Cold Winter in Bordeaux (3 page)

‘And you, Jean?’ Miriam said.

‘And me? Crime goes on. And we have to solve crimes which seem petty, indeed unimportant, set against the criminal times we live in. I’d a murder this morning, a nasty murder, a woman, and nasty because she was humiliated in death’ – these knickers wrenched down to her knees, which he wouldn’t mention – ‘and I’ll work on it, of course I will, but … ’

‘But?’

‘I think of these Jewish women forced into cattle-trucks.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Miriam said, ‘and I feel guilty because I have a bed in Henri’s attic even if I can’t sleep.’

‘No,’ Lannes said, ‘it’s ridiculous for you to feel guilty because you haven’t been arrested or deported. We are all entitled to do what we can to survive. Sometimes we are required to do things of which we might in other circumstances have reason to feel ashamed. But the circumstances are as they are. We have to live with them as best we can. At least that’s how it seems to me.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Miriam said. ‘Nevertheless, that’s how I feel.’

Lannes took a sip of his coffee which was as bad as Henri had said it would be, and lit a cigarette.

‘The murdered woman, Gabrielle Peniel. The concierge called her “Madame”, but there’s apparently no sign of a husband. She gave piano lessons, but only to young girls. I don’t know why I don’t like the sound of that, because it doesn’t seem unreasonable, but I don’t. I suppose the name doesn’t mean anything to you?’

‘I knew a Peniel once, or rather knew of him,’ Henri said. ‘He was a friend of my father, an acquaintance anyway; they used to play bridge together at the club. There was some scandal, I can’t remember what. He was a doctor, I think. As I remember, Jewish perhaps. Then I don’t know, he dropped out, was required to resign from the club. Perhaps he had been cheating at cards. It’s a long time ago, a few years after the last war. He might be some connection, perhaps the dead woman’s father. Bordeaux, as we know, is a small town where there are so many connections, our Bordeaux, I mean … ’

By which Lannes understood the Bordeaux of respectable people, the professional classes and perhaps also the Bordeaux of the wine barons, the Chartrons. That was the milieu into which Henri had been born, one which Lannes himself rarely encountered except in the course of duty.

IV

The wet cold was sharper as Lannes limped across the public garden which was all but deserted. A few off-duty German soldiers were taking photographs of each other by the fountain. They would send them home and their parents or wives or girl-friends would be happy to think of them safe in France rather than serving on the Eastern Front. How long would they be here? For the first months of the Occupation, he had sometimes thought that there might be a settlement, that the Armistice might be replaced by a Treaty, the Occupation end, and the prisoners-of-war return. Perhaps it had never been likely. The English remained defiant. Nevertheless, it had seemed possible then that Hitler and Churchill might each conclude that victory was unattainable, and that it made sense to engage in negotiations. He didn’t know, couldn’t tell even if he had really hoped for this. Now since the invasion of the Soviet Union, it was impossible; war to the death, millions of deaths – and the tightening of the German grip on France. For Vichy, collaboration was ever closer, more dishonourable, inescapable. The deportation of foreign Jews was only a start, the application of the anti-Jewish laws ever stricter, and there was talk of raising a legion of French volunteers to serve in the war against Bolshevism on the Eastern Front, while there was also the demand for more French workers to be dispatched to work in Germany. At least Dominique’s post in Vichy meant he wouldn’t be called upon.

The maid, correct, as if there was no war, in black dress, apron and mob-cap, admitted him. On the hall-table the brass bowl for visiting cards was empty, as it had been on his previous visits and would surely remain for ever. Professor Lazaire, who still looked like a colonel, but now with his yellowing skin like a colonel of colonial infantry, was in the same high-winged chair, and the little fox-terrier at his feet again jumped up, barking, before lying down satisfied that Lannes posed no threat. And again the maid offered him tea, and, without waiting for a reply, disappeared to make it. Lannes apologised for troubling him. The professor waved a deprecating hand, and for a couple of minutes neither spoke.

Then the professor said, ‘It’s not about Michel, I hope, and your daughter. He brought her to see me, or, more precisely, to show her off to me. I found her charming.’

‘Thank you,’ Lannes said. ‘No, it’s not about Michel. She’s very fond of him and my wife thinks the boy equally charming.’

‘And you?’

‘I like him. I’m afraid for him. I don’t like what I hear of his politics, but I’m afraid for all the young people. Even if we come through this, the divisions will survive. There will be recriminations, acts of revenge. It doesn’t bear thinking on. But it’s another matter altogether that brings me here.’

