Cold Winter in Bordeaux (30 page)

‘Quite the angel of mercy, aren’t you, doc? All the same, why don’t you admit it? Like the superintendent said, you’re a handy man with the needle, aren’t you?’

‘Superintendent, I came here of my own accord, to help you with your enquiries, not to be slandered.’

‘Inspector Moncerre asked you a question. That’s all. Putting a question isn’t slanderous. Besides, you came today because I asked you to come and I did so because you interest me and I have some other questions to put to you. You interest me because you forced yourself on my notice, and I tend to find that suspicious. Why did he do that? I asked myself. And then you told me two lies. First, you gave me to understand that Gabrielle became your patient only after she left Madame Jauzion’s employment, and then you said that Madame Jauzion was herself still your patient. But she dismissed you, didn’t she? Then I learnt why she did so: because of your association, your peculiar association perhaps, with her uncle, the advocate Labiche, whom she detests. Detests with good reason, I should add. It was a stupid lie, an unnecessary one, and I am always curious when I am told needless lies. The result is that I find myself questioning anything the liar says to me. And now this afternoon you have told me another: saying you have no knowledge of Édouard, or Ephraim, Peniel, who is, or believes himself to be, Gabrielle’s father, and who certainly acted as her accomplice in procuring underage girls to satisfy the perverted demands of her clients. What do you say to that?’

Duvallier made no immediate reply. He looked Lannes in the eye, as if challenging him to hold his gaze, and raised his chin, in the manner of press photographs of Mussolini. Then he put another match to his pipe, and said, ‘I’ve already told you I know nothing of the man you speak of.’

‘Interesting,’ Lannes said. ‘We’ll come back to him later. Were you on good terms with Gabrielle?’

‘She was my patient. Our relationship was purely professional.’

‘You visited her frequently, didn’t you?’

‘No more than other patients who require my attention. I’m a conscientious physician, superintendent, as anyone will tell you. Moreover she was, as you know, my stepdaughter’s piano teacher.’

‘Quite so. And suffered, as you have told me, from attacks of anxiety.’

‘Precisely.’

‘You never quarrelled with her?’

‘I had no reason to do so.’

‘And yet, there was an occasion when she seemed to threaten you with some unpleasant consequences, admittedly unspecified, if you failed to keep to an agreement you had made with her.’

‘I have no memory of such an occasion.’

‘And yet we have a witness to it.’

Duvallier drew on his pipe. Lannes opened the drawer of his desk and took out a notebook, which he pretended to consult.

‘It’s clear enough,’ he said. ‘I have it in writing. You explained to our witness that Gabrielle was a hard woman who didn’t always mean what she said. On account of her anxiety perhaps?’

The doctor smiled.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That poor little girl, Marie. She was alarmed. Unnecessarily alarmed, for it meant nothing. But I put her mind at ease.’

‘I see. It meant nothing, and you put her mind at ease. And this agreement?’

‘It was of no importance, of so little importance that I forget what she was talking about. She spoke wildly sometimes, poor woman. Superintendent, as I said, I have a consultation this afternoon. I came here – at your request, as you say, to try to help you. But, to speak frankly, you are wasting my time, which is valuable, and your own, which is doubtless valuable also. So I think that’s enough.’

He got to his feet and looked round for his coat.

‘As you say, doctor, time is valuable and I am grateful to you for giving me so much of yours. There is just one other thing. The man, Peniel, Gabrielle’s father, whom you say you don’t know, gave me a list of Gabrielle’s clients, that’s to say, of the men for whom she procured under-age girls. Your name is on that list, along with the advocate Labiche’s. What do you have to say to that?’

Duvallier picked up his coat.

‘What do I have to say? That the suggestion is monstrous, slanderous, utterly untrue, without foundation, and if it’s repeated, I shall have to consult my lawyer. Besides, this Peniel is well known to be a disreputable character. I believe he was once a doctor, struck off for performing abortions. His word is worthless, everyone knows that. Nobody would hang a cat on his word.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Lannes said. ‘You seem well informed, considering that you don’t know the man. That will be all, for this afternoon. Thank you for your time. Perhaps you will be kind enough to call here tomorrow morning, and sign the record of our conversation which Inspector Martin will have typed out for you.’

