TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Green Gables’ was to his mind a horrible house; a big shapeless suburban villa pretending to be a Norman manor house, with phoney pigeon-cotes all over the shop. But it was much pleasanter within. Thonon in a smoking-jacket thing, Martine looking joyless, Mamma, met for the first time, with blonde hair looking a bit tinted, who had been pretty when young, now faded and lined with anxiety. But putting on face, which he liked. Making this ‘a social occasion’.

     ‘Do come in. Let me take your coat. The nights are beginning to turn chilly now, aren’t they? Do please make yourself comfortable. Pierrot, see to drinks, dear, won’t you.’

     A bourgeois interior: one or two signs of affluence, a few of simplicity. A piano for Martine to practise at as a child: some photographs. Children as sweet baby, chubby toddler, gawky adolescent. Some shelves of books which had been read, some records listened to, some pictures looked at. A nice interior, comfortable, a feeling of home, of loyalty and trust and a family square, proof against adversity. He was glad he’d come.

     Was it a lake isle? Well, perhaps it was. Thonon and the wife both gave a feeling of coming from bourgeois backgrounds and not liking it much. Money was nice, but there were other things too. One ran after money, and got it too. Perhaps a bit of corner-cutting along the way. A bit dishonest. In face of an avaricious society, and a voracious government, who wasn’t? Was he himself? They’d wanted, at least, to give the children something better than a set of bourgeois attitudes. Succeeded, too. Martine might be a silly girl, but she was poles away from that ghastly Janet.

     No need to feel ashamed. He was a cop doing a job. Even very nice people committed crimes. Not necessarily homicide.

     They sat waiting for him. Thonon pretending to be very casual and relaxed with his pipe. Mamma stiff and tense on the edge of a cushion. Martine fat and stodgy with the spot still threatening at the corner of her nose. Hair lustreless. Sadly less pretty than last night. He had to make a speech, damn it.

     ‘When all this happened,’ lamely, ‘everybody thought it one of those sordid crimes. They often aren’t solved at all. A trail of violence and destruction, which sometimes links up. A purse disappeared but there wasn’t much in it. Not a real housebreaker. We look for other petty hold-ups and the like. Someone, on drugs maybe, looking for easy finance. We still are doing just this, in fact, but I’m not confident it’ll yield much.

     ‘It happened that Madame Lipschitz recently came to see us with a vague tale of disaster, and I tried to see what lay behind it: seemed banal enough. Neurotic fears of a sensitive elderly woman living alone, and a certain amount of unhappy family squabbling.

     ‘And then she got killed, and I was left wondering whether something needed more explaining. An atmosphere of tension, and trouble. There were a good few things that seemed wrong, some pretty complex, psychological stuff going back in history, but I’m not a doctor, I’m a cop, and a cop tends to see things in a material sort of light. People squabble, and the root of it is generally money. I was interested, inevitably, to hear of a question of Madame Lipschitz selling her house.

     ‘I come down to personalities now. Your account, Monsieur Thonon, sounded straightforward. I don’t believe you killed anyone. It’s too improbable, fundamentally idiotic.’

     There was a melodramatic sigh, rather loud, from Martine, and Mamma was twisting her handkerchief in an agitated fashion, but she kept quiet.

     ‘There’s a possibility though of a conspiracy,’ Castang went on. ‘Raises two hypotheses, both tenable. That she was killed because she was an obstacle to some plot. Or, perhaps, she became aware of a plot, and tried or threatened to expose it.

     ‘One thing stands out. If a conspiracy exists Monsieur Thonon appears a likely go-between, even if not an active party. Nobody denies that this property, carefully handled, could prove pretty valuable.

     ‘A bit of fraudulent dealing, maybe involving corruption of a few officials, doesn’t interest me much. I’m here for a homicide. That’s not just Plonk hitting Plouc with a spanner: it’s anyone sharing or possessing guilty knowledge about that spanner.

     ‘I’m finished, pretty near. I’m saying that one can make a deal, shifty maybe, but nothing very bad. Then something horrible happens. One resolves to say nothing. Through fear of disgrace; for family reasons; a threat to income and professional position; fear maybe of financial loss. Possible threat of blackmail finally, aimed at any or all of these fears.

