Cold Winter in Bordeaux (12 page)

The sun had come out and it was a bright cold afternoon with only a few delicate fleecy clouds in the sky when he left the office, but there was still rainwater in the gutters and his shoes were spattered with mud well before he had reached the Count’s ‘hôtel particulier’ in the Allées de Tourny. It was an address which, even after more than twenty years in the police, still left him, to his irritation, feeling abashed. When he was a young inspector, much like René Martin now, his boss had remarked on his feeling of social inadequacy and sought to rid him of it. ‘Always remember, Jean,’ he had said, ‘that when you go to one of these grand houses, you are there as an officer of the Republic, either because its occupants have need of you, or because they or theirs have stepped out of line. Whichever way, you’re the man in charge.’ It was no doubt good advice, and it irked him to think that he had never had the confidence to act fully upon it. He smiled at the thought now, threw his cigarette away, and rang the bell.

The butler showed him into a salon where the Louis Quinze furniture and the portraits of what he took to be the count’s ancestors might have been calculated to sharpen his sense of social unease. There was also a Fragonard of nymphs bathing, which was not to his taste, and a still life of bread, cheese, wine and fruit, which he took to be a Courbet, and which pleased him, because it was as ordinary as it was beautiful. He was still admiring it when the Count came into the room.

There was a moment of constraint. That was no surprise. It couldn’t be otherwise. At their last meeting the Count had let him understand that the actress and star of the Bordeaux theatre, Adrienne Jauzion, whom the world took to be his lover, had been responsible for the killing of her father, Professor Aristide Labiche, the brother of the advocate whom Lannes detested; Lannes had already been ordered to abandon the investigation into Aristide’s death, but now, the memory of that conversation hung trembling in the air between him and St-Hilaire. He had done nothing with the information, as the Count had known he would do nothing, and not only because he was in debt to the Count for having facilitated the escape from Bordeaux of Alain and his friends. He respected St-Hilaire, was grateful to him, might even like him; and yet he still resented, as he had then, his patrician certainty that Lannes would not act on the information he had given him. There had been extenuating circumstances, certainly; nevertheless, if a shopkeeper had told him that his mistress, in a moment of anger and bitterness, had killed her father, would he have done nothing about it? He could be sure of the answer and felt soiled.

‘Have you word of your son?’ the Count said.

For a moment Lannes hoped – feared – that it was to give him news about Alain that St-Hilaire had invited him, but this was absurd; the question would have been framed differently.

‘None at all,’ he said, ‘but I gather Madame de Balastre has recognised Jérôme’s voice on Radio London. So I hope they may all be in England.’

‘Yes, I suppose mothers can’t be mistaken about their son’s voice. It must be worrying for you.’

‘Given his sentiments, it would be worrying if he was still here.’

‘Ah yes, the Resistance, an admirable cause, but perhaps not always admirable people.’

Lannes made no reply, and hoped the expression on his face was neutral.

‘And now North Africa,’ the Count said. ‘A turning point.’

‘Perhaps. Who knows?’

St-Hilaire took a box of Ramon Allones cigars from an occasional table, and offered it to Lannes, who declined, saying he preferred cigarettes, and was invited to light one. The Count clipped the end off a cigar and held a match to it.

‘Oh, there can be no doubt,’ he said. ‘The Germans are a remarkable people, magnificent warriors, but now that the Americans have bestirred themselves, they’re doomed. Between the pincer of the United States and the Soviet Union, a German victory is unthinkable. It’s only a matter of time. Which is why I would wish that your charming son and that clever Jewish boy – was his name Léon? – were safe in a broadcasting studio with my godson. But now the Resistance, most of whom I suppose are Communists, are determined that France should become a battlefield, with Frenchmen killing Frenchmen. I have a certain regard for Monsieur Laval: a scoundrel, but an intelligent one, and a man who prefers peace to war. As we all should, don’t you think? You fought at Verdun yourself, if I remember?’

‘I did.’

The butler brought in a tray with a carafe of red wine and three glasses. He poured them each a glass, and when he had closed the door behind him, St-Hilaire said, ‘I asked Mademoiselle Jauzion to join us. I hope this doesn’t embarrass you. It was at her request that I wrote to you. She has something to say to you, some information, I gather, to impart – when she has repaired her maquillage, as she is, I presume, doing now.’

