That the Bordelais, at least those belonging to the well-to-do classes, are no longer Gascons, on account of centuries of gentility and ‘good breeding’? That Bordeaux is an anti-Paris, complacent, pleased with itself, conscious of its moral superiority, yet jealous of the capital? That it was the first outpost or colony of the English empire, that it looks away from France, that . . . all these notions he had so often pondered suddenly seemed ridiculous, not capable anyway of being articulated.
So, instead, he said: ‘You know about our Mayor, don’t you, Marquet? He used to be a Socialist, now calls himself a National Socialist. He’s a man who gets things done, pushes himself forward which is not the Bordelais way. Here, power has always preferred to operate behind the curtain. But we keep electing him, he’s got the city sewn up. He built that monstrosity, the Union Hall, very Mussolini-style. He’s a chum of Laval and if the war goes wrong, he’ll have his snout deep in the trough, you can be sure of that.’
It was a relief to speak his mind about the mayor, rash of course considering Schnyder’s position and his ignorance of his views. He broke off. The commissaire was no longer listening. His gaze had slid away and was fixed on the woman sitting on a banquette on the other side of the room.
Ah, Lannes thought, I’ve got you now: womaniser.
‘That’s Adrienne Jauzion,’ he said. ‘She’s the star of the Bordeaux theatre, and, yes I agree, she’s very beautiful. She was a failure in Paris, too much the lady, they say, but she’s adored here.’
‘You know her then?’
‘Me? A poor policeman? Certainly not, though a couple of years ago when she had some jewels stolen I was in charge of the case. So I could introduce you, except that the gentleman now joining her, the comte de St-Hilaire, owns one of our finest vineyards and is reputed her lover, or perhaps protector.’
‘Some other time then.’ Schnyder clipped the end off a Havana cigar and lit it. ‘Brandy, do you think? I’ve been doing my homework. You’ve had no success with this Chambolley case, I see.’
‘I’m surprised the file was on your desk. The case has been closed. Officially.’
‘And unofficially?’
‘To my mind no murder case is ever closed until the murderer has been arrested.’
Schnyder nodded.
‘I think we’ll be able to work together,’ he said. He glanced across the room to where Adrienne Jauzion was straightening the comte de St-Hilaire’s tie. ‘I hadn’t realized this was a fashionable restaurant.’
‘It isn’t. But it’s an old one. Fernand’s grandfather started his working-life as a footman in the St-Hilaire household. More than a footman, it’s said, which is how he came to be set up with this place.’
; ‘Interesting. My wife won’t be joining me here by the way. We’ve separated. Have you a suspect in the Chambolley case which you are not investigating?’
‘I know who did it. I don’t know who he is or where he is to be found.’
XVIII
May 1, 1940
The funeral was over. Lannes had not attended the service in the Cathedral, but waited for the cortège at the cimitière de la Chartreuse, where the old count was to be interred in the family vault. It was a beautiful day of early summer. There had been a shower of rain around dawn and the new leaves on the trees still glistened in their bright green while shadows lay like freckles on the young grass. Only a couple of dozen men had accompanied the hearse drawn by black horses, their heads decorated with plumes. Maurice, very pale and looking absurdly young in a morning coat that was too small for him – the count’s perhaps? – it was certainly shabby enough – held his uncle Jean-Christophe by the arm, as if he might fall down if unsupported. Jean-Christophe’s face was bloated and he stumbled as he made an uneasy way up the path to the vault. Drunk, Lannes thought, a couple of drinks short of being dead drunk. The ceremony was brief, even perfunctory, as if the dead man was an embarrassment to be shuffled off. When it was over Edmond detached himself from the group of mourners and approached Lannes.
‘I’m surprised to see you here, superintendent.’
‘A mark of respect, courtesy.’
‘Only that?’
‘What other reason could I have for being here?’
‘What indeed? My father’s death was an accident, not something to concern you. Isn’t that so?’
