‘Possible, yes, but highly unlikely,’ Hassan interposed. He thumbed through the pages of his notebook. ‘He reported at nine o’clock at the premises of a furniture factory, Menuiserie Cévenole, as arranged. Unfortunately, there was a problem, a lathe had broken down, and the gentleman who was to meet him was not immediately available. At about nine-fifteen, he was informed that he might have to wait a while longer. In fact, it was in all some fifty-five minutes before Monsieur Coutelan was at last free. When the receptionist came to look for Erdle, he was still in the waiting-room where she had left him, reading a prospectus.’
‘But he might have gone out and returned without being seen,’ she repeated.
Hassan compressed his lips. It was plain that he had satisfied himself that Dieter Erdle was in the clear and was not pleased at having his judgment questioned. However, under Melissa’s challenging gaze, he obviously felt obliged to justify his position.
‘Theoretically, yes,’ he admitted. ‘The receptionist was busy with her duties and was called away several times for a few moments. However, ask yourself these questions, Madame. Assuming that Erdle wished, for whatever reason, to attack Alain Gebrec, how could he know where to find him at that particular time? How could he be sure of leaving the premises of Menuiserie Cévenole and returning unseen? What if Monsieur Coutelan went in search of him during his absence – how would he account for it?’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Melissa reluctantly, ‘but it does seem odd that he should be so evasive.’
‘About the history of his relative, you mean? That I cannot account for. Since you are so interested, why don’t you ask him?’
‘You wouldn’t object? It wouldn’t interfere with your enquiries?’
Hassan lifted both hands and the familiar smile exploded on his expressive face. ‘Not in the least, Madame.’
‘In that case, I will – just out of curiosity. Is that the end of your interviews so far?’
‘There remains one person concerning whose movements I am by no means entirely satisfied. You can perhaps guess the identity of this individual?’
‘Mrs Lavender?’
‘Precisely. I find her attitude quite extraordinary. She is, if you will forgive me for saying so, Madame, the archetype of your “stiff-upper-lip” English lady.’ He pronounced the expression “steef-oopair-leep” and Melissa, suppressing a smile, wondered where he had got hold of it.
‘I’d say that was a fair description of her,’ she agreed.
‘She has not changed one word of her story since I questioned her yesterday. She insists that she saw Erdle walking towards the belvedere at about half-past nine on Wednesday morning and that she discovered shortly afterwards that one of her golf-clubs was missing – “stolen”, she declares, although she has no proof of this. Having observed the hostility between Erdle and Gebrec, she offers the theory that either Erdle deliberately murdered Gebrec with her golf-club, or that Gebrec attacked Erdle and accidentally fell to his death during a struggle.’
‘You have, of course, put it to her that it must have been Gebrec that she saw?’
‘Naturally.’ Hassan rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘She will not believe it. Or rather, she pretends not to believe it.’
‘Perhaps she is just too proud to admit that she made a mistake.’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps there is a more sinister reason.’ This time, Hassan gave his face the full treatment, with pursed lips, blown out cheeks and a frantic tattoo on his nose. He leaned forward. ‘Suppose, Madame, that she herself killed Gebrec, in the belief that he was Erdle – the man who, she feared, was threatening to deprive her friend of her fortune and disrupt her own comfortable existence?’
‘You hinted last night that such a theory had occurred to you,’ said Melissa. ‘You think it’s possible that, having killed the wrong man, she persisted with her story of seeing Erdle to throw suspicion on to him?’
‘Why not? After all, she had no conceivable motive for killing Alain Gebrec. If she had succeeded in killing Erdle, his fall from the cliff might have been found, as in the case of Wolfgang Klein, to be an accident. He has visited the belvedere only once and the path is known to be dangerous, but Gebrec knew the area well. No one would believe that such an accident could happen to him.’
Melissa could hardly believe her ears as he proceeded to outline a scenario identical in almost every detail to the one she had put to Iris the previous evening – and subsequently rejected.
