Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘I get the feeling nobody has been telling us the truth so far.’

  ‘We need to discuss things urgently, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Labat, Le Ber and Dupin sat in the breakfast room for half an hour discussing everything very carefully. Dupin had brought the inspectors up to speed. He told them about the forty-million-euro painting that had hung in the same place for over a hundred years but had now been stolen. Labat and Le Ber were silent for long stretches. Dupin could see from their faces that the scale of the case was dawning on them now. And it was clear to both of them that there was one thing they absolutely had to do. They had to find the stolen painting – as proof that it had been stolen in the first place. Maybe it would lead them to the perpetrator. Not even Labat complained when Dupin stood up half an hour later and went to speak to Madame Lajoux.

  Madame Lajoux was standing at reception when Le Ber, Labat and Dupin came down the stairs. She looked somewhat intimidated when she saw the three of them.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Lajoux. Thank you for making time for us.’

  ‘It’s so horrible, Monsieur le Commissaire. Now Loic. There’s no end to the tragedy. These are difficult times.’ She spoke in that halting, pained way again.

  ‘Very difficult times indeed. We still don’t have anything to report about Loic’s death. I’ve got to speak to you again, even if it’s not easy for you. Would you mind if we went into the restaurant?’

  She looked uncertain. ‘Into the restaurant? Back into the restaurant?’

  ‘I want you to show me something.’

  The uncertainty in her gaze was growing. ‘I’m to show you something?’

  Dupin took out the key and unlocked the door to the restaurant. ‘Follow me.’

  Madame Lajoux followed slowly, haltingly. Dupin closed the door behind them. They went towards the bar and just before the bend in the L-shaped room, Dupin stopped. ‘Madame Lajoux, I wanted –’

  There was a loud knock at the door. Madame Lajoux flinched.

  ‘What on earth?’ Dupin was annoyed but he went to the door and unlocked it again. Labat was standing there.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, Madame Cassel is on the phone. Your mobile is off. She was trying to get through to you.’

  ‘I’m in a meeting, you know that. Tell her I’ll call her back as soon as I can.’

  There was a peculiar look of satisfaction on Labat’s round face. He turned around without a word and went back to reception. Dupin hesitated.

  ‘Labat… hang on. I’m coming. If you could excuse me for a moment, Madame Lajoux. I’ll be with you again very soon, this won’t take long.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  Dupin left the restaurant. Labat was holding the phone out to him at reception.

  ‘Madame Cassel?’

  ‘Something else occurred to me. I should have told you it immediately in fact. About the painting, the copy. You wanted to know who copied the paintings, didn’t you? I mean, who painted the copy of the second Vision… Is that still significant?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s just a possibility, but still. Copyists sometimes immortalised themselves in the paintings, in very subtle ways. They hid their signatures somewhere. It was a game really. You might just be lucky.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll definitely be in touch again, if we find anything I mean.’

  ‘I’m always here.’

  ‘Au revoir.’

  Dupin hung up. Labat had been standing behind him the entire time. Dupin hated it when people did that. ‘Labat?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  Dupin came right up to him. ‘We’ve got to take a closer look at that painting this minute. Let Le Ber know.’

  ‘A closer look at the painting?’

  Dupin couldn’t be bothered discussing it all again with Labat. In fact he had just realised he didn’t have the faintest idea how they were going to do it. How and where should they be looking for the name? He should have asked Madame Cassel.

  ‘We’ll talk later. I’m going back to Madame Lajoux… I don’t want any more interruptions, Labat. If there are any, I’ll hold you personally responsible.’

  It almost seemed as though Madame Lajoux had been standing stock still the entire time Dupin was gone. She was standing there exactly as she had before.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame Lajoux.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s completely understandable. The police investigation takes priority.’

  ‘I wanted to ask that you, I’d like to ask you –’ He began to stammer. ‘I wonder if you would excuse me again briefly, Madame Lajoux. This is very rude, but I’ve got to make one more urgent call – I’m sure we’ll have some peace and quiet for our conversation then.’

  It was clear Madame Lajoux felt uncomfortable. She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Dupin went around the corner to the end of the bar. He fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket.

  ‘Madame Cassel?’ He was speaking very quietly.

  ‘Hello, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘Hello. Listen, I need you. You’ve got to help us with the hidden signatures. I have no idea where or how I’m meant to find them. We don’t have the… tools for it.’

  Dupin could hear a soft laugh at the other end of the line.

  ‘I thought you would call again. I think I should have offered straight away.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Madame Cassel, I – we are being guided entirely by your art expertise in some aspects of this case, I know you’re at your conference, I’m –’

  ‘I need five minutes to get ready. I can leave right now… I’ll drive my own car, if that’s okay.’

  ‘I’m so grateful to you for doing this. We’ll be expecting you. It’s now,’ Dupin looked at his watch, ‘it’s quarter past seven now. So… well, we’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘See you soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  Dupin went back to Madame Lajoux.

  ‘You have my full attention now, Madame Lajoux. I really must apologise.’

  ‘As I said, your investigation is the most important thing, Monsieur le Commissaire. We all want you to catch the murderer as quickly as possible. He’s been free to walk around for three days. That’s not right.’

