Free Dark Summer in Bordeaux by Allan Massie Page B

chief had had nothing to do all day, and was only waiting for the hour when he could decently leave the office, perhaps even to call on La Jauzion.
    ‘Are you still working on the Labiche case? You got nothing from the daughter, did you? So can we write it off?’
    ‘That’s what everyone seems to want,’ Lannes said, ‘but I can’t oblige. We’re making progress. Or perhaps we are.’
    He brought Schnyder up to date, briefly recounting the visit to the Pension Bernadotte.
    ‘Young René Martin’s done good work,’ he said.
    ‘Well, I suppose you’d better carry on. But it’s something else. I’ve had a visitor, not the kind I like. He was inquiring about that Chambolley case which I thought we’d agreed was dead and buried.
    I told him it had been your business. So he wants to see you. When I say I had a visitor, I don’t mean here. He preferred to meet me out of the office, summoned me really. What does that say to you?’
    ‘Nothing good.’
    ‘Exactly. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ve arranged for you to meet him. In an hour’s time. In the public garden, he’ll be on a bench by the statue of Montaigne, and he’ll have a copy of his essays. They’re so childish, the spooks. I hope you can get rid of him without any trouble. That’s the last thing we want.’
    ‘Very well,’ Lannes said, ‘I suppose I’ve no choice. By the way, I’ve put out a request for your cigars.’
    ‘Kind of you.’
    ‘My contact thinks he can get them. May take a week or two.’
    ‘Good, these German ones are really no pleasure to smoke.’

    The man on the bench was wearing a dark suit and an Italian straw hat. He got up to shake Lannes’ hand and then motioned him to share his bench.
    ‘I’m told you’re honest,’ he said.
    Lannes made no reply.
    ‘Cards on the table. My bosses would prefer that I don’t give you my name, but I think they’re wrong. If we’re to work together . . . ’
    ‘Are we?’
    ‘I hope so. Lionel Villepreux of the Bureau des Menées Antinationalistes. Does that mean anything to you?’
    ‘The Bureau does, but . . . ’ ‘You mean anyone might make that claim?’
    Lannes lit a cigarette and waited.
    ‘Of course they could, but for the moment you’ll have to take my word for it. It can’t surprise you that I don’t carry identification. If I did we wouldn’t be meeting here, but in your office. Last autumn you made a visit to Vichy, which is unusual and which was probably, given our circumstances, unauthorised. Not that that matters to me. You saw Edmond de Grimaud and had a long conversation with him in the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. Subsequently he arranged for your son Dominique to be repatriated from his prisoner-of-war camp. Correct?’
    ‘Yes. You’re well informed.’
    Villepreux – if this was indeed his name – took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and filled a pipe, pressing the tobacco down hard, with his thumb, lit it with a wax match and emitted a couple of puffs.
    ‘A pipe’s reassuring, isn’t it? You can trust a man who smokes a pipe. That’s why I prefer it. What did you give de Grimaud in return? A promise to close down the Chambolley case, wasn’t it?’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘I don’t care about that. The Chambolley case doesn’t interest us, not directly. Beautiful these gardens, aren’t they? So peaceful. You wouldn’t think there was a war on. Not of course that there is, just now. Do you think that will last?’
    Villepreux took off his hat and fanned his face. His fair hair was thinning. He had a Norman accent and a big mottled nose. His eyes were a very pale blue.
    ‘Unwilling to commit yourself?’ he said. ‘I like that. I do indeed.
    It’s a rash man who is ready with an opinion these days. So anyway I don’t need to know what you think, but I tell you this. Things aren’t going to continue the way they are. We must prepare for a change. Vichy won’t last for ever. Will it now?’
    ‘If you say so.’
    ‘France has lost a