Cold Winter in Bordeaux (24 page)

‘I don’t want to know about that,’ Schuerle said, ‘but this case of yours, does it in fact, as far as you have discovered, compromise any officers of the Wehrmacht?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘And what we are learning to call the Resistance, that would interest my superiors too.’

‘It is easy to be led astray. The circumstances of the murder pointed in one direction, and yet they weren’t convincing. That was its first interesting feature to my mind.’

‘And the second, if I may ask you.’

‘The murdered woman herself, getting to know her, and all the more so because much of what I have learnt is contradictory. That’s why I say that the roots of crime go deep, and are twisted, like the roots of many plants. You know the weed which we call nettles – I’ve no idea what the German name for them is. If you tear up a nettle you encourage other ones to grow. You don’t eradicate the weed. On the contrary it spreads and proliferates.’

‘Brennnesseln,’ Schuerle said. ‘They sting nastily, but my grandmother used to make excellent soup from them. So what pains may also nourish. Strange, isn’t it? If I had not lost an eye, I wonder if I would see things as clearly as I do now. I speak metaphorically of course.’

Lannes made no immediate reply. It was strange how they seemed to be drifting into intimacy, strange too how deserted the Garden was on such a morning. It felt, briefly, as if they had somehow detached themselves from the war and the Occupation.  And yet that question of Schuerle’s about the Resistance which would – how had he put it? also interest his superiors, wasn’t it? – did this mean that he wasn’t off-duty as he appeared to be?

There might indeed seem to be a flow of sympathy between them, and Schuerle might have spoken at their first meeting too in a way which suggested that he not only believed that Germany was going to lose the war, but was anti-Nazi himself. But could he be trusted? Might he be trying to lure Lannes into indiscreet talk? Whom or what could you take at face value now?

‘I spoke to you of my grandfather,’ Schuerle said, ‘an upright man, but also narrow and harsh. A devout Lutheran who nevertheless fathered more than one child on village girls, to my grandmother’s distress. Yet he was regarded as a man of honour, and indeed prided himself on his honour. You’re a policeman. You don’t need me to tell you that, as I have already said, the nature of man is intricate. Do you know who killed that woman or do you at least have suspicions?’

‘You always suspect people who tell you lies, or less than the truth, and yet the innocent do that too. But, yes, I have someone in mind.’

‘And this would not concern my superiors?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Good. That is satisfactory.’

‘In any case,’ Lannes said, ‘the man may be innocent.’

‘Which of us is truly that? Don’t we all commit crimes in our imagination?’ “Der Mensch ist doch wie ein Nachtgänger; er steigt die gefährlichsten Kanten im Schlafe.”’

‘You forget that I don’t speak German.’

‘A thousand pardons: Man is like a sleepwalker; he climbs dangerous ledges in his sleep. Goethe. But he also said “Die Menschen sind im ganzen Leben blind.” Men are blind throughout their entire lives. I often wonder what our Führer pictures in the night. Does he have bad dreams? He has made ours a nation of sleepwalkers, and the ledges we climb are perilous. Do you have Jewish friends, superintendent?’

Lannes lit a cigarette, surprised to find his hands steady.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because they should know that the ledge on which they are perched is about to give way. Even if they are French Jews. And there is no shortage of men in your administration ready and willing to co-operate.’

‘Thank you,’ Lannes said. ‘Strange too, isn’t it, how one feels obliged to thank the bearer of bad news.’

‘In some cities of Ancient Greece they put such messengers to death.’

XXXV

Lannes was sitting, smoking, in Gabrielle Peniel’s apartment. The concierge hadn’t been pleased to see him.

‘I thought you’d have finished here,’ she said, ‘and I hope you will soon have done with us. My employers are anxious to let the apartment again. You can’t blame them. And my other tenants don’t like to see you people coming and going. There can’t be anything more for you to do here, surely.’

Lannes said, ‘That’s none of your business. We’ll decide when the place can be let again. You may assure your employers that we are as eager as they are to be done with this investigation.’

