The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 30
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
This made Dupin smile.
“And incidentally: no, I don’t know him. I know who he is. No more than that. An extremely unpleasant character. He never says hello.”
“Monsieur Kolenc—do you trust him completely?”
Now she looked aghast. “That’s enough now. He’s part of the team. One of us. Of course! He’s a friend.”
She considered the topic finished.
“The building contractor could be embroiled in several different matters that are completely unrelated to each other, including ours,” Madame Bandol reflected. “And perhaps his friend Tordeux was not just a victim, but a perpetrator too! Maybe he even murdered the two Scotsmen. Before being attacked himself. That would be a brilliant twist: if Tordeux dies, the murderer himself would have been killed. And we would have yet another murderer!”
“That is absolutely possible. Tordeux did blackmail someone anyway. We’ve found a letter indicating that, but unfortunately there’s no addressee. We don’t know who it was meant for.”
Madame Bandol’s eyes opened wide. “See! He’s capable of anything!”
Dupin had stood up and was pacing restlessly back and forth. He stopped at the edge of the river. His gaze swept across the tranquil Belon.
He still couldn’t work out what it was that had been bothering him so much just now. But he was certain it was important.
“That’s right, Monsieur le Commissaire! Meditate! That’s what I meant. Then it will all become clearer!”
Dupin was only vaguely listening to Madame Bandol in the background.
He was familiar with these moments: when something within him—the term “instinct” was just a rough approximation—was working independently on something that his mind couldn’t immediately grasp. Or only partially, in some vague way.
* * *
Cueff was bald, but had some closely shaven whitish-gray hair left at his temples. He wore horn-rimmed glasses that made his narrowed eyes look cunning. He had a large physique, but he was not athletic, more thickset, in contrast to his very delicate facial features. Sometimes, Dupin thought, heads didn’t match the bodies they were sitting on—or vice versa.
Magalie Melen had driven Cueff and it hadn’t taken long.
Mademoiselle Odette had shown them to the summerhouse. It was painted white and adorned with opulent wood carvings. Five wooden pillars supported the dome. Underneath it stood two wooden benches at right angles, arranged so that you were looking out at the Belon, at the whole colorful panorama.
Madame Bandol had remained nonchalantly on her lounger, picking up her book and looking absorbed in her reading.
“Sit down.” Dupin saw no reason to be particularly friendly. “You knowingly made a false statement, Monsieur Cueff. You did in fact leave your house the day before yesterday. We’ve got a witness. And you were here in Port Belon in the afternoon.”
The commissaire had nothing to lose. He could try being aggressive.
After a brief moment of surprise, Cueff burst out into scornful laughter.
“I’m carted all the way across Brittany under threat of an arrest warrant just because I bought two kilos of langoustines, a salad, and toothpaste? A kilo costs seven euro at the moment—a kilo! I didn’t realize you were interested in my shopping.”
“I’m only interested in where you drove after going shopping.”
“Straight home. Where I—”
Dupin leapt to his feet suddenly.
Cueff and Magalie Melen both looked at him, equally shocked. That was it—that had to be it: he finally knew what had been bothering him so much. He knew it. Even though it sounded bizarre. And led to a conclusion that was bold, even audacious.
The gigantic oyster in the Belon had reminded him of his strange dream from the night before. And perhaps it had not been strange at all. So much would make sense all of a sudden! So much that was absurd would be plausible all of a sudden. The photos in Piping Today that Smith had recognized someone in before apparently calling Mackenzie as quickly as possible …
Without explanation, without saying a single word at all, Dupin left the summerhouse and walked to the end of the terrace in a kind of feverish trance. Cueff had found it difficult not to lose his temper completely, but Dupin was not listening to his furious words anymore, he was so preoccupied by his own thoughts.
His brain went over the story at top speed. Motionless, he stared at the expanse of water, whose surface perfectly reflected the deep blue of the sky.
Then he turned round and went over to Madame Bandol.
There was an excited anticipation on her face that she didn’t begin to try and conceal.
“A brainwave?” she asked mischievously.
“I need to make a call.”
“Come on.”
She got up and strode in front of Dupin, elegantly and swiftly. Cueff and Melen stared after them from the summerhouse.
Madame Bandol seemed to be positively enjoying herself. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask any questions. Which Dupin was glad about.
She showed him into a high-ceilinged, wood-paneled hallway, bigger than his entire apartment, luxuriously empty. A little table on the right, probably Empire. A velvet-covered phone with a dark red dial.
“Here you are.”
Madame Bandol immediately disappeared into the garden again.
Dupin reflected briefly: Nolwenn would be the best person for this job.
That would be the most effective thing to do.
He dialed her number.
She picked up immediately.
“You need to research something for me, Nolwenn.”
“Tell me what it is.”
She was familiar with this kind of situation, when Dupin was extremely impatient.
“I’d like you to take a look at the lives of three people: Nicolas Cueff, Matthieu Tordeux, and Baptiste Kolenc. Research everything you can find. The biographical details. Official, public documents. Everything! And specifically the years before 1970.”