She was wearing a trim dark suit – costume, Marguerite would have called it – beautifully cut – Chanel, perhaps, though the name came to his head only because she was the only designer he could think of. But it was certainly à la mode – or à la mode of 1939 anyway, he was sure of that. The shirt below it was cream-coloured with a high lace neck, and whatever repairs she had been making to her face had given her a mask which expressed nothing. He wondered if she was nervous, and yet it was she who had invited this meeting. She settled herself in a high-backed chair, crossed her silk-stockinged legs elegantly, and met his gaze, then looked away. St-Hilaire gave her a glass of wine which she placed on the little table beside her chair without bringing it to her lips. She took a cigarette from a silver case, fitted it in an amber holder and waited for the Count to light it. She inhaled deeply, and then, blowing out smoke, said, ‘She was my dresser for five years, Gabrielle I mean. She was efficient and orderly, and I relied on her. I never liked her but she had my respect, and then I found it necessary to dismiss her. Does this interest you, superintendent?’

‘Assuming you are speaking about the murdered woman, Gabrielle Peniel, anything you might have to tell me about her interests me. We know so little.’

‘Please sit down, superintendent. You unnerve me, standing there.’

He didn’t believe this for a moment; yet did as she asked.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why did you find it necessary to dismiss her?’

‘Good dressers are hard to come by, and important for someone in my position. Nevertheless, I couldn’t keep her after I learnt that she enjoyed a certain relationship with my uncle the advocate. I believe Monsieur de St-Hilaire’ – she turned towards the Count with a smile – ‘has spoken to you of my uncle and … ’

She paused and St-Hilaire intervened.

‘There’s no need, Adrienne, to say anything about that. I’m sure the superintendent understands perfectly what you refer to, and how you suffered.’

‘Certainly,’ Lannes said. ‘But this relationship between Gabrielle and the advocate. What do you imply by the word?’

‘Not what the world might suppose,’ she said. ‘That wouldn’t have been her way. Gabrielle was a lesbian.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps you have already learnt that?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘That didn’t concern me. Why should it? The tendency, if I may call it that, is quite common in the theatre. Elsewhere too, I suppose. She had a particular friend, a young dancer. Kiki she was known as. It was a passionate relationship; they used to have terrible quarrels which, I may say, rather amused me. But that wasn’t why I dismissed her. What she and Kiki did together was no concern of mine. I hope that doesn’t shock you, superintendent?’

‘I’m a policeman.’

She picked up her glass and sipped the wine, a small delicate sip. She ran her tongue over her lips.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, ‘you must be hard to shock. There’s another policeman in my story by the way. But I’ll come to him later. This is more difficult than I had supposed it would be, even more difficult … ’ – she turned towards St-Hilaire as if looking for support.

He said, ‘I’m sure Superintendent Lannes is happy for you to take your time, tell the story in your own way.’

‘I’m accustomed to speaking other people’s words,’ she said. ‘I know how to deliver an author’s lines. But this … Kiki was a nice girl, a silly little fool who didn’t know what she wanted or who she was, which perhaps wasn’t surprising since she was an orphan raised by nuns in a convent where they cared for abandoned children. Perhaps that is why I felt a tenderness for her. Being abandoned in childhood is another form of abuse, isn’t it? The world is a rather horrible place, you know. That’s why I have the reputation of being aloof. I have steeled myself against it, and the face I present to the world is a cold one. I display emotion only on the stage. Off stage I wear a mask. Do you understand?’

‘Please continue,’ Lannes said, ‘when you feel able.’

‘There are horrors everywhere,’ she said, ‘but you must know that. You know my uncle, don’t you?’

‘I know your uncle.’

