Dark Summer in Bordeaux (2 page)

II

‘Disharmony’: the word that wretched clerk had used stuck with him. It so precisely described his state of mind, the state of France indeed. Bordeaux was a prison in which nevertheless he walked at liberty. It was late winter weather he had always liked, no leaves on the trees, a low sky, scudding winds, no hint of spring. As for the war, well, there was no war, and the Occupiers were mannerly. Sometimes, seeing German soldiers sitting at café tables, or chatting around one of the city’s fountains, you might have thought they were on holiday.

He might as well be so himself. The case that had occupied him for months was dead. Nothing new claimed his attention, only routine matters which bored him.

But now, this ‘Félix’ – ridiculous name – had come to arouse him from his torpor. There was nothing for it, he must overcome his reluctance, speak to the boy Léon. All the same he waited till the streets were dark before making his way to the bookshop in the rue des Remparts.

Léon said, ‘Oh, it’s you. I was just about to close up. Henri’s upstairs, but . . . ’ ‘That’s all right. It’s you I’ve come to see.’

‘What am I supposed to have done now?’

‘I hope you’ve done nothing.’

Léon smiled.

‘You look very serious,’ he said. ‘I could give you a cup of coffee.’

‘Yes, why not? I’d like that . . . ’

He sat smoking while the boy went through to the back room. It was very quiet. The place felt like sanctuary. Léon returned with coffee for both of them, sat opposite him, cupped his thin intelligent face in both hands and waited for Lannes to speak. When he didn’t do so, he said,

‘I haven’t registered as a Jew. Should I have done so?’

‘Not if you can avoid it, but . . . ’

‘Yes, it’s a “but”, isn’t it? Otherwise I continue to behave myself, as you recommended. So?’

‘Schussman,’ Lannes said. ‘I learn things I don’t want to learn. Does he bother you?’

‘Bother? What a strange word to use.’

‘Don’t play games, Léon. I’m too tired. You know what I mean.’

‘He’s a nice enough chap, you know,’ Léon said and smiled. ‘But I’ve made it quite clear, I think, that I’m not interested. That’s to say, I’ve tried to choke him off. That’s what you advised, isn’t it?’

Lannes drank his coffee which was still of pre-war quality.

‘His attentions have been noticed,’ he said.

The boy flushed and looked away.

‘I’ve spoken to nobody,’ he said. ‘But I can’t help it if he . . . ’ ‘If he . . . What?’

‘Finds me attractive. Do you despise me, superintendent?’

‘Despise you, Léon? No, why should I?’

‘For being what I am, for being what I was to Gaston . . . ’ Lannes sighed, lit a cigarette and pushed the packet over to the boy who took one and held his face towards Lannes for a light. Lannes looked him in the eyes over the flame till Léon lowered his.

‘That’s nothing to me,’ he said. ‘I despise nobody, except those who delight in power and misuse it. You’re fond of Alain, aren’t you?’

‘We’re friends, that’s all. He’s not like me, you know, so friends is all we can be whatever else I might want. You won’t tell him, will you?’

His upper lip quivered and he looked close to tears.

‘He thinks of you as a good friend,’ Lannes said. ‘I’m sure of that.’

‘Thank you. So why have you come here?’

‘It’s difficult.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Yes, you’re intelligent. You know that. Lieutenant Schussmann.

The fact is, his attentions have been noticed, his inclination suspected. That’s why you must be careful. Do you understand?

People may want to use you. Try not to let them.’

‘What sort of people? No, you don’t need to tell me. I think I can guess.’

‘I don’t approve of them,’ Lannes said. ‘I have no time for these types who use other people as if they were pawns in a game of chess. Let me know if they approach you. That’s as much as I can ask.’

‘If they are who I think they are, how can I say no?’

‘That’s why I say to let me know, get in touch straightaway. I’ll do what I can to protect you, but I have to warn you it may not be much. Not, certainly, as much as I would wish.’

‘And this conversation, has it taken place?’

‘I wish I knew the right answer to that.’