When Duvallier had gone, Moncerre, without saying anything, filled their glasses.

‘Why the hell, chief,’ he said, ‘have you let him go?’

‘Did he do it?’ young René said.

‘Oh yes, I think so, don’t you? Moncerre, I want you to put a tail on him. Someone reliable this time. As to your question, sometimes you have to play out the line to land your fish. René, you’ll pick up the girl, Marie. Take her to the Pension Bernadotte, and get old Mangeot to give her a room. Then tell the girl Yvette she’s to keep an eye on her. She’s not to leave her room. And tell old Mangeot that I’ll have his guts for garters if he lets anyone know she’s there. Speak to Madame Mangeot too, she’s a decent enough old thing. As for your tail, Moncerre, tell him Duvallier will go looking for the girl. And, René, when you’ve seen to Marie and explained the position to her mother, you’ll type up the record, make two copies, and take one through to Judge Bracal. It’ll be his case from now on. Oh, and say to the Mangeots and Yvette that I’ll be round there in the morning. I think that’s everything.’

XLVI

As usual these days he had slept badly. There was no joy at home, Marguerite’s eyes filling with tears several times in the evening, and Clothilde looking like the tragic heroine of a romantic novel, which, poor girl, in a sense she was. The evening meal was passed in silence, and when Lannes picked up a book to read, he found himself unable to concentrate even on the adventures of his beloved musketeers. In any case he couldn’t now read of the young d’Artagnan without Alain’s face coming between him and the page. When he took Marguerite a cup of lime tea in the morning, she turned away from him. He told himself it was in reality the world from which she was withdrawing, but, though he pitied her, he also resented her misery. Clothilde’s was different. He could sympathise more easily with it, but had no words of comfort for her. He feared after all that she would never see Michel again – and if she did, wouldn’t he be changed, damaged, by whatever he was going to experience?

There was a pile of paperwork on his desk, and for once he almost welcomed it. No matter how tedious and futile, it would at least serve as distraction. But he had done no more than run his eye over the first couple of documents, in which, needless to say, there was nothing of interest or importance, when old Joseph poked his head round the door to say that the Alsatian, as even he now called Commissaire Schnyder, wanted to see him.

‘Urgent, he says, I’ve not seen him in such a tizzy.’

‘Ah well, I’ve got something to cheer him up,’ Lannes said, taking the box of smuggled Havanas which Fernand had handed him the previous week, and which he had forgotten till now to pass on to the Alsatian. He wondered if Duvallier had lodged a complaint. No matter if so; the case would be with Bracal that afternoon, and so out of his hands.

Schnyder’s room was the only warm one in the building. How did he manage it?

The Alsatian had company, a lean tawny-skinned man in a dark suit. Lannes felt foolish to be carrying the cigars.

‘I believe you left these in my office, sir,’ he said, laying the box on the desk.

‘What? Oh, my cigars?’ Schnyder said. ‘I wondered where I had left them. A present from a friend at the Spanish consulate.’

‘You’re a lucky man to have such a friend. So this is Superintendent Lannes? I’ve heard much about you,’ the visitor said, extending his hand.

‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ Lannes said.

‘This gentleman has come from Vichy – he belongs to an organisation he would rather not name, but which … ’

The Alsatian broke off, uncertain how to proceed.

‘And I myself,’ the man said, ‘generally prefer to pass incognito. The name Fabian will serve well enough. Superintendent, I arrived in Bordeaux because we have a problem, only to find that it has taken what I may call an even more unfortunate turn. I believe you may be able to help us.’

‘I’m at your disposal.’

‘Perhaps we should all sit down. What I have to say is embarrassing, and may take some time.’

The Alsatian shifted in his seat, and ran his hand through his hair.

‘May I offer you a cigar?’ he said. ‘They’re genuine Havanas, as you see, Romeo y Juliettas, not, I have to say, my favourite brand, but these days one must be grateful for what one can get, or is given.’

The man who called himself Fabian said, ‘Thank you, but I prefer cigarettes.’

‘As you like,’ the Alsatian said. ‘It occurs to me that it might be most suitable if you were to discuss your problem with Superintendent Lannes alone, and in any case, I must apologise. I have an important meeting with the Prefect, for which I am in danger of being late. So perhaps, Jean, you will be good enough to take our visitor to your own office. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, sir.’

