Dog Will Have His Day (25 page)

‘So why would I help you?’

‘If you don’t, I’ll use your own methods, I’ll do some muck-spreading of my own tomorrow. I know a few good stories. A future mayor, who doesn’t want to help in a murder investigation, that wouldn’t look good.’

‘You don’t like me much, do you, Kehlweiler.’

Blanchet, insultingly, had started to call Louis ‘tu’.

‘No, not much.’

‘So why don’t you try to pin the murders on me?’

‘Because, to my profound regret, you didn’t do them.’

Kehlweiler was calling him ‘tu’ back now.

Blanchet smiled, and almost burst out laughing.

‘You really have rubbish for brains, Kehlweiler. Gaël’s mistress, that’s what you want to know?’

Blanchet began to laugh quietly.

‘If we have people like you in charge of justice round here, it won’t flutter any dovecotes.’

Marc tensed. Louis was losing the advantage. And this man-to-man confrontation seemed both pathetic and tedious. A set of formal dance steps. In a moment, they had passed from polite but icy forms of address to an aggressive trading of insults. He didn’t see the need for all this in the middle of the night, for one small piece of information. He glanced over at Mathias, but Mathias, who was standing against the wall, didn’t look amused. He was waiting, arms dangling, watchful under his blond thatch, like a Neanderthal ready to pounce on the bear threatening his cave. Marc felt isolated, and thought about the Albigensians again.

Blanchet leaned forward.

‘I suppose, Mr Too Clever By Half, you never noticed that Gaël was a nancy boy? You make me laugh . . . Try to find a murderer, and you can’t tell a cock from a hen.’

‘All right, the name of the
man
then.’

‘You call that a man?’ Blanchet laughed.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Fantastic, Kehlweiler, fantastic. What a tolerant person, generous, politically correct and non-judgemental. Pleased with yourself, are you? Proud? With all that and your big heart and your victimised leg, you go charming your way around the ministries.’

‘Get a move on, Blanchet, you’re just being tiresome. What’s the other man’s name?’

‘Even for that you need me?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s better. I’ll give you your information, Kehlweiler. You can pass it on to Guerrec and much good may it do you. It’s Jean, that pale-faced idiot who sucks up to the priest. And you hadn’t spotted it.’

‘OK. Jean and Gaël, that was the couple? In the cabin? On Thursdays?’

‘And Mondays as well, if you want to know. The rest of the time, prayers, guilt, good resolutions on Sunday, but off again on Monday, dodging confession. That make you feel better? Now go and do your worst and lock him up. I’ve seen enough of you for one night, and I’m off to bed.’

Blanchet looked well pleased with himself. He’d had fun, and he’d worsted Kehlweiler. Standing up, he started round the desk with a confident tread.

‘Just a minute,’said Kehlweiler, without moving. ‘I haven’t finished.’

‘Well, I have. If I gave you Jean’s name, it was because Gaël was pushed off a cliff, not because you impress me. I don’t know anything about these murders, and if you persist in staying on my property, I’ll call the police.’

‘Just a minute,’ Louis repeated. ‘You’re not going to call the cops over another little bit of information. All I want to know is where you’re from. What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you where I’m from, in exchange. I’m from the
département
of the Cher. And what about you, Blanchet? Northern France, is it?’

‘Yes, I’m from northern France!’ Blanchet shouted. ‘How much longer are you going to be buggering me about?’

‘Not by any chance from the town of Vierzon? I’d have said you were from somewhere like that. Vierzon, yes.’

Oh, now we’re getting to the point, thought Marc. What point, he couldn’t say, but they were certainly getting there. Blanchet had stopped coming round the desk.

‘Yes, Blanchet, make an effort. Vierzon, you know, in central France. Don’t act stupid, I know it’s a long way back, but make an effort. Vierzon, on the river Cher. No? Doesn’t ring a bell? Don’t remember? Need a bit of help?’

Kehlweiler was very pale, but he was smiling. Blanchet retreated quickly back behind the desk.

‘No funny tricks, Blanchet! These two guys aren’t here for decoration, don’t underestimate them. The one on the right has fast reflexes and the hands of a gorilla. Wouldn’t need any weapons to split your skull. The other one is quick on the draw, his ancestors were Sioux warriors. Got it?’

Louis stood up, pushed in behind the desk, and opened a drawer roughly, against Blanchet’s stomach. He felt among the papers inside, extracted a handgun and emptied the magazine. Then he looked up at Mathias and Marc, who were now both standing against the wall, one each side of the door, blocking it. Mathias looked perfect, and Marc looked, well, almost dangerous.

