Cold Winter in Bordeaux (29 page)

Nothing is ever all right, he thought.

‘I can’t see why it shouldn’t be,’ he said. ‘He’s nothing to do with you, remember that. But if you need to get in touch with me, which I’d prefer you didn’t, do it by way of Jules, not young Jacques. There’s no cause for him to be involved.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘That’s all right. Best to say nothing. You don’t know anything, so you’ve nothing to thank me for.’

He walked towards the river. He had broken the law, dishonoured his trade, and yet he wasn’t ashamed. Indeed he felt freer of shame than he had for a long time. Which was absurd. And he was touched that the boy had turned to him for help, turned to a cop whom he hoped he could trust. Who would have thought the old woman could have hit her mark? A bullet in the back of the head. A stroke of luck, really, it surely signified an execution. He leant on the parapet over the rushing black of the water, took the gun from his pocket and hurled it in. There was scarcely even the sound of a splash. So much for Félix, for the moment anyway.

He stopped off in the Café des Arts for an Armagnac. The place was just about to close. He hoped Marguerite and Clothilde would have retired early to bed. He would have to sponge the jacket of his suit and it was better to invite no questions. ‘What sort of day have you had?’ ‘Ordinary enough. I’ve dealt with a suicide, arranged a funeral, come within a whisker of betraying you with a tart –’ not that he liked to think of Yvette as that – ‘and covered up a homicide. Just routine. It’s the way of the world we’re condemned to live in.’

He lit a Gauloise, turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out, back into the night.

XLIV

The sponging hadn’t got rid of the bloodstains. He would have liked to dispose of the suit. Let it follow the gun into the Garonne. But Marguerite would be sure to notice its disappearance. She might not ask questions, being afraid of the answers she might get, but she would be worried. So he had hung it in the back of the wardrobe, postponing explanations of its condition, the marks of blood on the jacket, till another day, and left home before either Marguerite or Clothilde was awake. He went to the little bar in the rue Vieil du Temple for coffee. He would have to tell Miriam of her uncle’s suicide, but it was too early to call on them. And in truth he was reluctant to have to speak to anyone this morning. Someone, but he couldn’t remember who, had once written that whoever forms a tie to another is doomed; the germ of corruption has entered his soul. The line had always rung false, the more so when he applied it to his feeling for Marguerite and the children. These were natural ties. How could they doom you? No doubt it depended on what you meant by the word. Family – that was where happiness was to be found, but also fear. And was Clothilde doomed by her feeling for Michel? Alain by his attachment to his Idea of France, Dominique by the very gentleness of his character, and Marguerite … he preferred not to think of his wife whom he had come so close to betraying with Yvette. Another tie there, and one that disturbed him.

And now Karim … why had he assumed responsibility for the boy whose activities he found repulsive? If his complicity in Félix’s death was ever discovered, his career would be at an end; worse still, he would himself be an object of contempt since nobody would believe that he wasn’t one of Karim’s clients, his lover indeed. But how could he not have acted as he did? The sight of the bruised boy curled up in misery on Jules’ bed had aroused his sense of pity, just as Léon had done. And that dreadful old woman who had once been beautiful and danced with her son as if they were on a stage and life too was beautiful, he was in debt to her, for that bullet in the back of Félix’s head had done him a service too. Nevertheless, the germ of corruption, it couldn’t be denied.

He took his second cup of coffee, laced with a glass of marc, into the street and sat at the little table the barman had just put there. The sky had cleared. Starlings wheeled above him and there was no wind. He remembered how he had sat there one morning and Léon had come round the corner leading Henri’s little dog, Toto. Was that the day when Léon had said that at last he could forget he was talking to a policeman?

Henri was still in his dressing-gown, with carpet slippers on his feet, when he opened the door to him.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No more than usual. I apologise for the early hour. It’s just that I’ve a busy day ahead. How are you? How’s Miriam?’

‘Tired and anxious. Both of us. You look terrible yourself, Jean.’

‘No worse than I feel. Sadly. And I’m afraid I’ve bad news for her.’

‘Léon?’

‘No, not Léon. I’ve no news of him. Nor of Alain.’

