by Allan Massie
There was no one he could tell. Not Alain. Not Alain’s father. Jérôme – Aramis – would understand, but . . .
‘Aren’t you going to get up?’
He didn’t move, pretended to be asleep.
‘I’ve brought you coffee.’
He heard her place the bowl on the little table by the bed, and the door close behind her. There had been anxiety in her voice.
She knew something but not what it was.
He remembered how when he had first met Alain’s father in the Buffet de la Gare, months ago, after Gaston’s murder, when he had realised he had information to offer, he had been self-assured, cocky, even defiant, and now . . .
When at last he got up, drank the milky coffee on which a skin had formed, flapped cold water on his face, brushed his teeth without succeeding in ridding himself of the nasty taste in his mouth, dressed, and dragged a comb through his hair, his mother greeted him with an attempt at naturalness.
‘Lazybones.’
Then without looking at him, she said, ‘I wish you wouldn’t . . . ’ ‘Wouldn’t what?’
‘Take risks with the curfew. I was frightened listening for you. I won’t ask what you were up to because I would rather not know, but you might have some consideration . . . ’ ‘I’m sorry, Maman.’
‘Easy to say “sorry”. What am I going to do with you?’
What would she reply if he said, ‘What was I up to? Saving you from an internment camp’?
But of course he couldn’t.
‘You look peaky,’ she said.
‘I’m all right. Don’t fuss.’
‘You don’t make it easy for me,’ she said. ‘Eat something.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
He had to get out, but once in the streets had nowhere to go. The sun shone, but Bordeaux was a desert. He walked aimlessly for a long time. Once in the Cours du Marne, near a restaurant where he had eaten with Gaston, a middle-aged man wearing a white linen suit and a broad-brimmed straw hat looked at him searchingly, hopefully, till he turned away and resumed his walk. Outside the station a motherly woman beckoned to him. He hesitated. He had never gone with a woman; it might be a solution. But he had no money and in any case he shrank from it. He wanted what he couldn’t have, and didn’t want what was available. He looked across the road to the Hotel Artemis. The key was still in his pocket. Again the clerk did not trouble to raise his head as Léon passed him and entered the lift. The room hadn’t been cleaned. The glasses Félix had produced were still on the table and there was a little brandy in the bottle. Léon rinsed a glass from the water jug and poured himself a drink. He lay down on the bed holding the glass in both hands. It was ridiculous to think that the brandy tasted of corruption and betrayal, but it did. He stretched out and wondered if Schussmann was as miserable and afraid as he was. In a little he fell asleep.
The letter was waiting for him in the bookshop on Monday morning. There was no stamp; it had been delivered by hand and bore no address, only his name, Léon, underlined twice.
He made coffee before opening it.
My dear Léon – I think too well, too fondly – no, let me be honest – too lovingly of you to believe you betrayed me willingly.
So, when you say that you had no choice, I understand that though this was not literally true, for there is always a choice, only it may be so framed that in reality there is none, or none that is tolerable, I know’ – underlined twice – ‘that the alternative presented to you was even worse than what you felt compelled to do. And now that I know you are Jewish, which – believe me – is no matter to me – I can guess what that alternative was.
For my part I yielded to the tender feeling I have developed for you. I do not regret the feeling or apologise for it – we are what we are, you and I – and what we are does not make for happiness. I regret only that I yielded and that the consequences of my indiscreet behaviour should be unhappy for both of us.
As for me, I am faced with a choice of three courses of action, none of them agreeable. Fortunately only one of them is dishonourable. You will understand which that is.
This war destroys so much.
I have been foolish, not in falling in love with you, but in seeking to give expression to that love, to that form of love which the world and those I serve regard with disgust and contempt. To me of course it is neither of these things, as it should not be to you, my dear Léon.
We shall not meet again, but I truly hope you can find happiness and remember me with affection.
E. S.
The letter, intended to acquit him of blame and free him of guilt, caused Léon to dissolve in tears.
XXV
It was a beautiful morning. An old woman had set up a little flower-stall by the newspaper kiosk in the Place Gambetta.
‘A rose for your button-hole, superintendent,’ she called out when Lannes paused to admire the display. He recognised her, the widow of a burglar, the old professional sort who never carried a weapon or resorted to violence. Lannes had arrested him more than once. He had liked him, a man who made light of his interrogation, and recognised that Lannes had his metier as he had his. He had died in prison.
‘So people still buy flowers, Jeanne, even in these hard times?’
‘If there’s no food to put on the table, or little enough of it, a bowl of flowers cheers the room up. Here,’ she said, holding out a yellow rose, ‘for your button-hole. We’ve known each other long enough. Frédéric always spoke well of you, said you played fair with him. So compliments of the house.’
‘I’ll pay for it all the same,’ Lannes said, taking the rose and the pin she offered, and handing her a couple of coins.
‘Makes you look quite handsome,’ she said.
