Cold Winter in Bordeaux (27 page)

Lannes sighed. It was all wrong, but Bracal was also right. What was happening was shameful, but many French people were indifferent to the shame. Some even said ‘the Jews have nosed their way in everywhere’. Others, like his brother-in-law Albert, were openly anti-Semitic; he spoke of ‘cleansing France’. When Lannes told him he had fought alongside Jews at Verdun, he waved him aside irritably. ‘That has nothing to do with it,’ he said.

So now Lannes accepted the brandy Bracal offered him and lit a cigarette.

‘But there’s something more, isn’t there, Jean?’ Bracal said.

‘Yes, there is.’

‘Which you are nevertheless reluctant to bring up.’

Reluctant? That wasn’t the right word. More accurately he was afraid – and ashamed of his fear too.

‘Do you believe there are people who are untouchable?’ he said.

‘In the present circumstances, undoubtedly. I don’t like to admit that. Justice shouldn’t be subject to expediency. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that it’s the case, now more than ever.’

Bracal crossed the room to poke his stove. Vicious jabbing with his poker encouraged only a brief spurt of flame.

‘We’re short of coal,’ he said, ‘and the quality of such coal as we get is poor. It hadn’t occurred to me that war and occupation meant one would be cold from October to March. So, what is it, Jean? What’s troubling you?’

‘I had Peniel brought to me again the other day. I made a deal with him, promising we’d release him if he supplied me with certain information: a list of Gabrielle Peniel’s clients. He wasn’t happy, but he’s come up with the list. Now I’m not sure that my promise was wise. As a Jew he may be safer where he is, under lock and key.’

‘But that’s not what’s brought you here today?’

‘No. It’s the names on the list. One name especially. I’ve underlined it.’

Bracal put on his reading glasses, then tapped a little tune with his fingers.

‘Labiche,’ he said. ‘The advocate. I see what you mean.’

‘Of the Service des Questions Juives.’

‘And so, untouchable. Untouchable indeed. There’s nothing you can do with this, Jean.’

‘You think I should forget it?’

‘Things won’t always be as they are. Besides this isn’t evidence. It’s one man’s word. And who is the man? A disreputable criminal type – as you must agree – who is also a Jew. Furthermore, even if this wasn’t so, it would surely be a matter for the Vice Squad, not the PJ – unless you have the advocate lined up as a suspect in your murder investigation. And even if you have … ’

‘Even if I have. He’s untouchable. Is that what you mean?’

‘Is he in fact a suspect?’

‘I’ve no reason to think so. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’

‘Don’t apologise. Time with you is never time wasted, even when you make me uncomfortable. I don’t like this any better than you, Jean. You haven’t spoken of this list to Commissaire Schnyder, I suppose.’

‘I didn’t think it would interest him.’

‘He’s an efficient policeman all the same.’

‘An efficient bureaucrat, and a careful one. So there’s nothing to be done about the advocate’s name appearing on Peniel’s list. Is that what you recommend?’

Bracal smiled and squirted some more soda into his brandy.

‘You know that as well as I do,’ he said. ‘File it away. Bury it deep. One day. You never know. And are you any closer to having a suspect for me – a suspect for the murder, I mean.’

‘You’re still interested?’ Lannes said.

‘Don’t think so badly of me. A pre-war crime, you said, didn’t you? That would be nice.’

‘Yes, I’m closer. I’ve no proof, but I’m closer. But only if my candidate makes a mistake.’

‘And you think he will?’

‘I think he may. He’s a respected figure, and that always imposes a strain on people who’ve been living a lie. They feel a burden of guilt from which professional criminals are free. It’s a matter of ripping off the mask they wear.’

XLII

The sky was steel-grey, there was no wind and the streets of Mériadeck were silent. It wasn’t only the cold that kept people inside. There was no light in the old tailor’s shop, and when Lannes banged on the door, there was no response. He tried the handle without success. He peered through the window. The pane was smeared with dirt and it was difficult to make out anything in the dark interior. He tapped on it, and there was still no answer. An old woman approached. She had the yellow star sewn on to her coat, and, when she saw Lannes, she stepped into the gutter to pass him by. But he stopped her and said he was looking for old Léopold.

