The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 21
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
The door to Tordeux’s house stood ajar, propped open by a wooden wedge on the ground. The fierce wind was catching on the door and making loud, strange whirring noises. The ground floor of the little building was lit by a single bare bulb, bright light falling down the steep steps from upstairs.
“Okay, then let’s do it like that. Tomorrow morning, seven o’clock. Bonne nuit.” Tordeux’s voice sounded very cheerful. But there was something domineering about it too.
Without making his presence known, Dupin walked up the stairs.
Tordeux was sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed. Dupin climbed the final steps and walked straight into the room. Tordeux had—of course—expected him.
“An appointment with my insurance rep.” Not a word or gesture of greeting from Tordeux. “It was about the ‘site visit.’ The inspection of the fire. There has been a significant amount of damage.”
Tordeux still seemed far from upset, but at least this last sentence had been fairly reasonable. He was wearing a stylish flannel suit, midnight blue with pale blue stripes, a shiny blue shirt, pants, his hair combed back with gel even more ostentatiously than this afternoon, a smug, self-assured expression on his face—as slippery as an eel.
“So—what can I do for you? What do the police want to know from me?”
Tordeux made no move to get up. Dupin picked up one of the white chairs, placing it unhurriedly in the center of the room and sitting down in a casual motion, his eyes fixed steadily on the man opposite him.
“Monsieur le Commissaire, don’t tell me you’re looking for a connection between the fire and the murders? What could that be?” There was a frank coquettishness on Tordeux’s face.
“You could easily have set the fire yourself before your trip to Saint-Brieuc.” Dupin ran a hand through his hair. “And you were in the vicinity of the scene of the crime yesterday at the time it was committed.”
“Shrewd speculation, nothing more.”
“People are saying that, unlike what you claimed, the building contractor Pierre Delsard did contribute to your purchase of the farm near Fouesnant. And perhaps to your investment in Cancale too?”
“Everyone is free to hallucinate as they please.”
Dupin swiftly changed the subject. “From what I hear, you’re an enthusiastic activist for Intercelticism? With various commitments.”
“An old passion of mine. Our roots, our history, our identity.” Tordeux was acting the passionate Breton now. “Is there something criminal about that? I also play the bombard now and again, by the way, less than I used to. A fantastic instrument. Very old, Celtic.”
Riwal had demonstrated it once. A wind instrument, a kind of oboe. An extremely powerful sound.
“Were you also at the preparatory meeting for the festival this year?”
“Just two evenings.”
“What was the focus of these two evenings?”
“Planning the schedule and logistics.”
Dupin switched tack again. “What we are especially concerned with is this: What could your cunning trick here on the Belon be? Pigments aren’t necessary here.”
A smug smile spread across Tordeux’s face. “So that’s how it is. I see. Once a crook, always a crook. It’s all old news, Monsieur le Commissaire, even if you’re considering taking it out of the wastepaper basket.” The smile remained on his lips.
Their sparring was taking place on a high level. Tordeux was quick-witted, Dupin had to give him that. And he knew that without solid circumstantial evidence, they would never be able to access his data.
“Thank you, Monsieur Tordeux. This has been an illuminating conversation.”
Dupin stood up abruptly, turned around, and left. Undramatically. Without any haste. Without adding an afterthought, without some trick that Tordeux, judging by his expression, had been expecting.
“As I say, the offer stands: the best Belon oysters at special prices for your commissariat!” he called after him.
Dupin walked calmly down the steps. He covered the few meters of storeroom chaos, exited the door into the cold night air, and strode straight toward the quay. He didn’t stop until he got there.
He was freezing. His jacket was in the car.
His instinct told him Tordeux had skeletons in his closet. Whatever they were and however many there might have been.
Dupin stopped again a few meters away from his car and listened carefully. Motionless. Then he stamped his feet several times, as noisily as possible. And listened again.
Nothing.
“Hello?” he called in a loud voice.
No response from anywhere.