‘It must be hard for you, Jean. Don’t suppose I don’t know how hard it must be, not knowing where Alain is. I’ll tell her you’re here. I don’t know how much more bad news she can endure.’

They sat, scarcely speaking, while they waited for her to come down from the attic. To tell the truth Lannes welcomed the silence; it was companionable in its way. They’d known each other so long that there was no need to fill it; just being there with Henri was comfort of a sort. Then Henri opened a drawer in his desk and took out a postcard which he gave to Lannes. It was an old card dating from the Belle Époque, a picture of a Theatre Bill, the kind of thing you come upon in a box at one of the stalls beside the Seine.

Lannes turned it over. The message read:
I have so much to thank you for
.

‘Léon?’

‘I’m sure of it. It’s postmarked Paris, as you see. That’s why I was afraid you had news of him. Any news is likely to be bad, isn’t it, if he’s in Paris? Doing whatever he might be doing.’

‘I’ve had no news,’ Lannes said again. ‘But you’re right, except that if something were to happen to him, it’s unlikely we would hear of it.’

Nevertheless, he thought, if Léon can send Henri a card, why can’t Alain do the same for us? There was one answer which he shrank from and another with which he consoled himself: if he’s in France, he has probably been forbidden to communicate with us, and perhaps Léon has written to Henri – without signing the card – only because he is lonely and afraid.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Henri said, ‘if he survives this war – if we both survive it – I’m going to adopt Léon as my son and heir. I’ve no one else, you know, and besides, now that his mother is dead, he has only Miriam and me.’

When Miriam joined them, descending the stairs cautiously as if she couldn’t trust her legs, Lannes was again dismayed by how she seemed to be wasting away. What would Henri do if she was seriously ill? Was there a doctor he could trust?

She held out her cheek to Lannes for a kiss and hugged him hard.

‘So you have more bad news,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid so. Is there any other kind these days? It’s your uncle, old Léopold.’

She sat down.

‘There are only two kinds of news, I suppose. Either he’s been arrested in this round-up I’ve read about in the newspaper Henri buys, or he’s dead. Which is it?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘How?’

‘He killed himself. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Is it bad news? He’s escaped them, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he’s escaped them. He chose his own way. You can’t blame him.’

‘Oh I don’t. Perhaps I envy him.’

‘Don’t speak like that, Miriam,’ Henri said. ‘Please.’

Lannes explained that he had arranged for his burial, said it was impossible that Miriam should attend; it was more than ever imperative that she remained in hiding here, not only for her own sake, but for Henri’s.

‘And Léon’s,’ he added.

‘Léon’s? Do you really believe we’ll ever see him again?’

He held up the postcard.

‘We must believe we will. We must believe we’ll see all of them again.’

Michel too, even Michel, he thought, for Clothilde’s sake.

‘What about his cat? He always had a cat. What has happened to it? Can you bring it here? I’m sure Toto wouldn’t mind, Henri, would he?’

‘Léopold gave it to a girl he knew and trusted. She’s very pleased to have it.’

‘A girl he knew and trusted? I suppose she’s a tart. The old sinner always had a fancy for tarts.’

‘Yes,’ Lannes said. ‘You could call her a tart. But she’s a nice girl who was fond of the old man.’

‘That’s that then. I don’t really want it. It was just an idea came into my head.’

XLV

Waiting for Dr Duvallier, it was strangely reassuring to feel like a policeman again. Then: it’s just that I’m back on the tightrope, he thought, and you can fall off any minute, either side, and I’m not sure that there is a net to catch me if I do.

‘Do you want me with you, chief?’ Moncerre said.

‘Have you something else urgent?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Well, you said from the start it was a pre-war crime. You may have been right.’

‘I’ve read your notes. I don’t see how we can prove anything,’ Moncerre said. ‘Not unless he’s a fool.’

They were all three on edge; young René because he was responsible for bringing Duvallier to his notice; Moncerre because he was always in a sour mood these days, and not only on account of his wife, no matter what he said – Lannes knew he should broach the subject, but was afraid of the answer he might get; and Lannes himself because he was wondering when they would hear of the discovery of Félix’s body. There was nothing to connect him with it, he was sure of that; nevertheless … he took the bottle of Armagnac from his cupboard and poured them all a drink.

