Dark Summer in Bordeaux (14 page)

‘So,’ he said, ‘I have come even although your summons was unnecessary as well as an impertinence. I have already told your inspector I know nothing about my unfortunate brother’s death. We had no dealings with each other.’

‘You also told Inspector Moncerre that you knew nothing about his daughter. Nothing about the celebrated actress, Adrienne Jauzion?’

Labiche smiled.

‘He irritated me, your inspector, and I saw no reason why my niece should be troubled.’

‘You can hardly expect me to believe that.’

‘As you like, superintendent. It’s no concern of mine. May I say it is only out of respect for the French State which we both serve that I have presented myself here today. You know very well that I have sufficient influence to have enabled me to ignore your summons with impunity. If I have not done so it is because I am curious to know why you are acting so rashly. You must be as aware that I have been appointed a member of the Institut des Questions Juives as I am that you have Jewish friends, superintendent, your pretty Jewboy in the bookshop and his aunt, the widow of the Comte de Grimaud, in her tabac. I really wonder at your audacity.’

‘We are not here to speak about Jews,’ Lannes said.

‘Nevertheless you would do well to bear them in mind.’

Lannes pushed the photograph of Sombra across the desk.

‘Do you know this man?’

‘Certainly. He presented himself at my office some days after my brother’s death and said he had information which he would let me have at a price. I told him what I told your inspector – that my brother was of no interest to me, dead or alive. So I sent him away. I don’t know his name. He spoke French fluently, but with an accent, Spanish perhaps. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Are you sure that visit was after your brother’s death, not some days before it?’

‘I am not in the habit of making mistakes.’

Lannes lit a cigarette, got up from behind the desk and looked out on to the square which was bathed in sunshine. A party of schoolgirls passed, chattering like starlings.

‘The present Comte de Grimaud is one of your clients, I believe.’

‘He has been in the past. An unfortunate man. I have done what I can for him.’

‘The man in that photograph frequents his house. He is a friend, or associate, of the Count’s illegitimate nephew, who calls himself Sigi de Grimaud, though that is not the name on his birth certificate. Do you know him?’

‘Superintendent, you are wasting my time. Your time too, though that is no concern of mine. I fail to see the relevance of your questions. As for this Sigi de Grimaud or whatever, I may have seen him. I don’t know. I have never spoken to him, though I have heard the Count speak of him. Does that satisfy you?’

‘I take note of what you say. If your brother – and his murder – are of no interest to you, Monsieur Labiche, how did you know the name of the pension where he had been staying and why did you send your office boy to collect his possessions from it?’

‘Because it was natural and proper I should do so. Superintendent, my brother was a fool and his politics were not mine. Nevertheless he was my brother. I am not devoid of family pride, for we are, as you must know, a family of some position here in Bordeaux and have been for generations. Naturally I was anxious lest my brother had some papers which were – shall we say? – discreditable. The Spaniard – if he was a Spaniard – let slip the name of the pension where my brother had been living since his return to Bordeaux. So naturally I sent one of my clerks to retrieve his belongings.’

‘And did you find anything discreditable?’

‘Nothing at all, and nothing of interest either. My brother had led a wasted life, somewhat pitiful indeed, engaged in political foolishness and futility. His effects were meagre. Tell me – since I am being frank, I am entitled to expect frankness in return – do you suspect this Spaniard of complicity in my brother’s murder?’

‘It seems unlikely that he killed him,’ Lannes said.

‘Very well then. I fail to see the relevance of your questions. As I said, we are both wasting our time. Naturally you must investigate his death and I admire your pertinacity. But it has nothing to do with me, and I would advise you to accept what is surely the obvious conclusion: that some lout attacked my brother with intent to rob him and hit him perhaps harder than he intended. It is surely among the scum of the criminal world that you will find his killer – if he is to be found at all.’

He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time smiled, a man at ease with the world. No doubt it was calculated to demonstrate his indifference to the conversation.

‘There are however complications,’ Lannes said, ‘which have led me to reject what would, I agree, be a comfortable solution.’

Labiche took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, snapped it open, and said, ‘I have another and more important appointment.’

There was a knock on the door. René Martin came in with an envelope in his hand.

‘Collected on behalf of the emperor,’ he said, and passed it to Lannes, who slit it open and extracted two photographs. They showed the same scene: the advocate Labiche sitting on a couch beside a little girl. A black mask concealed her face. Otherwise she was naked. She looked no more than twelve. The advocate’s hand rested between her thin thighs. Lannes passed one copy across the desk.

‘You will of course have seen this before,’ he said. ‘Who was the little girl? Is she still alive? And who took the photograph? Jean-Claude who is now the Comte de Grimaud?’

The advocate held the photograph in both hands. The tip of his tongue moved very slowly across his lips.

‘This is evidence of nothing,’ he said.

He tore the photograph across, then tore it again and again, till it was reduced to scraps which he let fall on the floor.

‘I knew you were a fool, superintendent, but I didn’t know you were also a hypocrite. You and Gaston Chambolley and his Jew boy, your Jew boy. As for the girl she gave for money what she was ready to give for free to any “voyou” in a back-alley.’

‘Is she still alive or was she disposed of?’ Lannes said.

‘How should I know?’

Was he indifferent or indignant? Lannes couldn’t tell. He knew only that he felt disgust at being in the same room as the advocate. He had felt pity for many who had sat in that chair, resisting him for hours before breaking and confessing to their crime, sometimes with relief, as if he had been a priest. They weren’t seeking absolution, merely to be known at last for what they were. If Labiche was unconcerned, it was surely because guilt was foreign to him. And of course he was protected.

