Death in Bordeaux
Page 32
Léon’s noticed it, he thought. Why else would he have said, ‘My aunt seems to have made quite an impression on you?’ I suppose I kept introducing her name into our conversation. I’ve read that that’s a sign of being in love. Will he be jealous? I’m not a fool. I knew how he felt even before that evening he kissed me twice and then made off. It doesn’t affect our friendship but I’ve put that sort of thing behind me. Last year for two months I was mad for Olivier in the year below, and now he’s just an ordinary boy. I’m fond of Léon, but not like that. I enjoy his company, he’s a good mate, one of the best . . .
He drifted into sleep. In the morning he was sure he had dreamed of Miriam, even though any dream had slipped away and was lost to him.
He left the house early and skipped school. Everything seemed strange to him, at once sharper and more distant than usual. It’s another proof I’m in love, he thought. I’m seeing the world as a poet might.
He turned towards the river which, his father had often told him, had made Bordeaux what it was, not just a provincial French city, self-sufficient and self-satisfied, but one that looked out west to a wider world. ‘All the same,’ his father always added, ruefully, ‘I have to admit that there can be few people as self-satisfied as us Bordelais, and, if there are any, I don’t wish to know them.’
Now Alain walked along the quays, downstream. It was a bright cold morning with a sharp wind blowing in from the Atlantic. A German tank and two armoured cars were parked by the Monument to the Girondins. Their crews stood by the vehicles chatting and smoking. They looked to have not a care in the world. One of them laughed. It’s as if they owned the place, he thought; as if they owned us; and, then, for the moment they do. But it’ll change. Some day it must. We’ll chase them out, back over the Rhine. Meanwhile we have to endure it, and them, filthy Boches.
He had hours to kill. It was impossible that he should present himself at the tabac before the afternoon, and then, well, we’ll see, put it to the test. The words rang in his head: put it to the test. He stopped off in a little bar and called for a glass of rum. He had never drunk rum before and couldn’t say why he had ordered it. But it was good, rich, mouth-filling, invigorating. He was tempted to have another, but no, self-control, that was the thing. All the same, no matter how things turned out, he knew he would always associate rum with this day, with either failure or triumph. He turned up the collar of his coat and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, examined himself in the mirror behind the bar, and thought: ‘It’s all right, I don’t look bad, I look like a man of the world, not a boy, the kind of man who can order a glass of rum with assurance.’ He took the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between his thumb and first two fingers, and looked through the smoke at his reflection. Then, with a flick of his hand and a confident ‘au ’voir’ to the barman, who made no acknowledgement in return, he set off on his walk again.
He walked for hours, stopping only for a coffee and sandwich at lunchtime. Poor stuff, both of them; but it didn’t matter, he was buoyed up by expectation. Then he settled himself on the terrace of a café in the Place Gambetta to wait and prepare himself. He ordered another rum and remained there till the winter light began to fade.
Miriam was behind the counter serving a squat toad-like man when Alain entered. She looked tired and unhappy, but when her customer left, without a word of thanks, and she looked up and saw Alain, she smiled and – he thought – was immediately young and beautiful again.
‘There are some,’ she said, ‘as I’d rather not serve, and that fellow is one of them. He’s pure poison. I know him well, better than I would wish, for he used to do business for my husband.’
‘Who is he?’
‘An advocate, name of Labiche, and a thoroughly nasty bit of work.’
‘So that’s who he is,’ Alain said. ‘I’m not surprised you don’t care to serve him.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought he’d have come your way, and indeed I hope he hasn’t.’
‘I read a letter he had published in the Sud-Ouest. It was vile, horrible. He’s a real Nazi, I think.’
‘Which didn’t prevent him from once . . . But never mind, it was years ago. Let’s just say I’ve no time for him. How’s your father?’
‘He’s gone to Vichy. I don’t know why. He never talks about police business at home.’