No Toulouse goose.
Maybe Charlie had been lucky in love again.
* * *
On the tiny little streets of the peninsula, Dupin had been concentrating on not running over any of the countless rabbits—a challenge even during the day—and didn’t call Riwal until he was on the main road from Riec to Pont-Aven. From there he would drive to Concarneau via Névez. Fifteen minutes at his speed.
Dupin had updated Riwal briefly. Melen had continued making inquiries. “We are too insignificant to Tordeux for him to have any conflict with us,” Baptiste Kolenc had told her. There had been no talk of a suspicion that Tordeux was working in some “shady” way. Even if they all considered him ruthless where his interests and businesses were concerned. It was common knowledge that Tordeux and his ex-wife quarreled as soon as they saw each other, but nobody seemed to take it seriously. Melen had also tried to find out something about the possible joint business ventures between Tordeux and his friend the building contractor—which proved to be extremely difficult. There was a lot of speculation, but nothing solid—not even the mayor knew anything.
They still had not been able to track down the woman from the bus. Nobody seemed to have known her or recognized her.
The forensics team were continuing their work in the lab with some fabric samples from the car.
Riwal was excited, he was due to catch a plane the next morning at five forty-five. Nolwenn had organized everything. Dupin told Riwal to drive home and pack.
The phone call had lasted until shortly before he reached Concarneau.
Dupin had just driven past his usual gas station. He braked suddenly, turned around, and parked right in front of the entrance.
He was the only customer; they were about to close.
The woman at the cash register, the owner, greeted him with a sleepy nod.
“Not filling up. Just looking for something.”
She looked curious now, but left him to it.
Dupin went into the “mini boutique” area and stood in front of the shelves of Breton souvenirs and specialties. The shelves were lovingly stocked: a wide selection of biscuits, other Breton baked goods, all kinds of salt mixtures from the Guérande, rillettes made from every seafood imaginable, miniature wooden boats with Breton flags, ceramic tea sets with flags on them, various clothes and textiles with Breton symbols, sweatshirts, T-shirts, aprons, and towels.
Dupin saw a dark blue T-shirt that said À l’aise breizh—which meant something like “In the Breton style”—one of the clothing brands that used Breton iconography. The brand had a shop next to the newsagent in Concarneau. The logo, a stylized drawing of a Breton woman in traditional costume, had become a patriotic statement. It was also used on bumper stickers that served as identifiers when traveling; in Holland, England, Spain, Germany, Italy, and France, you saw the logo on Breton cars and on cars belonging to Brittany’s international friends.
Dupin chose a T-shirt in the appropriate size and went to the cash register.
“A really lovely design.” The owner nodded appreciatively.
“And”—he had just seen something else next to the cash register—“and these.”
Dupin had grabbed two breakfast boards in pretty wood. Presumably oak. With Be breizh written on them in Atlantic blue. “Be Breton.” A magic spell, a sacred code. It meant everything: the unique Breton way of being—of seeing the world, things, people, life. And above all, the conviction that Brittany changed you, deep down inside. An elemental force. A promise. An attitude. That was exactly the right symbol for Claire’s move.
The owner packed everything up into a blue paper bag and Dupin got into his car in a good mood.
He drove toward the Amiral—it was just a few minutes until he would see Claire.
* * *
Dupin parked where he always parked, directly opposite the restaurant, on the large quay in front of the local fishing harbor. The enormous fortress of the Ville Close was festively lit, the way it was every evening, the beautiful, angular church tower on the hill inside the old town walls looking particularly magnificent. Even the greenish-yellow fishing boat positioned in front of the old walls as part of the Musée de la Pêche glowed in the atmospheric lighting.
The chill and the salty wind from the west, from the open sea, had Concarneau in their grip. The fierce ringing of the little bells up on the masts of the sailing boats blended with the sound of the wind. Unlike on the secluded Belon, the little town’s yellowish light illuminated the billowing, low-hanging clouds.
