Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening?’

  ‘Me? You mean where was I personally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I worked until half seven, there was a lot to do, you know, it’s all a terrible mess. Someone has to keep their eye on everything. The guests are worried. I think I was home by around eight o’clock. I was absolutely exhausted and went to bed soon after. I showered, brushed my teeth…’

  ‘That’ll do, Madame Lajoux. When do you usually go to sleep?’

  ‘For the last few years I’ve been going to bed early, around half nine. I have to get up very early after all. Half five every morning. I had a different rhythm when I used to sleep at the hotel.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame Lajoux. That’s as much as I need to know. Did you see anyone as you left the hotel?’

  ‘Madame Mendu, I think. We bumped into each other briefly downstairs.’

  ‘All right. You should be getting home now.’

  ‘There’s still a bit to do tonight.’ Something seemed to be making her very self-conscious. ‘I –’ She broke off again.

  Dupin understood. ‘I’d like to assure you again that everything we’ve discussed will remain between us, Madame Lajoux. Please don’t worry. Nobody will hear anything about this.’

  She seemed somewhat relieved. ‘Thank you. It’s very important to me. People could get the wrong idea you know. That would be unbearable, especially when I think about Monsieur Pennec.’

  ‘Thanks very much again, Madame Lajoux.’ Dupin went towards the door. They left the restaurant together, Dupin locked up again and they said goodbye.

  Labat and Le Ber were nowhere to be seen. He needed one of them. Madame Lajoux had almost disappeared up the stairs by the time he realised there was one question he still needed to ask.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame Lajoux – I have one last question. There was that man you saw in front of the hotel on Wednesday, who was talking to Pierre-Louis Pennec… do you remember?’

  Madame Lajoux turned around with astonishing speed and sprightliness. ‘Oh yes, of course, your inspectors asked me about that too.’

  ‘I would like you to look at a photo and tell us whether it’s the same man.’

  ‘Absolutely, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘One of my inspectors will show you the photo.’

  ‘They’ll find me in the breakfast room.’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  She disappeared up to the first floor.

  Dupin stood outside the main door and took a few deep breaths. It made for a jolly scene, the square and the narrow streets were glittering with tourists. Dupin turned right, heading for his little alleyway. There was nobody around.

  It was eight o’clock. He had lost all sense of time, which always happened to him when he was on a case, but today it was also because daylight hadn’t really started until the afternoon. It was so hot now that it seemed as though the sun was trying to make up for what it had missed out on that morning. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day. His third long day.

  Dupin walked to the end of the road without thinking, then turned right in the direction of the river and crossed the bridge to the harbour. This had already become something of a ritual for him. That’s how it always was – without meaning to, he returned to the places he liked. He dialled Le Ber’s number.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the chemist in Trévignon, I’m just leaving.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Madame Pennec was here yesterday evening, around quarter to ten, she bought Novanox. Nitrazepam. She had a prescription for a high dosage. She was in the chemist’s for about ten minutes. She was served by a member of staff called Madame Kabou, who was there this evening too. I’ve just spoken to her.’

  Dupin managed to get out his notebook with his left hand. ‘Good. Now we need to know what time she got back.’

  ‘To her house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How are we meant to find that out?’

  ‘I don’t know. We probably won’t… There are still a few more things to be done, Le Ber. Find out what time Madame Lajoux left the Central yesterday. Make sure you speak to Madame Mendu.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I really need to see Monsieur Beauvois. Have you found him?’

  ‘Yes, he was in the museum. There was a long art society meeting there today and he had other things to do, too. Phone calls, something to do with donors.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll visit him later; I’m going to see Delon first. Tell Beauvois nine o’clock or thereabouts at the hotel. We’ll give him a call. Has André Pennec turned up again?’

  ‘We got through to him in Rennes, via his office. He’ll be back late. He knows that you want to see him urgently.’

  ‘Call him again. Set up a meeting. Is Labat at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him to look up the Musée d’Orsay online and show Madame Lajoux a photo of Charles Sauré. I’ve already told her about this.’

  ‘The director of the collection?’

  ‘Yes. I want to know if he was the man she saw talking to Pennec outside the hotel.’

  ‘I’ll let him know.’

  ‘One last thing. Madame Cassel is just about to arrive at the hotel. I want you to go into the restaurant with her if I’m not there. She may need your help. She has to take a look at the painting.’

  ‘The copy of the Gauguin?’

  ‘Yes. We may be able to find a clue to the copyist. She’s already on her way.’

  ‘Fine, no problem.’

  ‘Speak to you soon.’ Dupin hung up.

  A group of kayaks came into the harbour and stopped on the far side, underneath one of the big palm trees. Loud, cheerful voices and exhilarated people; a merry mixture of colours, the boats yellow, red, green and blue.

  The quickest way to get to Delon’s house from here would definitely be just to walk diagonally over the hill, but Dupin still found the labyrinth of little streets quite daunting. He took the route past the Central, even though it meant he had to push his way through the crowds.

