by Allan Massie
‘But that case is dead, isn’t it?’
‘As I told him.’
‘Puzzling then. You’ll let me know if anything transpires. I wouldn’t like to think the Boches were taking an interest in our department.’
‘Can’t think why they should be,’ Lannes said.
But of course he could . . . ‘Contacts outwith the department’: well, there was certainly Léon – but clearly there was suspicion directed at the department itself, and this suspicion had led to Schussmann being replaced, perhaps. Well, that was no business of his, though he had liked him well enough. Damn these spooks and their tricks and plots. He collected his blackthorn and left the office. There was almost certainly no urgency, but the whiff of a nasty smell which Schnyder had detected alarmed him. He set off for the rue des Remparts.
There were no customers in the bookshop.
‘Henri’s upstairs as usual,’ Léon said, and looked away.
‘Schussmann,’ Lannes said.
‘What about him?’
Léon looked miserable, also guilty. Lannes had seen that expression too often, on too many suspects, to mistake it. He saw also that the boy was near breaking-point even before he had started what he would doubtless think of as an interrogation.
‘Léon,’ he said, ‘I’m here as a friend, not a policeman.’
‘Can you ever not be a policeman? How can I forget that’s what you are?’
Lannes sighed. He felt ashamed. The boy was right. When was he ever not a policeman? Except surely at home, with Marguerite and the children. Yet even there his profession was a barrier. Could either Dominique or Alain be absolutely honest and open with him? Clothilde perhaps, but the boys? Even as he thought that, the memory of Yvette settling herself, naked, on his knees and demanding a kiss, came to him, excitingly and shamefully.
So he said, ‘I don’t know, Léon, but there are times when I try myself to forget I’m a policeman, as for instance when I gave you a warning and asked you to come to me if . . . ’
‘And I didn’t because I couldn’t,’ Léon said before he could finish his sentence.’
‘All right, but now?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know precisely,’ Lannes said, ‘but another German officer has been asking questions about Schussmann whom he seems to have replaced . . . Félix,’ he said, and waited, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face. ‘Félix, you had really better tell. A man calling himself that came to see you, yes? And he threatened you? Yes?’
‘How could I speak to you?’ Léon said.
He buried his face in his hands. Lannes waited. There was no need to say anything more, not for the moment. He laid his hand on the boy’s head.
‘I couldn’t even speak to Alain.’
Lannes got up and locked the door. Léon straightened up and pushed his hair back.
‘You’d better read this,’ he said, and took Schussmann’s letter from his pocket.
‘I think he refused the dishonourable course,’ Lannes said.
‘And the alternatives?’
‘They might come to the same thing in the end. I suspect he realised that.’
Suicide or confession?, he thought. The speed with which he had been replaced suggested the former. A bullet in the head might be preferable to a concentration camp. On the other hand – damn these spooks – surely he might have agreed to collaborate, then played Félix false. Had he considered that course?
‘I can guess what happened,’ Lannes said. ‘You don’t need to spell it out.’
‘He was a nice man, really, but I wouldn’t have gone with him, if . . . ’ ‘Félix,’ Lannes said again.
‘My mother, Aunt Miriam, he said if I didn’t do as he asked, he would see that they were sent to an internment camp. They’re good people, you know that. I couldn’t say, go ahead, could I?’
‘No, Léon. You couldn’t. I understand.’
He suspected there was more the boy might have told him, but there was no point pressing, and even less point in saying that his aunt and mother were in danger as long as the war and Vichy lasted.
‘Will he come back, do you think?’
‘I trust not. You’ve done what he asked you to. It should be enough. It should be over. But if I’m wrong and he returns, this time, whatever he demands of you, you must let me know. Otherwise I can’t help you or your mother and aunt. Understand?’
Léon nodded.
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Someone rattled the door handle.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’
Lannes unlocked the door. A slim fair-haired boy smiled at him.
‘You’re Alain’s father, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of his at school. Jérôme de Balastre.’