Everything in the apartment spoke of the high regard Gabrielle had had for herself, and yet at the same time it was curiously impersonal. How had she worked? The encounters she arranged had surely taken place elsewhere; he couldn’t imagine her permitting such activity in this place which bore no resemblance to a brothel. He went through to the bedroom where she had been killed. It didn’t make sense. Assuming her murderer was a man, why had she allowed him in there, and why was she in a state of undress, given what he had learnt of her inclinations? Perhaps he had proposed taking her out to dinner, and she had gone through to change, and he had surprised her when she was attending to her maquillage? That made sense of a sort. So it was surely someone she knew well and trusted, for there had been no evidence that she was alarmed, no evidence certainly that she had put up any resistance. He thought of what he had said to Schuerle about the roots of crime and of his belief that to solve a case you must first solve the mystery of the victim. Was he any closer to doing that? Dr Duvallier had said she suffered from anxiety, but he had found no evidence of that; Adrienne Jauzion that she had a terrible temper and was given to fits of rage, yet everything here, so cold and impersonal, spoke to him of restraint and composure. The style of the killing too; that, as he had concluded some time before, simply didn’t fit either the Boches or the Resistance. So Moncerre was right; it was a pre-war crime, even if he was wrong also and it wasn’t, despite appearances, a crime of passion, not what was normally meant by the phrase anyway. Hatred, yes, quite probably, but cold hatred, and calculation.

So: who hated her? Kiki certainly, and she had reason to wish her dead, might even have been capable in her misery of killing her. It was possible to construct a scenario. They had been lovers once. Suppose Gabrielle, in her complacent narcissism, had suggested they resume their old relationship. How would Kiki have reacted? The question dismayed him because the answer wasn’t impossible. There would perhaps have been contempt in any suggestion Gabrielle made, and Kiki snapped.

No, that wasn’t convincing; but was this not perhaps because he didn’t want to be convinced? Perhaps not, surely not: he could envisage Kiki killing her in the circumstances he had imagined, but not subsequently staging that set-up, smoking a good cigar and drinking champagne. Not even pouring most of the champagne down the sink.

What was it Schuerle had said? The nature of man is intricate, baffling. True enough; Gabrielle baffled him. What he had learnt of her didn’t come together to form a coherent picture. What was the key to her character? These photographs of herself over which he could imagine her lingering? What else? She liked money, was greedy for money, he was sure of that. And she had a taste for corruption.

Did any of it matter really? (He lit a cigarette from the stub of the one he was smoking.) Set aside everything else – Marguerite’s unhappiness, Alain in danger wherever he was and whatever he was doing, his fear that Dominique’s work in Vichy would be held against him when the wheel completed its revolution, Clothilde’s love for that brave foolish boy who was running hard to disaster – set against all that, why should he care that a greedy and nasty woman had been murdered?

Because you’re a cop, was the answer. Because a murderer shouldn’t escape the consequences of his crime? Certainly, though on both sides murderers were doing that all over France – in the name of course of some Higher Good!

And then there were the Jews. Why had Schuerle given him that warning? Was it a test? Or a kindly warning, expression of genuine sympathy?

He liked him; felt indeed a surprising affinity with him. And yet he had asked that question about his knowledge of the Resistance, asked it tentatively, certainly, hadn’t probed further but had that question been the reason for seeking out the meeting? He didn’t want to believe this was the case. Yet the suspicion was there. Whatever the answer, he couldn’t doubt that what Schuerle said was true. He must warn Miriam, and the old tailor, Léopold also, who would probably give him a sour smile and reply: ‘So you think, superintendent, it is now time I reach for the brandy?’

He got up and realised he was tired. There was nothing for him here, and yet this visit hadn’t been in vain. Sitting in the dead woman’s apartment had helped him think things through. He knew who had told him a lie.

Leaving the apartment, he didn’t trouble to replace the seals. There was nothing more for them there.

‘You can look for a new tenant,’ he told the concierge. ‘We’re through here. However, I would like another word with the little maid, Marie. Do you know where I can find her?’

‘That poor child, she’s suffered enough without being plagued further by you people.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Lannes said, ‘I’ve a question I must put to her.’

‘If you insist. Well, as it happens she’s cleaning for Madame Farage on the third floor. But she’s not in today. That lady’s as mean as a Jew and won’t pay for a maid to come every day. She’ll be here the day after tomorrow.’

