Dark Summer in Bordeaux (12 page)

Alain told them about Léon’s plan to scatter copies of the Cross of Lorraine around the city.

‘I like that,’ Aramis said, ‘that’s brilliant.’

Porthos said, ‘My father says de Gaulle’s a madman, crazy, vain and conceited. He was in a prison camp with him in the last war, and says he wouldn’t trust him an inch.’

‘Well, my father thinks the Marshal the saviour of France,’ Aramis said. ‘We just have to accept that we can’t trust our fathers’ generation. After all, it’s they who have got us into this mess.’

‘De Gaulle may be a madman,’ Alain said, ‘but perhaps a madman is what France needs just now.’

‘Absolutely,’ Aramis said, ‘Joan of Arc was probably crazy and think what she achieved.’

‘And Hitler’s a certifiable lunatic,’ Léon said, ‘who hasn’t done badly, I’m sorry to say.’

Two men approached.

‘Yes, that’s him,’ one of them said.

Léon looked up and recognised Monsieur Dupuy who had been an assistant manager at the bank.

‘You’re sure?’ the other, who was wearing white drill trousers and a white shirt, said.

‘No doubt at all.’

The man in white stepped forward, seized Léon by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

‘Out,’ he said, ‘and don’t try this on again. Out.’ He shook Léon, and said, ‘Just think yourself lucky I don’t give you a boot up the arse.’

‘What the hell is all this about?’ Alain leaped to his feet. ‘Leave my friend alone. Who do you think you are anyway?’

‘I’m the pool supervisor and Jews are not welcome here, not only not welcome, but prohibited.’

Aramis said, ‘Surely you’re speaking the wrong language, my dear man? Don’t you mean “Juden sind verboten”?’

The supervisor swung his arm and caught Aramis on the mouth as he got to his feet. Blood spurted from his lower lip.

‘I give you two minutes to be off, all four of you, or I call the police.’

‘Do that,’ Alain said, ‘and I’ll give you in charge for assaulting my friend.’

‘Like I say,’ M. Dupuy addressed the crowd that was gathering around, ‘it’s always the same, wherever they go, Jews cause trouble. Jews and Jew-lovers. Lice, that’s what they are, lice and sexual perverts, take my word for it. Well, their time’s up, here in France, just as it is in Germany. You can’t deny that Hitler knows the way to deal with them.’

‘Do you know what you are?’ Alain said, ‘You’re a fucking Fascist, and what’s worse, I expect you’re proud of it.’

Porthos laid his hand on Alain’s arm.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘don’t make things worse. It’s all right,’ he said to the supervisor, ‘we’re going.’

‘And don’t come back, any of you.’

Outside Léon struggled to hold back tears of anger and shame. When Porthos said, ‘Are you really a Jew, Athos?’ all he could do was nod.

‘And if he is,’ Alain said, ‘does it matter to you?’

‘Never said it did, did I? I just like to know what’s what.’

‘Bastards,’ Alain said. ‘Now you know what we’re fighting against.’

‘I thought we were fighting against the Germans,’ Porthos said.

‘There’s no difference,’ Alain said, ‘between the Germans and French Fascists.’

‘I’m not very bright,’ Porthos said, ‘as you’ve often made clear to me, old chap, but as I see it, there is a difference. The Boches are a foreign army of Occupation and our enemies. French Fascists are whether you like it or not French. And there seem to be quite a few of them.’

Léon said, ‘I’m sorry if I have embarrassed you.’

His voice was unsteady and he felt ashamed again, to be apologising, or seem to be apologising, for what he was.

‘Not at all, old chap. Just like to know where I stand. Hadn’t occurred to me that you were a Jew. That’s all.’

‘And does it matter to you, now that you know?’

‘Not a lot. I don’t think so. You seem all right and Alain here vouches for you. That’s good enough for me. It’s just that I don’t know any Jews, except a few rich ones whom I don’t much care for.

That’s all.’

‘Aramis,’ Léon said, ‘your poor mouth. It’s still bleeding. Here, take my handkerchief.’

Aramis took it and dabbed his mouth.

‘If I’ve got a scar,’ he said, ‘I’ll wear it as a badge of honour.’