‘Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Allow me to make something clear. These Jews – your Jews – are at my mercy. One word from me, and they will be arrested and taken to an internment camp. I am told conditions in the camps are not agreeable. If you interfere further in my affairs, I shall make good my threat, and take pleasure in doing so. Pray bear that in mind.’

He clamped his hat on his head and left. Lannes opened the window wide.

XXII

‘Sometimes your beautiful eyes look so sad.’

Lieutenant Schussmann leaned across the table and pressed his hand on Léon’s.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we all have reasons to be sad. I understand that. I told you once, Léon, of my dearest friend who was killed and of how, because I loved him, I married his sister. That was not right of me, nor of her. We both knew it soon, that our marriage was a mistake, because it was founded in loneliness and pity, not in love or desire.’

He paused and drank some wine. He had drunk most of the first bottle and had already drunk one glass from the second.

The restaurant was emptying as people looked at their watches and thought it was time to be home. They were mostly French and, though Schussmann was not wearing his uniform, which was probably in breach of regulations, and therefore was not obviously German, Léon had had the uncomfortable feeling that people had been looking at them throughout the meal. But perhaps it was the key to the hotel room which Félix had given him that made him think this. The memory of that second visit and the way Félix had smiled when he confessed that he had agreed to have dinner with Schussmann made him feel sick.

The waiters were clearing tables and rolling up the paper covers, and still Schussmann talked. Probably he was nervous too and being nervous wanted to postpone the moment when they would have to leave and he would put the question he so much wanted but feared to put.

After all, Léon thought, he can’t be sure, he can’t be sure of me or of how I will answer. And I know how I would answer him if I didn’t have to give him the reply I’ve been instructed to make.

He slipped his hand into the pocket and felt the key.

He can’t even be sure, not absolutely sure, I am as he hopes I am, he thought. Perhaps he won’t dare, perhaps his nerve will fail him at the last minute and we shall say good-night and I’ll thank him for a pleasant dinner.

It was what he wanted, but what he was also afraid of, because Félix would not believe it was Schussmann whose nerve had given way.

How Alain would despise him if he saw him now, knew what he was doing and was about to do, Alain who was so angry that his mother had invited a young German officer to lunch with the family that he had said he certainly wasn’t going to be there. Alain must never know. He couldn’t speak to him of his shame.

‘So my marriage did not last because I am not made for marriage,’ Schussmann said. ‘On the other hand we are not divorced because Greta thinks it is better we maintain the appearance of marriage. Mine is not a good country now for men of my inclination. You understand, Léon, what I am saying. But when the war ends, things will be different, and it is only the stupid obstinacy of England which prevents that. Yes, after the war, we can all relax and be ourselves again and I hope you will visit me in Tübingen which is very beautiful. But for now, Léon, there are only a few moments such as this evening when I can be what I truly am.’

Léon felt sorry for him, but also that he was a bore, as Gaston had never been. Gaston had been full of jokes as well as poetry and intelligence. He had set himself to educate Léon and the education had been fun. He had opened his eyes to so much and he had been full of mischief. He had loved to tell scandalous stories about the distinguished and eminent. He had laughed at himself, even if, quoting an English poet, he had said, ‘and if I laugh at anything, ’tis that I may not weep.’ His favourite Byron, Léon thought, Byron who had, Gaston told him, loved boys as well as women, his last infatuation being a Greek boy called Loukas. ‘I like to think you resemble him,’ Gaston said, ‘though, alas, I know I am no Byron.’

I can’t go through with it, Léon thought. Gaston would despise me as much as Alain. No, he wouldn’t, he would despise the action, what I’ve been ordered to do, but not me, he wouldn’t despise me. Maman and Aunt Miriam in an internment camp – he would understand how . . .

‘You are distracted,’ Schussmann said, ‘perhaps I have been boring you . . . ’ ‘Not at all, but when you spoke of your dead friend, it set me thinking of one of mine who is also dead.’

The waiters were piling chairs on the tables.

Schussmann leaned forward, ‘Léon, I would so much wish . . . Have you, I wonder, a room we could go to . . . ’ Léon felt his hand begin to tremble. He thrust it between his legs.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we could do that.’

The clerk in the mean hotel – Hotel Artemis – across the road from the Gare Saint-Jean did not look up from his newspaper when Léon and Schussmann passed him. In the lift, mounting slowly and unsteadily to the second floor, Schussmann stroked the boy’s cheek.

‘I have so much wanted this.’

Léon took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. The little room was bare, the only furniture the bed, a chair and a table on which stood a jug and basin, and a couple of tumblers.

‘So this is not where you live?’

Léon, tense, made no reply.

‘And you have used this room before, for this purpose.’

Léon couldn’t bring himself to look Schussmann in the face. He was on edge, ashamed and afraid. He slipped his jacket off and began to unbutton his shirt.

‘No, please, allow me the pleasure of undressing you.’

He let his hands fall to his sides. Schussmann kissed him on the mouth.

‘Oh Léon . . . Sit on the bed, please.’

He knelt down and removed Léon’s shoes and socks. Then he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. Léon shifted aside to help him. Then he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Schussmann, still on his knees beside the bed, ran his hands up and down Léon’s thighs and brought his head forward. Léon felt his tongue go to work and heard him moan with the anticipation of pleasure. The door opened.

‘Act One: curtain,’ Félix said.

He stood there smiling, and closed the door behind him. He put a paper bag on the table, and said, ‘We have matters to discuss, Lieutenant. Léon, pick up your clothes and get out. You’ve done your work, Jewboy. Oh yes, lieutenant, it’s even worse than you feared. Not only are you caught
in flagrante delicto
but your catamite is a Jew. You didn’t know? Doesn’t matter. What would Himmler say? I can guess, can’t you? Dachau or some other holiday camp? That would be your fate, wouldn’t it?’