‘So,’ he finished, ‘we have two people with the motive and the opportunity.’
‘But no weapon,’ Melissa could not help pointing out.
‘Alas, no. And perhaps the fact that the golf-club was probably used points rather towards Madame Lavender. I suspect her claim that it was stolen to be a fabrication and I shall therefore be questioning her again.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘My apologies, Madame, for detaining you for so long.’
‘Not a bit, it’s been absolutely fascinating to follow your methods of enquiry,’ said Melissa and he almost purred with pleasure.
‘I, too, have greatly benefited from your own very shrewd observations,’ he responded gallantly. He looked down at his papers and cleared his throat. ‘It has occurred to me, Madame, that as you are setting your next book in France, you may find the need for a French detective. If I can be of any assistance in the creation of such a character . . .’
The suggestion was made so artlessly that Melissa found it difficult not to laugh. She pictured him, bragging among his friends and colleagues that he, Officier de Police Judiciaire Hassan, had inspired the French opposite number of the famous fictional detective Nathan Latimer.
‘I’ll bear your offer in mind,’ she promised for the second time that afternoon as she stood up to leave. ‘I hope you will keep me informed of developments. And I’ll do the same,’ she added, holding up the book.
He gave a benign smile. ‘You still expect to find something significant in that?’
‘I can’t help feeling that the key to this mystery lies somewhere in the past,’ she said.
‘Much as I respect your judgment, Madame, I fear that I cannot agree with you,’ he said sorrowfully as he bowed her out of the room.
Nineteen
Melissa returned to the terrace just as Juliette arrived with the tea-tray, closely followed by the students. There seemed a marked contrast between the two groups; the artists were engaged in animated discussion, but the members of Bonard’s group appeared subdued and dispirited. Bonard himself was not there. Rose and Dora stood side by side, but seemed to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with one another, and Dieter Erdle immediately withdrew as far as possible from everyone and stood moodily staring into space.
Melissa strolled over and stood beside him. The weather showed no sign of breaking and the sun shone full on the face of the mountains, reducing shadows to a minimum and turning the highest peaks into a two-dimensional frieze against an intensely blue sky.
‘It’s a splendid view, isn’t it?’ she remarked.
‘Splendid,’ he replied without turning his head.
‘Very different from the landscapes in northern Germany,’ she went on, ‘Schleswig-Holstein, for example.’ She was aware that he gave a barely perceptible start as she added in the same conversational tone, ‘That is where Pastor Heinrich Erdle came from, isn’t it?’
Without taking his eyes from the panorama before them, he gave a high-pitched, almost infantile laugh. ‘What a splendid detective you are, Mel Craig! Did you go running to that stupid policeman with tales about me? If so, I fear you were wasting your time.’
‘I’m aware that you claim to have an alibi,’ said Melissa coolly. ‘What intrigues me is, since that is the case, why did you pretend not to know that your relative was mentioned in the book we were discussing? He was your relative, wasn’t he?’ she added as he remained silent.
‘My father’s brother,’ he admitted grudgingly.
‘Exactly what happened to him?’
/> ‘You’ve read the book. He was betrayed to the Gestapo and shot.’
‘Who betrayed him?’
‘No one knows for certain. There are stories about a Viennese doctor called Julius Eiche, who claimed to be a refugee from the Nazis, but who was later suspected of being a spy. The Maquis were after him, but he disappeared before they got to him. The truth has never been established.’
‘Is that why you came here – to find out more about your uncle’s death?’
‘Not at all.’ His look of surprise seemed perfectly genuine. ‘I am here for one reason only – to improve my French. My company selected the school and made all the arrangements for me. When I realised where I was being sent, I thought it might be interesting to do a bit of research. That is why I bought the book.’
‘Did you learn anything of interest?’
‘About what happened to my uncle? No.’
‘Or what caused Alain Gebrec to become so agitated?’