‘Ah yes,’ Lannes said, ‘he may have spoken of you. You won’t find him here however.’
‘No, but it’s Léon I’ve come to see.’
‘Ah yes,’ Lannes said again. ‘Léon.’
He closed the door behind him. Jérôme kissed Léon on the cheek.
‘I’ve a message from Alain,’ he said. ‘But what’s wrong? You look terrible.’
Léon shook his head.
‘Are you in trouble? Was it something Alain’s father said?’
Again Léon made no reply.
‘Tell me it’s none of my business,’ Jérôme said, ‘if you like. I won’t be offended. But, if I can, I would like to help. I’m fond of you, Léon. We haven’t known each other long, but long enough for me to know that.’
‘I would if I could, but there’s nothing anyone can do.’
He felt a spurt of resentment. Nobody was going to haul Jérôme or his mother or stepfather off to an internment camp. No Félix was going to rape him and compel him to do something that was not only dishonourable, but cruel. For his deception of Schussmann, luring him into a trap, had been both these things, and now Schussmann was dead, by his own hand – that was clearly what Alain’s father thought – and he was responsible. He wanted to tell it all to Jérôme, but he couldn’t. Would Jérôme withdraw his friendship, despise him as he despised himself?
‘What’s Alain’s message?’ he said.
‘He wants a meeting, this afternoon. Can you get away?’
‘Henri never minds if I close the shop,’ Léon said.
‘Right then.’
‘Remember,’ Jérôme said, ‘whatever it is, I’m with you, Léon. I’m on your side, contra mundum. I’m your friend, for always. People like us have quite enough enemies, even without counting the Boches. I’ll call again for you later. Now I’m expected at home for lunch.’
XXVII
There was one customer in the tabac, a silver-haired elderly man hesitating over the purchase of a pipe. He was examining several, testing them for weight and balance, running his finger along the grain of the wood, doing everything but put them in his mouth. It was perhaps his biggest decision of the day, even of the week. Lannes was almost envious. Miriam signalled to him to go through to the back room, but it was fully ten minutes before she joined him.
‘Did he buy one eventually?’
‘At last; he took his time, but he’s a good customer and a nice man, a retired doctor who had a good reputation for caring for his poor patients and not sending in a bill if he knew they couldn’t afford to pay him. You look worried, Jean.’
He might have replied that she didn’t look well herself. She had lost weight since she returned to the tabac after the deaths of her father and her husband, the old count. And she had aged; there were new lines on her face. It was hard to recognise the confident strapping woman who had sat in Henri’s apartment above the shop and talked with such relish about the members of that household in the rue d’Aviau. Only a few months ago he had wanted to make love to her, and had been restrained by her good sense and his own need to keep his self-respect by being faithful to Marguerite. He knew she had felt the same way, and now he saw the shadow of th
e ghetto lying upon her, and she was on the point of appearing an old woman.
‘Is it Alain?’ she said, getting a bottle of marc and two glasses from the cupboard.
‘No, though I’m always afraid he will do something rash. He’s too spirited for the times we live in. No, I’m sorry, but it’s Léon.’
‘Léon,’ she sat down heavily, and again he saw that dark shadow creep over her face.
‘I would have liked to spare you,’ he said, and went on to tell her the full story: Schussmann, Félix, the threats, the trap, and the consequences.
‘I let him down,’ he said. ‘I should have taken it on myself to warn Schussmann off. But I was weak. I kept putting it off, and, when Léon said nothing to me, never came to tell me that the spook had approached him, I allowed myself to hope that nothing was happening. Not that I’m blaming Léon, you understand. The pressure put on him was dreadful. I’m not surprised he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it.’
‘And now?’ she said.
‘Now, I don’t know.’ He drank the marc and lit a cigarette. ‘I really don’t know. I hope the spook will leave him alone, I can’t think that a similar opportunity to use him will arise. Nevertheless I can’t be sure that he won’t seek to make some other use of him. Once these chaps have their claws in someone, they don’t withdraw them easily. So the threat is still there.’
‘And not only from him,’ she said. ‘I’ve had that bastard Labiche in here again, crowing about his appointment to that circus set up to deal with the Jewish Question. I hadn’t been aware that I was part of a question. Now I can’t forget it. But poor Léon, to have felt he must keep this to himself, to take on the weight of responsibility.’
‘Yes, poor boy indeed. He’s been through hell, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you think he told Alain?’
‘No, I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘He thinks of him as his best friend, maybe even his only one. But you are probably right. He would have been ashamed to speak of it, and perhaps afraid.’
The shop-bell rang. Miriam got to her feet and went through to deal with the new customer. The bounce had gone out of her step. She moves like an old woman, Lannes thought. Alain would surely have been so indignant that he would have spoken to him. Surely? He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Things were bad. They would get worse.
When Miriam returned, he said, ‘All the same, I really think we should try to find a way to get you all out of Bordeaux.’
‘Where could we go? And how? Anyway, why should I be driven out of the city where I’ve lived all my life? I’m French, Jean, a citizen of the Republic. So are Léon and my sister, citizens.’
‘We no longer live in the Republic,’ he said. ‘Only in the French State which is under German Occupation. But you would leave, wouldn’t you, if I can contrive a way?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I’m an obstinate bitch.’
XXVIII
Jérôme unhooked his arm from Léon’s as they approached the Café des Arts, cours du Marne. They settled themselves at a table in the back of the room. The elderly waiter took their order for lemonades with a sniff. Léon thought, he’ll be happy when the day comes that he’s forbidden to serve me; but it was absurd. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest he was Jewish. If only there had been, Schussmann would never have approached him, would still be alive.
A poster on the wall across from the table advertised a production of ‘La Dame aux Caméllias’ starring Adrienne Jauzion. It was an old poster, a bit tattered at the edges and stained with smoke.
‘Have you ever seen her?’ Jérôme said. ‘She can be wonderful, though my stepfather who knows a lot about the theatre says she’s very affected, and never plays the character, always only herself. But I was crazy about her when I was fourteen, I thought her the most marvellous person on earth. Do you think that strange, Léon?’
Léon knew he was chattering in this way to distract him, and was grateful.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t know. Actually I’ve come to realise I know so little about other people.’
‘It’s not unusual,’ Jérôme said, ‘for someone of my temperament – our temperament if I may say so. You know who I mean by Lucien Daudet? – Alphonse’s son – you must have read the Lettres de mon Moulin – of course you have – and brother of Léon who writes for L’Action Française, which I don’t expect you to care for – well, I don’t myself, not really – but he is in charge of the literary pages, and they are brilliant, superb. Anyway, Lucien, despite having been one of Proust’s lovers when they were boys or young men, devoted himself for years to the Empress Eugénie in her exile in England. He really adored her.’
‘And Adrienne Jauzion is your Empress?’
‘Well, she was and to some extent still is. She is really rather wonderful, so cold and superior – you feel she despises the world. I have only actually met her once, at a soirée – you must know that my grandfather’s cousin, the Comte de St-Hilaire, who is also my godfather as it happens, not that it matters, has been her lover and protector for years. Anyway she extended her hand – in white lace gloves – to me, and made it clear that I was to kiss the tips of her fingers, which of course I did, obediently, and then she dismissed me – pouf , just like that – from her presence. I can tell you this, Léon. Alain would just think me silly, which perhaps I am, and Porthos would say I needed a kick up the arse, but it’s one of the most exciting, even erotic, memories that I have. He’s a bit crude, Porthos, as you may have remarked.’
‘Alain’s late,’ Léon said.
‘Privilege of the chief.’
Then the room brightened. Alain was with them, urgent as a dispatch-rider. He ordered a beer. The waiter looked at him searchingly, shrugged his shoulders. Alain waited till the beer was in front of him and the old man had retired behind the bar, before saying, ‘I’ve got some bad news. Porthos – Philippe, I may as well call him again now – has ratted. He told me that what we were doing is futile, that the war and Occupation are going to last for years, and the sensible thing was to get on with preparing for a career. What do you think of that?’
‘He’s a bit of an ass, Porthos,’ Jérôme said, ‘I’ve always thought so.’
Two businessmen in dark suits came into the café and stood by the bar. They ordered a Ricard each. Alain drank half his beer in one long swallow, and, nursing his glass in his hands, fixed his gaze on them.
One said, ‘This call for workers to go to Germany is going to mean a labour shortage here and rise in wages if many respond. Could you afford that, old man?’
‘Not likely. I can barely afford to pay my staff as things are. Times are bad.’
‘You’re right there, and they’re going to get worse.’
‘I don’t see the way ahead, I tell you that,’ the second said, downing his Ricard, wiping his mouth with a white-spotted blue handkerchief. ‘Same again?’
‘Half of them are Communists, if you ask me.’
‘Absolutely. I thought Vichy would mean discipline.’
‘Fat chance.’
Alain fished out a packet of cigarettes, empty. Léon passed him one, and then to Jérôme, and they all lit up.
Alain said, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
‘Outside,’ he said, ‘people like that pair make me sick. Half of them are Communists if you ask me, when really they’re probably decent working men wanting a decent wage for a day’s work. Sometimes I loathe the French, and despise them. Maybe we deserve to be occupied by the Boches. I know that you’re on the Right, Jérôme, because that’s how you’ve been brought up, But really the rich stink. I’m sorry if that offends you.’
‘I’m not so easily offended, not by you, anyway.’
They walked towards the river. Léon thought, Alain’s like a coiled spring; then, but that’s a literary expression, I don’t even know exactly what a coiled spring is. He looked at his friend’s profile, grim, set, determined, angry.
‘Fortunately France is not the French,’ Alain said. ‘France is more than the French. France is an idea. The Republic is an idea. That’s why it’s worth saving.’
The sun sparkled on the water. A lorry full of German soldiers crossed the bridge. The men were singing what sounded like a hymn, though the words might glorify the Fuehrer rather than the Almighty, for all they knew. The sound drifted behind them.
‘The bastards are happy,’ Alain said, ‘here in our city.’
He hoisted himself on the parapet and sat there swinging his legs.
‘I could have punched Philippe,’ he said. ‘He made me so angry. But one reason for that was that actually he’s right. What we are doing, what we’ve done so far, is futile. Oh it’s something, we can agree on that, but it really amounts to nothing. Actually I didn’t need him to lead me to that conclusion. I was down here on Sunday and I watched the river running so calmly to the sea, and I thought, I don’t know anything useful, not really. I wouldn’t know how to set about an act of sabotage for instance. So I have to learn, and there’s only one place I can do that. London. London is where the real France is to be found today. So I’m going to find a way to get there. What about you, Léon? And you, Jérôme? Are you with me?’
‘But of course,’ Jérôme said, ‘one for all and all for one – even if one – that ass Philippe – or Porthos, whichever – has chickened out.’
‘Splendid. Léon?’
Léon hesitated a moment. He thought of his mother and aunt and the internment camp. Then he looked Alain full in the face and saw that he was very pale.
‘How could I say no?’ he said.
Alain leaped down from the wall, seized his friends by the hands and for a moment they danced in a wild circle.
‘Liberty,’ Alain cried.
‘Equality,’ Jérôme answered.
‘Fraternity,’ Léon shouted and felt tears prick his eyes; fraternity was what Alain and Jérôme offered him, and without it he was nothing, an empty husk.
‘The next question,’ Alain said, calling the dance to a halt, ‘is how. How we get out of Bordeaux, how we find our way to London. It may take time, but we’ll do it, I’m sure of that.’