‘What time will she finish work then?

‘Between twelve and one usually.’

‘Keep her in your lodge when she finishes. I promise you I’ll try not to distress her. Please assure her she’s not in any trouble.’

XXXVI

Lannes sent a note by messenger to Adrienne Jauzion asking if he might call on her that afternoon, around four; he had a couple of further questions about Gabrielle Peniel. Then he arranged for the dead woman’s father to be brought to his office at two o’clock and sighed to see the pile of paperwork on his desk. He lit a cigarette, leafed through the letters and documents, scribbling his name here and there, taking nothing in. It was a relief when the

telephone rang and it was his old journalist friend Jacques Maso asking if he could come to the Rugby Bar for a drink and a sandwich.

‘Why not? It’ll be a pleasure.’

Jacques was already there, sitting in his usual corner, under the old photograph of the last Stade Bordelais team to have won the French championship, back in 1911.

‘Time we won it again,’ Jacques said. ‘We’ve a good side this year, though, despite everything. You should come with me to a match.’

‘To tell you the truth I’d almost forgotten the game was still being played.’

‘We have to keep something of normality going,’ Jacques said. ‘I was at the club last week and they were asking about Alain. They think well of him, you know, have high hopes for him. Hope he will be back playing again soon, next season perhaps.’

‘If only! Kind of them, however,’ Lannes said. ‘What did you reply?’

‘I was cagey, evasive. What are you drinking?’

‘Same as you, beer.’

‘And to eat?’

‘I don’t know. A cheese sandwich perhaps.’

Jacques called to the waiter, then said, ‘So, Jean, how goes it?’

‘How do you think?’

‘Yes, stupid question. How’s Marguerite?’

‘So-so. Hating the war.’

‘Which isn’t a war.’

‘Isn’t it? You should pay us a visit. She’d like to see you. She remembers the dancing.’

‘Ah yes, the dancing. Long time ago. Another world.’

The waiter brought them two demis and a couple of baguettes, with cheese for Lannes, ham for Jacques.

‘So?’ Lannes said. ‘Are we just catching up?’

‘What else should we be doing?’

‘I don’t know. You called me.’

‘So I did.’

Jacques bit into his sandwich.

‘I think this pig died of old age,’ he said.

‘As an old Jewish friend of mine might say, it should be so lucky.’

‘You still have Jewish friends, Jean?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I don’t speak about them.’

‘Wise man. Prudent.’

Jacques spread his hands.

‘Careful anyway, which is more than you seem to be, which is why I called you. I’d a visit yesterday from a chap asking questions about you. I think he was a spook.’

‘Brilliantined hair and smoking Celtiques through a holder?’

‘You know him then?’

‘For my sins. Yes, he’s a spook but also a bit of what they call a loose cannon. What did he want?’

Jacques pushed his sandwich aside, pulled out his pipe and began to fill it.

‘If I knew anything to your discredit.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘I said, of course I do, he’s one of my oldest friends.’

‘Good answer.’

Jacques drew on his pipe and puffed out smoke.

‘Seriously though,’ he said, ‘I got the impression he doesn’t like you.’

‘I interfered in a couple of his little games,’ Lannes said. ‘He’s an idiot in my opinion. Go on, please.’

‘First, he asked me if you were queer. That seemed a bit odd.’

‘These games I spoke of, he was trying to use a couple of boys to compromise German officers. You can’t be surprised I think he’s an idiot. A nasty one, certainly, because he didn’t care a damn about what might happen to the boys. What did you say?’

‘Resisting the temptation to say you used to go to parties in drag, I told him to fuck off. Then he asked me about Alain.’

‘And?’

‘I repeated my suggestion. But I’m worried. He’s out to get you, Jean, and now that you’ve told me how you interfered with what he would call his work, I’m more worried still. I think you should watch your back.’

‘Never easy to do that,’ Lannes said. ‘But thanks for the warning.’

XXXVII

Peniel looked shabbier than ever and in only a few weeks his face had acquired the grey look that prisoners have as a result of poor food, poor air, idleness and boredom. He shifted on the wooden chair as if there was no flesh on his buttocks.