He smiled, nodded and returned to Blanchet.

‘You
are
from Vierzon, or do I have to piss on you to get you to admit it? Ah, yes, that rang a bell, didn’t it, pissing? I can see a flicker of the eyelid there, it’s coming back, isn’t it. Nothing like early memories.’

Louis was standing behind Blanchet, holding the back of his chair with both hands. Blanchet didn’t move, one eye was twitching and his jaw was set.

‘In fact they used to call you the Piss-master, didn’t they? And don’t try bringing out some false ID, it won’t fool me. Your real name is René Gillot, no distinguishing features, brown eyes, snub nose, stupid expression, but the artist’s eye noticed the gap between your front teeth, the patch on your right cheek where the beard doesn’t grow, your triangular earlobes, just little things, everyone has distinguishing features, you just have to remember them. René the Piss-master, despicable leader of the Vichyite Militia in Champon, near Vierzon, during the war. You had your headquarters in a corner of the forest, fifty-three years ago, yes, you were only seventeen at the beginning, you had rubbish for balls, and you started
very
young. On your little bike, you used to go to the
Kommandantur
to spew up denunciations of your fellow Frenchmen. And it was there in ’42 that a German soldier on sentry duty, just a poor bloody soldier, in
Feldgrau
uniform, an anonymous Boche, saw you coming and going. You should always watch out for soldiers on sentry duty, René, they get fed up standing around all day, so they look and they listen. Especially a soldier watching for a chance to desert – not so easy, believe me, with a German Army helmet on. I know, these are boring old stories from long ago, so long ago I wasn’t even born, ancient history. But it’s to please you. Because I know there are some bygone mysteries you still wonder about, you’re still asking yourself how it was, and by what miracle, that some of the people you denounced got away in the nick of time. You suspected two of your own pals, and let me put this on your conscience right away, you wiped them out for nothing.’

Louis grabbed Blanchet’s chin and turned his face towards him.

‘And that German soldier, René? You never thought about him. Every week when people brought chickens into the marketplace, he was well placed to whisper, under cover of the cackling of hens, some information picked up at the
Kommandantur
. He didn’t know much French, he just learned enough to be able to say things like: “It’s tomorrow, dawn, get away.” Ah, now you know the answer! Now you can see the face of that soldier you went past month after month. His features are a bit vague perhaps? So take a good look at me, René, that’ll bring them back quite clearly, apparently I look very like him. Yes, you’ve got it, and with a bit of an effort, you’ll even remember his name, Ulrich Kehlweiler. He’ll be very glad to know I’ve found you, believe me.’

Louis let go of the back of the chair, and of Blanchet’s chin which he had been squeezing. Marc couldn’t take his eyes off him, he felt butterflies in his stomach, what if Louis were to strangle the old man? But Louis went across the room, and perched sideways on a large table.

‘Remember the fuss there was when soldier Ulrich went missing? Every house was searched. And you know where he was? It’ll make you laugh. Underneath the box bed of the schoolteacher’s daughter. Ingenious, yes? And it creates friendships. One night in the box scared to death, the next in the bed, making love. That’s how I came to exist and in fact Ulrich and the daughter fled together and joined a Resistance cell. But I’m not going to bore you with my family history, I’m getting to the bit that really interests you, the night of 23 March 1944, in your forest headquarters, where, with the help of the seventeen other
miliciens
, you had caught twelve members of a Resistance network, plus seven Jews who had taken refuge with them. Never mind how many there were of them, you were very pleased with yourself. You tied them up, you
pissed
on them, your pals did the same, you offered the women to them. My mother, who was among them, as you will have guessed, was raped by the big blond man, Pierrot. You tortured them for hours, you had so much fun, and you were all so drunk, that two women managed to escape – yes, you pathetic arsehole, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale – you realised that a bit late, but when you did, you decided to get serious. You put the others in the barn, roped them together and set the place on fire.’

Louis hit the table, Marc saw that he was livid, Gothic and dangerous. But Louis regained control of himself and took a breath. Blanchet could hardly breathe.