‘I know nothing,’ she said.

‘I’m a friend,’ he said. ‘I’m here as a friend.’

‘We no longer have friends. None of us have friends. So I can’t help you. I must be on my way.’

‘I think something may have happened to him.’

‘And what’s new about that?’

He remembered how Yvette had said ‘we look after each other in Mériadeck’. No longer, it seemed. You couldn’t blame them. You couldn’t blame them for anything, not now.

There was a locksmith across the road. That too was closed and shuttered. He banged on the door, and again was met with silence. He banged a second time, more loudly, and this time was answered.

‘Go away. We’re closed.’

Lannes hesitated a moment.

‘Police,’ he shouted. ‘Open up.’

He heard movement. A bolt was removed and a man’s head poked round the door.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Lannes said.

‘You’re police and you’re sorry to disturb me? That’s good, that’s rich.’

‘I need your help.’

‘You’re police and you need my help. Pull the other one.’

Nevertheless, the door was now opened and a stocky middle-aged man wearing a dirty polo-neck jersey and baggy corduroy trousers stood before him.

‘It’s old Léopold, the tailor,’ Lannes said. ‘He’s not answering his door.’

‘Why would he?’

‘I’m a friend. I’m not here on duty. I think something may have happened to him.’

‘You think something may have happened to him? He should be so lucky. And you’re not here on duty? A policeman and a friend of the old Jew. Who’d have thought it? By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept … ’

‘When we remembered thee, O Jerusalem,’ Lannes said. ‘That’s enough. Cut the jokes. Be a good chap and get your tools and see if you can get me in.’

The man looked at him full in the face for the first time.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Anything for an easy life. That’s another joke. Sorry. You can’t blame me for being suspicious.’

‘I don’t.’

Opening the door was the work of a minute.

‘That’s that,’ the man said. ‘Over to you. I don’t want anything more to do with anything. You’ll be able to lock up after yourself now.’

The light inside was dim, and there was a smell of dust, blood and brandy. The old tailor was in his chair, but he wasn’t going to get out of it ever again, not of his own accord. His left wrist was cut, two diagonal strokes, criss-cross, and the knife had fallen to the floor. Lannes picked it up and laid it on the table beside the bottle which had only an inch or so left in it. He hadn’t bothered with a glass. He had told Lannes he drank brandy only when he was afraid, but Lannes didn’t believe that this had been the case. He had just decided it was time to go. There was a note on the table, two words only:
Why not?
Lannes had liked him and respected him. He would do him the justice of seeing that there was no fuss about the death. Rigor mortis had worn off. A stoic’s death, he thought. Better than what had most likely been in store for him. Miriam had been his niece. He would have to tell her, but of course only because she was entitled to know, not because she should take the responsibility of making funeral arrangements. She was out of sight, safe or as safe as might be, in Henri’s attic. No need either for a police investigation or autopsy; the old man wouldn’t have wanted that. He would call an undertaker himself, get him to do what was necessary, and pay his bill. He felt he owed Léopold that. He would tell Yvette who had been fond of him – ‘we look after each other in Mériadeck’. The pair of them might be his only mourners. There was no sign of the orange cat that had no name but Cat. He remembered Léopold’s sour joke: all his previous cats had had names, but this one didn’t, to remind himself that he was no longer Léopold Kurz the tailor, but only an old Jew. It would have been like him to have seen to the cat before …

He used the key the locksmith had left him and crossed the road to the bar below the Pension Bernadotte. The proprietor nodded in recognition and came out from behind the bar to shake his hand. Lannes asked him if he had known the old tailor. Of course he had; this was Mériadeck. Was there something wrong?

‘He’s killed himself. If you call that something wrong.’

‘I don’t know as I do. I’m not a Jew myself, but what they are doing to them is wicked. And I don’t care who hears me say so. So if he’s given them the slip … ’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘It’s my way anyway.’

He went behind the bar and poured two glasses of marc. He gave one to Lannes and raised the other to his lips.

‘Old Léopold,’ he said.

‘Old Léopold.’

Perhaps there would be three at the funeral.

Lannes asked if he knew of an undertaker, and if he might use the telephone to call him.

‘It’s a public phone. Here’s the number.’