Dupin was glad he would soon be sitting in the Amiral—it was just as much his home as his own apartment was. He spent a significant proportion of his life there.
Claire would be sitting at his regular spot. At their soon-to-be joint regular spot.
Dupin hurried out of the parking lot between the plane trees, across the street, covered the last few meters, and threw open the door to the restaurant.
But his table was empty. No Claire. No glass, no plate, nothing. This couldn’t be.
He looked at his mobile. No calls from Claire, no text messages.
“She tried to call you, Georges, but it was busy the whole time.”
Paul Girard, the owner of the Amiral, was standing at the edge of the long bar. Dupin hadn’t noticed him.
“It’s going to be a late one tonight, I’m to tell you,” he said in an offhand way, as always. “She was in the clinic and there was an emergency. Her new boss asked her to operate.”
Claire had not even started working there and already she was in the thick of it.
“Thanks, Paul.” Dupin sat down.
“Waiting?”
“No. No. Not waiting.”
There were no two ways about it—he needed to eat something, and fast. The dizziness had got worse, although he was trying to ignore it. Besides, most likely nobody could have said, not even Claire herself, what exactly “It’s going to be a late one” meant. Perhaps it would even be very late.
Paul disappeared without saying anything else. He didn’t mention Claire or the obvious changes in Dupin’s life. That was not his way.
Dupin leaned back.
He was confused. Exhausted. A little sad too. He had been so excited.
On the other hand, he was relieved because he had been afraid Claire would have been waiting for him for a long time. But what was even worse was this: Dupin had been worrying the whole time that Claire might have been disappointed by his behavior after her major news, although her reaction in the moment hadn’t implied anything like that. “I’m leaving my life in Paris behind and I’m moving to be near you in Brittany, Georges.” “Great, Claire, I’ve got lots to do and need to leave right now.” That was genuinely more or less how it had gone. Claire had revealed perhaps the most important news of her life to him—and he’d had nothing better to do than continuing to investigate straightaway.
But then, and it didn’t take long, a smile appeared on the commissaire’s face. A smile that came from deep down inside and instantly banished his moodiness and gloom.
He had just realized something. And it was the crucial part: soon, this is how it would always be. Everyday life with Claire in Brittany. She would be living here with him. Which also meant doing a crazy amount of work, like in Paris, at the most ridiculous times. Just like he did himself.
Tonight, it wasn’t a plan to meet like the ones they had made in the past, when Claire came to see him for a few days. The change was not still to come—it had already happened. There would no longer be a farewell after far too few days. They suddenly had a life together.
Dupin placed both his hands behind his head.
And for a while he just sat there.
“Voilà.”
The entrecôte.
Paul had been quick. He put it down right in front of the commissaire. With the crispy homemade chips. Baguette in a little basket on the side. A bottle of wine. Two glasses.
It smelled heavenly: the aroma of seared, grilled meat, the toasted fleur de sel and piment d’Espelette on the crust; the outside crisp and dark, still bleu inside but in such a way that not a drop of blood flowed when you cut it. The hot mustard on the side. Nothing in the world did him as much good at the end of a grueling day of investigation as an entrecôte. Nothing else gave him so much strength. Dupin felt that nothing brought him back to earth quite like it. Along with the deep red, rich, silky Languedoc, Ivresse des Sens. Dupin loved it for the name alone: Intoxication of the Senses.
“Paul?”
“Yes?” His friend was back at the bar again.
“You and Henri, you source your oysters from the same producer, don’t you?”
“Béa.”
“Somewhere near Fouesnant, is that right?”
“In the large bay. Aux Viviers de Penfoulic. Oysters, palourdes, praires, cockles, crabs, spider crabs, sea snails.” He broke off, then said calmly, “The oyster case. I see. You’ll find Béa there every morning, half an hour before sunrise.”
Without waiting for a response, Paul went into the kitchen.
Dupin began to eat.