‘The story had a happy ending for the girl, she got away, she found Ulrich again, and they were in love with each other all their lives. I hope you’re glad for them. The other woman was older, the
milice
caught up with her in the woods and shot her down, just like that. Evidence? Is that what you want? You hope that history can be wiped out with your sleeve, by changing your ID card. Ask Vandoosler over there if history is ever forgotten, you piece of shit. I was twenty when my mother told me the story, with some sketches. Good pictures, very delicately drawn, she was gifted, as you might not have known. I would have picked you out of a thousand men, René. With her sketches and descriptions, I’ve managed to catch up with seven of your little friends so far, on my rounds, but none of them knew the new name of the Piss-master.

‘And then, what do you know, I find you here, don’t get excited, no such thing as chance. Twenty-five years I’ve been travelling the country, chasing those murderers, it wasn’t chance but careful prospecting, I’d have found you one day or another. And now, you’re going to give me the names and addresses of the nine others I’m after, if they’re not already dead. Yes, you have, you’ve got all that somewhere, don’t disappoint me, and above all don’t make me angry. Then the affair will be closed. And you’d better get a move on, that’s not the only thing I have to do in life. What? You’re frightened? You think I’m going to
kill
them all, your old
milicien
friends? No, I wouldn’t even piss on them. But if necessary I
will
neutralise them, dispose of the bombs. As I’m going to do with you. I’m waiting for the list. And then, René, while we’re at it, I’m not just interested in the past, no, we’ll think about today as well. You haven’t been twiddling your thumbs since your pissing trips in days gone by. Now you want to be mayor, and you have higher aims. You aren’t doing this all on your own. So I also want a list of your contemporary henchmen. The whole list, you hear. The sub-adults, the adults, the old fools, all ages, sexes and occupations. When I do bomb disposal I do it properly, I pull up the plant complete with its roots. Every bit. And you can leave me your slush fund too, that will be useful. You’re hesitating? You realise, don’t you, that old Ulrich Kehlweiler is still alive, and will recognise you at a tribunal? So you’re going to dismantle the whole machine, you’re going to give me the lists, papers, networks, you arsehole, or I can quite simply get you arraigned for crimes against humanity. Same thing if any of the little shits among your gang of today so much as lifts a finger. Or if you try anything against my father. Or if you try to escape, because there’s not a chance.’

Louis stopped talking. Blanchet’s head was still lowered, as he stared at his knees. Louis turned to Marc and Mathias.

‘Right, we’ve finished here, we’re off now,’ he said. ‘Blanchet, don’t forget your instructions. Your pension, your army of bastards in hiding, your lists and your funds. You can chuck in your file on Chevalier too. I’ll be along to pick it all up in forty-eight hours.’

Once in the street, the three men walked in silence, heading for the main square. Louis kept running his hand through his hair, now plastered on his forehead and damp with sweat. None of them considered going into the hotel; they went past it towards the harbour, where they sat down on some wooden crates. The howling of the west wind, the pounding of the waves and the metallic clang of the rigging replaced conversation. Perhaps they were waiting for Louis’s hair to dry properly. Half past three struck, first from the church, then from the town hall a moment or two later. The double clang seemed to rouse Louis out of his sweat and from his immense fatigue.

‘Marc,’ he said suddenly, ‘something’s bothering you. Out with it.’

‘No, it’s not the time. There are moments in one’s life when one has to keep quiet about trivial matters.’

‘As you like, but still, you’ve had that beer bottle stuck on your finger for an hour now, and you can’t get it off. It’s stupid, but something has to be done about it.’

Mathias and Louis, using a stone, managed with care to break the glass bottle, dangling from Marc’s hand. Louis threw the shards into the sea, so that they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

JEAN, SO WAN
and unthreatening that the gendarmes had been in no hurry to take him into custody on the Wednesday morning, had escaped through the window with a start of two hundred metres on them. He fled, by reflex action, to his usual refuge and had barricaded himself inside the church.

Which meant that at nine in the morning, six gendarmes were stationed outside the building. Early customers at the Market Cafe had heard the news and turned up, passing comments and waiting to see what policy would be used to extract him. That policy was under discussion between Guerrec and the priest, who was refusing permission for anyone to break a sixteenth-century stained-glass window, or smash down a carved fourteenth-century wooden door, or in fact to touch anything at all in the house of God, full stop. No, he didn’t have the keys, Jean had the only set in the village. The priest was lying with determination. Nobody was to count on
him
, he said, to help terrorise a desperate man who had chosen to seek the protection of the Lord. It was raining again, everyone was getting very wet. Guerrec remained calm, but his features were strained as he mentally examined every wall of the socio-religious dead end in which he now found himself trapped. From inside the church, Jean could be heard sobbing uncontrollably.