Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  He stood up, waited for Dupin and Le Ber to do the same (which they did after a moment’s hesitation) and then briskly retraced his steps. Along the corridor, down the stairs. He opened a door that Le Ber and Dupin hadn’t noticed before, opposite the main door, directly to the left of the stairs. It led to the basement of the museum. Beauvois turned on the light. He was still leading the way with determined strides.

  ‘This is our storeroom, gentlemen. And our workshop.’

  They entered a very large room.

  ‘Some of the members of our societies are passionate painters…and, I can say this in all modesty, some of them are very talented. There are some remarkable pieces here. But come along.’

  In the far corner stood several long, narrow tables. Le Ber and Dupin had to work to keep up with Beauvois’ pace. He stood in front of one of the tables. They positioned themselves on either side of him without even thinking about it.

  Beauvois reached for one of the switches dangling from the ceiling. Powerful spotlights came on and it was a few moments before they could see properly again.

  The first thing they saw was the garish, almost blinding, orange. Then the rest of the painting. It was right in front of them. They could have reached out and touched it. Intact. And overwhelming.

  It was another few moments before Dupin and Le Ber could grasp what they were looking at. Le Ber murmured so quietly it was almost impossible to understand: ‘I knew it.’ And then after another little pause, ‘Forty million euro.’

  But before either of them could say anything else, Beauvois had reached for a knife lying in amongst the wild profusion of thick pencils, various paintbrushes, scrapers and other painting tools – and thrust it into the middle of the painting. Dupin tried to grab hold of Beauvois’ arm at the last second, but it was too late. It had all happened incredibly fast.

  Beauvois deftly cut a little square out of the painting. Then he held the square of canvas up to the harsh light.

  ‘Gilbert Sonnheim. A copy. Do you see? An insignificant painter from the artists’ colony, from Lille, less gifted, a syncretist. But by Teutates, he was a good copyist! An excellent piece.’ Beauvois seemed manic.

  Dupin’s thoughts were racing at a monstrous pace, darting here and there – he felt dizzy. Beauvois held up the piece of canvas as if he were taking an oath, his eyes blazing.

  Dupin was the first to find his tongue again. ‘You replaced a copy with a copy. I think you wanted to steal the painting and replace it with your copy so that nobody would notice it was gone. But it had already been stolen – it had already been replaced with a copy. There are two copies.’

  The confusion on Le Ber’s face seemed to grow as Dupin went on – then all of a sudden comprehension dawned.

  Beauvois put the piece of canvas back into the painting with meticulous precision. ‘I enjoyed doing it, in fact I was proud to do it.’ His voice was charged with smug, ridiculous emotion. ‘Pierre-Louis Pennec would have been in complete and utter agreement with what I did, he would have welcomed it. He would be spinning in his grave if his son had inherited the painting – Loic would have sold it at the first opportunity. He was waiting for this exact moment. His whole life he was just waiting for his father’s death! The museum was so close to Pierre-Louis Pennec’s heart. This was all so important to him, Pont-Aven, its history, the artists’ colony. That’s the truth, gentlemen!’

  ‘It was you who broke into the hotel the night after the murder. You swapped the paintings and hung up the copy,’ Le Ber paused a moment, ‘you hung up your copy and then you took down the other copy that was there and kept it. That’s this painting here, the one you cut a piece out of.’

  ‘Very likely, Inspector. I fell for it. Me, Frédéric Beauvois! But it was dark in the restaurant, almost pitch black. I just had a little torch… and it’s an excellent copy. Not as good as my painting, if I may say so. Up there, in the branches, the brushstrokes aren’t quite right.’

  ‘When did you do your copy?’ Dupin’s voice was very calm and focused.

  ‘Oh, decades ago now. Almost thirty years ago. After Pennec took me into his confidence. I became his expert. He was a hotelier you know, not an art scholar, not an art historian. No. But he had a monumental artistic and historical inheritance to look after; there was the hotel of course, but also this exceptional painting. A marvel. It’s Gauguin’s most daring painting; believe me, nothing matches it for sheer boldness. I don’t mean that…’

  ‘And why did you make a copy?’

  ‘I wanted to study it out of admiration. Out of pure fascination. I took photographs of it and then painted from them. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but painting is my great passion and always has been. I know my limitations, but I have a certain amount of skill. I –’

  ‘And your signature on the painting, that was the pride of an artist?’

  ‘Youthful nonsense, yes. A little vanity.’

  It was plausible, thought Dupin. Everything was plausible, as far-fetched as it sounded – and indeed was.

  ‘Did Pierre-Louis Pennec know about your copy?’

  ‘No. I’ve kept it to myself all these years. I was the only person who kept looking at it again and again. To see Gauguin and the fantastic power of this painting, its infinite spirit. It defies everything.’

  ‘Did you know there might be another copy?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘And Pierre-Louis Pennec, did he ever say anything about a copy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did this one here come about?’

  ‘I can only speculate, Monsieur le Commissaire. When Gauguin left Pont-Aven for good and moved to the South Seas, it was by no means the end of the Pont-Aven School. Many painters stayed here for years, as did Sonnheim. Obviously more and more artists of little significance came here. Maybe Marie-Jeanne herself commissioned Sonnheim to do the copy. That wouldn’t have been unusual. She had paintings by so many artists hanging in her restaurant, originals at first, but then she gradually replaced them with copies, just like Mademoiselle Julia did in her hotel. Perhaps Marie-Jeanne was intending to keep the original somewhere safe and needed this copy to replace it. But I’d like to emphasise this is all pure speculation.’

  ‘So this copy is over a hundred years old too? It’s almost as old as the painting itself?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Where was it kept all this time?’