In truth he felt uncommonly cheerful, partly because of the sunshine, but also because yesterday had passed off without too much embarrassment, and because Alain had returned home well before the hour of the curfew and, without prompting, had apologised to Clothilde for upsetting her the previous evening. They had settled to play bridge, Lannes and Clothilde in partnership against the boys. There had been no quarrelling and Clothilde had brought off a little slam thanks to an audacious finesse, while Marguerite sat darning Alain’s socks and they played Charles Trenet records on the gramophone. It had been like an evening before the war and they had felt like a family at peace.
Even the rue Xantrailles in Mériadeck had an air of gaiety. Lines of washing were strung across the street and women, having completed their housework, had brought chairs out to the pavement so that they could sit and gossip with their neighbours. Even those whom he recognised as Jews looked at ease.
It’s the right thing, he thought, to take advantage of the day and find such happiness as may be.
He stopped off at the bar below the Pension Bernadotte for a glass of beer. The proprietor greeted him by name.
‘He was a gentleman, that professor,’ he said. ‘Of course he was here only for a few weeks and he wasn’t what I would call a regular. But he liked his glass and there was no side to him. An intellectual, which is something I respect, and politically sound. That’s my opinion and I don’t care who knows it. Hope you catch the swine that did for him. I suppose you’re going up to question old Mangeot again. Don’t believe a word he says, superintendent, until you’ve checked it, if you don’t mind a bit of advice from the likes of me. We get to be good judges of people in my line of business, just as you do in yours, and that one would sell his own grandmother for a shekel.’
Mangeot was at his desk, at work with a toothpick which he removed when Lannes offered him good morning.
‘Which I hope you haven’t come to spoil,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you, superintendent, except that I wish I had turned Doktor Braun away when he came asking for a room. If I’d known he was going to cause me so much trouble, I’d have sent him off with a flea in the ear. I don’t like it when my customers attract your lot’s attention. My nerves are bad enough as it is.’
‘Don’t disturb yourself, Mangeot. It’s Yvette I’ve come to see. Is she in?’
‘Well, she wouldn’t be up and out at this hour, the slut. I’ve a good mind to send her packing too. You know the way to her room. I think she’s alone, unless she slipped someone in last night when my back was turned. No doubt she’ll make you welcome.’
He closed his eyes and returned the toothpick to his mouth.
Yvette was stretched out naked on her bed. There was dance music on the wireless and her right foot jiggled up and down in time with it. The sunlight gleamed on her pink-varnished toenails and her thighs looked as warm as a Renoir nude.
‘I knew you’d come again,’ she said. ‘Needing?’
‘Don’t be silly, Yvette,’ Lannes said, and, as before, tossed her the dressing-gown which was folded over the end of the bed. She let it lie where it fell across her middle, and raised her arms up behind her head to give Lannes a fuller view of her breasts.
‘All right then,’ she said, ‘if it’s not that, it’s a bit early to disturb a girl. Not that I mind, not really.’
Lannes switched the wireless off and sat down. She pushed her foot against his thigh. He lifted it away.
‘Stop playing games,’ he said.
‘Don’t you like games? I could give you a good time. Seriously.’
‘I’ve no doubt you could. Nevertheless . . . ’ ‘Have you found out who killed the old gentleman yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Shame. A clever policeman like you.’
‘Not so clever it seems, I’m sorry to say. Has anyone else come to ask you questions about him?’
‘Not counting your young inspector? He’s quite a dish that one, I’m surprised you let him out on his own.’
‘I’ll pass on the message. Now, be serious.’
‘I was being serious,’ she said.
She drew up her legs and hugged her knees. A strand of hair fell over her face. She nibbled the end of it.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘There was the Spanish gentleman.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Can’t you guess? Not that I gave it to him. To tell the truth I wanted him out of my room as soon as he entered. There was something about him.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know, do I, but he looked the sort to keep clear of.’
‘And he asked you about Doktor Braun?’
‘You are a good policeman after all. Give me a cigarette and I’ll tell.’
She took the cigarette, put it between her lips, and held her face towards Lannes for a light. She put her hand on his as he held out the lighter, and looked over it into his eyes.
‘He asked what you didn’t ask first time: if the old gentleman had entrusted anything to me. Have you a daughter, superintendent?’
‘Yes. What did you say to him?’
‘Is she about my age?’
‘More or less, I suppose. A year younger perhaps.’
‘Is that why you won’t?’
‘Answer my queston.’
‘Answer mine first and then I’ll answer yours.’
Lannes smiled. ‘You do like games, don’t you?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’ she said, smiling in turn.
The smile revealed that she was missing a front tooth.
‘All fathers want to fuck their daughters, don’t they,’ she said.
‘Mine certainly did.’
‘And did he?’
‘That would be telling. I’m not your daughter, am I?’
‘Now answer my question,’ Lannes said.
‘Forgotten it.’
‘What did you reply to the Spaniard?’
‘Can’t remember. Might if you were to help me.’
‘All right then, perhaps this will help. You were right to think he’s a man to keep clear of. In fact he’s a murderer.’
‘Fancy that now. Did he kill the old gentleman?’
