Dark Summer in Bordeaux

by Allan Massie

  This was true enough, but he guessed when he called to make an appointment for later that afternoon that she would be on the telephone to Schnyder within minutes. As indeed she was, for here was Schnyder coming into his office, cigar in mouth, and perching himself on the corner of Lannes’ desk. He blew out smoke.

  ‘These German cigars really aren’t up to much,’ he said. ‘But there are no Havanas in the shops now. It hadn’t occurred to me that being condemned to smoking poor quality cigars would be one of the penalties of losing a war.’

  ‘There are more severe ones,’ Lannes said.

  ‘True, of course, but it’s the minor ones that irritate. You don’t happen to have a smuggler chum who could run some over from Spain? I’m sure fat-arse Franco isn’t short of them. The pleasures of neutrality.’

  ‘Might have,’ Lannes said. ‘I’ll ask around.’

  ‘Kind of you. You know the ropes as I don’t, me being still an outsider here . . . Any movement in your case?’

  ‘Not much, not much at all.’

  ‘Robbery with violence gone wrong by one of our usual customers seems the most probable, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Convenient too.

  ‘So why not wrap it up then?’

  ‘Just what Bracal suggested. I hope I can do so. Unfortunately there may be a political angle. Meanwhile,’ he lit a cigarette; it really wasn’t fair to tease Schnyder who was evidently desperate to know why he had made that appointment with La Jauzion, but was reluctant to put the question. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, ‘I’ve arranged to see the murdered man’s daughter this afternoon.’

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘Yes, the actress Adrienne Jauzion. I think I pointed her out to you in a restaurant once, the first day you were here, was it?’

  Schnyder stubbed out his cigar.

  ‘There’s really no pleasure in these things,’ he said. ‘Do look out for your smuggler, there’s a good chap. Adrienne Jauzion, yes, I remember, good-looking woman. Actually I’ve met her since, at a race-meeting. And you think she can tell you something?’

  ‘Probably not. Just help tie up loose ends. Then perhaps we can agree on the solution everyone seems to favour.’

  The apartment overlooking the Place de l’Ancienne Comédie was itself like a stage set, though the elderly maid who admitted Lannes was long past playing the ‘soubrette’. Heavy dark-blue velvet curtains were drawn in the salon, where La Jauzion reclined on a chaise-longue in the style of a First Empire beauty. Lannes had last seen her in ‘La Dame aux Caméllias’ in which dated weepy she had given a performance at least as moving as Garbo’s in the film version. She wore a silk Japanese jacket and loose white cotton trousers, and there was a little bunch of cattelyas pinned above her left breast. It was at least five years since Lannes had been called to investigate an attempted burglary in the apartment, but he would have sworn that nothing had changed, that the furniture and objets d’art were in the same precise places, and that the actress herself didn’t look a day older.

  ‘Your call intrigued me,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine that I have done anything unlawful to attract your interest . . . ’ She spoke slowly with an affected stress on the word ‘imagine’.

  He handed her a photograph of the dead man.

  ‘This is your father, I think.’

  ‘But certainly it is. Poor Papa.’

  ‘Why do you say “poor Papa”?’

  She fitted a cigarette into an amber holder at least eight inches long and waited for Lannes to rise from his chair and light it for her.

  ‘Because he has been “poor Papa” to me for thirty years, for as long almost as I remember.’

  The air was heavy with the scent of flowers.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that I have bad news for you.’

  ‘About poor Papa?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I see . . . And since you are here?’

  ‘Since I am here, yes. Not a natural death.’

  ‘If I was on stage,’ she said, ‘I would know how to weep, but as it is . . . ’

  ‘As it is?’

  ‘You see that I have no tears. How was he killed?’

  Lannes told her, sparing nothing, and she listened as if unconcerned or perhaps wondering how to play this part that had been so suddenly assigned her, one for which, he supposed, there was no rehearsal time.