III

The body had been dragged into the bushes in the public garden. Incompetently. The feet protruded and one of the park attendants kicked them, assuming they belonged to a drunk who had passed out there. When he got no response, he parted the bushes to get a look at the man lying there. Then he hurried to call the police.

‘His head’s been bashed in,’ he told Lannes. ‘A very nasty mess, and it’s not as if he’s one of these young hooligans who get into fights. His hair’s grey, white really, I could see that in spite of the blood. Dried blood it is . . . ’

‘All right,’ Lannes said, ‘we’ll take a look at him. You didn’t touch anything, did you?’

‘Apart from giving him a kick because I thought it was a drunk sleeping it off, and pushing through the bushes to see why he didn’t move, certainly not. I wasn’t born yesterday, and I’m a good citizen. I called you straight away, and then came back here to lock the park gate again, seeing as I assumed you wouldn’t want to have a lot of people gawking at you. Not to mention the kids. It’s not a sight for them, I can tell you. If you think, superintendent, I’m talking too much, well, that’s because I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing. To tell you the truth this is the first dead body I’ve seen since the last Armistice. Saw plenty before then of course. I’m not counting the wife’s mother. She died natural, peacefully, just drifted away. Not that her death would have disturbed me however it happened. Here we are then. See for yourself.’

‘Right,’ Lannes said, ‘thank you. Would you go back to the gate, please, and wait for the doctor and the technical boys? They’ll soon be on their way. And yes, continue to keep the public out. Find some excuse. Or tell the truth. Whichever you prefer.’

‘I’ve no doubt he’ll lay it on,’ Moncerre said.

‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s go take a look then.’

Moncerre pulled a couple of branches aside.

‘Not much doubt, is there?’ he said. ‘Our old friend, the blunt instrument . . . He looks a respectable gent though. That’s a good piece of cloth.’

Lannes knelt and fingered the cuffs of the trousers.

‘Indeed it is,’ he said, ‘good English flannel.’

He looked up.

‘My mother’s father was a tailor, remember. I learned about cloth as a boy.’

‘I’d forgotten. Respectable gent,’ Moncerre said again. ‘Funny place for him to have copped it. I wonder what he was up to.’

The technical team arrived, followed almost at once by Dr Paulhan, Boyard cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, Jean, I can’t examine him properly where he is,’ he said, ‘but the cause of death looks evident enough. No reason, is there, to think his nut was smashed in when he was already dead. No reason at all. I can tell you straightaway he’s been lying there for hours, but you’ll have come to that conclusion yourself, I’ve no doubt. Get him round to me and I’ll do my stuff. But I’ll be surprised if I can do much to help you. At least he is not one of our Occupying friends. That’s clear. A good Frenchman and a man of some position, I would say. Wouldn’t you? Spares you one complication at least.’

‘An old-fashioned pre-war murder then,’ Moncerre said. ‘A robbery gone wrong. Let’s hope so anyway. Then we’re dealing only with our usual sort of client.’

Photographs were taken. Lannes set a couple of his men to look for the weapon, ‘Which I doubt if you’ll find.’

‘Not unless chummy’s a half-wit,’ Moncerre said. ‘Which of course he may well be.’

‘He’s had the sense at least to lift the chap’s wallet,’ René Martin said.

Lannes said, ‘This suit’s from a good tailor, hand-made. Look in the inside breast pocket and you’ll find the tailor’s name. He should be able to help us identify him. Of course, we may find he’s been reported missing already. But I doubt it. Why, I don’t know.’

‘Léopold Kurtz, rue Xantrailles,’ René said. ‘The street Cortazar lived in.’

‘I doubt if there’s a connection with that murder,’ Lannes said. ‘The street’s just a coincidence. Anyway, Mériadeck, it’s where you’d expect to find a Jewish tailor. I’ll go round there with the jacket when the technical boys have finished with it. Meanwhile there’s nothing more we can do here for now.’

It was ridiculous, even, he admitted to himself, shameful; he felt a lightening of the spirit. It’s only, he told himself, that I feel in need of work. And a crime such as this promised to be unconnected to the war and the Occupation.