  Dupin knocked on the heavy old wooden door. The little window next to it was wide open.

  ‘Please come in. The door isn’t locked.’

  Dupin opened the door and stepped inside. It seemed very cosy, just as it had the last time he was here. The ground floor of the pretty old stone house was one big room − sitting room, dining room and kitchen all in one. It wasn’t unlike Beauvois’ house, perhaps a little smaller, and yet it seemed completely different. The atmosphere was different.

  ‘I was just about to eat.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry. I’ve come at an extremely inconvenient time. I didn’t even let you know I was on my way.’

  ‘Won’t you join me?’

  ‘I just have a few questions; I don’t want to keep you too long.’

  Even Dupin himself didn’t know whether that meant yes, I’ll sit down with you, or no, I’d rather stand, I’m not staying long anyway. He sat down. On the old wooden table, almost exactly in the centre of the room, lay a plate of langoustines, a dish of scallop rillettes, some mayonnaise and a bottle of Muscadet. Next to these was a baguette (a ‘Dolmen’, Dupin’s favourite kind). He noticed all these details because he suddenly felt ravenous.

  Delon had gone over to the old cupboard next to the stove and fetched a second plate and glass without a word, placing them on the table in front of Dupin, who was very grateful. He hadn’t even needed to say anything. He took a little bread and some langoustines and began to peel them.

  ‘Pierre-Louis came here too sometimes. We’d sit just like you and I are sitting now. He liked being here like this: a baguette on the table, a few simple things.’

  Delon laughed fondly, affectionately. In comparison to his taciturn behaviour the day before yesterday he seemed positively talkative.

  ‘I take it you know about the painting?’

  Delon answered in the calm way he had
been speaking all along. ‘It never interested me. He was glad it didn’t.’

  Dupin had been expecting this answer. So seven people, at the very least, had known about the painting.

  ‘Why didn’t it interest you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everyone flitted around him because of the painting.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Everyone saw the money. That some of it could belong to them one day, or even the whole painting… I think he could see it sometimes. That much money changes everything.’

  ‘What did he see?’

  ‘That they all wanted the painting.’

  ‘And who wanted the painting?’

  Delon looked at Dupin in astonishment. ‘Everyone. His son, his daughter-in-law, Lajoux, I don’t even know who else knew. Beauvois did for sure. So did his half-brother.’

  ‘But he never intended to sell it.’

  ‘No, but it was there, always there, do you understand? And everyone thought to themselves: who knows? Who knows?’ Delon sounded mournful all of a sudden.

  ‘And do you think one of them could turn out to be the murderer?’

  Again Delon looked shocked, but spoke in an even tone. ‘I think any of them could.’

  ‘You believe all of these people to be capable of murder?’

  ‘How many millions is the painting worth?’

  ‘Forty, maybe more.’ Dupin looked at Delon and waited for a response. Delon reached for the Muscadet and filled both glasses.

  ‘There aren’t many people I could honestly say would never become a murderer for that kind of money.’ There wasn’t a trace of cynicism or resignation in his voice; he acted like he was just calmly stating an established fact.

  Dupin essentially agreed.

  ‘They were all waiting for him to die at last. They were all thinking about this day, the entire time. No doubt about it.’

  There was a long silence. Both of them ate.

  ‘Everyone wanted the painting… and nobody was going to get it. Did you know about Pierre-Louis Pennec’s plan to present it to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift?’

  Delon hesitated a little for the first time. ‘No. So that’s what he was planning, eh? It’s a good idea.’

  It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to say that it was precisely this good idea of Pennec’s that might have triggered the events culminating in his murder. When he found out about his serious heart condition, he had turned to the Musée d’Orsay immediately… and somebody must have known exactly what he had done, someone who wanted to prevent the donation being made. Someone who had to act before it came to that.

  Dupin was silent. Delon was absolutely right. In itself, it was a good idea.

  Delon looked serious now. ‘He should have done it before. The donation. No doubt about it. I was always afraid that even more people would find out about the painting. If more than two people know something, eventually everyone will know it.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Pennec was never afraid. It was odd. He wasn’t afraid of anything.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a motive – a particularly strong one I mean?’

  ‘When that much money is involved, doesn’t everyone have a particular motive?’

  Dupin felt as though any of Delon’s comments this evening might have come straight out of his own mouth. ‘What did you make of the relationship between father and son?’

  ‘It was all so tragic.’ Delon topped up their glasses. ‘A great tragedy. Everything. What happened between them, and now his death. He had a sad old life.’

  ‘What do you think –’ Dupin’s mobile rang and at an offensive volume. Le Ber’s number. He picked up rather reluctantly.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve got to come and take a look at this right now.’ Le Ber was practically falling over his words in excitement.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve taken the painting out of its frame, Madame Cassel and I. She brought special tools with her. We’ve found a signature on the copy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Frédéric Beauvois.’

  ‘Beauvois?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘So he did the painting? He copied it?’