‘I’ve no cause to think otherwise.’
‘Since you are here however, and since I must return to Paris this evening, I wonder if we might have a word before I go.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Good. I must attend to family matters first, but perhaps we might meet at, say, five o’clock at the Hotel Splendide. Would that suit? My train leaves at 8.30. The American Bar?’
Despite its name, the bar of the Splendide was a place of red plush, gilt, mirrors in the style of the Belle Epoque. Lannes settled himself in a corner, ordered, as if in defiance of the ambience of the bar, a pastis, lit a cigarette. The chasseur said, ‘I trust you are not intending to make an arrest, superintendent? As you know, we dislike awkwardness.’
He smiled to show that he understood Lannes, and was making, he hoped, a joke.
‘Nothing of the sort, Pierre, I assure you.’
‘Good. If there’s anything else you want.’
‘I’m quite content.’
Which was a lie, or at best a polite fiction.
Edmond was late. Lannes had smoked four cigarettes and ordered a second pastis before he arrived. He had changed into a double-breasted grey suit, but retained his black tie. He shook hands without apologies and ordered a bottle of champagne.
‘Two glasses.’
‘You’ll split it with me of course,’ he said.
Lannes touched his own drink.
‘I’m happy with this.’
Edmond said nothing more till the champagne was brought and, despite Lannes’ refusal, two glasses had been poured. Then he clipped the end off a cigar, held the flame to it, drew on it, and said, ‘I understand that, despite everything, you are still pursuing your investigation into the death of that wretched Monsieur Chambolley.’
‘Certainly the murderer has not been identified, let alone arrested.’
Edmond blew out a big cloud of smoke, toyed a moment with his glass. Around them a babble of conversation as the bar approached its busiest hour.
‘And yet you gave me to understand that the investigation had been abandoned, might be considered closed. Isn’t that so?’
‘At that time we had no leads.’
‘And now you have?’
‘As you like.’
‘Is that why you subjected my unfortunate brother to your questioning? About a certain Marcel. He tells me.’
‘Do you know the man?’
‘I? How should I? I am as ignorant as my poor brother. But more curious, more inquisitive.’
Lannes was all at once weary of the fencing-bout. He thought of Gaston, so fat and jolly as a young man, so disreputable in middle age, now so dead; of Cortazar, for whom he had felt respect, even liking, also dead. He thought of the torture to which both had been subjected, and of the insult to Gaston in death. And he heard the tinny laughter of society ladies and their companions around him, and resented the air of superiority of this Edmond who had commanded his presence there.
He said: ‘Monsieur, since you have discussed this matter with your brother, you know very well why I questioned him, which I did informally, out of respect for his recent bereavement, which of course is yours also. I know that Gaston sought your help in his search for his sister-in-law, or rather in his attempt to find out where and how she had been killed, and I would like to know what help you gave, and, more importantly, what interest you have in this affair.’
‘But I gave no help, no help at all. This is what I wanted to say to you. Why should I, since I have neither knowledge of the affair nor any interest in it? It is true that I received a letter from Gaston Chambolley, an incoherent letter, but I’m afraid it went straight into that useful repository, the waste-paper basket. I had never heard of his sister-in-law and had no idea why he should have supposed I might know something concerning her. Subsequently – that is, since I learned that you had spoken to my son, which, if you recall, I had asked you not to do – I have indeed made some inquiries, which have yielded nothing. Except perhaps this: are you so sure that the woman is dead?’
The evidence points that way. Is it to suggest that she may be alive that you asked me to meet you here?’
Edmond smiled, and poured himself another glass of wine.
‘Not at all. The idea came to me only this instant.’
‘Gaston is certainly dead,’ Lannes said. ‘So too is a Spaniard who was assisting him.’
‘Of a heart-attack, I understand.’
‘You are well-informed.’