‘No.’ She raised an eyebrow and saw him redden, but he stuck to his guns. ‘I tell you the truth,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I made one joke about Gebrec having a Germanic appearance and it made him very angry. I found that amusing, so I made more jokes. There are references in the book to French women having liaisons with German soldiers, and the unpleasant reprisals they suffered after the war . . .’ He sniggered, like a schoolboy who has just told a smutty joke. ‘Perhaps that is what upset our friend . . . maybe his mother . . .’
Melissa felt her anger rising. ‘You really enjoy needling people, don’t you?’ she snapped.
‘Needling?’ He affected a grimace of incomprehension.
‘Riling them. Getting their dander up. Hurting their feelings – you know bloody well what I mean!’ she said furiously. ‘Is that why you carried on flirting with Rose Kettle, even when you could see the trouble it was causing? Because you found the effect it was having on Dora Lavender “amusing”?’ She had not intended to bring Rose into the conversation, and certainly not to lose her temper, but his flippancy in the face of tragedy infuriated her.
‘Ach, the silly Röslein! How could I know that she would take me seriously? I thought her life must be so boring with her starchy friend, why not give her some fun?’
Again, Melissa was reminded of a schoolboy, whining excuses after being caught out in some classroom prank that had ended in disaster, pleading that he had meant no harm. All his sophistication had slipped away, revealing the shallowness of his nature.
‘If Rose could hear you now, she’d probably find you as contemptible as I do,’ she retorted. ‘And you still haven’t told me why you were so anxious to conceal your connection with Pastor Erdle.’
‘You disappoint me.’ Ignoring the insult, he made an effort to regain his cocksure manner. ‘I would have thought that with your knowledge of human nature . . .’ His tone was deliberately provocative and she had difficulty in checking a second burst of anger.
‘I suppose you’re trying to tell me,’ she said after giving herself a moment to calm down, ‘that after Alain’s body was found, and before it was put about that his death was suicide, it occurred to you that in the course of routine enquiries someone who knew about your uncle’s fate might recognise your name and start asking questions. Some connection that you say you know nothing about,’ – here Melissa contrived, by a change of tone, to imply an unspoken ‘of which I’m not entirely convinced’ – ‘between you and the Gebrec family might emerge. It might even be seen as a possible motive for murder. Especially since, until the time of death was established, you couldn’t be sure you had an alibi. And of course, once it turned into a murder enquiry, there was all the more reason to say nothing.’
‘Bravo!’ He clapped his hands in mock admiration. ‘You are right, it could have meant a great deal of unpleasantness for me, and my employers would not have been pleased. Now the police have accepted my alibi, the matter has no relevance.’
‘Probably not,’ she agreed with some reluctance.
‘So, all the time you spent reading that boring history has, I fear, been totally wasted,’ he said, with the same air of derision that had so enraged Gebrec and Dora. ‘I trust you are now convinced of my innocence of any crime?’
‘I’m convinced you didn’t kill Alain Gebrec to avenge the death of your uncle, if for no other reason than that I can’t imagine you capable of any feelings of family loyalty and honour,’ said Melissa scathingly. ‘But I’m by no means convinced that you’ve told me everything you know.’
She had the satisfaction of seeing the smug expression wiped from his face before turning on her heel and walking away.
She was helping herself to a cup of tea when Iris appeared at her elbow.
‘Can we talk?’ she muttered.
‘What is it?’
‘Come away. Don’t want the others to overhear.’
She led the way down the steps from the terrace and stood by the pool with her hands clasped behind her and her head bent. Melissa stood beside her in silence, aware of the soft gurgle of the water through the filtration system, watching it run in ripples towards the deep end and idly thinking what a good job Fernand had made of cleaning the majolica-blue tiles. The gardens and the putting-green that Philippe Bonard had so meticulously provided for his students’ recreation looked peaceful and colourful; the orchard that supplied Juliette with the fruit for her compotes and preserves was dappled with patches of glowing colour. Normally at this time the students would be scattered around like figures in a landscape, chatting, laughing, taking the opportunity of some gentle exercise. Today they remained close to the house, their chatter restrained, occasionally glancing over their shoulders as if half-expecting yet another summons from the intruders who had settled without warning in their midst.