  ‘Did you know he had returned to Bordeaux?’

  There was a pause – was it hesitation? – before she said, ‘But certainly. He came to see me two, perhaps three weeks ago.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘What should a father and daughter talk about when they haven’t met for four years and then only briefly? Does that sound bitter, superintendent?’

  She stubbed out her cigarette, removed the remnant from the holder with a pearl-headed pin, inserted another and again waited for Lannes to light it. She rang a little hand-bell which stood on the table beside her, and the maid entered followed by an orange Pekingese which leaped onto its mistress’s lap and stretched up to lick her face.

  ‘Bring us a bottle of wine and two glasses, Berthe.’

  She stroked the dog which now settled itself.

  ‘He wanted money.’

  ‘And you gave him some?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Did he say why he needed it?’

  ‘Because he had none. Poor Papa, he had scarcely thought of money all his life, but now he had none, so of course he had to think about it, and who else should he approach but the daughter he had abandoned and seen perhaps half-a-dozen times since she was a little girl? Again I ask you, do I sound bitter, superintendent?’

  ‘That’s no concern of mine,’ Lannes said.

  The maid returned with the wine and poured two glasses. It was better wine than Lannes could afford: Château St-Hilaire, given Adrienne, doubtless, by the count of that name who had been her acknowledged lover for years. The attachment was convenient; she let it be known that it was on account of St-Hilaire that she had chosen to pursue her career in Bordeaux rather than in Paris.

  ‘And besides asking for money, what did your father have to say? Had he some other reason for remaining in Bordeaux?’

  ‘I know nothing of that,’ she said. ‘What he was doing, or hoped to do, here, was no concern of mine, but I can tell you he wasn’t a well man. Indeed I shouldn’t have recognised him from the photograph you showed me if he hadn’t made that visit. He told me he had spent a year in one of Franco’s prisons, but I have no idea whether this was so. You must understand, we had nothing in common.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Apart from the accident of my birth.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him again after that visit?’

  ‘No. I made it clear to him he would not be welcome. He was a Communist, you see, and these are not good times to consort with Reds.’

  ‘And so you have no idea who might have killed him?’

  ‘None at all. How should I have? I expect it was on account of politics.’

  ‘Was he at ease when he came here?’

  ‘He was never at ease. There was always some so-called injustice he was railing against. But I will add this. I think he was afraid.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Lannes said. ‘Did he mention where he was staying in Bordeaux?’

  ‘Some hotel, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s no record of him doing so.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you to ask him?’

  ‘No. Why should it? You must understand, superintendent, he meant nothing to me. He used to have a mistress, I believe, but perhaps she’s dead too. I knew nothing of her except that my mother said she wasn’t respectable.’

  ‘And that was all I could get out of her,’ Lannes said to Moncerre. ‘She’s an actress of course, so you can’t tell when she is playing a part and you know that if she chose to lie to you she would do so uncommonly well and convincingly. Still, I can�
��t believe she knows anything and it’s evident that she doesn’t care either.’

  ‘Doesn’t take us anywhere. Write it off as robbery with violence?

  That’s what they want, don’t they? So everybody can be happy. It’s clear nobody gives a damn who killed the poor sod.’

  ‘I don’t envy Schnyder,’ Lannes said. ‘She’s a copper-bottomed bitch.’

  ‘She ought to meet my wife then, they’d get along fine.’

  IX

  Henri wasn’t drunk, not quite, just a little tipsy as he had been most times Lannes called on him since his twin Gaston’s murder. They embraced. He was one of Lannes’ oldest friends and the only man he greeted in this way.

  ‘There’s no Johnnie,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no more Johnnie till the English come to liberate us. Or the Americans when they enter the war.’

  ‘You think they will?’

  ‘At the eleventh hour, as before. I’m drinking white wine instead.’

  He poured Lannes a glass.

  ‘Graves,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of Gaston. You remember that English joke he was fond of repeating: only sextons drink Graves .

