Free Dark Summer in Bordeaux by Allan Massie Page A

been helpful,’ Lannes said. ‘And remember: his advice was good. Take care.’
    ‘That’s all right, he was a nice old boy. Can’t oblige you?’
    Lannes shook his head.
    ‘Another time,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Whenever you’re needing.’

XV
    ‘The lawyer’s clerk,’ Lannes said, ‘Labiche’s young man, do you think?’
    ‘Seems possible,’ Moncerre said. ‘I never thought the bugger wasn’t lying to me.’
    There were more Germans than French in the Brasserie Fernand where the food was still of pre-war quality and abundance, doubtless because Fernand cultivated the chiefs of the black market. Sometimes, when Marguerite complained of the difficulty of feeding the children adequately, Lannes felt guilty because he had eaten so well at lunchtime. Today’s saddle of lamb for instance – it was impossible for Marguerite to buy anything like that. It had been a triumph to find a dozen eggs the other day. Lannes had eaten very little of the pipérade she had cooked. ‘The children need it more,’ he had said.
    ‘I’d like to shake the truth out of him,’ Moncerre said. ‘I don’t care for his sort. Pity he’s one of the Untouchables.’
    ‘For the time being . . . I think, though, the clerk is a job for you, René. See if you can strike up an acquaintance with him. We’ll keep this unofficial just for now.’
    ‘And what about the Spaniard?’ Moncerre said. ‘The description fits our old friend Sombra. Or would that be too much of a coincidence? Mind you, it fits every second goddam Spaniard too.’
    ‘Take his photograph to the pension and check it out,’ Lannes said. ‘And ask in the bar too. Things may be beginning to move.’
    As they left the restaurant he remembered Schnyder’s request about Havanas, and drew Fernand aside. Sure, Fernand said, with a smile. It was possible. Anything was possible if you were prepared to pay.
    ‘It’s playtime for those who step outside the law,’ he said. ‘Must make your life more difficult, Jean.’
    The sun was shining as he limped back to the office. A spring afternoon, with women in pretty frocks for the first time that year and the candles on the chestnut trees. Before the war it would have raised his spirits and he would have been happy to stop off and sit for half an hour on the terrace of a café, enjoying the scene. But now he felt only a tightening of the knot of apprehension, as if the sweetness of the day mocked its reality. A year ago, he thought, the ‘drôle de guerre’ had been exploded by the German blitzkrieg, and now they were living through a ‘drôle de paix’. Phoney war, phoney peace. But hadn’t the inter-war years been no more than that?
    There had been an anonymous letter on his desk that morning. A single sentence: ‘Superintendent Lannes, don’t you want to know who your real father was?’ Madness: as if his poor pious mother would ever – could ever – have cuckolded his father? They had been as decent and loving a couple as you could imagine. It’s vicious, intended to disturb me, he thought. Only that. In any case, how could it matter? His parents were dead. His father had been his father.
    Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork: an afternoon of the utmost tedium lay before him. Perhaps that was what he needed, the reassurance that he was only a functionary. If only he could believe that, could be content to go through the motions! But he was weighed down by responsibilities, oppressed by perplexities. And everything was going to get worse. That was his one certainty. Nevertheless he settled at his desk, reading, annotating, ticking, signing his name, going through the motions as if any of it mattered, profoundly bored, but finding that the routine of bureaucratic duty was indeed a sort of soporific.
    Old Joseph interrupted him: the Alsatian would like to see him.
    Schnyder was at his window gazing out on the square. His desk was clear, uncluttered by papers. Lannes had the impression, doubtless mistaken, that his