* * *

‘A careful man, your commissaire,’ Fabian said, settling himself in the chair in which Duvallier had sat the previous afternoon. ‘And of course he is wise to be careful. Do you suppose he really has an appointment with the Prefect?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Lannes said. ‘There’s no reason why he shouldn’t have.’

‘And every reason why he should prefer to know nothing of my little problem. We live in days when it is often wise to be ignorant.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Would it be possible to get coffee, no matter how bad it may be?’

‘I’ll ask Joseph, our office messenger, to have it brought to us.’

When he came back into the office, Fabian had placed a packet of the Italian cigars called Toscani on the desk, and was cutting one in half with a pocket-knife.

‘I’m a terrible liar, you see,’ he said. ‘I really prefer these to cigarettes and also to Havanas. It’s a habit I learnt in Indo-China where I spent several years – which accounts for my complexion, malaria, you know – and developed a taste for the cheroots they make in Burma which used to be available everywhere in the East. These are the nearest equivalent I have found in Europe, and fortunately a friend in the Italian embassy in Vichy keeps me supplied with them. Like your commissaire with his friend – in the Spanish consulate, didn’t he say? May I offer you one?’

‘Thank you, no, I actually do prefer cigarettes.’

He tapped out a Gauloise and lit it.

‘The coffee will be terrible,’ he said. ‘May I offer you a glass of Armagnac?’

‘Alas no. I suffer from liver trouble, another legacy of the East I’m afraid. But don’t let me stop you.’

Lannes crossed to the cupboard, took out the bottle and a glass, brought them back to his desk and poured himself a drink. He wouldn’t touch it till Joseph arrived with the coffee, at which point, he assumed, his visitor would explain why he was there.

‘The Italians still have an embassy in Vichy?’

‘It lingers on. To little purpose. Like so much these days, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You’ve been recommended to me,’ Fabian said. ‘As an honest man.’

He smiled, as if, Lannes thought, the idea of there being an honest man amused him because it was improbable.

‘By a mutual friend, Edmond de Grimaud. He speaks well of you.’

‘Kind of him.’

‘We spoke of you the other night, after I had had dinner with him, and his son and your son too – Dominique, isn’t it? A charming boy, de Grimaud’s also, two charming boys indeed. I imagine you are proud of the work they are doing.’

‘I’m told it’s useful.’

‘Another careful man. I like that. But perhaps you are not careful in quite the same way as your commissaire? Would I be correct in supposing that his chief care is to avoid responsibility and, as the vulgar expression has it, keep his nose clean?’

Fortunately, at that moment, Joseph came in with the coffee, and Lannes had no need to answer the question.

‘You are right,’ Fabian said. ‘Terrible. If there was no other reason for looking forward to the end of the war, it would be enough to hope one might again have drinkable coffee. You’ve had some dealings with a man calling himself Félix.’

It was a statement, not a question.

‘And you enquired about him when you were in Vichy in the summer of ’41.’

‘You are well informed. He was described to me as a bit of a loose cannon.’

‘And you have had further dealings with him since, here in Bordeaux.’

‘We had lunch together one day.’

‘After which, I believe he lodged a complaint against you.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘But nothing came of it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Quite so. But I must tell you there was some anxiety – I won’t say actual suspicion, but anxiety – in Vichy. If Edmond de Grimaud hadn’t vouched for you, the matter might have been more thoroughly investigated. But he did. So it passed over. What do you know of Félix’s activities here in Bordeaux?’

‘Very little. He talked at length but not specifically. He was interested in a murder case which had come my way. But it had nothing to do with him, a purely domestic crime. One of my inspectors was certain from the start that it was what he called “a pre-war crime”. I was doubtful at first, but in fact he was right.’

‘So you’ve solved it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And there is no aspect of it that might interest me or my department?’

Lannes picked up his glass which he had left untouched, sniffed the brandy and took a sip.

‘How can I tell,’ he said, ‘what might interest you? Or your department since I don’t know what that is. There was a suggestion it might involve the Resistance, whatever form that may take, but there was nothing in it. Nothing at all, no public aspect of the death.’