‘Go through to the back room,’ she said. ‘I’ll be shutting in a few minutes, and there are things I want to talk to you about.’
It wasn’t long before she joined him but it seemed long to him.
‘I was grateful to you for speaking as you did the other day,’ she said. ‘I worry about Léon, he’s so emotional. You’re a good influence on him. He’s fond of you and less bitter and angry since you met. He listens to you, I’m sure. You’ll see to it he doesn’t do anything stupid, won’t you.’
‘I’ll do what I can. You can trust me. But it’s only talk, I think.’
‘Talk’s dangerous. These days, talk’s very dangerous.’
She couldn’t settle. Sat down for a moment, then rose almost at once and went to make coffee. Yet, even in agitation, there was a grace to her walk. She was a big woman, but she scarcely seemed to touch the ground. It was as if she floated, and, more than ever, Alain ached to take hold of her.
‘That Labiche,’ she said.
‘He’s really disturbed you, hasn’t he?’
‘I’m ashamed to admit it. He’s vicious and I have a dread of vice.’
‘Let’s forget him, put him out of our minds.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ she said, ‘but I’m willing to try.’
Her smile came slowly at first, the blossomed with a rush, like an expression of her heart.
‘I never asked you,’ she said. ‘Did you come for cigarettes?’
‘No,’ he said, then, as if to prove it, took out his packet and lit one, and found that his hands were trembling. She saw it too and stretched out to touch him.
‘Give me one,’ she said.
He passed over the cigarette he had already lit, and she put it between her lips, drew in smoke, expelled it, and gave the cigarette back to him. He took it as if it had been a kiss.
‘I just had to see you, he said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said, and her voice was scarcely more than a sigh.
‘And when I saw you looking so unhappy . . . ’
‘My dear boy, I’m nearly forty. At my age . . . ’
‘That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
She leaned forward, took the cigarette from him again, and kissed him on the lips.
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ she said.
‘I’m not a child.’
Later, in darkness, she ran her fingers across his belly.
‘You have lovely skin. And you’re well-muscled.’
‘That’s rugby. I play rugby, you know. I’m so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. What about you? Are you happy? Happy now? You looked so miserable when I came in.’
She didn’t answer in words, but stroked his cheek.
‘At least you shave,’ she murmured. ‘It was the first time for you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, shyly, ‘Does that mean I was no good, that you could tell?’
‘You were perfect. And I’ve never been anyone’s first before. It’s rather wonderful.’
‘You’re crying. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s right for the moment. That’s why I’m crying. And because it can’t last.’
‘Does that mean you won’t . . . another time?’
‘I didn’t say that. I should but I didn’t.’
‘I love you. Don’t you believe me?’
‘Oh yes, my dear’, she said, and kissed him, softly, on the lips. ‘You won’t tell Léon, will you?’
‘If you like,’ he said, wanting to tell all the world, but knowing also that he must not indeed tell Léon. But
wouldn’t he guess?
XXVI
Of course he was ashamed. He couldn’t not be. He’d been bought off and it would be humiliating to have to admit this to Moncerre and young René. Moncerre, cynic as well as bull-terrier, would understand, would nevertheless surely despise him. As for René who felt a sort of hero-worship for him – something at once pleasing and embarrassing – well, he was going to be sadly disillusioned. Not in the long run such a bad thing perhaps; it would help the boy to grow up, to realize what the world was like, a place of shabby compromise with few heroes – among whom Lannes himself shouldn’t be numbered. This reflection didn’t make the prospect of explaining why he had consented to abandon their case any more agreeable. On the other hand, Schnyder would be happy. As indeed he was.
‘Glad to see that you’re finally looking reality in the face,’ he said. ‘There’s other business, you know. A shopkeeper was bludgeoned to death in the rue Porte-Dijeaux, robbery gone wrong, it appears. Straightforward matter, I should think. Anyway I put Moncerre on the case. It’s his sort of thing, isn’t it?’