‘What is it?’ repeated Melissa, as Iris appeared lost in thought.
‘Philippe.’
‘What about him?’
Iris fiddled with one of the tortoiseshell slides that held her springy hair away from her face. Her colour deepened as she muttered, ‘Hassan asked us all . . . if we knew about . . . Philippe and Gebrec.’
‘You mean, if they were lovers.’
Iris nodded, biting her lip. ‘Does he suspect him?’
‘Look, Iris, you must understand, the police have to keep an entirely open mind. Some people can be eliminated straight away – your group, for example, and the people in Philippe’s group who were away from here all that morning. Everyone else has to be considered as a possible suspect.’
‘But Philippe loved Alain. Why would he kill him?’
‘If a wife is murdered, the husband is normally suspect number one. If a lover is murdered, I imagine the same reasoning applies. But if it’s any comfort, Iris, there’s at least one other person who had motive and opportunity.’
‘You mean Dora Lavender?’ Hope lit Iris’s forlorn face.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Hassan figures she could have done it in the way I said last night. The problem is, until he finds that missing golf-club – or some other weapon – it’s all purely hypothetical.’
‘What about Erdle? Did you find anything in that book?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t help much. Hassan is satisfied with his alibi.’ Melissa gave a brief account of her conversation with Erdle, but Iris had already lost interest.
‘It’s aged Philippe, losing Alain,’ she said miserably. ‘To be suspected of killing him must be frightful. Mel, you don’t believe he did it, do you?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I know he loved Alain and I know how important Alain was to the success of the Centre. But I also know that Alain was unfaithful to him, not just once but many times. I’m sorry, Iris, I know how horrid this is for you. It’ll be better when we’re away from here.’
‘I’m not leaving till this is cleared up!’
‘What good can you do by staying?’
‘He needs support, someone who believes in him. You don’t need to worry – I know the score,
but I can still be his friend.’
Melissa’s drooping spirits rose a fraction as Jack Hammond approached.
‘Have there been any developments?’ he asked. The question was directed at Melissa, but his eyes were on Iris’s woebegone face, and his voice and his ruddy, open countenance showed his concern for her.
‘Not so far as I know,’ replied Melissa.
‘I imagine that if anyone had inside information, it would be you,’ he said shrewdly.
‘All I can tell you is that Hassan’s men haven’t yet found Dora’s missing golf-club and until he lays his hands on that, or some other weapon, he’s up against a blank wall. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but he can’t even be sure it was murder.
‘Some other weapon?’ Jack turned to Iris. ‘Didn’t we see Fernand brandishing a crowbar under Gebrec’s nose that morning?’
‘That’s been sent away for routine examination,’ said Melissa, ‘but Fernand has been eliminated, he’s got an alibi,’ she added, a shade too quickly.
Iris shot her a keen glance. ‘Alibis can be faked. Heard you say that more than once.’
‘Hassan seems happy with this one.’
Iris opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Marie-Claire came clicking down the stone steps from the terrace on her high heels and announced a telephone call for Madame Craig. On the way upstairs they met Philippe Bonard coming down. He stood aside, with a bow and a smile, to allow them to pass. Some of the strain appeared to have lifted from his expression, as if the arrival of his new assistant had reduced the pressure. Through the half-open door of his office Melissa caught a glimpse of Monsieur Dalmer, in shirt-sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, seated at a desk with a stack of files in front of him.
Antoinette Gebrec was on the line. She spoke in French, her voice firm and controlled, but lacking the vitality that had charmed Melissa during their earlier meetings.
‘You are still interested in coming to see my pictures?’
‘Well, yes, but in the circumstances . . .’ Melissa found herself murmuring platitudes, but Madame Gebrec swiftly interrupted.
Murder on the Clifftops Page 21