Gorski smiled sympathetically and expressed his condolences to the secretary.
The woman forced a smile. ‘It’s been quite a shock,’ she replied. Despite her tears, there was a liveliness in her eyes at odds with her surroundings.
Gorski asked if he might have a word with Maître Corbeil. The woman took his card and with a gentle knock entered the room to the left of the desk.
Corbeil was at his desk perusing some papers, and continued to do so, even after Gorski’s presence had been announced. Without looking up he pointed towards a pair of green leather armchairs. Not wishing to acquiesce to Corbeil’s ill-mannered gesture, Gorski remained standing in the middle of the floor. Ribéry would never have tolerated such treatment. He would have marched over to the desk and torn the papers from under the solicitor’s nose. Not that the situation would have arisen in the first place. For all his failings, Ribéry had been one thing Gorski would never be: he was clubbable. He knew everyone in town, from mayor to bartender, and neither Corbeil nor anyone else would have treated him with such disrespect. As if to demonstrate that he was unperturbed by Corbeil’s discourtesy, Gorski wandered over to the window and looked out onto the street. Lemerre was ambling back to his premises on the opposite pavement, breathing heavily through his mouth. Gorski lit a cigarette. The sound of his lighter caused Corbeil to glance up, as if he had forgotten he was there. He unscrewed the lid of a heavy fountain pen and added his signature to the foot of the document he had been reading. Then he stood up and walked across to where Gorski was standing. He held out his hand.
‘So you are our famous Inspector Gorski, eh?’
Gorski returned his gaze. The remark irked him, as it had no doubt been intended to. It was not so much the clearly ironic ‘famous’, as the use of the word ‘our’, implying as it did that Gorski was somehow the property of the worthies of the town. The solicitor showed no sign of being upset about the death of his partner. He was of medium height with unblemished pink skin. He was completely bald save for a few neatly trimmed tufts growing above his ears. He was dressed in an English tweed suit and brown brogues. His movements were precise and somewhat effeminate. Gorski had the impression that the two colleagues would never have called each other by their first names and would certainly never have addressed each other as tu. Indeed, when Gorski explained the reason for his visit, it was as if Corbeil had already forgotten the circumstances of his colleague’s death.
‘From what I understand, it was nothing more than an accident,’ said the solicitor. ‘So I fail to see what reason you have for’—he paused, as though searching for the most offensive phrase—‘for sniffing around here.’
Before Gorski had the chance to answer, Corbeil guided him across the room to the armchairs he had indicated earlier. Between them was a low table with a large cut-glass ashtray and a decanter of sherry. He took a seat and invited Gorski to do the same. He crossed his legs, then immediately leapt up. He fetched two glasses from a cabinet behind his desk.
‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ he said. He resumed his seat and poured out two large measures of sherry. ‘If memory serves, your predecessor always appreciated a little lubrication. I don’t expect you’re any different.’
Gorski took a sip of his sherry, resisting the desire to knock it back in a single draught. The wine he had drunk at the Restaurant de la Cloche had only sharpened his thirst.
‘You were explaining the nature of your visit,’ said the lawyer.
The sherry left a sticky coating on Gorski’s tongue. ‘I am merely trying to establish Maître Barthelme’s movements prior to the accident.’
Corbeil’s expression did not change. His face was so bland it was hard to imagine it expressing anything at all. ‘Is there some indication of foul play?’
Foul play. It was a phrase people only ever used when addressing a cop, a way of avoiding the more brutal phrases.
‘The Accident Investigation Unit has not yet submitted its report,’ said Gorski.
‘Nevertheless,’ replied Corbeil, ‘the assumption seems to be that it was nothing more sinister than an accident. You used the word yourself only a moment ago. If that is the case, I fail to see the need to delve into my colleague’s “movements”, as you call them.’
The solicitor’s attitude irritated Gorski. He would never have spoken to Ribéry this way. It was curious too that he spoke of an ‘assumption’. The report in L’Alsace had carried only a rudimentary description of the scene and a few lines about the victim. There had been no speculation as to the cause. Perhaps Corbeil had already made a few phone calls of his own.
‘I try not to proceed on the basis of assumptions,’ said Gorski. ‘Regardless of the findings of the Road Accident Investigator, certain questions have to be addressed.’
‘I’m not sure I agree, Inspector. Just because an individual has the misfortune to be involved in an accident, I fail to see why that gives you the right to pry into his affairs.’
Gorski could no longer hide his impatience. ‘Maître Corbeil, I am not “prying”. I am carrying out an investigation into a fatal’—he pulled himself up before using the word accident again—‘into an individual’s death, and I see no reason for you to adopt such an obstructive attitude.’
He took out a second cigarette. Corbeil stood up and took a cigar from a box on his desk and lit it with a weighty onyx lighter. He puffed on it for a few moments, appearing to be lost in appreciation of the fine tobacco. Then he gave a little shake of his head, as if suddenly recalling that Gorski was there.
‘You’re quite right, my dear Inspector. I have no wish to be uncooperative, quite the contrary. You must forgive my legalistic propensity to parse everything.’