  . . Byron. It doesn’t of course make sense in French, but what does, these days? You look tired, Jean.’

  Lannes took the glass and sat down.

  ‘Not tired,’ he said, ‘not so much tired as empty.’

  ‘You too?’ Henri said. ‘Do you know, I scarcely ever go out at all now, except to take Toto for his constitutional.’ He leaned down to pat the little French bulldog which was sleeping at his feet. ‘And some days I ask Léon to do that. Seeing Germans in the streets, it’s too distressing, even though they’re polite and well behaved. Actually that makes it worse, it’s as if they despised us so deeply that they don’t even feel the need to act as conquerors. Which sadly they are. But at least you have Dominique home. That must make Marguerite happy.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lannes said, and thought of the tension that was developing between Dominique and Alain, Pétainist and Gaullist, and of how Marguerite hated to hear Alain express his opinions because they frightened her.

  ‘He speaks of becoming a priest – Dominique, I mean – after the war, he says.’

  ‘And that displeases you?’

  ‘It pleases Marguerite.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘It’s not what I would have chosen for him, but . . . ’ ‘But it’s his life?’ Henri said. ‘I’ve often been glad Pilar and I had no children, though, do you know, I’ve come to think of Léon as a substitute son?’

  Lannes wondered if Henri knew of Schussman’s attentions, and whether he should speak of them and of the spook who called himself Félix. Instead he said: ‘Did you know Aristide Labiche . . . ?’

  ‘You use the past tense. Does that mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does.’

  ‘So you’re here as a policeman, Jean?’

  ‘I’m always here as a friend, but . . . yes, that too. He’s been killed, murdered. I’m being urged to write it off as an unsolved crime, robbery with violence gone wrong. I’m reluctant to do so . . . ’ He remembered how when he brought Henri news of Gaston’s murder he had said murder shouldn’t go unavenged, and how he had failed there, and felt ashamed again.

  ‘Poor Aristide,’ Henri said. ‘Pilar thought highly of him. Their opinions were not exactly the same, for, as you know, she was an Anarchist while he was an orthodox Communist party member, but she trusted him. I thought he might be dead in Spain, like her, poor girl.’

  ‘According to his daughter, he was in one of Franco’s prisons for a year, but he had been back in Bordeaux for some weeks.’

  ‘I wish he had come to see me,’ Henri said. ‘It would have been a link.’

  Had there, Lannes wondered, been political reasons why he hadn’t?

  X

  Alain was sitting at the table writing. His black cat, which Clothilde had nicknamed ‘No Neck’, lay beside him purring. When Lannes entered, Alain closed his notebook and looked up.

  ‘Don’t let me interrupt your work,’ Lannes said.

  ‘It’s nothing, Papa, just notes for an essay.’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Dominique’s at one of his meetings, the Légion of the Youth of Aquitaine, or some such nonsense. Clothilde went with him. I wish she wouldn’t. And Maman’s in church, praying I suppose.’

  ‘So it’s just you and me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lannes had always been able to talk more easily with Alain than with Dominique, but now there was some constraint between them. Curiously it was because they took the same view of the Occupation and of Vichy, and this made Lannes afraid. Anything he said on the subject might encourage Alain to do something rash. No doubt the time might come when acts of resistance were not futile as well as dangerous, but, even if this was so, he knew that he would still hope that Alain did nothing. Love makes cowards of us, he thought. How much better if the boy was to content himself with his rugby, his books and his cat. It wasn’t the hour for d’Artagnan and heroics.

  ‘Do you still see Léon?’ he said.

  ‘Yes of course, he’s my best friend now. Why do you ask?’

  Why couldn’t he reply? Because I suspect he’s in love with you, and that’s dangerous. Because people want to use him and I’m afraid for him and afraid too that somehow you may get caught up in the complications of his life, and this thought makes me ashamed too. Because you are both being robbed of your youth by the stupidity of politicians and the viciousness of the men of power.

