Dark Summer in Bordeaux Read Free Page A

tailor.
    ‘Can you tell me who you made it for?’
    ‘So he’s dead, is he, and nastily, since you’re here to question me.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ Lannes said. ‘Perhaps not, since the man you made it for may have passed it on to someone else.’
    ‘Oh yes, I remember because I don’t often get such cloth to work with. Most rich Bordelais, as you may know, who have a taste for English cloth will get their suits made over there too. But in this case my customer had been given the material by his daughter – or mistress perhaps – I forget which, and brought it to me to be made up. That was natural enough. I’d made other suits for Professor Labiche.’
    ‘Labiche? That was his name?’
    ‘Certainly. A professor – I can’t remember of what at the university – though he must have retired, I would think. This was the last suit I made for him, and, as I say, at least ten years ago.’
    ‘But you still have an address?’
    ‘Must have, though it may be out of date, of course. I’m sorry he’s come to a bad end. These are bloodstains on the collar, aren’t they. He was a gentleman, always well spoken, if reserved. A good client, I had a respect for him . . . ’
    He got off the table, stiffly, as he spoke, and hobbled to a roll-top desk which had certainly seen better days, for the wood was stained and scuffed. The inside of the desk was a mess too, but, after rummaging around, the old man came up with a note-book. He leafed through it, and said,
    ‘Here we are. Professor Aristide Labiche, 72, cours de Verdun. 1 metre 75 tall, 82cm waist, used to be 87, but he lost weight before I made this flannel suit. It’s the last thing I did for him. Does that sound like your man?’
    ‘The height’s right, but I suspect he had lost more weight in the years since . . . Thank you. You’ve been helpful.’
    He hesitated, lit a cigarette,
    ‘How are things with you?’ he said. ‘You haven’t had any trouble, I hope?’
    ‘I keep my head down and get on with my work. Most of my customers have stayed loyal. What else can I do? Besides, who’s to bother with an old tailor even if he is a Jew?’
    ‘I hope you’re right.’ Lannes gave him a card. ‘If you’re wrong, I’ll see what I can do.’

IV
    ‘Labiche?’ the concierge said, ‘Professor Labiche. No, there’s no one of that name lives here.’
    ‘It’s the last address we have for him,’ Lannes said.
    ‘And when was that?’
    ‘Ten years ago, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Ah well,’ she rubbed her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve been here for five, and I tell you he wasn’t a tenant here when I moved in. To tell the truth, I’ve never heard anyone of that name spoken of. Not that there’s any reason why I should, is there now?’
    ‘One of your other tenants might know something about him,’ Lannes said.
    ‘Indeed that’s so, but then, again, this is a respectable house. There’s none of the tenants would like me to call them to the attention of the police, if you know what I mean. I speak without offence, superintendent.’
    ‘I understand perfectly,’ Lannes said. ‘Nevertheless, a man whom I have reason to believe used to live here has been murdered, and this is the only address I have for him, all I know about him . . . ’
    He paused, to let the woman think in the silence he imposed on her.
    ‘Labiche?’ Moncerre had said, ‘that’s the name of that bastard of an advocate. Maybe they’re brothers. If so, it’s the wrong one has caught it.’
    The same thought had of course occurred to Lannes, the moment the old tailor produced the name. All the more reason to go warily.
    ‘There’s Madame Bouillou, first-floor right,’ the concierge said. ‘She’s been here a long time, and she’s alert as a hunting-dog. You could try her.’

    ‘Yes, I’m Madame Bouillou, and you’re police, you say. What have I done to deserve a visit from you?’
    If she was indeed alert as a hunting-dog, Lannes thought, she was one that was out of condition. She