He resumed his seat. Gorski forced a smile.
‘My enquiries, at this point, relate only to why your colleague was travelling south on the A35 when the incident occurred. I cannot imagine that the same question has not crossed your mind.’
Corbeil shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t see why it should have, but nevertheless—’ He gestured with his cigar for Gorski to continue.
‘Maître Barthelme’s car left the road sometime after 9pm. My question merely regards what time you parted company and whether he gave any indication of where he was going?’
Corbeil’s eyes betrayed a flicker of confusion. ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ he said.
‘It’s a straightforward question,’ said Gorski.
‘But it seems to be based on a misapprehension on your part,’ said Corbeil. ‘I did not see Maître Barthelme after I left these premises.’
Gorski suppressed a smile. He felt vaguely that he had won a small victory. He confined his reaction to a slight nod, intended to give the impression that he had somehow tricked the lawyer into making this admission.
‘So you did not have dinner with Maître Barthelme at the Auberge du Rhin?’
Corbeil gave a bemused laugh. ‘I did not.’
‘It is my understanding that you and your partner dined together every Tuesday evening.’
The lawyer looked askance at Gorski and replied that he was mistaken. He had never so much as set foot in the restaurant. ‘I cannot imagine what gave you such an idea,’ he said.
‘In that case, can you tell me what time you last saw him?’
‘Sometime in the afternoon, here at the office.’
‘And when was that?’
Corbeil puffed out his cheeks to indicate that he could not possibly be expected to remember something so trivial.
Gorski pointed out that it was only the previous day. ‘Perhaps your secretary has a better memory,’ he suggested.
Corbeil looked at him grudgingly, before getting up and stepping over to his desk. He consulted a large diary and stated that he had been out of the office. He then pressed a button on an intercom system and asked the secretary to join them. He could just as easily have gone to the door, but no doubt thought the silly device bestowed some gravitas on him.
The woman entered a f
ew moments later and loitered uneasily in the doorway. Corbeil invited her to come further into the room, but he did not offer her a seat.
‘Irene, the inspector here would like to ask you one or two questions about Maître Barthelme.’
The woman’s eyes darted between the two men. Gorski smiled to put her at ease.
‘It’s nothing to be concerned about,’ he said. ‘I simply want to know when Maître Barthelme left the office yesterday afternoon.’
‘It was four o’clock, or a little after.’
‘Did he have an appointment?’
‘There was nothing in the diary.’
‘He didn’t tell you where he was going?’
Irene stifled a sob. She looked at Corbeil in the hope that he might intervene.
‘But it was around four o’clock?’ said Gorski.
‘Yes.’
‘And did he return to the office?’
She shook her head.
‘And what time did you leave?’
‘Shortly afterwards.’ She glanced again towards Corbeil, who was regarding her with some distaste. ‘Maître Barthelme told me that if I was finished for the day, I could leave.’
‘So it’s possible he might have returned to the office after you left.’
She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief she had balled up in her hand.
‘I fail to see the relevance of this,’ said Corbeil.
Gorski resisted the temptation to tell the solicitor that what he thought was of no importance, but he did not pursue the point. The secretary appeared to be the only person in the least upset about Barthelme’s death and he saw no need to add to her distress.
Six
The shortest way back to the police station would take Gorski past Le Pot. It was perfectly possible to take an alternative route, but were he to take a detour, would that not constitute an admission that he had some kind of problem: that he was incapable of walking past a bar without entering it? On the other hand, what would be more natural than to stop off for a quick beer to mull over his conversation with Corbeil? It was not that he had a craving for a drink. It was simply that it would be more agreeable than returning to his office. Even so, had he not, only that morning, resolved to spend no more time in Le Pot? He did not enjoy sitting alone drinking, and he was well aware of the effect that the presence of a cop had on the atmosphere of the bar. It had simply become a way of avoiding spending his evenings in the house on Rue de Village-Neuf.
He turned into the street in which Le Pot was located. The act of resisting the temptation to enter the bar would have little value unless he actually passed it. He even crossed to the opposite pavement so that he would have to walk right past the door. A few metres from the entrance, Gorski glanced at his watch and adopted an expression intended to suggest to anyone who might be observing him that he was suddenly surprised to find that he had more time on his hands than he thought.
Three men in work clothes were standing by the counter, a newspaper open between them. Gorski slid onto the ripped vinyl banquette and mimed the motion of pulling a beer. Only when Yves had wordlessly placed his drink on the table did he stand up and remove his raincoat. He let the beer sit for a few moments. Now that it was here, he was in no hurry. He watched the bubbles rise and settle on the underside of the foam, which the bartender had adeptly skimmed with a palette knife he kept by the tap for this purpose. The men at the bar exchanged some lewd remarks about the victim of the Strasbourg murder. At this point, Yves gave an almost imperceptible nod to alert them to Gorski’s presence and the conversation fizzled out.
