A newsboy was standing under the awning of the Café Auguste, a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He had no need to shout. Business was good. News was bad. They were still carrying the story of the shooting and the girl’s drawing. People liked to sit back in comfortable armchairs in front of fires after their evening meal and read about the horrors of life from the safety of their own warm little boxes. So long as it didn’t touch them.
Bannerman bought a copy of La Belge Soir and glanced briefly at the front page. There were pics of the death house, single column pics of Gryffe and Slater and a reproduction of the drawing. The by-line of the story was Richard Platt’s.
He folded the paper under his arm and walked into the steamy warmth of the café. The place was filled with people and noise, a strong aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. It was a typical Belgian café. A big barn of a place crammed with tables and chairs, mirror squares all along behind the bar and big, scarred pillars supporting an ornately corniced ceiling almost obscured by the fog of smoke and damp that people make on wet days. Two waiters in white jackets and black trousers darted between tables and bar conveying endless orders of coffee and beer on brightly-coloured trays. These guys really earned their money.
Du Maurier was sitting at a table at the far side of the café behind a square-panelled pillar. He raised an arm to wave Bannerman over. ‘What will you drink, Monsieur?’
Bannerman eased himself into a chair opposite the policeman. ‘Whisky.’
Du Maurier barely moved his head and one of the waiters was at his arm, a thin, dark-skinned man with a small black moustache and a permanent scowl. ‘Inspecteur?’ Du Maurier ordered a whisky and an absinthe. The waiter was called Jacques. When he had gone the policeman pulled at the hair growing out of his nostrils and lit a cigarette. Then he sat back and smiled curiously at Bannerman, dark, dark eyes sharp and watchful. ‘Well?’
‘So they’re going to pull the plug on you tomorrow.’
The smile widened. ‘They have already done so. The case is closed. Tomorrow is just an exercise in public relations. The dirty work is done. I have to admit, I did not expect them to move so quickly.’
Bannerman thought about it. ‘Then there is more to it than embarrassed politicians?’
Du Maurier seemed so relaxed he was almost liquid. ‘That is for them to know and you to find out.’
‘And you?’
Du Maurier leaned forward and placed his elbows carefully on the edge of the table, clasping his big-knuckled hands below his chin. ‘The case is closed.’
‘Is it?’
‘Officially I can do nothing.’
‘And unofficially?’
Jacques arrived with the drinks on a tray and left the cheque in a saucer. Du Maurier reached for a jug on the table. ‘Water?’ Bannerman shook his head and the Inspector poured water into his absinthe and watched it turn cloudy. He picked up his glass and sipped the drink. ‘The case,’ he repeated very deliberately, ‘is closed.’ He took a bigger slug and then studied Bannerman thoughtfully. ‘What do you need to know?’
Bannerman took his first sip of whisky and kept the glass close to his mouth. ‘Michel Lapointe and René Jansen. Who are they?’
Du Maurier shook his head sadly. ‘You are on the wrong track, Monsieur. Oh, yes, we found those cuttings from the newspapers too. But there is nothing to connect them in any way with Monsieur Gryffe or what happened in the Rue de Pavie.’ He paused to consider his words. ‘René Jansen is a very powerful man in this country, Monsieur. His business interests are enormous as is his bank balance. He wields much influence, but not that much. He is a big man, but not that big. The decision to close the case is a political one and Jansen is not a political animal. This is not his affair.’
‘And Lapointe?’
‘A legal man. A company lawyer. Look, Monsieur, there is no connection.’
‘Any connection could do them harm?’
Du Maurier sighed. ‘Perhaps.’
Bannerman emptied half of his glass. ‘Why are you trying to protect them?’
The policeman was annoyed, and his annoyance seemed genuine enough. ‘Perhaps I have made a mistake,’ he said curtly, ‘I thought you were an intelligent man.’
‘So did I,’ Bannerman said. ‘And I see no reason for changing that opinion. You see, I’m just naturally suspicious and I also see no reason why you should be talking to me at all. Oh, I know what you told me yesterday. Justice, morality, the law. All very noble. But I’m just too cynical to believe all that. Forgive me. As I said, I have a suspicious nature.’
Du Maurier nodded, and his years seemed more deeply etched in the lines of his face. ‘Okay. There’s no reason why you should believe me. My motives are my own. Perhaps they are not very noble, but they are real enough and I don’t see why I should go into them with you.’ He wet his lips with a sip of absinthe. His mantle of defeat settled more heavily on his shoulders. ‘Of course I was not mistaken. You are a very astute young man. But you should know that the last thing I would want to do is protect a man like Jansen. Men like Jansen are a cancer in our society, the intrinsic weakness that one of your political leaders once described so nicely as the unacceptable face of capitalism.
‘I am no socialist, but I believe in democracy. Men like Jansen make a mockery of what we call democracy. It doesn’t really exist except in the hearts of idealists. It is true that the people elect their representatives, but the candidates are picked by the parties and the parties do not run on fresh air. They need money to fuel them. And it is men like Jansen who provide that money. Surely none of us is naïve enough to believe that this money is provided for love of party. No, no. Such benefactors seek influence if not control, benefits if not power. Jansen’s business interests sail very close to the wind when it comes to the law, and sometimes he will steer a course that is clearly, though discreetly, outside the law. But he has influence, you see. He has paid for it, and so he survives. I would dearly love to bring such a man down, but that is not the way of things. Who am I? I’m too old and tired for all that. But I have no reason to protect him. The case is closed and even if I thought Jansen was involved there would be little I could do about it. You would be well advised to take my advice. My instinct would be not to tangle with Jansen, or even Lapointe.’
Bannerman nodded slowly. ‘I believe you,’ he said, ‘but my instinct is a journalist’s instinct. If Slater went to the trouble of putting together a folder of cuttings on Jansen and Lapointe and filed it along with his cuttings on Gryffe, then there was a reason for it. They may be connected with what happened, and they may not. But my instinct is to check it out.’
Du Maurier shrugged. ‘Then follow your instinct,’ he said.
‘I always do.’
The Inspector smiled wearily and finished his drink. He pushed back his chair. ‘I must go.’
‘There’s more,’ Bannerman said quietly.
Du Maurier’s face set. ‘What more?’
Bannerman called Jacques and the waiter materialised beside him. Bannerman said, ‘Encore.’ Jacques nodded and disappeared into the fug of people and smoke from which he had come. A group of working men in the far corner raised their voices in laughter. Some bawdy joke. Bannerman took out a cigar and du Maurier lit it for him and then set fire to another cigarette. ‘Slater was planning to leave,’ Bannerman said.
Du Maurier looked at him emptily. ‘You have had a busy day. You searched the flat?’