Dark Summer in Bordeaux Read online

  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?’

  ‘One of your other tenants might know something about him,’ Lannes said.

  ‘Indeed that’s so, but then, again, this is a respectable house. There’s none of the tenants would like me to call them to the attention of the police, if you know what I mean. I speak without offence, superintendent.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Lannes said. ‘Nevertheless, a man whom I have reason to believe used to live here has been murdered, and this is the only address I have for him, all I know about him . . . ’

  He paused, to let the woman think in the silence he imposed on her.

  ‘Labiche?’ Moncerre had said, ‘that’s the name of that bastard of an advocate. Maybe they’re brothers. If so, it’s the wrong one has caught it.’

  The same thought had of course occurred to Lannes, the moment the old tailor produced the name. All the more reason to go warily.

  ‘There’s Madame Bouillou, first-floor right,’ the concierge said. ‘She’s been here a long time, and she
’s alert as a hunting-dog. You could try her.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Madame Bouillou, and you’re police, you say. What have I done to deserve a visit from you?’

  If she was indeed alert as a hunting-dog, Lannes thought, she was one that was out of condition. She wheezed as she spoke and her big bosom palpitated as if the effort of moving from her armchair to the door had been almost too much for her. There was a whiff of port wine on her breath when she smiled and ushered Lannes in to an over-furnished drawing-room where a white cockatoo in a cage squawked to see him. She put a cloth over the cage saying, ‘Naughty boy, be quiet or I shan’t hear what the nice policeman has to say.’ Then she sank into a high-backed chair which she filled, picked up her glass of wine and took a little sip.

  ‘It’s years since I have had dealings with the police,’ she said. ‘Quite like old times, this is. Take a seat, superintendent.’

  She gestured with a hand which had a large ruby ring embedded in the fat of her finger, and a grey cat leapt off the chair she had indicated, arched its back and jumped on to her lap where it lay purring while she scratched it behind its ear.

  ‘I know nothing about that,’ Lannes said, ‘and I can’t suppose any dealings with the police you may have had are of any relevance. It’s really some information I’m looking for, and I hope you may be able to help me.’

  ‘Soft soap,’ she said, ‘but go ahead. It’s a treat to have a visitor, even a policeman. Smoke if you wish. My doctor forbids me cigarettes but I do love the smell.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lannes said. ‘Do you remember a Professor Labiche who used to live here?’

  To his surprise, she laughed.

  ‘Give me another glass of wine and give yourself one. Poor Aristide! In trouble with you lot, and him such a careful man . . . ’

  ‘You knew him well then?’

  ‘Seeing as we were lovers, or I was his mistress as he would have put it, I can’t deny knowing him. You wouldn’t think to look at me now that I was a beauty once, would you, but there you are, there’s a photograph of the pair of us on that little table, and you can see I was a looker in those days. Well, that was nearer fifty than forty years ago. What’s the old fellow done?’

  ‘You sound as if you are still fond of him.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I be? He’s an old silly and he became an awful bore. Nevertheless . . . ’

  Lannes crossed the room and picked up the photograph which was in an Art Nouveau silver frame. More than forty years ago, as she said, but there was a resemblance to the dead man. As to the woman, yes, she was right, she had been beautiful in a blonde, buxom, chorus-girl way.

  ‘It was politics,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t be doing with his silly Communism. I was a businesswoman myself, you see. Yes, as you’ll discover if you look in your files, it wasn’t what most think of as a respectable business – I kept a house and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It embarrassed Aristide no end, he was very correct, even as a young man. Tell me why you’re interested in him and I’ll tell you our story.’

  She laughed again and as she did so Lannes became aware of her charm and of how attractive she must have been when that photograph was taken.

  ‘I’ve had lots of lovers, but there was always something about him,’ she said, and emptied her glass.

  Lannes hesitated. The smoke from his cigarette hovered in the still air of the room where it was probable no window had been opened for days. He had always hated this moment when you had to announce a death.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘So that’s why you’re here. I didn’t even know he was back in Bordeaux. How did you find me?’

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

  ‘There’s a time I would have wept,’ she said. ‘Now . . . ?’

  She reached out for the bottle of port, and again offered it to Lannes, who declined because it was a drink he had never cared for.

  ‘What was he a professor of?’ he said.

  ‘History, which has never interested me. The Commune was his subject, I believe.’ She sighed and her bosom heaved. ‘He was a shy and timid lover,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that’s what attracted me, and held me for so long . . . ’

  Lannes said, ‘Does he have family here in Bordeaux?’

  ‘There was a wife of course. Perhaps she’s dead too. I would be dead myself if I believed my doctor. And there’s a brother, you’ll know of him, I’m sure. The advocate, a good deal younger he is, a nasty piece of work. They didn’t get on. Politics.’

  ‘But he lived here with you, rather than with his wife?’

