Dark Summer in Bordeaux (34 page)

Nevertheless I’ll say this. Since you didn’t arrange for Sombra to be released, someone else did, and this must be someone who has found a use for him. And that use may be against you. In short, I put it to you that Sombra has been turned. You are a man – I have reason to know – who has enemies, perhaps in Bordeaux, as, for instance, the advocate Labiche – or perhaps here in Vichy, people who take an interest in your dealings with Germany before the war. There, I’ve said it. You’ll have an idea yourself who these people might be. I’ve no doubt of that. The question is: who would Sombra have given that envelope to, if he had managed to get hold of it? To you by way of your nephew Sigi? To the advocate Labiche? Or to this someone else?’

De Grimaud got to his feet.

‘You have given me much to think about. This time it is I who am in your debt, superintendent. I won’t forget it, I assure you. As I may have said before, I have developed a regard for you – whatever our differences. I am delighted that our sons are friends, and you may rest assured that I shall keep my eye on your Dominique and see that he comes to no harm.’

Again he extended his hand, and this time Lannes took it without hesitation. De Grimaud paused on his way out to speak to the barman. The pianist played an American tune that Lannes recognised but couldn’t put words to. Alain would know, he thought, Clothilde also.

Pierre came over to refill his glass again.

‘I apologise again for not being able to serve you pastis,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless this is very good champagne. Monsieur de Grimaud is indeed one of our most valued customers. A man of considerable influence, I believe.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Pierre,’ Lannes said. ‘In your profession you know these things, don’t you?’

‘As in yours, sir.’

‘In mine?’

‘I heard how Monsieur de Grimaud addressed you.’

‘Yes, of course. But I have no standing here in Vichy.’

‘Do you still wish the smoked salmon, sir?’

‘Why not? After all, I suppose you will put it on Monsieur de Grimaud’s bill.’

He wondered if he had behaved rashly. Would de Grimaud realise that his words about men in Vichy who might take an interest in his dealings pre-war with Germany suggested that he himself had been approached by one of them? Almost certainly; he was no fool. Strangely, Lannes thought, he had indeed developed some regard for him, respect at least. They thought differently, as he had said. De Grimaud was a man of the Right, even the far-Right, even perhaps a Fascist, though it was likely that he despised the petit-bourgeois agitators who dominated the ever-shifting French Fascist parties. More probably he was a Cagoulard, a member of that aristocratic and haut-bourgeois secret society that in the years before the war had murdered and sought to provoke violence from the Left in an attempt to undermine, even destroy, the Republic. He had been responsible for that attempt on Lannes’ life, an attempt which had so nearly succeeded, and his tools, Sigi and Sombra, had tortured Gaston in an attempt to extract information which Lannes was certain Gaston had never possessed, and then murdered him. It was vile and unforgivable, and yet Lannes couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. Perhaps I’m as morally corrupt as he is, he thought. What would Marguerite say if she knew? Or the children? And had Lannes in effect signed Sombra’s death warrant? He hadn’t mentioned the BMA, but de Grimaud must suspect he had enemies in the secret world, probably knew who they were. Lannes had made clear his suspicion that de Grimaud could no longer trust Sombra. If he was found with a bullet in his head, would he hold himself responsible? He remembered how Sombra had looked when he threatened him with the guillotine.

He returned to his hotel, and slept for two hours.

And now it was a beautiful June evening and lovers were strolling the streets hand in hand. The war was far away, not even in another country, for there was no war, certainly not one in which France was engaged. And nothing was simple.

Dominique joined him for dinner. He brought Maurice with him to serve as a buffer. The conversation was general. Maurice talked enthusiastically of the important work that was being done with the Chantiers de Jeunesse. ‘You would be amazed, sir,’ he said, ‘in the transformation of these city boys after a few weeks’ work in the country. It’s not only a physical transformation, it’s a moral one too.’

It was only as the boys rose to take their leave that Dominique’s resentful reserve was breached.