XIX

Lannes had tried to persuade Schnyder to send a summons to the advocate Labiche.

‘He’ll find some excuse to ignore it, or will simply ignore it without any excuse if it comes from me,’ he said.

‘Have you cleared it with Bracal?’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’

‘I don’t know,’ Schnyder said. ‘Labiche is a man of some influence. Hasn’t he been appointed to that body – I forget its name – set up to handle what they call the Jewish Question. I know it’s absurd, and I don’t like it myself, any more than you do. But if we are to retain our independence we have to walk warily – what did you say that king’s name was?’

‘Agag.’

‘That’s right, Agag. After all it’s not as if you suspect Labiche of any crime, do you?’

‘He’s withholding evidence, I’m sure of that.’

‘Clear it with Bracal then, and I’ll sign the letter.’

It was all Lannes could do not to slam the door behind him. He talks of retaining our independence, he thought, but as far as he’s concerned it’s independence to do nothing.

Nevertheless he sent a note through to Bracal and Joseph soon returned to say the judge would be happy to see him straightaway.

Bracal filed his nails as Lannes explained his reasons for wanting to question Labiche.

‘Why don’t you just call on him?’ he said.

‘One of my inspectors – Moncerre – a very good man – has already done that, and was given the brush-off. We’ve learned more about the case since, as I have just told you, and I think we are more likely to get answers if he realises I am not acting on my own, not merely conducting what we call a fishing exercise.’

‘Very well. I’ll take the responsibility of signing the letter myself.

Labiche is well thought of in Vichy, I believe. That’s no reason why we shouldn’t disturb his comfort of course. Between you and me, superintendent, and please don’t repeat this, from what I’ve heard of the advocate, I’ll be quite happy if you do just that.’

So, Lannes thought, I was right, you’re not much in love with Vichy.

Bracal smiled. Then, as if he had read Lannes’ thoughts, or more probably because he realised that he had spoken rashly, he said, ‘As I’m sure you know, superintendent, Vichy is not a monolith. There are different opinions as to what constitutes patriotism, even there.’

The sun was shining and there were only a few fleecy little clouds in the deep blue of the sky as Lannes left the office. He felt almost happy. Even his hip wasn’t hurting. In the Rugby Bar his friend, the journalist Jacques Maso, was drinking pastis.

‘For me,’ he said, ‘it’s a sign that summer has arrived. Swallows mean spring, pastis summer. They say Vichy is going to prohibit its manufacture, but, for now at least, there’s a good supply here in the Occupied Zone. Something to thank the Boches for? I don’t think! Same for you, Jean?’

‘Why not?’

‘You have something for me?’

‘If I had,’ Lannes said, ‘it would almost certainly be something you couldn’t use.’

‘We can still write about crime, providing . . . ’ ‘Providing there are no political angles?’

‘Precisely, and, since there are so often such angles, we can’t write anything. That’s life.’

‘As we have to live it now,’ Lannes said. ‘Take me. I’m presented with a case that looks like a straightforward pre-war murder.’

‘The corpse in the public garden?’

‘How did you guess? Jacques, you still have friends in the Communist Party?’

‘Friends, no. Contacts, yes. You want me to ask around about your professor?’

‘I want to know if he was considered a reliable party member.’

‘That might be possible.’

‘Meanwhile, here’s something for you. His brother, the advocate, sent his office-boy to collect the professor’s goods and papers, though he told one of my inspectors he didn’t know the professor had returned to Bordeaux. Does that interest you?’

‘No end,’ Jacques said, ‘but I can’t write about the advocate, can’t even hint that he might know something about his brother’s murder.’

‘I suppose you can’t, but you may like to know that I’ve summoned him for examination tomorrow.

Jacques lit a cigarette and asked the barman for two more pastis.

‘Be careful, Jean,’ he said, ‘that bastard’s close to the Power.’

‘Quite so, but would it also interest you to know that someone in Vichy gave me ammunition to use against him?’

He didn’t like lying to his friend, even if the lie was only an exaggeration. Edmond de Grimaud had certainly brought the advocate to heel the previous autumn, but he hadn’t supplied Lannes with the weapon he used.

