Inspector Bassé and the Winter Wolf

To the right as I walked out of the building was the Café du Guillaume. I took a seat on the square. It was cold and my breath clouded in front of my face. The waiter was old and wrapped up in a coat and scarf against the January morning. The weak sun had climbed as high as it would go and sent down a poor pale light into the square. I ordered a coffee and watched the townspeople out and about on their business. I searched their faces for any clue of remembrance. Many had the familiar cast of the region, all a little paler, all a centimeter or two taller than the milieu I had left behind. All of them, every single one, looked like people I once knew.

The coffee was good, dark, and strong, the way I liked it. The coffee in Cayenne had been rich and fruity, with a forceful, almost overpowering chocolate bitterness. I had not found its flavour replicated anywhere else, but Guillaume’s coffee was good enough. I sipped and watched and thought and sipped.

I had ordered the plat du jour, it was a cassoulet, good, thick fare for a chilly morning. I dipped my bread and sipped a cold glass of water. There was no need to hurry.

After an hour or so I returned to my new office and was pleased to see the window clearly reflected in the walnut desktop. The housekeeper had left the windows ajar and a light breeze gently cleared the old stale air left behind by other lungs.

In the middle of the desk was the file that I supposed held the report on the drowned man. Next to it were two stacks of dossiers detailing the staff under my command. Next to them was a fresh pile of paperwork, the blood of the police force, the stuff that kept everything, the nation, La France, moving forward.

In a chaotic world I enjoyed the steadfast regularity of paperwork. Whatever happens in France one can always rely on the bureaucracy of state business to remain. Without this steadfast order then chaos would rule the day. Sometimes it felt like the gendarmerie was the last bastion of civilization in a cruel battle, but as long as this great bulwark of administration held, our great nation would overcome.

I picked up the case file. It had the name of Deputy Inspector Didier Ouimet on the front. I had yet to meet him. Inside, the report was a thin affair and I saw at once Royer’s sin of omission. The dead man’s name was Jean Mortain. The address was one I knew well. I had spent much of my youth getting in and out of trouble, in and out of church and school, with Jean Mortain.

I read the scant details of his fate, of his discovery one cold morning, face down in the frozen reeds on the banks of the Aure. His body had been trapped by the ice built up at the old bridge at the end of the Rue Tire-Vit. It was not a road name to be found on any map, but it was well known in the city for its particular attraction for a certain clientele. Jean had been found by a rough-house barkeeper on her way to market one morning.

The last time I saw him Jean had been passed out from drinking on the floor of his own kitchen. We had been having a final evening of cards and wine before I left for Paris. It did not matter who won or lost that night. It had been an evening of laughing and promises, of two young men trying to make sense of where they were and what was happening in a world that neither really recognized anymore. From here it seemed a very long time ago.

I closed the file and pushed back my chair. This was not good news. I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with old friends, reminiscing and catching up, perhaps finding some meaning in returning to the old place. It was one of the reasons I applied to fill this post. I wanted to come home. I had wanted my travels and experience to mean something to someone at last. God knows I had made friends in Paris, and then later in the colonies, but not where I had expected to. Perhaps coming home had been a mistake? But I was here now. Too late for Jean. Too late for my father too. Hopefully in time for the rest of my friends, and for myself.

Home. I still had not gone as far as to visit the house my father had abandoned when he disappeared with his new wife. What should I think of him and my youthful stepmother? I shook my head. Collette had been a sincere bride, of that I was certain, but I had always retained a nervous regard for the match. I had received the keys to the house from the family Notaire, but the particular pleasure of revisiting and deciding what to do with the place would have to wait.

I took up the stack of dossiers relating to the men under my command. Royer’s was thin for a man so long served, but he was someone who preferred to keep things brief and to the point. More interesting was my Deputy, Didier Ouimet, up from Laval in the Mayenne. Was he looking to return home too or was he searching for something, like I had been? I shook my head. Measuring others by one’s own gauge never worked, but I should like to understand his story.

The rest were a mixed troop of gentlemen, some scholars but most were local soldiery looking to serve their own. I hoped they would come to realize that I was as local as they were, despite appearances. I recognised one or two names. There had been a Leverrier in the school choir, a sergeant now, and the name Desnier was familiar too. I seemed to remember arresting a Desnier many years ago before I left town.

I finished my survey and slipped quietly out of the station house. It was still not yet three in the afternoon. I knew the way to Jean’s house, and let my legs take me the well-remembered route.