When he had made the necessary arrangements and assured the undertaker that, no, though he was a policeman, there was no police interest and he was calling as a friend, he downed his marc, said thanks for the drink, and mounted the stairs to the Pension.

Old Mangeot was behind the desk as usual, digging into his mouth with a toothpick. He smirked when he saw Lannes.

‘You’re out of luck, superintendent. She’s got company.’

‘I’ll wait.’

He sat down, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Reason said, what was one old man’s death among so many? Reason was wrong as it often was.

He heard Yvette’s door open and her voice saying, ‘So long, sweetie.’

A young man passed, walking hurriedly, averting his eyes. Little more than a boy. Alain’s age, Léon’s too. He wondered if it was his first time. He knocked on Yvette’s door and waited till she called, ‘Who’s there?’

‘Lannes.’

She was naked and counting banknotes.

‘Been waiting long? That was a nice boy. I was tempted to let him have it for free, but a girl’s got to pay the rent. What’s up? You’re looking very serious. You’re not jealous, are you?’

‘Don’t be silly. Put a dressing-gown on, or something.’

‘So?’ she said.

‘It’s old Léopold.’

‘He’s done it then?’

She sat down on the bed, her mouth open.

‘You knew what he planned.’

‘Not exactly, but … it was when he brought me the cat.’

She began to cry. He sat down beside her and held her in his arms, holding her tight and kissing her cheek.

‘He said she would need a home … she’s in the basket over there. Old Mangeot made a fuss about me keeping a cat, it’s against his rules, he said, but I told him to fuck off. He’s really done it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Poor old bugger. I really liked him, you know.’

‘So did I, but it was his choice. For the best perhaps.’

‘I know … but … all the same … kiss me again. Please.’

Later, he said, ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Expect so. But thank you. For coming to tell me and for, well, everything.’

‘That’s all right. And you’re happy to have the cat?’

‘Course I am. Poor no-name cat. I won’t ever give it a name. I owe the old boy that.’

XLIII

The telephone call was from Jules, the proprietor of the queer bar that used to have an English name, ‘The Wet Flag’. He had already called twice, Lannes was told, but refused to speak to anyone but him.

‘He sounded agitated,’ young René said, which surprised Lannes who on his meetings with the man had been impressed, against his inclination, by Jules’ self-possession – which was remarkable considering the dubious reputation of his establishment and its louche clientele.

‘A shit of the first order,’ Moncerre said.

‘He said it was a personal matter,’ René said.

‘Personal with him means trouble, deep trouble.’

‘Probably,’ Lannes said, ‘but I’ll take the call nevertheless.’

All the same he hesitated, and when Jules said, ‘It’s urgent. I need to see you at once, alone, I can’t tell you on the phone,’ replied, ‘All right, don’t say anything, I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘I’ll have to go,’ he said. ‘Did you manage to make an appointment with Duvallier, René?’

‘Yes. Three o’clock tomorrow.’

‘How did he sound?’

‘Difficult to say. Not nervous. Quite calm really, almost pleased. Even – I know this sounds strange – amused.’

‘Do you want us to come with you, chief?’ Moncerre said.

Lannes lit a cigarette, shook his head.

‘I think not. Whatever it is, he said “alone” and he’s not likely to speak honestly if I have company. I’ll call you if I need you.’

Whatever it is …

That was the problem. Why was he so sure it concerned Karim? He remembered how Jules had asked him to go easy on the boy the first time he had interviewed him, after Schussmann had shot himself. And, he had to admit, Karim aroused his own protective instinct. Why else would he have gone to the trouble of getting him safely out of Bordeaux then, and of helping him when Félix tried to use him so callously? What sort of mess had the boy got himself into now?

It was bitterly cold, freezing fog hiding the sky, the streets almost empty of people. What was there to bring the Bordelais out on such an afternoon when there was so little to buy in the shops and where at any moment you might see German soldiers to remind you of the humiliations to which you were subjected? Most had of course become accustomed to the realities of Occupation in the more than two and a half years since the Armistice, and everyone knew that the end wasn’t in sight. Indeed the German grip had become tighter, partly on account of the increasing Resistance activity which also provoked more repression from the French state too.