  Her voice had taken on the same mournful rhythm which Dupin recognised from their previous conversations. He waited a few seconds, then he spoke firmly. ‘You can tell me now, Madame Lajoux.’

  Madame Lajoux flinched, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘I… I don’t know what you mean. What can I –’ She broke off, a resignation in her face and in the way she held herself. It was some time before she could look Dupin in the eye again. ‘You know, don’t you? You know.’ She almost burst into tears and for a moment she seemed to be in danger of losing control completely.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Monsieur Pennec wouldn’t think it right, any of this. He would be so unhappy. He didn’t want anyone to know about the painting.’

  ‘Madame Lajoux, we’re talking about more than forty million euro. About the probable motive for Pierre-Louis Pennec’s murder.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she sounded incensed now, ‘we’re not talking about more than forty million euro – we are talking about someone’s unequivocal final wish, Monsieur le Commissaire. The fact that the painting is hanging safely here, without anyone knowing about it. It belongs to the hotel and its history –’

  ‘He wanted to present the painting to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift. With a donation plaque making the story of the painting public.’

  Madame Lajoux looked aghast. Either she was an extremely good actress or her true emotions were revealing themselves. ‘What? He wanted to do what?’

  ‘To give the painting to the Musée d’Orsay. He got in touch with the museum last week.’

  ‘That’s… that
’s –’ She broke off.

  ‘Yes?’

  Her features hardened. ‘Nothing… it’s nothing. If you’re sure it’s true. We should just go along with what he thought was right.’

  ‘Does it seem – how should I put it – inappropriate, to you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The museum thing. The donation.’

  ‘No, no. It’s just… oh, I don’t know. In many ways it was the secret at the core of everything. It’s all so strange, so wrong. I don’t know.’

  ‘How long have you known about the painting?’

  ‘Thirty-five years. Monsieur Pennec let me in on it early. In my third year.’

  ‘Who else knows about the painting?’

  ‘Nobody. Just Beauvois – and his son of course. Monsieur Beauvois was Monsieur Pennec’s art expert you know, Pierre-Louis asked his advice on everything to do with painting. I told you that already. Monsieur Beauvois advised him on the renovations here too and answered all his questions to do with the air-conditioning. So that the painting would be kept in ideal conditions. A man of great integrity, with high ideals. He takes all of this to heart, all of the tradition. Not because of the money. Monsieur Pennec knew that.’

  ‘And why did Monsieur Pennec have the Gauguin hanging here all those years?’

  ‘Why?’ Madame Lajoux looked appalled, as if this question was somehow improper. ‘Marie-Jeanne Pennec hung it there. Oh yes. The Gauguin always hung there. That’s where it belongs. Pierre-Louis could look at it every evening when he was at the bar. It embodies the entire legacy. Pierre-Louis would never have dreamed of keeping it any other way, or of removing it from the hotel, not in a million years. This was the safest place for it, right here.’

  This was the answer Dupin had expected and Madame Lajoux was, however strange it sounded, probably right. Quite apart from the sentimental reasons for this location, maybe it really was one of the most inconspicuous places for something like this.

  ‘And who else knew about the painting?’

  ‘His half-brother. I don’t know whether he confided in Delon, I don’t think so. It was a genuine secret.’

  Dupin almost laughed; this was too funny. Pierre-Louis’ son, his daughter-in-law, André Pennec, Beauvois, Madame Lajoux… and the painter who made the copy that was hanging there now, maybe Delon… that meant that in Pierre-Louis Pennec’s inner circle, everyone had known. And then there was Charles Sauré too.

  ‘At least seven people, perhaps eight, knew about the painting and that it was worth forty million euro. Most of them could see the money hanging there every day.’

  ‘Well when you put it like that it sounds awful. As if one of those people murdered Pierre-Louis… is that what you think?’ Madame looked like she was preparing to be outraged again.

  ‘And who knows who those people told, in confidence… who knows who else knew all about this?’

  Madame Lajoux looked sadly at Dupin. There was a hint of mistrust in her gaze. ‘You’ve got to admire the way Pierre-Louis Pennec dealt with the difficult mission his father entrusted him with, and how he dealt with the hotel and the painting. He did it all in the most wonderful, impressive way. That much money can destroy absolutely everything. Bad things can happen.’

  It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to ask what could be worse than murder or probably even two murders. ‘What do you think happened then, Madame Lajoux? Who murdered Pierre-Louis Pennec? And who murdered Loic Pennec?’

  Madame Lajoux glared at Dupin for a few moments, openly hostile, her whole body ominously tense, as though preparing to attack. But then she looked away and her shoulders fell in resignation. She walked very slowly over to the painting and stood in front of it. ‘The Gauguin. After the break-in I was so afraid that it had been stolen. All would have been lost.’

  Dupin didn’t fully understand her last comment, but he had a vague inkling of what she meant. Initially he had decided he wouldn’t mention the theft of the painting, even if this was ridiculous in many ways, something which Labat had – strongly – argued. And it was ridiculous, because they were throwing away an important point in the interviews. But he just had a feeling about it.

  Madame Lajoux was still standing there, motionless.