The maid returned with the tea and a plate of little cakes.

‘My own baking,’ she said.

‘Gabrielle Peniel,’ Lannes said. ‘Your granddaughter, Anne-Marie, is a pupil of hers, isn’t she?’

The professor took a cigar from a box on the little table beside his chair, sniffed it, rolled it in his fingers, clipped the end, lit it with a long match, and blew out smoke.

‘A curious question for a policeman to ask, but I suppose you have your reasons.’

Lannes sipped his tea which was scented with bergamot, and laid the cup down.

‘The worst of reasons,’ he said. ‘She was found dead this morning. Murdered, there’s no doubt about that. Your granddaughter’s name was on a list of her music pupils. I hope you may be able to tell me something about her.’

The professor drew on his cigar again. Lannes lit a cigarette and waited.

‘She was a pupil, for a time. Then I withdrew her – at Anne-Marie’s request, I should say, for I have never met the lady, the unfortunate lady, I suppose I should now call her.’

‘At your granddaughter’s request? Did she want to stop learning the piano or was there some other reason?’

A long silence, like the hush that comes over a theatre audience before the curtain goes up.

‘No, she loves music and now has another teacher.’

‘So?’

The fox-terrier put his paws on the professor’s knees and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ear and one of the maid’s little biscuits.

‘I realise this may be difficult,’ Lannes said, ‘and you don’t want to involve Anne-Marie in what is a nasty business or expose her to questioning. I fully understand that. But in a case like this it’s only by understanding the victim and learning all that I can about her that I have any chance of finding her killer.’

‘I’m seventy-five,’ the professor said, ‘and sometimes my memory plays tricks on me. Anne-Marie and Michel are all I have now, all I care for. I don’t want any harm to come to them. It’s dangerous loving someone, giving your heart to them, when you’re my age. Does that sound feeble?’

‘Not at all.’

You don’t, he didn’t add, have to be seventy-five to have learnt that.

‘She said she was creepy. Madame Peniel. Just that, creepy. I didn’t enquire further. The word was enough. She’s an honest child and an intelligent one. She was – what shall I say? – uncomfortable with her. As I say, I didn’t press her. That word and the look on her face were enough.’

‘Yes,’ Lannes said, ‘I see.’

If it had been Clothilde, wouldn’t he have behaved in the same way?

‘You’ll want to speak with her,’ the professor said. ‘I realise that. I’m sure I can trust you to be gentle. She’ll be home within the hour. Meanwhile, would you like a game of chess?’

‘I doubt if I can give you a match.’

‘I’m sure you can. So much of your life must be like the game.’

‘In life,’ Lannes said, ‘I try to avoid sacrificing a pawn.’

* * *

The girl was slightly-built, blonde like her brother, but with pale skin and milky-soft blue eyes. Lannes remembered that when they first met the professor had said that his dead wife had had German cousins, and indeed Anne-Marie looked like an illustration from the fairy-tales of the Brothers Grimm, Gretel perhaps. He had forgotten the young people’s German ancestry, and it now occurred to him for the first time that Michel looked like the perfect Aryan poster boy for the Hitler Youth.

‘This is Clothilde’s father, darling,’ the professor said. ‘He is, as you may know, a policeman, and he has some questions to ask you.’

‘Questions for me? What fun!’

‘You won’t mind if I remain, superintendent?’

‘Not at all. I want to ask you about Madame Peniel, Anne-Marie.’

‘Is she dead?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because I can’t think of any other reason why you should ask me about her. Unless, of course, she’s been caught out.’

‘Caught out? In what? You told your grandfather she was creepy. In what way?’

She crossed to the professor’s chair and perched on its arm. She smoothed her skirt, and said, ‘You didn’t ask me, grandpa, did you? I was glad at the time, but now … is she dead?’

‘Yes, she’s dead. She was found murdered this morning. Your name was on her list of pupils, that’s why I’m here. I need to find out whatever I can about her.’

‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’ She stroked the old man’s cheek. ‘I’m not being hard, grandpa, but she really wasn’t a nice woman. She used to stroke me – just like this – and it was creepy when she did it. Then she said she knew someone who would like to meet a lovely girl like me – ugh, lovely girl indeed. It gave me the creeps, which is why I told you she was creepy. Does this help? I never saw her again after she spoke like that and stroked me in that way.’