  ‘He loved me, or said he did. So he moved in here when he left her at last, and stayed with me for I can’t remember how long. Years anyway. Then he went up to Paris. On account of his stupid politics. I can’t remember just why. Perhaps he went to write for a paper there. Yes, I think that was it. To tell the truth I wasn’t much interested and I confess I had had enough of him really. Being under my feet, you understand.’

  She picked up her glass and held it to her lips but paused before drinking.

  ‘I can’t think why anyone should have killed the poor chap. He was an innocent, you know.’

  Lannes said, ‘According to the tailor who gave me this address, the professor had a daughter. Can you tell me anything about her?’

  ‘I never met her. That won’t surprise you. He very seldom spoke of her, except occasionally as she had been when a little girl. He may have been fond of her, I don’t know, it was a part of his life I didn’t belong to. Though he was fond of me, as fond as he could be, I think, of anyone, it was ideas that held him, not people, and, as for the daughter, politics came between them. That’s what he used to say. And perhaps she took her mother’s side. I don’t know. I was his mistress for years, you know, before he came to live with me. But there were sides of his life I knew nothing about. I preferred it that way, to be honest.’

  Her hand stroked the grey cat. For a couple of minutes when she didn’t answer its purring was the only sound in the stuffy room.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thrown him out, you know,’ she said, ‘not ever. Not even though he had come to bore me and I was past enjoying what we had had together. All the same, when he came to live here I gave him something he had never had before. Or so he said, though he never said what it was. But it wasn’t enough. Evidently it wasn’t. It was his decision to leave, for Paris and his politics, not for another woman, you’ll understand. I could have seen off such a one, no matter who she was, if I’d chosen to, but I was helpless against politics. And to tell you the truth, superintendent, I didn’t much care. As I said, he had become an awful bore. Give me some more wine, please.’

  She held out her glass.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I missed him. For a long time . . . ’ ‘So you don’t know where we might find the daughter.’

  ‘No idea. You’ll have to try the brother. As for me, I wouldn’t demean myself by speaking to him. I’m a generous-minded woman, as won’t surprise you knowing my milieu, but there are things I’ve no time for. Nor those whose tastes lie that way.’

  ‘I’m with you there,’ Lannes said.

  He got to his feet.

  ‘You’ve been helpful,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful. I’m sorry to have brought you distressing news. There’s one other thing, a request. I’ve been speaking of the professor as the murdered man, and I’ve no doubt correctly. But actually we can’t be sure until he has been identified. It’s only the evidence of his suit and the tailor who made it brought me here. It’s a lot to ask you, but . . . ’

  ‘It’s the brother’s job, surely.’

  ‘You’re right, of course, but I have reasons to think he may not prove co-operative. So?’

  ‘Very well then, since you ask politely. And as for the brother, from all I’ve heard of him you may well be right. He’s a bastard, my poor old boy couldn’t stand him.’

  ‘An innocent?’ Moncerre said. ‘A Communist and an innocent? Pull the other one.’


  ‘Oh,’ Lannes said, ‘there are innocent Communists, you know, just as there are even innocent Fascists. We call them idealists and they cause a lot of trouble.’

  He lit a cigarette and pushed the packet of Gauloises towards Moncerre. Then he got up, crossed over to the window. The sky was slate-grey, threatening rain and a little gust of wind threw discarded papers about the square.

  ‘I liked her,’ he said, ‘and what she told me helps to give us a picture of our man. But she hadn’t seen or heard of him for years.’

  He took a bottle of Armagnac from his cupboard, filled two stubby glasses and passed one to Moncerre.

  ‘There’s the brother,’ Moncerre said.

  ‘Yes, there’s the brother.’

  ‘A bastard, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes . . . ’

  Had he told Moncerre just how Edmond de Grimaud had arranged that Sigi, who was also known as Marcel and whom they knew to be a murderer, but one of those belonging to the category Schnyder described as ‘untouchable’, should apply pressure on the advocate Labiche to prevent him from continuing his campaign against himself? ‘You’re in deep shit,’ Edmond had said – and got him out of it. By what was either blackmail or menaces. Or both. Lannes had been relieved and at the same time ashamed. Deeply ashamed. No, he hadn’t been able to tell Moncerre everything, just made it clear he’d been heavily leaned on, bullied and bribed, though not with money.

  He looked at his subordinate whose face was completely without expression. Lannes knew him to be loyal, thought of him as a friend as well as colleague, but was never sure that he had his respect. Not his full unconditional respect anyway, certainly not the unqualified admiration that he knew young René felt for him – which admiration, even reverence, was itself a cause for embarrassment.

  ‘I want you to question him.’ he said. ‘There are things between us.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Frankly, apart from anything else, he would take pleasure in telling me nothing about his brother or even telling me lies, certainly making things as difficult for me as possible.’

  ‘So you want me to twist his arm? It’ll be a pleasure.’