‘No. I don’t think so. His method’s the garotte.’
‘Nasty,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that sort.’
‘So? What did you say to him?’
‘I wouldn’t tell him anything. He spoke to me as if I was dirt. But I don’t mind telling you.’
She got off the bed, letting the dressing-gown slip away. There was nothing coquettish in her movement now. She opened a drawer in the chest, revealing a tangle of underwear, and rummaged among it to bring out a long brown envelope.
‘The old gentleman said he could trust me to keep it for him, and there was nobody else he could trust. “No family?” I said because I knew he had a daughter, he’d spoken of her, apparently she’s quite a distinguished person. I think he was proud of her but disapproved also. “No,” he said, “only you, kitten” – that’s what he’d taken to calling me, kitten. But it’s no use to him now he’s dead, and, frankly, in case that Spanish bastard comes back, I’d just as soon be without it. So . . . ’
She held it out, then, with a swift gesture, put it behind her, out of Lannes’ reach.
‘Kiss first,’ she said.
‘I’m more inclined to slap your bottom.’
‘Oh, if that’s your style . . . I have a friend who would oblige.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Right then. Kiss first,’ she said, and settled on his knee. ‘I’m not your daughter, remember.’ Her tongue sought out his.
‘There,’ she said, ‘I knew you wanted it really. Here’s the envelope. I hope it helps you find out who killed him.’
‘I don’t know that it will do that,’ Lannes said, ‘but I think it may be important, all the same.’
‘I’ll see you again, won’t I? Now you know how you feel?’
Lannes gave her his card.
‘Ring me . . . if you’ve any trouble. Ring me especially if the Spaniard. . .’
‘No other reason to ring you?’ she said.
‘What about your Wolfie?’
‘Wolfie’s sweet, but who knows how long he’ll be here? Besides, I’m not what you might call exclusive. So?’
‘So what?’ Lannes said.
Lannes put the envelope in his breast pocket. He unpinned the rose from his buttonhole and tossed it to her.
Why did I do that? he thought, as he descended the stairs, but it was a rhetorical question, that is, one which answered iself. There was every reason why he shouldn’t, but there was a compelling reason on the other side of the argument. He knew that and felt ashamed. Nevertheless, he said aloud, nevertheless.
XXVI
‘The Alsatian was looking for you,’ old Joseph said. ‘Told me to ask you to see him soon as you arrived.’
‘Fine,’ Lannes said, and collected the two boxes of Ramon Allones that Fernand had given him on the Friday afternoon. That should put him in a good mood.
As usual Schnyder’s desk was all but bare. Lannes laid down the cigars.
‘Oh, good of you. What do I owe you?’
‘I haven’t paid for them yet. Here’s the bill.’
He handed over the note Fernand had scribbled on a scrap of paper.
‘The man who got them for you would prefer you to pay me, and I’ll pass it on to him.’
‘That’s all right, but you’ll have to wait till I’ve been to the bank.’
‘There’s no hurry. He’s an old friend who can afford to wait.’
Schnyder opened one of the boxes, took out a cigar, clipped the end off, and lit it. For a moment he watched the blue-grey smoke rise, and sat back in his chair, contentment spreading over his face.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘These German ones were poor stuff and our own Fleur des Savanes aren’t much better, even when you can get them. One for you?’
‘No thanks,’ Lannes said. ‘I won’t deprive you. Anyway, as you know, I prefer cigarettes.’
‘Have you seen Schussmann recently?’
‘He called in one day last week.’
‘And?’
‘The usual thing, routine visit, any pr
oblems with collaboration, that sort of thing, nothing of note.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Again as usual, pleasant enough, he’s not exactly the ravening Nazi beast, is he? Why do you ask?’
‘He’s been replaced, superseded. I’d a visit from his successor this morning. A Lieutenant Kordlinger.’
‘Well,’ Lannes said, ‘it’s no business of ours, is it, who the Boches assign to deal with us. Only hope the new chap’s as easy and undemanding as Schussmann.’
‘Quite so,’ Schnyder said.
He drew on his cigar, got up and paced around the room.
‘There’s something I don’t like,’ he said. ‘I got a whiff of a nasty smell. He asked me more than once, in different ways, if I knew of any French contacts Schussmann had outwith our department. Certainly not, I said, which happens to be true. But he kept probing. Something’s up, that’s obvious. It doesn’t sound to me like the usual replacement of one officer by another. I got the impression that old Schussmann’s blotted his copybook rather badly.’
‘None of our business if he has,’ Lannes said.
‘I hope not. Then I started thinking. That spook you saw in the public garden – did he have anything to say about Schussmann?
Mention him perhaps?’
‘Villepreux – the BMA, he belongs to, by the way. Not a word.’
Bracal, he thought, knows about Félix and the Travaux Rurales, though not in detail. Schnyder doesn’t as far as I know. Keep it that way.
‘It was certain aspects of the old Chambolley case that interested him,’ he said, conscious of Professor Labiche’s envelope in his jacket pocket. ‘Nothing about Schussmann.’