  ‘Do you know who I don’t trust, Monsieur le Commissaire? André Pennec. He’s an unscrupulous character. I think Pierre-Louis Pennec hated him. He would never have said it, but I could sense it.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy for him, being excluded from the inheritance by his own father and seeing Pierre Louis-Pennec inherit it all – especially the Gauguin obviously. And then his brother excluded him from the inheritance in the same way.’

  ‘We basically never saw him. He only ever phoned. But I can believe it, oh yes. Even his dodgy lawyer friend couldn’t help him.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Don’t you know? André Pennec had hired a lawyer who was supposedly going to call the provisions of their father’s will into question. It infuriated Pierre-Louis. They didn’t speak for ten years after that.’

  ‘When was that? What year?’

  ‘Oh it’s a long time ago now. I can’t be certain when it was any more. It was around the time they had a political dispute, or just afterwards.’

  ‘So do you think the dispute had less to do with politics?’

  ‘Well not quite. Monsieur Pennec hated the whole Emgann thing. It was definitely a bit of both.’

  ‘Do you believe André Pennec to be capable of murder?’

  Madame Lajoux hesitated, an inscrutable expression on her face. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s cruel. I don’t think… I don’t think I should be commenting on this matter, Monsieur le Commissaire. I hardly know him personally.’

  ‘You yourself have come into an impressive inheritance, Madame Lajoux.’

  Madame Lajoux looked shocked. ‘You know about that? Is it okay then, is it decided? I feel very awkward about all of this, you know.’

  ‘Our concern is the murder, Madame Lajoux.’

  ‘Yes… Yes… Does anyone else know?’

  ‘My inspectors. But you needn’t worry. It’s their job to remain silent.’

  ‘This really isn’t easy for me.’ She was pale. ‘Do you know about the letter, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you read it?’ Her voice shook.

  ‘No, no. Nobody has read it. That’s beyond the remit of the police. I would need to get a judicial order. But I…’

  ‘You… you know about… about our relationship?’ Her eyes filled with tears, her voice so faint it was almost inaudible.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where, how could you, I –’

  ‘It’s okay, Madame Lajoux. It’s your life. It’s not my business or anyone else’s. Only insofar as it is relevant to the case. I only need to know about the nature of your relationship with Pierre-Louis Pennec to build an overall picture for myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t an affair, not one of those nasty little relationships. I loved him. From the beginning. And he loved me, even though it was impossible for us to be together properly. He didn’t love his wife, not any more. Perhaps he never did. I don’t think he did. They were so young when they met and married. She was never interested in the hotel. Not in the slightest. But he never blamed her for it. He was a noble man. We could never be seen together, do you understand? Never. Everything was… it was utterly pointless.’

  ‘All of that, Madame Lajoux, that’s your own business.’ Dupin had said this more harshly than he had intended, but Madame Lajoux didn’t notice at all. ‘How was your relationship with Loic Pennec?’

  ‘My relationship with him?’

  ‘Yes. What did you make of him?’

  ‘Me? Pierre-Louis Pennec always wanted his son to take over everything, to become a great, powerful hotelier like himself, like his father and his grandmother. He didn’t like Catherine, he –’

  ‘So you’ve said… but what did you think of the relationship between father and
son?’

  ‘He might have been a little disappointed in his son, I suppose. Loic had it easy. I couldn’t understand it. His path was sketched out so beautifully. But it takes real strength to carry out a duty as onerous as running the hotel. You have to make it your entire life’s work.’ Her voice had become bitter. ‘You have to be worthy!’

  ‘Worthy?’

  ‘Yes. Worthy of living up to a calling like that.’

  ‘Did you and Loic often speak to each other?’

  ‘No.’ The answer came very brusquely.

  ‘But he was often here.’

  ‘Yes. But he only spoke to his father. He wasn’t part of the hotel, you know. He was an outsider here.’

  ‘Is it true that Monsieur Pennec sometimes gave you certain sums of money, over and above your monthly salary?’

  Madame Lajoux was looking indignant again. ‘Well yes. Listen, I’ve sacrificed my whole life for him and the hotel. Those weren’t favours, it wasn’t because I was his lover. I put everything I had into this hotel. Everything. What are you implying?’

  ‘What kind of sums were they?’

  ‘Ten thousand euro, usually. Sometimes less. Once or twice a year.’

  ‘And you transferred this money to your son in Canada?’

  ‘I… Yes, to my son. He’s married. And he’s self-employed. He’s building up his business at the moment. I… I supported him, yes.’

  ‘All of the money?’

  ‘Yes. All of the money.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Forty-six.’

  ‘How long have you been transferring these sums of money?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘And you have absolutely no idea what happened to either of the Pennecs?’

  Madame Lajoux seemed relieved that Dupin had changed the subject. ‘No. Emotions always run high here, but murder…’

  ‘Why do you think that the donation wouldn’t have been the right thing to do?’

  She looked very unhappy again. ‘He didn’t say anything to me about it. I didn’t know. He should have –’ She broke off.

  ‘I have to ask you another question. And I ask that you don’t take it personally, this is police procedure. We can’t leave any stone unturned at this stage.’