“Before 1970?” Nolwenn sounded surprised.
“Birth certificate, school, education, places they’ve lived, that kind of thing.”
“No problem.”
Dupin had no idea how she would manage it. Without an arrest warrant or search warrant. But those were the words he loved to hear.
“Just for these three?”
“Just for these three.”
“By the way, the prefect wants us to ask Riwal to come back immediately.”
“He’s staying in Scotland until we no longer need him there!”
“I’ve just told Locmariaquer’s assistant that, on your orders, I looked for flights straightaway, but that Riwal unfortunately won’t make it to Glasgow in time for the last flight today. I’ve booked the first flight tomorrow morning, five minutes past six. That’s as much leeway as we’ll get.”
“That’s enough, you’re wonderful.”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve got something. This whole thing is to remain confidential, I take it.”
Dupin had almost forgotten: he wasn’t even investigating anymore. Officially, the case was closed.
“Absolutely.”
She had already hung up.
He went straight back to the summerhouse.
Cueff was on his feet by now and he was furious.
Melen had stayed in her seat and she looked perfectly cheerful. Positively relaxed. Like a diva, Madame Bandol had draped herself over her lounger again in such a way that she had a view of everything.
Dupin kept it brief: “Where did you live in the years before 1970, Monsieur Cueff?”
“This is absolutely outrageous, the way you’re treating me, I—”
“In the years before 1970, Monsieur Cueff.”
Backed up by his massive physique—Dupin had stood right in front of Cueff—his harsh tone had an effect.
“In Cancale.”
“Where were you born and raised?”
“Why?”
“Born and raised?”
“Cancale.”
“Schooling, end-of-school exams, everything in Cancale?”
“Yes.”
Cueff sat back down. Dupin remained standing.
If it was Cueff he was looking for, he would obviously be lying. And perhaps there was even the odd forged document. Or missing document.
“Do the police have any more amusing questions for me?” Cueff was now making an effort to seem as nonchalant as possible.
There was no point asking any more questions on his life story. Dupin would leave the research up to Nolwenn. If there was something there, she would find it.
“We’re going to be taking a look at your car, Monsieur Cueff. The filter on the air-conditioning system, the floor mats, everything. They can find anything these days, you know. Microscopic traces of soil with a composition that only exists in Port Belon, for instance. At the estuary.”
Dupin had phrased these sentences a little mechanically; there were still too many thoughts going through his head all at once.
Cueff burst into loud, fake laughter now. “You’re a real comedian, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
Dupin turned away.
A clear signal: the conversation was over.
He knew he currently had no means of putting any more pressure on Cueff, to really coax him out of his shell. He needed to wait for the results of Nolwenn’s research.
Besides, it was all just a bold hypothesis. An idea.
Dupin knew that he was taking a huge risk. But he had to do it.
And it was at this point that Cueff’s rage finally erupted: “You can’t possibly have asked me to make a journey of several hours for those few pointless minutes. I’m calling my lawyer, he’ll take over everything from here on.”
Having already left the summerhouse, Dupin turned around again.
“In your shoes, I would have done that earlier. Melen, see Monsieur Cueff to the car. They’re to drive him back. And keep an eye on him. If I get any fresh information, he might be back here sooner than he’d like.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Dupin was back on the quay in Port Belon. Tordeux’s and Kolenc’s oyster beds had become visible in the river; the receding water had left them mostly exposed. The sun no longer had the strength and radiance it had had in the afternoon, and the weather had turned much chillier.
Dupin needed to eat something. Urgently. The croissant at Béa’s was ages ago. He had felt really dizzy for a moment on the way. He knew that dizzy feeling. A definite sign. He could get himself a baguette at the bakery in Riec quickly. There would still be just enough time before it closed. He could call Riwal again on the way. And Nolwenn on the way back.
Dupin walked up the little path to the parking lot. As inconspicuously as possible, which was difficult with his build. The last thing he needed now was a conversation with anyone.
“You are”—it was a terrible, bad-tempered yell and the commissaire instantly recognized it—“sus-pen-ded!” The prefect didn’t seem to know how to fit all of his tantrum’s furious energy into sentences. “I am hereby temporarily suspending you! Officially! You will have nothing more to do with this entire case!”
Locmariaquer had stormed up behind Dupin; he must have dashed out of the driveway of Delsard’s property. The commissaire spun round. The extraordinarily egg-shaped head of the slim but very tall man with sparse hair in his—as usual—cheap-looking brownish suit was scarlet, every single cell seemed about to burst.
“The head of the task force has told me everything! Every word! You’re obstructing the case. You’re still investigating the issue of the two Scotsmen—and only that! That’s downright sabotage! You’re mocking me! And now this interrogation of Cueff too, the flimsy excuses with Riwal! I had told you that the case was essentially closed! That it was an order! Sus-pen-ded!” He lengthened the word in a preposterous way again.
“There’s a new—” Dupin broke off. This was nonsense. Presenting a bold theory to the prefect in this state would not be a good idea. Besides, it would prove that he was still preoccupied by “the two Scotsmen.”