     ‘I want to say that bargains are possible. Even with a judge. He’ll often agree to close an eye to a racket, for the sake of solid evidence in a major case. I shouldn’t say so, but one can make this bargain with a homicide cop. He doesn’t have to be crooked.

     ‘But withhold information from a cop, and he’ll bear down all the harder. I can ask the judge for a warrant against some fellow, even without direct evidence, on what is called intimate conviction. I leave the arguments to lawyers. I can go home. I’d like that. And now what about it?’

     Martine opened her mouth, angrily, but Thonon put a stop to her.

     ‘Just let me. You give us all a refill.

     All right, Castang, that’s a sales pitch. I appreciate your fairness. I can see that you could have come down on me. You didn’t try to make yourself publicity: I’m grateful.

     ‘So you set up this meeting, and plainly you’re waiting for a disclosure. And you offer me a large opportunity to minimise my role in some racket, grasp at all the means of protecting my family, and so on. Twist events to look as good as possible, blacken everyone else, finally admit the smallest possible part in what you call a conspiracy. Throw myself finally on your mercy, reckoning that you’re a nice enough man, cop or no cop. Since you were nice, as I hear, to this big silly girl Martine.’

     Who was now crying and gulping. Everybody looked at her kindly: no one said sharply to stop the snivel and go wash her face.

     ‘She thought – like you – that I had guilty knowledge, and was stuck with it by trying to shield her mother and herself. And goes off to play detective. Please do try to forget about that, anyway. Her innocence is obvious.’ Thonon sighed, and made a face at his pipe, which was tasting bitter: he threw it aside.

     ‘The hell of it is that you’re going to be disappointed and angry. I’ve nothing for you at all. No crime, no conspiracy, no go-between, no knowledge of anything whatever. I was working on the deal I told you of, with Madame Lipschitz and nobody else, and by an unlucky bit of timing I was there that evening.

     ‘So now I’m vulnerable, and I feel pretty helpless. I wanted that deal, because as you guessed I need it. I don’t know what I’d have done if anybody had proposed a scheme to me for making it easier. I can only say that nobody did. So there I am: hammer me. I’ve no credit with the judge, no protection, no nothing.

     ‘All I can say is,’ finishing his drink, looking around him, ‘is that I’m indifferent to losing all this and even my livelihood, as long as my family believes me.’

     Under stress, people wishing to be simple and natural have an unhappy knack of sounding false and melodramatic when they wish most to sound truthful.

     ‘They do,’ said the wife quietly from the corner, where she was sitting quietly with her legs tucked under her.

     Martine blew her nose loudly.

     ‘So says this soppy great idiot cow who started all this.’

     ‘Moo,’ said her mother. ‘From one cow to another.’

     Touching scene, thought Castang crossly. He’d like to take a stick to the whole pack. Lit a cigarette, instead.

     ‘Well… Sisyphus and his stone… I’m not clever either. All right. Assume I accept what you say. I can’t guarantee you the judge. The most I can do is ask for a bit more time. But help me then,’ viciously. ‘Christ upon a bicycle, do something. Don’t confuse things any further.’ He finished his drink, put the glass down softly, ragingly, longing to throw it at somebody.

     ‘Listen,’ said Thonon. ‘If I may say so, you’ve been certain that if there was a deal I was in on it. Can’t you try to establish whether there mightn’t have been another deal, parallel, which I knew nothing about?’

     Castang looked sour, and then grinned a bit.

     ‘If you could establish that, you’d be off the hook. Can you?’

     ‘No,’ ruefully.

     ‘Develop it a bit, just the same.’

     ‘Nobody knew about that deal but me. I mean I worked it out bit by bit. Place hasn’t been on the market in a hundred years. No architect or anything. Made a plan myself, and then went to see if there’d be planning permission; fellow in the local office called Delalande. Idea was mine and no one else’s.’

     ‘Tell me,’ asked Castang. ‘Since Sabine was in active health, and could easily last twenty years, why did you ever mention the deal to the son?’

     ‘Well, to try and acquire an ally; I mean he’d benefit too, eventually. And in the end one couldn’t keep it dark. He works in that planning office; hear all about it, sooner or later.’