  He couldn’t say any of this.

  ‘I’m glad you’re friends,’ he said, ‘I’m sure he needs you and your support. Perhaps you need him too. But be careful. Don’t get involved in anything rash.’

  ‘You sound mysterious, Papa. But we’re not fools, you know. We both realise there’s nothing much to be done now. If you want my opinion, it’s Dominique we should be worried about. Vichy can’t last, I’m convinced of that, and when it’s over there will be a reckoning with those who took its side and engaged in collaboration. So I think you ought to speak to him. And if he’s involving Clothilde . . . ’

  ‘Yes,’ Lannes said, and would have continued but at that moment Marguerite returned.

  ‘I found eggs in the market,’ she said. ‘Alain, I want you to take three round to your grandmother. She likes an egg and I know she hasn’t had any for days.’

  ‘She’d prefer Dominique to do it,’ Alain said.

  ‘Yes, but he’s not here, he’s at his meeting. If you hurry you can do it and be back before the curfew. Besides, she was saying the other day that she never sees you now. So hurry along.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting his notebook in his pocket and making a face at his father.

  When he had gone, she said, ‘It’s good for him to do something for other people. I don’t understand him these days. He used to be so eager and lively and now he seems to spend all day moping. Do you think he’s jealous of Dominique? It’s as if he resents his return.’

  ‘Not jealous, no,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s just that they have different ideas.’

  Actually Alain was pleased to have an excuse to be out of the house. He calculated that if he delivered the eggs quickly and cut short his grandmother’s usual litany of complaint by telling her he was only stopping off on his way to an urgent appointment, he would have time to call on Léon in the bookshop and hand over the notebook in which he had been writing what he intended to be the editorial for the first edition of their underground paper; he thought of the editorial as their manifesto. He hadn’t quite lied to his father; ‘nothing much to be done now’ wasn’t exactly the same as ‘nothing to be done’. The old woman tried to detain him, but he managed to get away.

  Léon read what he had written while this time it was Alain who made coffee.

  ‘So?’ he said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s terrific . . . ’ ‘Terrific, but . . . I hear a “but” comin
g . . . ’ ‘Two “buts”, actually. Everything you say is true, that’s to say, I agree with it entirely. But, first, I think we should tone down your criticism of the Marshal.’

  ‘All I say is that he’s a vain old fool.’

  ‘And that he has betrayed France.’

  ‘So he has. You can’t deny it.’

  ‘I don’t. Only if we are to have an effect, then we have to remember that lots of people who loathe the Occupation and don’t like Vichy, nevertheless have a high regard for the Marshal and don’t think of him as a traitor. So it’ll get their backs up. There are some who think of him as our shield and of de Gaulle as the sword. So let’s say that, while the Marshal’s patriotism can’t be questioned, his policy is misguided and in Vichy he is subject to evil counsels. Something like that?’

  Alain pushed the lock of hair away from his eye and lit a cigarette which he passed to Léon before lighting another for himself.

  ‘Pity,’ he said, ‘I enjoyed writing that, but maybe you’re right. You’ve a better political brain than I have, Léon. What’s your other “but”?’

  ‘What you say about the anti-Jewish laws . . . ’

  ‘I thought you’d approve of that.’

  ‘Of course I do. How couldn’t I? But, again, some of those we want to stir up don’t much like the Jews. It may even be the one bit of Vichy they approve of. So again, let me tone it down, just a bit.’

  ‘Well,’ Alain said, ‘you’re the Jew. So your word on the subject’s law. How soon can you get it typed and run off on your duplicator?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I hope. Then we’ve the problem of distribution . . . ’

  ‘For this first one, let’s just scatter it about,’ Alain said, ‘and see if we get a response.’

  ‘It’s good to be doing something. At last.’

  ‘Good and necessary. Now I must fly to beat the curfew. It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t forget it’s also dangerous. We must be careful . . . ’