‘Do you know if she made any similar approaches to any of her other pupils?’

‘No, but then I don’t know any of them. But I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Don’t ask me why. I just know.’

V

A policeman would like to be able to work on a single case to the exclusion of other matters. But it was never like that. When Lannes went to report his preliminary investigation of the Peniel case to Commissaire Schnyder, the Alsatian’s interest was perfunctory.

‘It’s quite clear it was a crime of passion,’ he said, ‘and I’m sure you’ll solve it. As of course you should. But really it’s not important, is it?’

‘Investigating such crimes is our business,’ Lannes said. ‘It’s what we exist to do. In any case I’m not persuaded that it is just what it appears to be.’

‘Really? Is that so? Well, I’ve no doubt you will pursue the matter diligently.’

Schnyder flicked a spot of cigar ash from the lapel of his beautifully-cut pale-grey double-breasted suit.

‘There’s nothing straightforward,’ he said. ‘These days there’s nothing straightforward. It makes life and our job difficult. You’ll be aware that there is a stirring of Resistance activity, even here in Bordeaux. What’s your opinion of that?’

‘Nothing to do with us’, Lannes said.

‘Not the opinion of our masters. I’ve had a meeting with the Prefect. He’s worried.’

‘So?’

‘So he wants it investigated.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start. Resistance activity sounds vague. Is there a body? No? Then I don’t see where we come in.’

‘It’s the way the wind’s blowing,’ Schnyder said. ‘We’re not going to be able to stand aside. You have to realise this.’

He got up and stood by the window looking out on the square. Even the good cut of his suit couldn’t disguise his big fleshy buttocks.

‘There’s another thing, Jean,’ he said, still with his back to him. ‘I’m embarrassed to ask you.’ He turned round. ‘But there’s a question I’m obliged to put. It concerns your son. Where is he?’

‘Dominique’s in Vichy. You can ask Edmond de Grimaud about him. You know de Grimaud, don’t you? It’s his son Maurice who arranged a job for Dominique there.’

‘But you’ve another son, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘As I said, I’m embarrassed. You’d better see this.’

He took a sheet of writing paper from his breast pocket, unfolded it and passed it to Lannes.

Ask Jew-lover Lannes where his pansy son Alain and his Jewish boyfriend are.

There was of course no signature.

‘Malicious,’ Lannes said.

‘Yes,’ Schnyder said, ‘malicious. Nevertheless.’

‘And untrue. Alain is not homosexual.’

‘But he’s not in Bordeaux, is he, and neither, I assume, is the Jewish boy? And you have Jewish friends yourself?’

‘French citizens,’ Lannes said.

‘You remember that king in the Bible we talked about, the one who walked warily in the sight of the Lord?’

‘Agag.’

‘That’s right. I always forget the name. Are you walking warily, Jean? I’m afraid you aren’t, and I don’t want to lose you, I really don’t.’

It was probably true. Schnyder wasn’t such a bad chap. It was understandable that he wanted to play safe, even if this meant his backside was creased from sitting on the fence. And he really was embarrassed and didn’t want to lose him. All the same Lannes had no doubt that the Alsatian wouldn’t defend or protect him beyond a certain point – a point from which they mightn’t be far distant. Moreover, he couldn’t pretend, even to himself, that Schnyder’s position wasn’t justified, didn’t make sense. He was a servant of the Republic – or rather of the French State, now that the name of the Republic had been expunged – and he would do whatever was declared to be his duty. Lannes couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t entitled to expect him to be a hero, whatever a hero was in present circumstances. He wasn’t after all a hero himself, far from it, just a middle-ranking cop trying to make the best of things at a time when any choice you made was likely to turn out badly. He lit a cigarette and held up the paper Schnyder had handed him.

‘You don’t want this back,’ he said. ‘Better perhaps if it never reached you. I think I know who wrote it. An old enemy. Meanwhile I’ve a murder case to pursue.’

* * *

He didn’t, however, do so immediately. Instead he left the office and made his way to the Café Régent in the Place Gambetta. It was still cold, and threatening rain, and the terrace was deserted. He shook hands with the old waiter Georges whom he had known since he first frequented the café in the days long ago when he was a law student, and Henri, Gaston and himself would gather there with a few friends to talk and play billiards two or three evenings a week. How simple life had seemed then when he was happy because he had survived his war and the future was like a summer morning under a blue sky.