     ‘Yes, I see.’

     ‘I think he did it himself.’ The irrepressible Martine. ‘Killed her, I mean.’

     Castang smiled a little.

     Tempting theory. Nothing to back it up, unfortunately. I’ll be saying goodnight. I’ll let you know what the judge decides – should that concern you,’ dryly. ‘We’ll hope – is that the word? Leave it at that, yes?’

A funny thing happened, that evening.

     The Hotel Central was full of people drinking, getting boastful, telling big stories. They’d told the boss off! Cut him down to size. If that’s the way it is I just walk out, see? You should have seen his face! Climbed down smartish. And I got the rise, and I got it backdated three months, see?

     Castang got his key, was walking up the stairs with a dull idea that bed would be welcome. He felt his jacket pulled. He was tired enough to be irritable; turned round with a snap.

     Janet! Janet mad and out for blood.

     ‘I want to talk to you!’ Loud sharp voice making people turn round. She really was going to tell the boss off!

     ‘Tomorrow. Commissaire’s office.’ This was no place for ‘words’ or even words.

     ‘No!’ Loudly. If he hadn’t been jaded he might have made an effort. Been conciliatory, like the book says one always should.

     ‘I’ve nothing to hear and less to say. Let go of my jacket.’

     ‘Nothing to say!’ in a yell. Damn these women. Shopkeepers, generations of experience at yelling in the street at yacking housewives. The whole damned pub had turned around now, licking its lips.

     ‘Spends the day acting the Gestapo, making wild accusations against people, and now he’s nothing to say, and now just listen to me, and I’ll tell you and these people what you are, that’s a bribed-up cop and a stupid little moron.’

     One cop, stunned. Heard it all often, but wasn’t expecting it from this quarter. The public was enjoying this. Not just the fuzz getting ripped off: facile and fickle sympathies could easily accumulate. He didn’t feel happy, and was taking too much time wondering how to cope. And there came the landlord, a person sensitive to scandals on licensed premises, and wishful to keep on equable terms with cops.

     ‘Now miss, quieten down.’ And at Castang, ‘Put a stop to it, then.’

     Yes yes, put a stop. Call a cop, give her a slap, shout louder than she did. An idea, that… He was stuck on this stupid stairway, like a dancer at the Casino de Paris wiggling her ostrich-feather. She’d tackle him round the knees any second like a rugby-player.

     He managed to step down. Better.

     ‘Right! That’s obstruction and resisting arrest. Probably drunk. Your mother will be more than pleased.’ It would be quite easy to get into a rage too. Hardly any need to pretend. He didn’t like this young woman, never had, small prospect that he would.

     ‘Don’t dare try and lay a finger on me,’ standing her ground and glaring. An opening he was grateful for.

     ‘Quick enough to lay hands on me though, aren’t you. Making a scandal in public, stupid little girl. Out of here, or I’ll call the wagon and have you flung in it.’

     Didn’t impress her as it should. Accustomed to the boy Gérard, who roared at her doubtless, and doubtless regretted it, rapidly.

     ‘Out,’ bellowed Castang. ‘Finger on you – thrash your bottom for twopence.’ A completely wrong and bad thing to say, but the crowd was not impressed by her. It was rather taken by this last suggestion: there was a snigger; a bold spirit cried, ‘Turn her over then, copper.’

     She felt she had lost ground, and lost her head with it. She swung a hand to slap him. Mistake: it effaced his stupidity. Screaming females are a problem: slappers aren’t. He caught her wrist, turned her round, marched her to the door and slung her on to the pavement. Too humiliated for an immediate comeback.

     Castang, one dignified re-entry.

     ‘Any further disturbance,’ with pompous chill, ‘and there’ll be an official complaint.’ He looked for his key and found it in his hand.

     Unwelcome publicity, and he hadn’t come too well out of it. But why?… It was disturbing.

     Was there reasoning behind it? Or none? Female going to bat for oppressed male? Or a manoeuvre? An effort to make him lose face? More than that? She was, he had thought, a cold little thing; a mechanical, clicking, efficient little mind like the tumblers of a lock.

     He fell into bed. For the life of him he couldn’t tell what she was up to.