‘Oh,’ Jacques said, ‘so you know about the photographs.’

‘I know they exist. But I haven’t actually seen one.’

‘Well, as it happens,’ Jacques said, ‘I can help you there – so long, old man, as you realise I have had nothing to do with it. They arrived one day in our office, eighteen months ago, before the war anyway. Sent anonymously. We couldn’t use them of course and anyway the editor . . . Well, you know what his politics are – so he ordered them to be destroyed. But I managed to get hold of a couple and hid them away, for future use, if things turn out the way I hope they will. I’m happy to let you have them, that bastard needs to be stitched up. So I’ll have an envelope left for you at the bar here. It’ll be marked “To be collected on behalf of the emperor”. How’ll that do? Don’t pick it up yourself. Send a minion. And enjoy what you find – even though it’ll disgust you. How’s Marguerite? She’ll be happy now, won’t she, that you’ve got your boy home. Stroke of luck. Well, you deserve a bit of that, Jean.’

‘She’s as well as can be, given the times we live in. You should come to see us, Jacques. She’d like that. She remembers the dancing.’

‘Long time ago,’ Jacques said. ‘My dancing days are over.’

You might have thought the old tailor hadn’t moved from his cross-legged pose on the work-table since Lannes’ previous visit. Little eyes peered smokily through his pince-nez spectacles. The needle moved in and out as though by its own mechanical accord. He sniffed loudly and emitted a throaty cough. He offered no greeting, waited – it seemed politely or perhaps without interest – for Lannes to speak.

Instead Lannes settled himself in the rocking-chair that stood by an empty grate, and waited in his turn. The silence prolonged itself and it felt almost companionable to him. At last Lannes said, ‘Of course he came to see you, didn’t he?’

The tailor drew out his thread and nipped it with his teeth.

‘And if he did?’

‘He wasn’t only your client, was he? You were comrades. I checked up on you.’

‘Naturally you did. And what did you find?’

‘That you were expelled from the Party in ’32.’

‘So long ago,’ the old tailor said. ‘It means nothing to me now.’

‘Professor Labiche spoke in your defence.’

‘So he did, so he did.’

The tailor laid his work aside, and with a nimbleness that was surprising descended from the table and hobbled to a cupboard from which he took a dusty bottle of brandy and glasses that were grey with dust too. He gave them a perfunctory wipe with his apron and poured them both a drink.

‘Trotskyism, that’s what they accused me of, but really it was because I could no longer subscribe to faith in the Revolution. You want to know what we talked about? Why not? It can’t matter now, not now that Stalin in the Kremlin and Hitler in whichever antechamber of Hell he inhabits are as one. What did we talk about? We talked about the girl. Of course we talked about the girl.’

‘Pilar?’

‘Pilar, though naturally she went by other names as well. Of course she did. They thought she was a spy too. And of course she was. But you must know all this, superintendent.’

‘Some of it,’ Lannes said.

The brandy was Spanish, at once fiery and sweet.

‘She was betrayed and murdered,’ he said.

‘Liquidated. They don’t use the word “murder”. There would have been a trial.’

‘In absentia,’ Lannes said.

‘The outcome would have been the same whether she was present or not.’

‘But it was the Fascists who killed her,’ Lannes said.

‘And who gave them to her? You know the answer as well as I do, Mr Policeman. Get the devil to do your own dirty work.’

‘So the professor came to tell you about it?’

‘Not at all. There was no need to tell me. She came to see me before she left for Spain. I told her it was foolish. She knew that but she still went. She still believed, you see.’

‘In the Revolution?’

‘That too, but worse. She believed in Justice. In this world – Justice! – I ask you. How can anyone believe in Justice? Do you, a policeman, believe in Justice?’

‘I try to. Sometimes it’s difficult. Always it’s difficult.’

‘For the old Jew it’s impossible,’ the tailor said. ‘“Ruat coelum, fiat justitia” – that old crazy hopeful lie – believe me, the sky falls but there is no justice. I told her that. She wept but she still believed. She was very young, you see. And innocent as only someone who believes in the Revolution and Justice and Fraternity and the Rights of Man can be innocent. Me, I believe in getting through the day, one day at a time, and in my needle and thread.’