Gorski was intrigued by his exchange with Corbeil. The greater part of his work as a cop was entirely mundane. It is a misconception that detectives spend their time unravelling dark mysteries. They do not. In the vast majority of cases, the perpetrator of a crime is either known from the outset, or, in the cases of petty theft or burglary, unlikely ever to be apprehended. The police go through the motions of investigating crimes not primarily in the hope of finding the culprit, but simply to assure the citizens whose taxes pay their salaries that they are protected from the villains the press encourages them to believe are ready to rob, rape or murder them. In the rare event of an investigation resulting in an arrest, it is more likely the result of days of tedious legwork than some moment of intuition. So it is, at least in a town like Saint-Louis, which—a few habitual thieves aside—is blessed neither with a proper criminal class nor with any great tendency towards violence. It is a peaceful place, mostly untroubled by drama. At social gatherings, Gorski was invariably expected to entertain the company with anecdotes about the baffling cases he had solved, but when, instead, he tried to explain the real nature of police work, the conversation would swiftly move on to another topic.
So Gorski was intrigued simply because he had found something out that he didn’t know before; something that ran contrary to the previously accepted version of events. Truth be told, it was not much. A man had lied to his wife. On the night he died, Barthelme had not been where he said he would be. But more than that, he had not been where he said he was every Tuesday evening for the duration of his married life. The most likely explanation was perfectly obvious, but it was curious nevertheless. Bertrand Barthelme did not seem the type to keep a mistress. Moreover, Corbeil’s obstructive attitude suggested that he knew his colleague had something to hide. The solicitor’s unhelpfulness could be plausibly explained by a desire to protect the dead man’s reputation—and, by extension, that of the firm—but it also suggested that there might be something lurking behind the stuffy bourgeois image Barthelme had projected to the world.
Gorski sipped his beer. He reminded himself that the unaccounted hours in Barthelme’s life were of no feasible interest to the police. No crime had been committed. He had made his enquiries only out of a silly desire to please Lucette Barthelme. It was quite improper, as Corbeil had been all too aware. He should report his findings, such as they were, to the widow and leave it at that. But, if only to spite Corbeil, he did not want to leave it at that. He had been drawn in. He imagined Ribéry sitting next to him with his lunchtime pichet. As a cop he was Gorski’s opposite: all instinct and hunches. If his gut did not offer up an instant solution to a case, he would most likely shrug and blame the gypsies (a group he regarded as outside his jurisdiction). Not for him the wearing out of shoe leather, knocking on doors, or poring over cuttings and criminal records.
Gorski got up and asked Yves for a jeton for the telephone booth in the corner of the bar. He called Lucette Barthelme. Perhaps she had simply been mistaken about whom her husband dined with. There was probably a perfectly innocent explanation. When the housekeeper put the widow on the line, she sounded disoriented, as if she had just woken up. Gorski apologised for disturbing her and explained that he had been unable to see Maître Corbeil. He asked if she could think of anyone else her husband might have spent the evening with.
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘You referred to a club of some sort,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s right. What a good memory you have, Inspector.’
Gorski gently pressed her for some names.
After some thought, she provided two: one an agent immobilier, the second the owner of a factory on the outskirts of the town. Gorski thanked her and said that he would keep her informed of any developments.
Henri Martin’s offices were set back from the main thoroughfares of Saint-Louis, on the ground floor of a residential property on Rue des Vosges. There was no window displaying properties for sale or rent. Next to the bell was a sign: Consultation by appointment only.
One of the first lessons Gorski had learned from Ribéry was never to call ahead. Don’t give a witness the chance to get their story straight in advance. Still, Henri Martin did not seem at all surprised by Gorski’s visit. He was a small man, neatly dressed in a dark three-piece suit. Without asking whether he wanted it, he poured Gorski a whisky from a decanter, before inviting him to tak
e the seat opposite his desk.
‘I don’t imagine you’ve come to enquire about a piece of real estate,’ he said, as Gorski settled himself.
‘No? Why not?’ said Gorski. ‘As a matter of fact, I am thinking of moving.’
Martin looked embarrassed. He smiled apologetically.
‘The service we offer is quite exclusive,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘We are brokers rather than dealers. Our clientele is rather’—he searched for the correct word—‘rather well heeled. I would be happy to recommend the services of one of the other firms in town.’
Gorski creased his mouth into a smile to indicate that he was not offended, but he postponed explaining the purpose of his visit. Martin had put himself on the back foot, and when people were on the back foot, they found silence uncomfortable. Martin sat down behind the desk and placed his own drink carefully on a coaster. He was playing for time. Gorski was convinced that Corbeil had already called him. He sipped his drink. He knew little about whisky, but he could tell that it was not the workaday stuff one drowns in soda.
‘So,’ Martin began, ‘if you are not here for a consultation, can I assume your visit is in connection with the death of Maître Barthelme?’
‘Why would you assume that?’ said Gorski.
Martin made a gesture with his hand. ‘What else would it be about?’
The purpose of Gorski’s visit was quite mundane: to confirm that Martin had not had dinner with Barthelme on the night of his death. It could be accomplished with one simple question, but Gorski determined to make the most of his visit. ‘Go fishing,’ Ribéry would have told him.
The Accident on the A35 Page 6