‘One day I found Kiki in tears. She was distraught, shaking with sobs. It was embarrassing. I thought she and Gabrielle had quarrelled again. They did, quite often; Gabrielle had a quick temper, a vile one. I think she hit her sometimes. But Kiki usually shrugged it off, with a laugh even. ‘I’m a child of the streets,’ she would say, ‘I don’t take things like that too seriously.’ But … she had a sister, she told me, several years younger than herself, also being reared by the nuns. Kiki used to take her out for the afternoon. One day, at Gabrielle’s suggestion, she brought the child to her apartment, for tea and cakes. They never got cakes in the convent and the child, I can’t recall her name, was happy, and Gabrielle at her most charming. She was charming, when she chose. She played the piano and the little girl danced for her. Kiki too, I suppose. I’m sorry, I’m not telling the story well. It’s because I’m embarrassed. Fortunately there’s not a lot more of it. Gabrielle made much of the girl, and she was delighted by the attention. Kiki insisted she wasn’t jealous. Why should she be? Her sister was only a child. Then one day when she collected her from the convent and suggested they might visit Gabrielle, the child began to scream. It was terrible, Kiki said. She never wanted to go there again. Kiki pressed her, and it came out. Gabrielle had taken the child out one afternoon, without telling Kiki, given her cakes and orangeade, and introduced her to my uncle. Need I say more? Naturally I dismissed her. In truth I couldn’t bear the sight of her after I heard what she had done. I was trembling myself. She laughed at me. It was intolerable.’

The previous year when he was investigating Aristide’s death, Lannes had summoned the advocate to his office, and had shown him a horrible and compromising photograph he had been sent of Labiche sitting on a couch with a naked girl who must have been no more than twelve. ‘This means nothing,’ the advocate had said, ‘and in any case she gave what she would be giving to any young lout in the back streets in a couple of years.’ Or something like that. Lannes had done nothing. There was nothing he could do. The advocate was, as the Alsatian said, ‘one of the Untouchables’, a man of position, honoured by the regime with a post in the Commission set up to deal with what they called the Jewish Question.

He had been ashamed. Of course he had been ashamed. Now, for the first time in their acquaintance, he warmed to Adrienne Jauzion. She was gripping the arm of her chair hard, her knuckles white. They were comrades in shame. He glanced at St-Hilaire whose face registered nothing, but who now rose and laid his hand very gently on Adrienne’s shoulder.

‘But there is more?’ Lannes said.

She shook her head. He got up, walked over to the window. The light was dying in the deserted street.

‘I have to ask you this,’ he said. ‘Do you know what became of the little girl?’

‘No.’

The word was so quietly spoken that the sound was little more than a breath.

‘And Kiki?’

‘She went away. She said she couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Gabrielle. But she’s back. I saw her last week, in a café in the Place de l’Ancienne-Comédie. She was with a German officer. She pretended not to recognise me when our eyes met.

‘I’ll have to speak with her. You realise that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I realise that. But I don’t know where to find her. Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken.’

‘No,’ Lannes said. ‘You were right to do so. You know you were right. But you mentioned a policeman?’

‘I did? Yes, of course I did.’

She turned round to face Lannes again, glanced towards the Fragonard painting and murmured, ‘So beautiful, if only … the policeman. I don’t recall his name. Kiki knew him. I can’t remember why or how, perhaps he was a neighbour. She told him what she believed had happened and he promised to make inquiries. Then he came to her a few days later, and said there was nothing to be done. It would be useless to lodge an official complaint, he said. It would be only the child’s word that anything untoward – that was his word, I recall – had happened. Kiki would be liable to have an action for slander brought against her if she repeated the accusation she had made to him. He was sorry, he said, but that’s how it was. For your own sake, he said, keep your mouth shut. Those were his precise words, I remember them well.’

‘There may be something in the files,’ Lannes said, though he doubted if there would be. ‘I’ll need to speak to Kiki. What was her real name?’

‘Haget, Catherine Haget. But I’m sure she didn’t kill Gabrielle.’

‘I’ve no reason to think she did. But I’ll have to speak to her.’

‘And my uncle?’ she said.

‘And your uncle. Eventually. Finally, did you ever meet Gabrielle’s father?’

‘She never spoke of him, to my knowledge.’

XIX

‘You must be waiting for someone. A pretty boy like you, sitting alone here. I’m astonished you haven’t been snapped up already.’

Léon looked up from the marble-topped table. The speaker was a stout middle-aged man in a charcoal-grey double-breasted suit. There was a pink carnation in his buttonhole and he gave off a whiff of an expensive Cologne.

‘Yes, I’m expecting my friend,’ Léon said.