“I seriously mean it. You’re out!”
Oddly enough, it was these words that really got through to Dupin. Everything until this point had seemed like something from the usual tirades.
“Give me your gun. The badge! And, believe me, there are going to be serious consequences, above and beyond the temporary suspension.”
Dupin was speechless.
It took everything he had to restrain himself. His hands had balled into hard fists.
The head of the special task force and Kadeg had joined them by now. There was a spectacle in the offing. A public humiliation.
Everything went very quiet.
A few seconds went by. Nobody said anything.
The prefect seemed to notice the tremendous tension in Dupin’s face and body. He spoke very quietly now: “Gun, badge!”
Dupin had to restrain himself even harder.
His right hand drifted to the holster underneath his pullover. He took out his Sig Sauer. And just dropped it. On the ground next to him. He looked the prefect directly in the eye as he did so. He did the same with his badge. Only his arms moved. The badge landed right next to the gun.
Then the commissaire turned around without a word. And slowly walked away, up the road, to the parking lot.
“I expect a full report. About everything of relevance with regards to Delsard and Tordeux, especially as it relates to Delsard’s missing alibi for this morning,” the prefect said loudly, but with more restraint. He wasn’t yelling anymore. Not a trace of triumph. In fact, he sounded a little helpless.
Dupin didn’t respond.
He got into the car. Very calmly. Started the engine. And drove away in a sweeping arc.
For a few bends, he remained motionless apart from his hands mechanically steering the car.
Then he reached for the car phone.
“Claire?”
“Georges! I’m glad you called. I get that you can’t—”
“We’re having dinner together, Claire. Yes! That’s what we’re doing.”
“Really? And that won’t get you into trouble?”
“No, not at all. It works out very nicely.”
“That’s wonderful, Georges!”
“Let’s meet in Rosbras. At Marie’s. I’m on my way.”
“And I’m just on my way to my car. I’ve got everything done. I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour. See you soon, Georges!” He could hear how pleased she was.
“See you soon, Claire.”
Dupin took deep breaths.
Then he really put his foot down.
* * *
The commissaire drove down the winding path as far as the little jetty where the bistro was. Just a few meters from the water. Not from the Belon, from the Aven. Rosbras—a handful of houses—was just a stone’s throw from Port Belon.
Marie’s Bistrot de Rosbras was a beautiful old building, painted a radiant white; there were pale gray windowsills with pink boxes on them containing lush blossoming flowers, wide pale gray awnings with a wooden terrace underneath, and a smattering of ceramic pots with olive trees, oleander, and small palm trees. You sat at simple wooden tables on old bistro chairs. Right by the Aven, a hybrid just like the Belon: sea and river all in one. Everything was practically perfect—but what made the place so unique was its special underlying feeling, a charm that was immediately palpable. This place had a beauty all of its own, a grace, a cheerfulness, a lightheartedness. A holiday atmosphere.
Dupin parked his car a little farther down the quay, walked to the terrace, and sat in one of the seats closest to the water. It would take Claire a little while longer.
It was very quiet, just one other table was occupied. As with everywhere else, it only started to fill up during Easter week; that’s when the season gradually got going.
Dupin found himself in a strange emotional state. There was the absolute bewilderment, the reluctance to accept or even believe what had just happened. There was the unbridled fury. Dupin had tried to push it way, way down during the incident with the prefect just now, and was still doing so now. Put simply, it would have turned into a catastrophe otherwise.
Along with the bewilderment and fury, there was also the feeling of powerlessness and of utter surreality. None of it felt real. And not forgetting his total exhaustion. It was enough to make you cry and laugh, to run away and want to destroy everything. Dupin felt almost numb. Perhaps that was the right word. As if all of the powerful feelings canceled each other out.
“Salut, Georges, how are you? Red or white?”
Marie, the owner, had come out. Slim, with rather long, dark, tousled hair, large earrings, a red T-shirt, faded jeans, and a leather jacket. Dupin liked her, both her and her husband, who had once been a Breton football star, and also her sister, who was a superb cook. Marie and her husband had made something special out of this bar. Out of this whole place.
“Red! Gascogne, please!”
She smiled at Dupin. Warmly. Encouragingly. It did him good. And it was more powerful than any words. Then she turned round and went back into the bistro.
What should he do?
Maybe he really should keep out of everything? Let things take their course? Abandon his far-fetched theory? The fact was, he was suspended.
And he was sick and tired of it. They’d see!
Besides, Nolwenn had called on his way here to forewarn him that it wasn’t easy to access the documents; she only had the first document for Kolenc—and it looked to be in order. Perhaps it would come to nothing anyway. Dupin had simply listened, he hadn’t managed to say a single word about what had happened.
“The wine.”
Marie was back already and placing a bottle of Domaine de Pellehaut on the table.
“Thanks, Marie.”
He immediately poured himself some.
And drank the whole glassful in one go. The wine reminded him of the summer and evenings here in the setting sun.