Lannes nodded agreement. Truth to tell, he felt numb, unable to care. In the train on the way back from Vichy he had sat for hours, not reading as he usually liked to do on journeys, looking out of the window, seeing nothing. Edmond’s promise sang in his mind: ‘Sigi will furnish you with what you need to silence Labiche. You’ll be able to check-mate him. That’ll do, won’t it? And I’ll set wheels in motion to arrange your son’s repatriation. That’s a promise. You can trust me, superintendent.’
He couldn’t have refused. To deny Marguerite Dominique’s safe return – that was impossible. He couldn’t have looked her in the face. Now she might even smile again. And what sort of father would he have been if he had condemned the boy to remain a prisoner of war, in order that he might satisfy his conscience by pursuing an investigation he would never be able to bring to a successful conclusion? So he had yielded, admitted defeat – and was to be rewarded. Rewarded with Labiche’s head also! Well, that was a relief. He had been more worried than he had cared to admit, anxious for himself and his career, anxious, more honourably, for Miriam and the boy Léon. Moreover it would be a pleasure to pull the advocate down, even if, as Edmond had warned, the evidence with which he would be provided, would not be enough to bring him to justice. Labiche had too many friends in the administration to protect him. But at least Lannes would have the satisfaction of confronting him. He looked forward to that encounter.
Moncerre had cleared up the rue Porte-Dijeaux case without difficulty.
‘Stupid bugger,’ he said. ‘An old customer of ours – name of Pierre Marchand – you’ll remember him. Hasn’t got the brains of a rabbit. Panicked and then left a trail of evidence. Routine stuff. If only everything was so easy.’
‘If only . . . ’
‘So we’re beaten on the big one then, are we?’
‘Yes,’ Lanne said. ‘It’s escaped us. We’re beaten.’
‘Never expected anything else, to tell the truth. What convinced you, chief ?’
‘Vichy,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s a strange place. They feel so secure, planning for a new France, a new Europe, and yet it’s a dream-world, utterly insubstantial. Nevertheless for the moment anyway we can’t fight against it. Vichy and the Boches . . . between them we’re caught in a vice.’
That was true, though far from the whole truth. He could see that Moncerre wasn’t satisfied, knew there was more to it, suspected a deal had been done.
‘The truth is they leaned on me, leaned very hard.’
He hesitated, then, ‘Come outside,’ he said, ‘let’s go for a walk.’
It was cold, no wind, the sky heavy with clouds the colour of German uniforms. They walked in silence, Lannes torn between the wish to unburden himself and a pride which restrained him.
Moncerre said: ‘Saw that bloody Spaniard yesterday. He had the cheek to tip his hat to me. It was all I could do to stop myself from kicking him in the balls. Wish I had really.’
A week ago Lannes might have said, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance some day.’
They came to the river and the water was grey as the sky. There was dampness in the air. Lannes leaned his elbows on the wet stone of the parapet. Gulls circled above them, shrieking.
‘Storm at sea,’ Moncerre said.
‘There are two ways to break a man,’ Lannes said. ‘You bribe him or bully him, and sometimes you do both. Don’t need to tell you that, old man, do I? We’ve both extracted confessions by these methods, haven’t we?’
‘Sure. Often. That what they did to you then?’
‘More or less.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘All right by me,’ Moncerre said.
A tug passed below them, on its way to bring a ship up-river.
‘All I can say now is that we have to hold on. I realized that I have to stay a policeman, come what may. If we allow them to get rid of men like us – and young René – what sort of bastards will take our place? At least while we remain in the Force we have the chance to do some good. Not much, but some. You agree?’
‘Sure,’ Moncerre said. ‘Besides, if I resigned or allowed myself to be kicked out, I’d have to spend more time at home. I suppose our Alsatian’s happy.’
‘He’s of the same mind.’
It began to rain, first single drops, then heavily. Lannes turned up the collar of his coat, and looked down at the grey water.
Table of Contents
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
PART TWO
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI