Cold Winter in Bordeaux (19 page)

‘Perfectly,’ Lannes said. ‘Your distress is indeed understandable. However, I notice that you referred to her as Gabrielle. Does this mean that you knew her socially as well as professionally? Were you friends, or perhaps more than friends? Please don’t be offended by the question.’

The doctor smiled.

‘I am not someone who takes offence easily. Your question is natural, eminently reasonable, superintendent. But the answer is “no”. If I spoke of her as Gabrielle, that is because it is how I first knew of her when she was dresser to Madame Jauzion, who is also one of my patients, one of my most distinguished patients, as I’m proud to say.’

‘And then Madame Jauzion dismissed her,’ Lannes said. ‘Do you know why?’

‘That was no concern of mine, and I have to say that Gabrielle never spoke of it. Indeed it was only subsequently that she became my patient, and, if she said anything, which she may not have, for naturally it was none of my business, it was only to imply that she preferred to pursue her career as a music teacher. In which, as you will have gathered, I’m sure, she was very successful. That was why I recommended her to my wife when Charlotte expressed a desire to learn the piano. Which now, regrettably, seems to have been a mistake on my part, as I’m ready to admit. How rarely, superintendent, do even the most insightful of us know other people as well as we suppose we do! No doubt this is a conclusion that you will have reached as a policeman. Which brings me to my other reason for presenting myself here. I fear that you and your young inspector here may have formed a poor opinion of my wife, may indeed have thought her obstructive. I wish to apologise on her behalf. Madame Duvallier is a very private person who resents what she perceives as intrusion in her life. But I ask you not to judge her by her manner. She too is a prey to anxiety. I think that is all I need say.’

Lannes thanked him for coming. Then, as René rose to hold out the doctor’s hat and coat, said, ‘One other thing. I wonder if Madame Jauzion’s uncle, the advocate Labiche, is another of your patients?’

Duvallier, one arm in his coat, turned to look Lannes in the face.

‘I fail to understand the relevance of your question which, however, I am happy to answer. Certainly he is and a most distinguished personage, as you will know. However, we have few dealings. His health is excellent.’

‘Not another who suffers from anxiety then?’

‘Certainly not.’

He allowed René to help him into his coat.

‘If I am permitted to ask,’ he said, ‘are you making progress? Are you close to discovering who killed the unfortunate woman in what was, I gather, such an appalling way?’

‘You may ask, of course,’ Lannes said, ‘but we too have our professional secrets.’

‘Of course. I understand perfectly.’

When he left, Moncerre said, ‘That question wasn’t an afterthought.’

‘No, I don’t think it was. I really don’t think it was. And I find it improbable that he didn’t learn the circumstances of Gabrielle’s death – as he put it – till recently. Which makes his real reason for coming here a matter of some interest to us.’

XXVIII

Bracal’s long fingers tapped a little tune on his desk, a habit, Lannes had observed, when he was thinking. At last he said, ‘I got nothing from the man Peniel, I’m sorry, even ashamed, to say. He’s a wretched type, obviously, and you usually find that there comes a time when fellows of that sort crack under questioning. You’ll know that yourself of course. Anyway I’ve handed him over to the Vice Squad, and they’ve banged him up. So he’s available whenever you think you may want him again. He can’t do a disappearing act.’

‘I’ve a notion,’ Lannes said, ‘that he may feel safer where he is.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps. You probably understand the type better than I do.’

This was doubtless true. Like all investigating magistrates, Bracal would have little experience of getting his hands dirty. They dealt with crime as if it was an abstract proposition. In common with most policemen Lannes had been accustomed to feel a mild contempt for these gentlemen in well-cut suits who never had to descend into the gutter, but supposed they could solve cases from their desks – and this without any of the understanding, which comes from practical experience, of the dark impulses that may bring a man to the point of murder. Nevertheless, Bracal was one of the better ones. Lannes had come to find him sympathetic, even to respect him.

‘Things are going to get worse,’ Bracal said, ‘before they get better. Which I’m sure they will, even though better times for France may prove difficult for those of us who’ve stuck to our posts and done our duty as we perceive it in these dark years. I don’t deceive myself about that. Collaboration has been imposed upon us. We’re compromised. Which is why I would advise you to turn a blind eye to anything, in this case or another, which seems to involve the Resistance. I’m speaking as a friend, Jean, if you will allow me to call myself that, not as your superior.’

He got up and poured them each a glass of cognac, as before drowning his own in soda water.

‘It’s going to be a strange Christmas,’ he said, ‘a miserable one for many. What are your plans?’

‘My son Dominique came home yesterday for the holiday, bringing a friend with whom he works in Vichy. The boy’s father’s a minister there. Edmond de Grimaud. You probably know of him.’

‘Indeed, yes, I used to subscribe to the review he edited. On account of the literary pages, which were of high quality, rather than its politics. Your son’s happy in his work?’

‘I believe so.’

Bracal’s fingers resumed their little tune.

‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘So much idealism, so much folly. I trust your son is not too committed. It’s going to be so difficult to come out of this well.’

For a little neither spoke. There were such silences, unavoidable silences, Lannes thought, all over France. You were tempted to say just what you thought, and then put the temptation aside. Bracal was probably worried that he had already gone too far in what he had said about the Resistance and about his lack of enthusiasm for the political line taken by Edmond de Grimaud’s review. He had spoken ‘as a friend’, but nobody could be sure of how far friendship might stretch. What could any of them take on trust?

‘Vichy has lost North Africa,’ Bracal said, picking up his glass and sipping the brandy-and-soda. ‘That seems clear. The assassination of the Admiral was convenient for all sorts of people. For everybody really. Nevertheless, the Germans are still here. There’s going to be no early end to the Occupation. We have a difficult year ahead, perhaps more than a year. Some day the Americans, and I suppose the British too, will try to form what I believe they are calling the Second Front against Germany here in France, but that day is a long way off, I fear. I don’t think I need say any more. I may already have said too much. You understand? Meanwhile what are your immediate plans?’

‘I think I’ll have another chat with our friend Peniel.’

‘I wish you luck with that one. You think the case is still worth pursuing? You intend to get to the bottom of it?’

‘But naturally. What else should I do?’

He didn’t say what he had often thought: that it was only by continuing his investigation as if there was neither war nor Occupation that he could maintain his self-respect, even perhaps – the thought came to him – his sanity.

‘It’s taken a turn,’ he said, and recounted the conversation with Dr Duvallier. ‘The more I think of it, the more it puzzles me, and I even begin to wonder if I have been approaching the case from the wrong angle, and that the involvement of the spook who calls himself Félix may have been a red herring. One of my inspectors, Moncerre, has insisted from the first that it was what he calls an old-fashioned prewar crime, by which he means that it is a private domestic affair, nothing to do with the war or the Resistance. I should say I’ve no evidence to support this view. Yet it’s tempting to incline towards it.’

This wasn’t true, or not quite true. He really had no opinion on the matter, but he had been afraid that he would be ordered to set it aside; and Bracal’s disordered manner had sharpened this fear.

‘Duvallier?’ Bracal said. ‘The name means nothing to me. But if this is your line, well, it seems harmless to pursue it.’

There was a knock on the door. Bracal’s clerk came in and said that the German officer charged with liaison, Lieutenant Schuerle, would like to see the judge. Bracal sighed and assented.

‘Carry on, then, Jean,’ he said.

As Lannes rose to leave the office, Schuerle extended his hand and smiled.

‘Superintendent Lannes,’ he said, ‘I trust I haven’t importunately interrupted your meeting? In any case it’s a pleasure to see you. I would be interested to have another conversation. Perhaps we can arrange that very soon? After Christmas perhaps? Meanwhile I offer you the compliments of the season.’

‘And to you,’ Lannes said.

He looked at his watch as he descended the wide marble staircase. He had made an appointment to meet Michel for lunch at the Café Régent. He was late already. He hoped the boy would not have gone away.

XXIX

Michel was alone on the terrace, his head bent over a newspaper. It was a bright day, bitterly cold, a keen wind blowing from the east, but he was wearing only a dark-coloured jerkin over an open-necked blue shirt. Lannes paused and watched him for a moment. It was going to be a difficult conversation and he wished it wasn’t necessary. The old waiter, Georges, approached. They shook hands and Lannes said they would eat inside. Hearing his voice, Michel looked up and got to his feet. Lannes was again conscious of his beauty. No wonder Clothilde was in love with the boy. But it was disturbing, this Aryan poster-boy perfection.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

‘It’s no matter, sir. I was content reading.’

The newspaper was
Je suis partout
, which Lannes despised and detested.

‘There’s a wonderful article by Robert Brasillach.’

‘Ah yes, he used to write well about the cinema and Clothilde’s mother has enjoyed his novels.’

No point in saying he loathed the violent language and anti-Semitism of this devoted advocate of ever-closer Collaboration, or even that he suspected Brasillach was one of those intellectuals for whom words are a drug so powerful that they become so completely divorced from reality that he didn’t consider that what he wrote might have consequences in the real world of action, not opinion.

The plat du jour was a cassoulet which would undoubtedly be mostly beans. Lannes handed over his ration tickets, a required formality that Fernand usually dispensed with at his brasserie, in his case anyway. He ordered a half-litre of the house Médoc which he knew to be much better than many expensive bottled wines.

‘Clothilde’s brother Dominique has arrived from Vichy. He’s very eager to meet you.’

‘Me likewise.’

It was difficult to know how to begin. He would be saying things which Michel would not want to hear and which it was probable the boy would resent, thinking he was not entitled to speak to him in this way. And yet if he was really serious with regard to Clothilde, Lannes was entitled to have his say. Nevertheless, while they ate he spoke of Dominique’s work.

Then, ‘We don’t know each other well,’ he said, ‘but Clothilde’s mother has become very fond of you, and as for Clothilde.’

‘She’s wonderful, and Madame Lannes’ – his face brightened in a dazzling smile – ‘Madame Lannes has been so kind and welcoming to me.’

‘But,’ Lannes said, ‘Clothilde has told me of your ambition, of what you want to do, and it frightens her. It alarms your grandfather too, and I have a great respect for him. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Naturally. But what can I say? I adore Clothilde – my intentions towards her are entirely honourable, I assure you of that – but she’s a girl, a young woman, and women don’t understand these things. As for my grandfather, I have of course a deep affection for him – he has been so kind to my sister Anne-Marie and me, and I respect him – but he’s old and, again with all due respect, he’s out-of-date, he doesn’t understand the world as it is today or the plight that France finds itself in. So for me it’s a matter of duty. You will surely understand that, sir.’

Lannes stretched out his hand to pick up the boy’s newspaper.

‘This thing, it’s all wrong, you know. No matter how well it is written, it’s wrong.’

‘You don’t believe that France and Germany should work together and that only an alliance between our two great countries can guard us against the Red menace?’

‘I’m a policeman,’ Lannes said, ‘not a politician, and as a policeman, a servant of the Republic, I have no political opinions, but as a private man, a citizen, I can say that, yes, I agree that France and Germany should work together, and indeed, as an officer of the French State, I am required to collaborate with the Occupying forces. But I do this from duty, not from choice. It’s difficult to explain.’

He laid down the newspaper and took hold of his wine glass but didn’t lift it to his lips.

‘A long time ago,’ he said, ‘well before the war, Monsieur Laval remarked that France would always have a border with Germany, that they were a nation of seventy million people to our forty million, and that we must either come to an agreement with them or fight them every generation. He was a pacifist in those days, Monsieur Laval. Perhaps in his heart he still is. No matter: he was right. 1870, 1914, 1939 – it shouldn’t go on. But what did he mean by Germany? Hitler wasn’t then yet in power. There’s another Germany, a different Germany, that we might be friends with. But with Hitler there’s no equality of friendship – the relation is that of master and servant.’

Michel frowned but said nothing. Lannes thought, at least he’s listening.

‘I’m going to say something, Michel, that you won’t agree with, something indeed that would get me in trouble if you reported it. But you won’t do that, not only because you love Clothilde – I’m sure of that – but also because I believe you have a sense of honour. It’s this: Germany is going to lose the war. It’s become inevitable. The Wehrmacht is fighting hard on the Eastern Front, but its advance has evidently been checked, and, now that the Americans have entered the war, Hitler is doomed. It may take some time, years even, but it’s certain. If you do as you intend, and enlist in this Legion of French Volunteers against Bolshevism, you are joining the losing side. You might be killed – well, that can happen to anyone in wartime – and it would distress Clothilde. It might break her heart. I don’t know, but I’m sure it would leave a wound which would never be wholly healed. I ask you to think of that. But if you are not killed, if you survive, what then? I know the French. We don’t forgive easily; we’ve a lust for revenge. It’s always been like that. Think of the Revolution and of the Commune. There are many who will be ashamed of how they have behaved during the Occupation and they will seek to expunge their shame by turning on those who have collaborated more conspicuously with the enemy. And this is to say nothing of the Resistance.’