‘I make it my business to be. It’s necessary for a man in my position. I do wish you would drink your wine, superintendent. It’s really quite good. No, I asked you to meet me in the hope that I might persuade you to leave my family alone, to stop pestering them. They know nothing of the business you are investigating, and certainly nothing of this mysterious Marcel’.
‘I note what you say: that none of you knows anything.’
Lannes downed his pastis, put his cigarettes in his pocket and got up.
‘I’ve learned by the way that your son Maurice is a friend of my older boy, Dominique. He is now in the Army, as you may also know, but Maurice and my other boy Alain seem to have hit it off too. He’s a charming boy. I congratulate you. We hope to see much of him. And now I must be off.’
Edmond also got to his feet.
‘My dear fellow, with a son at the Front, you have much to be anxious about. As for Maurice, it’s my misfortune that, for a variety of reasons, I scarcely know him. I’ll accompany you to the door.’
They stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine, shook hands.
Edmond said, ‘How strange on a perfect evening like this to think that we are at war.’
He turned away.
Lannes didn’t hear the shot. Once as a boy he had been kicked on the shoulder by a horse when he was picking out its hoof. That was just what it felt like now. He was thrown a yard back across the steps. There were people all round him, faces flickering before his eyes. Then he lost consciousness.
XIX
May 13, 1940
Lannes had spent eight days in hospital, five recovering at home. He had been lucky, everyone was sure of that. It seemed that he had turned away just before the shot was fired. So it had hit him in the shoulder, not the heart. But he had developed a fever, which delayed recovery, his temperature one day touching 103 degrees.
Schnyder
called on him in the ward. It was a murder attempt, no question, he said. The shot had been fired from a car, a little grey Renault. That was established.
It had driven off immediately. Maybe it had been driven off too soon, disturbing the gunman’s aim. They couldn’t tell. One witness said it was moving before Lannes hit the ground. The car had later been found abandoned on the Quai du Palutade, near the station. So it was presumed that the gunman and the driver had left Bordeaux straight away. Perhaps on the 8.30 Paris train. The car had been reported stolen, two hours after the shooting. That might mean nothing. Its owner claimed to have been at the cinema with his wife. There was no reason not to believe him; in any case he’d produced the stubs of the cinema tickets. He was a respectable man, name of Cortin, an official in the City Hall. ‘A colleague of your brother-in-law actually, who vouches for his integrity. Shocked to find his car had been put to such a use, shocked and indignant.’
‘And Edmond de Grimaud?’
‘Acted efficiently. Gave orders for the ambulance. Made a statement to the first policemen on the scene. Apologised for being unable to remain – apparently on account of an urgent appointment at the Ministry of the Interior at 10 o’clock the following morning. But very correct. Telephoned me the next day to inquire about your condition. Repeated the call in the afternoon. Then suggested to me that the shot might have been intended for him. “We were standing side by side,” he said, “having just shaken hands, and I won’t conceal from you that I have political enemies who might be happy to see me dead, or at least out of the way for a time.” That sound likely?’
‘It’s possible,’ Lannes said. ‘I don’t know if he is as important as he thinks he is. On the other hand he was the only person who knew I was going to be at the Splendide.’
‘I’d wondered about that.’
‘Of course you had. And the Chambolley case touches him, even if it’s not clear in what manner.’
‘I’d thought of that too.’
Now today Lannes was on his feet for the first time, though still weak as a kitten, unable to do more than totter to an armchair in the sitting-room where he managed to take some of Marguerite’s onion soup and drink Vichy water. Alain’s cat, Sylvestre, sat on his lap and purred as Lannes stroked it, and listened to the wireless. Melancholy dance music alternated with grim news. It was three days since the Germans had launched their attack in the west, invading the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg. There were reports of heavy fighting in the Ardennes, but all was confusion. Then this morning a bulletin announced air attacks on French positions south of the Meuse. It was impossible to know just what was happening. Lannes studied a map, tried to make sense of the information coming through. It was all too incomplete.