  ‘Yes. We found the signature in the tree, up in the branches, very well hidden but still clear. We’ve compared this signature with the one on some invoices he gave Pierre-Louis Pennec. There’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘Does he paint then?’

  ‘Apparently. Madame Cassel thinks it’s an excellent piece.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It seems… I mean, I don’t have a good feeling about this.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘About my feeling?’

  ‘That it’s Beauvois?’

  ‘Whose signature it is? Yes. Madame Cassel is completely sure. Frédéric Beauvois is the copyist behind this painting.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Let’s meet at the hotel.’ Dupin thought for a moment. ‘No. Let’s go straight to Beauvois’ house. I’ll leave now. See you there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Delon had calmly continued eating during the phone call, remaining thoroughly unconcerned.

  ‘I’ve got to go, Monsieur Delon.’

  ‘So I thought.’

  Dupin stood. ‘Don’t get up.’

  ‘No, no, I should.’

  Delon walked Dupin the few metres to the door.

  ‘Thank you for the excellent meal. And for taking the time to speak to me too, of course.’

  ‘You didn’t eat much.’

  ‘Next time.’

  ‘Au revoir.’

  Dupin tried to get his bearings. It couldn’t be that far to Beauvois’ house, but he found the narrow, crooked little streets and alleyways of the old town confusing. Dupin decided to go down the main street instead. It took him five minutes. When he arrived, Le Ber was already waiting for him, standing a few metres down the road from the house. The door to the front garden was closed.

  ‘Ring the bell.’

  Nothing happened. Le Ber rang a second and third time.

  ‘Let’s go to the museum.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s there?’

  ‘We might as well try it. Where’s Madame Cassel?’

  ‘At the hotel. I asked her to wait there.’

  Dupin smiled. Le Ber looked at him in bemusement.

  ‘Is there something wrong, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing at all.’

  They hurried back down the lane, past the Central and Place Gauguin and up the road to the museum. It was less than a hundred metres from the hotel. The entrance was in the modern part of the building, an ambitious, ugly, white, concrete-steel-glass construction which had been built onto the old Julia Hotel.

  The door was locked. Le Ber knocked loudly. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more firmly this time, but still nothing happened. There was no doorbell. Le Ber took a few steps back. To the left of the museum was an art gallery, the first in a whole string of them, one gallery after another – perhaps ten or fifteen crammed together, stretching the whole way down the little street. A few steps to the right of the entrance was another door in a gloomy, concrete alcove. This one was heavy and made of steel – it looked like it might be the door to the technical hub of the museum.

  ‘I’ll try this one.’

  Directly beside the door – strangely low down – there was a very plain doorbell that they might easily have missed. Le Ber held it down three times in a row. A few moments later there was a loud noise from the museum. It sounded like a door banging.

  ‘Hello? Police! This is the police. Please open this door!’

  Le Ber was yelling. Dupin almost laughed.

  ‘Please open this door immediately.’

  Dupin was just about to tell him to calm down when the door opened, just a crack at first, but then in one swift motion it was thr
own open wide. Frédéric Beauvois was standing in front of them, smiling and friendly.

  ‘Ah – the Inspector and the Commissaire. Bonsoir, Messieurs. Welcome to the Pont-Aven Museum.’

  Beauvois’ remarkable friendliness threw Le Ber off. Dupin took over the talking.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur Beauvois. We’d like to have a word.’

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then it must be important. So many police VIPs. Shall we go to my house? Or to the hotel?’

  ‘We’d like to stay here in the museum. Do you have a room where we could chat for a little while?’

  Beauvois seemed irritated for a split second, but immediately composed himself again. ‘Of course, yes, there is a conference room; we can sit there. I’d be delighted. We use it whenever one of our clubs has a meeting. It’s along here. Up the stairs.’

  Le Ber and Dupin followed Beauvois. Le Ber hadn’t said a word yet.

  The stairs led to the first floor. They went along a long, narrow corridor which led to an equally narrow door. Beauvois opened it with a flourish and went into the room. Even inside, the new part of the museum was not particularly attractive. The design was very functional but the room was surprisingly large, a good ten metres wide. Some battered-looking desks were set out in a big U-shape.

  They sat at one of the desks in the corner.

  ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ Beauvois was leaning back in his chair. He looked completely at ease.

  Dupin’s forehead creased. A question had already crossed his mind on the way to the museum, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why had Beauvois signed the painting, thereby running the risk of incriminating himself? What was that about? He was an intelligent man. It didn’t make any sense. It seemed to indicate that Beauvois might not even be guilty, despite his name clearly being on the copy.

  ‘We have a search warrant, Monsieur Beauvois.’

  Dupin had spoken in an icy tone. Le Ber looked incredulously at the Commissaire. Of course they didn’t have a search warrant, but Beauvois was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to check. He ran his hands through his hair several times and shook his head a little, pursing his lips. He seemed to be thinking hard. A minute passed before he spoke in an extremely friendly way.

  ‘Come, gentlemen. Come with me.’