‘At least I hope that’s the case,’ he said when they were settled in the Brasserie Fernand and had eaten the pigeons with red cabbage Fernand had recommended.

‘Could be sordid though,’ Moncerre removed the toothpick from his mouth. ‘The public garden, a head-bashing – if it’s not just a robbery, what sort of crime does that suggest to you? One that stinks, in my opinion. Never mind, if it is that, we may even be permitted to solve it and bring the killer to what passes for justice.’

‘Unless he’s got protection,’ René said.

‘You’re growing up, kid,’ Moncerre said, ‘getting wise to the ways of this wicked world. And suppose the old boy had made advances to one of our young Aryans who took exception to them and did for him. Would we be allowed to solve that? I think not, my friends.’

‘We’ve no reason to suppose anything of the sort,’ Lannes said.

The tailor was old and his wrinkled face was dominated by a big nose. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez spectacles attached to the buttonhole of his jacket by a black ribbon. He sat cross-legged on a low table in the traditional posture of his trade. The light in his shop was dim.

‘So,’ he said, ‘the police want help from an old Jew. We are not often approached so politely these days.’

‘No,’ Lannes said, ‘and I’m sorry that is the case.’

‘Nevertheless,’ the old tailor said, ‘I’m one of the lucky ones, am I not? Not one of those forbidden to practise my trade.’

He felt the coat, running his fingers over it.

‘Nice piece of cloth, very nice.’

‘English flannel, I thought.’

‘Certainly, certainly. It’s been well cared for since it is at least ten years ago that I made this coat.’

He took a pinch of snuff, reminding Lannes of Judge Rougerie’s habit which he had always thought a tiresome affectation. It didn’t seem so in the case of the old tailor.

‘Can you tell me who you made it for?’

‘So he’s dead, is he, and nastily, since you’re here to question me.’

‘Perhaps,’ Lannes said. ‘Perhaps not, since the man you made it for may have passed it on to someone else.’

‘Oh yes, I remember because I don’t often get such cloth to work with. Most rich Bordelais, as you may know, who have a taste for English cloth will get their suits made over there too. But in this case my customer had been given the material by his daughter – or mistress perhaps – I forget which, and brought it to me to be made up. That was natural enough. I’d made other suits for Professor Labiche.’

‘Labiche? That was his name?’

‘Certainly. A professor – I can’t remember of what at the university – though he must have retired, I would think. This was the last suit I made for him, and, as I say, at least ten years ago.’

‘But you still have an address?’

‘Must have, though it may be out of date, of course. I’m sorry he’s come to a bad end. These are bloodstains on the collar, aren’t they. He was a gentleman, always well spoken, if reserved. A good client, I had a respect for him . . . ’

He got off the table, stiffly, as he spoke, and hobbled to a roll-top desk which had certainly seen better days, for the wood was stained and scuffed. The inside of the desk was a mess too, but, after rummaging around, the old man came up with a note-book. He leafed through it, and said,

‘Here we are. Professor Aristide Labiche, 72, cours de Verdun. 1 metre 75 tall, 82cm waist, used to be 87, but he lost weight before I made this flannel suit. It’s the last thing I did for him. Does that sound like your man?’

‘The height’s right, but I suspect he had lost more weight in the years since . . . Thank you. You’ve been helpful.’

He hesitated, lit a cigarette,

‘How are things with you?’ he said. ‘You haven’t had any trouble, I hope?’

‘I keep my head down and get on with my work. Most of my customers have stayed loyal. What else can I do? Besides, who’s to bother with an old tailor even if he is a Jew?’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Lannes gave him a card. ‘If you’re wrong, I’ll see what I can do.’

IV

‘Labiche?’ the concierge said, ‘Professor Labiche. No, there’s no one of that name lives here.’

‘It’s the last address we have for him,’ Lannes said.

‘And when was that?’

‘Ten years ago, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah well,’ she rubbed her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve been here for five, and I tell you he wasn’t a tenant here when I moved in. To tell the truth, I’ve never heard anyone of that name spoken of. Not that there’s any reason why I should, is there now?’