Cold Winter in Bordeaux (33 page)
Read Cold Winter in Bordeaux Online
Authors: Allan Massie
‘You think so? Do you believe the war is lost?’
‘Which war?’
‘A good question. They’re on edge in Vichy. I don’t mind telling you that if only because I have no doubt you will have guessed that this is the case. As it happens, I was speaking to Monsieur Laval only last week. Would you like to know what he said? That there are only two people who can save France. One is himself – of course – the other is de Gaulle. It depends, he said, on who wins the war. What do you think of that?’
Lannes took a packet of Gauloises from his pocket, tapped out a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled, blew out smoke, and said, ‘I know very little of these things, I’m only a policeman who tries to do his job, but I’m prepared to believe he may be right. Is that the answer you’re looking for?’
‘Oh my dear fellow, I wasn’t looking for any particular answer.’
He’s beginning to wonder if he has backed the wrong side, Lannes thought, and whether he can extricate himself. Of course he’ll probably have friends in London himself. He had always suspected that Edmond had belonged to the Cagoule, the secretive right-wing conspirators who had worked before the war to undermine and destroy the Republic, and though it was probable that most of the Cagoulards were in Vichy, others were rumoured to be with de Gaulle, one reason why the Left distrusted the rebel General who belonged to a Catholic and Royalist family.
‘It’s a mess certainly,’ Edmond said. ‘We’ll all be lucky if we come out of it alive. You had a visit from a friend of mine the other day.’
‘Did I?’
‘There’s no need to fence with me, superintendent. A man calling himself Fabian, a very distinguished officer.’
Edmond paused, seeming to examine the nails of his right hand.
‘You impressed him,’ he said. ‘ “A careful man.” That’s how he put it. “One who knows when to say nothing.” ’
‘As I recall, I had nothing to say.’
‘Not about that shooting? Nothing to say?’
‘Nothing. It wasn’t my case.’
‘Fabian accepted what you said.’
Edmond switched his examination to the nails of his other hand.
‘But of course he didn’t believe you,’ he said. ‘Neither do I.’
‘As you like,’ Lannes said.
‘The man Félix was a nuisance, I give you that. He was also – you won’t deny this – someone with whom you had, as one might say, crossed swords. I’ve seen the photographs, superintendent – the photographs of you with a boy and of the same boy with the German officer – Schussmann, wasn’t it? – who shot himself, the boy whom Félix was attempting to use to compromise him. What do you say to that?’
The blue-grey smoke of Edmond’s cigar hung between then, then dissolved.
‘I would say it doesn’t amount to anything.’
‘Of course it doesn’t, but, as it happens, I’ve an excellent memory for faces, and when I was in Paris last week, I came upon the boy. He was dining at Lipp with an old friend of mine, the novelist Joachim Chardy. What do you make of that?’
‘What should I make of it? So the boy’s in Paris – assuming you are right and it’s the same boy. A mildly interesting coincidence. I don’t see the relevance.’
‘Chardy, Schussmann, Félix, all of the same inclination, and the same boy. Only an interesting coincidence?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never read any of your friend’s novels.’ Edmond smiled.
‘I don’t expect you’d like them. Clever but trivial. Naughty schoolboys and tales of the seminary. Dumas is more to your taste, I think your son said. So who killed Félix?’
‘How should I know? As I said, it’s not my case. But a bullet in the back of the head, I’m told. Sounds like an execution. So: the Resistance perhaps.’
‘That would be convenient. For everybody. For you, especially, superintendent, these photographs, you know.’
Edmond got to his feet. He stood with his back against the mantelpiece.
‘I don’t care about Félix,’ he said. ‘We all agree he was a nuisance. We’re well rid of him, we can agree about that too.’
He drew on his cigar, crossed the room to a table by the bookcase and poured two glasses of wine from a decanter. He passed one to Lannes.
‘Your health, and farewell to Félix. More than a year ago, superintendent, I helped you when the advocate Labiche was trying to destroy you or at least your career. You won’t have forgotten, I’m sure. I’ll go further and do you the courtesy of believing that you are grateful to me. I won’t say you’re in my debt, nevertheless … well, things are changing; the wind’s shifting, that’s obvious. It may be that I will need your help, not immediately, but some day, even if it’s only to put in a word for me. You understand, I’m sure. I don’t need to spell it out. Meanwhile we can agree that the Resistance, or some element of it, executed Félix. That anyway is what I shall report to my superiors. Nobody else will question you about it. I guarantee that. What do you say?’
Lannes lifted his glass.
‘That sounds all right. Your health.’
Edmond turned away. With his back to Lannes, he said, ‘How’s my Jewish stepmother?’
‘Safe, I hope. And in return as it were, how did the boy look when you saw him in Paris?’
‘How did he look? Just my friend Chardy’s type, I’d say. What Chardy would call “a juicy little piece”. His novels are thin stuff, but he wrote some intelligent essays for my magazine. How long ago that seems.’
‘Like everything pre-war,’ Lannes said, and got up to take his leave. ‘One other thing, however. Is your friend, nephew or whatever, Sigi, in Bordeaux?’
‘No, he’s in Paris. Why do you ask?’
‘Tell him to stay there. There’s a man in Bordeaux who is threatening to kill him. It probably doesn’t mean much, but you never know. The man’s a Russian émigré, a veteran of the Legion.’
‘And do you suppose the threat is serious?’
‘How should I know? It’s only words, only words, but … ’
* * *
The light was fading as he turned away from that house which old Marthe had told him was full of evil, but his spirits lifted. He remembered that exchange in the Vicomte which now, in middle age, was his favourite Dumas novel; how d’Artagnan’s servant Planchet had said he was a man whom God had so formed that he found everything good that accompanied his season on earth, and how d’Artagnan, sitting by the window, had found that the old man’s philosophy had seemed solid to him. Well, there were moments he could persuade himself it was true. Léon was in Paris, safe for the moment, and so he might allow himself to hope that Alain was safe too. And Félix was dead, executed, to everyone’s satisfaction, by the Resistance.
He came to the river. The sun was declining in the west and there was a red glow rippling on the water.
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