‘Speak to Maman, please,’ he said. ‘Don’t shut her out.’

And then, ‘Do you think Alain will be all right? Give Maman my love and say I’m happy. And Clothilde too.’

XLVII

He slept badly, as he almost always did in hotels, and woke from a wretched disturbing dream of which he could remember little. He had found himself in a deserted house, wandering through rooms where dust lay thick on every surface, and when he called out, ‘Is there anyone here?’ heard only the echo of his own words. Each door he opened took him further towards something fearful.

He dressed, paid his bill, and stepped out into the sunshine. It

was still very early. At the café next door to his hotel, the waiters were unhooking the chairs on the terrace. He went into the bar and had a coffee standing at the counter. He had two hours to kill before his train.

‘Superintendent Lannes.’

He turned round. The speaker was in shadow and for a moment he didn’t recognise him. Then he moved forward and Lannes saw it was the BMA spook – what was his name? Villepind? No, Villepreux, that was it.

‘So: what do you think of the news?’

‘What news?’

‘Hitler has repeated Napoleon’s error.’

‘You mean?’

‘Yes, it’s just come through. At dawn this morning the first troops of the Wehrmacht were launched against the Soviet Union.’

Lannes’ first reaction: enormous relief, this is marvellous, Germany will lose the war. Then, he said, ‘Napoleon reached Moscow.’

‘The USSR stretches a long way east of Moscow.’

He laid his hand on Lannes’ arm.

‘Come for a walk. You have time before your train, I think.’

He led Lannes past the Hôtel du Parc, so incongruously the seat of government.

‘The Marshal rarely appears before mid-day,’ Villepreux said, ‘and sleeps in the afternoon. He has to husband his strength. I wonder if they have yet told him the news. I wonder if he will realise its significance.’

‘Whatever that may be,’ Lannes said.

‘Ah, you understand. It changes everything, but the immediate changes will be different from the long-term ones.’

‘As you say.’

‘There will be talk of a crusade against atheistic Bolshevism.’

‘Only talk?’

‘Perhaps. We must certainly hope so, don’t you think?’

They came to the Parc des Sources. At this hour of the morning there was a coming-and-going of officials and secretaries crisscrossing the park on the way to their offices, many of them in hotels requisitioned by the State. Most would have heard the news on their radios, but they were going to work as if it was an ordinary day, rather than one on which the campaign that would decide the outcome of the war, and therefore the fate of France and the regime, was beginning.

Villepreux stopped by a bench under the canopy of a plane tree.

‘This’ll do,’ he said, ‘pleasant spot, nobody within hearing.’

He began to fill his pipe. Lannes lit a cigarette and waited. He wasn’t going to make the running in this conversation which certainly hadn’t been brought about by chance.

‘Then there are our own Reds,’ Villepreux said. ‘They’ve been no trouble so far, not as long as Hitler and Stalin were in a loving embrace or, if that’s putting it too strongly, then at least nominally allies. Things will be different now. My organisation will be required to keep an even closer eye on them. They’re patriots of course, but are they patriots for France or patriots for the Soviet Union?’

‘They might be both.’

‘But which comes first? You know they’ve been denouncing the general who is currently in London as a Fascist. They’re wrong of course. De Gaulle’s an old Action Française man, who might have found himself here if he had a different temperament and hadn’t fallen out with the Marshal over that book he wrote, but he’s no Fascist, too old fashioned for that. What was in the envelope you handed over to de Grimaud, superintendent?’

An aeroplane passed over, heading south. Lannes waited till the sound of its engine had died away. Pierre, he thought, the barman at the Ambassadeurs – it was natural that the spooks would have their man there. He took a chance.

‘You wouldn’t need to ask if Sombra had got it for you,’ he said.

Villepreux paused to re-light his pipe. Lannes watched a squirrel leap from branch to branch of the tree.

‘That wretched Spaniard,’ Villepreux said. ‘He didn’t kill your Red professor, you know.’