Old Joseph, the office messenger, stuck his head round the door, and said, ‘Your man’s here.’

‘Put him in the ante-room, will you, and bring him in in ten minutes. No harm in keeping him waiting,’ he said. ‘Moncerre, I want you to take the chair in the corner, behind him. Sit where he’s aware of your presence, but can’t see you without turning round. You sit here, René, and take notes. I’ll make sure he realises you’re recording everything he says.’

‘Do you really think he’s our man, chief?’

‘No,’ Moncerre said, ‘it’s just a game he’s playing. We’ve nothing on him.’

‘Happily, he doesn’t know that.’

Lannes got to his feet when Joseph showed Duvallier in. The doctor approached, holding out his hand, which Lannes affected not to notice. He told René to take Duvallier’s coat and hat and hang them up.

‘It’s good of you to come, doctor,’ he said.

‘Oh I hope I’m a good citizen, ready to help the police, and in any case I’m interested to know if you have made any progress.’

‘Progress? No, I wouldn’t say that. These are two of my inspectors. Inspector Martin you already know of course, and Inspector Moncerre. We call him the bull-terrier because when he gets his teeth into a case, he never lets go. If you don’t object, Inspector Martin will make notes of our conversation. He has excellent shorthand, and of course we’ll have his notes typed up for you to read before we take any further action, assuming, that is, there is any to be taken. Are you agreeable?’

‘Perfectly. And you don’t object in turn if I smoke?’

‘Not at all.’

The doctor took out a tobacco pouch in soft maroon leather and began to fill his pipe. He pressed it down with his thumb, and put a match to it. A couple of little puffs and it was going.

‘I’m at your disposal, superintendent, but I should perhaps say that my time is not unlimited. I have a consultation at five and it is now’ – he pulled a watch from his fob pocket, clicked it open – ‘a quarter past three.’

‘You told me, as I remember, that the advocate Labiche was one of your patients?’

‘But one in excellent health. And a very distinguished citizen of Bordeaux, as you must be aware.’

‘Distinguished, certainly. Did he know Madame Peniel – Gabrielle?’

‘I should think it most unlikely. They moved in very different circles, as, again, you must be aware.’

‘Very different circles? You have a note of that, René? And Gabrielle’s father?’

‘Her father? I know nothing of any father.’

‘Perhaps you know him as her uncle. Édouard, or perhaps, Ephraim, Peniel.’

‘Should I?’

‘That’s not for me to say.’ Lannes lit a cigarette. ‘So if he claimed to know you, he would be lying. Is that right?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I’m a well-known figure, superintendent. I would suppose that there are many in Bordeaux who know me by sight or reputation, but of whom I am ignorant. Forgive me, but I am rather puzzled by these questions.’

‘I appreciate that you are well known, doctor. One person I’ve spoken to told me you are known to have – how did he put it? – a handy way with a needle.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Rather a disreputable young man, I confess. Not a reliable witness. Nevertheless, when he said that was your reputation – in his milieu, as he put it – I was naturally interested. Of course I had no reason to believe him. Nevertheless.’

‘I should hope not. The suggestion is slanderous. Naturally, as a doctor, I occasionally have been required to give some of my patients an injection. Of a sedative, you understand. For anxiety.’

‘For anxiety? I understand. But Gabrielle was a morphine addict, wasn’t she?’

‘Who told you that?’

Lannes smiled.

‘Keep calm, doctor. An informed source, shall we say? I’m sure that, as a doctor, you respect the principle of confidentiality. We in the police respect it too.’

‘If you are suggesting that I supplied her with morphine, that too is slanderous.’

‘I’ve made no such suggestion,’ Lannes said. ‘Quite the contrary. The same source actually told me that she had been cured of her addiction, and certainly there is no evidence that she was taking drugs at the time of her death.’

Duvallier swallowed twice, then put a match to his pipe. His hand was quite steady.

‘The poor woman did indeed have such an addiction, and indeed I administered a cure. She put herself in my hands because she trusted me. Trusted and respected. I’ve certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the contrary.’

Moncerre got up, and crossed the room to stand behind the doctor. He put his hands on his shoulders and pressed down hard.