He would go through his notebook later. An important ritual. How often had the solution to a case, the crucial clue, been there in his notebook for hours or days—he would reflect, summarize everything in peace, make a list for Riwal in Scotland.
That’s what he would do. Until Claire came along at some point. The new head of cardiology in Quimper. It made him smile again. He was a lucky man. Commissaire Georges Dupin was a lucky man.
The Third Day
It was ten past seven and above the vast, desolate Atlantic in the west, beyond the very last jagged, storm-tossed, wave-lashed rocks of the old continent—the Pointe du Raz—the sky stretched, still as black as night. In the east it was getting very bright—the black there had given way to a shimmering, celestial, deep blue. A wafer-thin strip of lighter blue appeared above the horizon.
It was even colder and more unpleasant than last night. Now and again a shower pelted down with one of the brisk gusts of wind. The wind instantly woke you right up.
Dupin had fastened up the jacket that he really only wore in the winter months and put up the collar.
Béa was not there yet. The commissaire was walking up and down in front of the long Viviers de Penfoulic plant. Béa’s mussel and oyster farm. A magical place. Not many meters from the bank of a large inlet that meandered inland. In the middle of the wide Baie de Concarneau, past La Forêt-Fouesnant. Beyond it lay the idyllic, hidden beaches of the Cap Coz in front of enormous stone pines on rich, sandy ground that reached as far as Beg Meil, the end of the expansive bay. Dazzlingly white sand, every shade of Caribbean turquoise, green, and blue: a flawless little paradise.
The Viviers de Penfoulic plant was to the front, near the inlet, only separated from the beach by a waist-high wall. There were struts at head height with green fishing nets hanging over them—no doubt to keep the seagulls away from the delicacies in the pools underneath. You could see an oblong pool, not very deep, and behind it a whitewashed shed with two blue-framed windows. At the end was a little terrace for tastings; you could enjoy everything very fresh here. The bubbling oxygen pump burbled like a romantic stream.
Claire would definitely still be asleep. In the T-shirt she had put on straightaway. Claire would be staying for the whole weekend. She had taken some of the huge amounts of leave she had amassed in recent years and didn’t need to be back in Paris until Monday morning. And even better: soon she would never need to go back! She would also be there on Friday evening—at Dupin’s party—which made it a good deal more bearable.
They hadn’t got to Dupin’s apartment until two in the morning. Claire had come into the Amiral at half past midnight. Dupin had polished off another glass or two of Intoxication of the Senses. And Paul had personally made Claire another entrecôte, as the kitchen staff had already left. After that, they had shared a little cheese plate and finally, a baba au rhum, a small, ring-shaped, rum-soaked yeast cake with cream.
Dupin had been able to go over his notes at his leisure. At his leisure and with extraordinary red wine in his head.
In the morning, he had snuck out of bed at five forty-five. Up till then he had been sleeping extremely restlessly, tossing and turning, and constantly waking up. And when sleep came, it had brought a peculiar dream: in it, Dupin was a tiny piece of plankton drifting in a gigantic current toward an oyster bigger than a human lying by itself on the seafloor. He would end up in its belly. He tried in vain to persuade the monster that he was not suitable as food, had the wrong flavor, certainly no green flavors! In his right hand he was holding a (working!) mobile and was constantly trying Nolwenn’s number—this too was in vain, because Nolwenn, he knew for some reason, was on the phone to Claire. Claire, who had been appointed head of a scientific subsea station. Suddenly, like a gong, there had come the sound of a metallic, booming voice. The oyster. “It’s me. Me, but not me.” Almost cheerful. Dupin was certain—even in the dream—that the voice reminded him of someone. Then he had woken up.
“Can I help you?”
A brisk tone that left no room for any doubt that a prompt answer was expected. A woman’s voice, directly behind him.
Dupin turned with a start and said quickly: “I’m a friend of Henri and Paul. My name is Georges Dupin.”
A low, husky laugh was audible. The woman’s face was in shadow.