‘I know. Are you sure he was working only for you?’

‘One can be sure of nothing these days. I’m certainly not sure of you, superintendent. Who else might he be working for?’

‘Oh, there are several possibilities,’ Lannes said. ‘I wouldn’t even exclude the Boches. He’s a twister. Then there’s the murdered man’s brother, a lawyer. Sombra’s certainly had dealings with him.

And of course, as you certainly know, there’s de Grimaud himself, indirectly perhaps, directly for de Grimaud’s nephew Sigi, who sometimes calls himself Marcel, and who certainly was the first person to commission him to get the envelope. You’ll know about him, I daresay.’

‘You’re avoiding my question, superintendent.’

‘Not at all. It’s simply that I don’t know the answer. I handed the envelope to de Grimaud unopened.’

Villepreux frowned.

‘Why should I believe you?’

‘It’s no matter to me whether you do or not,’ Lannes said.

‘Nevertheless that’s what I did. As you know he arranged for my son to be repatriated. We had an arrangement, a deal if you like. I was keeping my side of the bargain.’

‘You’re very old-fashioned, superintendent. Or are you playing both sides?’

‘Not how I would put it,’ Lannes said.

The spook’s question was a fair one, perplexing too. He looked out of the train window and pondered it. Why was de Grimaud so apparently eager to be on good relations with him? There was no satisfactory answer to that.

XLVIII

He climbed the stairs slowly. He didn’t want to be home, to be received by Marguerite with reproaches or, worse, icy and hostile silence. He was in the position of so many Frenchmen, of France itself indeed, unable to do what was right, because the alternative courses open to him were between bad and worse. Consequently he was condemned to behave badly, and not only in his treatment of Marguerite or in making no move to re-open the case of Aristide’s death, now that he knew who was responsible. He couldn’t have done so, certainly. Though St-Hilaire had not deigned to suggest that he was offering a quid pro quo, nevertheless that was indeed the case: he had arranged for Alain and Léon to get to Algiers, and in exchange had provided the solution to the case in such a manner that Lannes could not honourably act on the information. And now there was the matter of his recruitment by Vincent of the TR as an agent, if a sleeping one, and the complication of his relations with Edmond de Grimaud. To say nothing of his difficulties with Kordlinger . . .

He unlocked the door of the apartment. The sitting room was dark and for a moment he wondered if Marguerite had left him. Then Clothilde came through from the kitchen with a mug in her hand.

‘Where’s your mother?’

‘At Grandma’s. She’s ill and was getting in a state, apparently. So Maman went round to look after her.’

Lannes was ashamed to feel a stab of relief at his wife’s absence.

‘I don’t think it’s serious,’ Clothilde said.

‘And you’re all alone?’

‘I’m grown up, Papa, almost anyway. How was your trip? How was Dominique?’

‘Happy, I think. As for the trip, I did what I had to do.’

Alain’s cat came and rubbed against his legs.

‘Poor No Neck,’ Clothilde said, ‘I think he’s really missing Alain badly.’

‘We’re all missing him, but . . . ’

‘Oh I understand, even if Maman doesn’t. Maybe if I was a boy I would think like him.’

‘I think she does understand. It’s just that she disapproves.’

‘You look tired. Are you hungry?’

‘No, only tired. Have you eaten, darling?’

‘Maman left a vegetable stew. There’s plenty for you too.’

‘No, it’s all right. I’ll have a glass of wine and then bed.’

Clothilde stretched out on the couch, dangling her fingers for the cat to play with.

‘It’s nice being alone together,’ she said.

Then she sat up.

‘But this news,’ she said. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It’ll be months before we can know the answer to that,’ Lannes said. ‘But I think Hitler may have bitten off more than he can chew.’

He went through to the kitchen for the wine. When he returned, Clothilde said, ‘Michel’s sure it means we must join the war against Bolshevism . . . ’

‘Michel? Oh, your new boy. I hope we’ll do no such thing.’