  ‘Again, I really couldn’t say. Pierre-Louis may have inherited it along with the original. There’s that little room next to his one at the hotel with the photo archive in it, Pierre-Louis kept some copies there because there wasn’t space for them in the restaurant; we spoke about those copies a few times, he was considering leaving them to the museum. He always talked about there being a dozen of them. I’ve never seen them, but perhaps he kept this copy there too. Or else it wasn’t in the hotel at all… and someone else had it?’ Beauvois paused. ‘Maybe even he didn’t know about this copy, that’s a possibility too. Who knows?’

  ‘Indeed, who knows? But somebody had it… or knew about it and could get their hands on it.’ Dupin was irritated now, and sounded very determined.

  Beauvois was still thinking everything through. ‘The murderer must have swapped it for the real painting the very night they committed the crime.’

  Dupin was sure Beauvois was right. That’s how it must have been. Sauré had seen the original hanging in the restaurant just the day before the murder, in the same spot it had occupied for the last hundred years.

  ‘What did you intend to do with the painting, Monsieur Beauvois?’

  Beauvois’ voice rose dramatically again. ‘It would have benefited the museum and the society – every last penny of it.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I need hardly add that none of it would have been for me, for my own purposes. That money could have achieved something. A proper museum expansion, a new centre for contemporary painting. So much could have been achieved! Pierre-Louis Pennec didn’t want the painting to go
to his son and daughter-in-law. Pierre-Louis was intending to give the painting to the Musée d’Orsay as a gift.’ He presented this last sentence as his trump card.

  ‘We know about that, Monsieur Beauvois.’

  ‘Of course you do. He had been considering it for a long time but not actually doing anything. Then last week he asked me how to go about it. All at once, out of the blue. He was very determined. And he wanted it taken care of quickly. I recommended Monsieur Sauré to him, a brilliant man, the director of the collection at the museum.’

  ‘Did you introduce Monsieur Pennec to Charles Sauré?’

  ‘He had no idea what to do. He always relied on me in these matters.’

  ‘And did you speak to Monsieur Sauré also?’

  ‘No, I just gave Pierre-Louis his name and number; I offered to speak to him, but Pierre-Louis wanted to do it himself.’

  ‘Did you know that he and Sauré met up? That Sauré was in the hotel and saw the painting?’

  Beauvois looked surprised. ‘No, when was Monsieur Sauré here in Pont-Aven?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Monsieur Beauvois? And yesterday evening?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  Beauvois leapt up from his chair and then sat back down again, his back ramrod straight and his tone of voice abruptly altered. He spoke sharply, but still very smugly. ‘That is grotesque, Monsieur. You can’t suspect me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Dupin recalled the short phone call Beauvois had had during lunch yesterday, and how coldly he had spoken all of a sudden. ‘I decide whom we suspect, Monsieur Beauvois.’

  Dupin was sick of this. Everyone in this case saw themselves as the selfless protector of Pierre-Louis Pennec’s wishes, as some noble hero. That’s what whoever murdered him would be claiming too. And everyone had lied outright in their initial interviews. They had been keeping the most important fact from him this whole time. Everyone had known about the painting and had been aware that other people knew too. But everyone pretended that this somehow wasn’t relevant.

  ‘What are you basing this ridiculous suspicion on?’ ventured Beauvois.

  Dupin looked amused. ‘Perhaps you were also in possession of a second copy? And thought up a very cunning trick. Steal the painting and cover it up with some story about replacing a copy with another copy.’

  For the first time Beauvois looked genuinely uncertain. He stammered. ‘That’s absurd. I’ve never heard anything so absurd in my life.’

  Le Ber laid it on thick now: ‘Quite apart from any other suspicious activity, you have committed burglary, Monsieur Beauvois. This isn’t some trivial matter. You smashed in the window of a restaurant, got inside in a remarkably professional way and intended to steal a painting worth forty million euro.’

  Dupin was very pleased with Le Ber’s contribution. Beauvois was so sure he had the moral high ground that even the break-in didn’t seem to matter to him.

  ‘This is all utterly ridiculous, Inspector. So what exactly did I do then? All I have is this worthless copy here, nothing more. What kind of crime is that? Attempted serious theft?’

  ‘So, Monsieur Beauvois. Where were you last night and Thursday night?’

  ‘I’m not going to answer these questions.’

  ‘Obviously that’s up to you, Monsieur Beauvois. You can call in a lawyer.’

  ‘I will. This is a disgraceful turn of events. I was well aware the police can be seriously lacking in tact sometimes, but –’

  ‘Inspector Le Ber will accompany you to the station in Quimper. We’re going to do this by the book.’ Dupin’s mood had darkened.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Monsieur le Commissaire!’ Beauvois was becoming more and more frantic.

  ‘I’m completely serious, Monsieur Beauvois. And I find it ridiculous that you would doubt it.’ Dupin turned firmly on his heel. He had to get out of here. ‘I’ll have a car sent for you, Le Ber.’ He was already on the stairs and hadn’t looked back.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, there will be serious –’

  ‘I’ll ask the officers to send the car very quickly, Le Ber. It won’t take long.’ Dupin could still hear Beauvois’ muffled complaints. But he was already upstairs, opening the heavy main door and going outside.

  The sun had just set behind the hills, the sky a deep pink. Dupin was exhausted. He still didn’t know what to make of Beauvois. Not even now, after this whirlwind of events. A horrible man, but that didn’t matter. Did he know the whole truth now? Or had Beauvois just spun them some ridiculous story? A story that was intended to cover up a different one? Beauvois was on a sacred mission… and he was cunning. Nothing in this case was as it seemed, that was the rule. It was all so difficult. Anything was possible, he had to think creatively. The murderer had been in possession of a copy of the painting, a copy that was painted only a few years after the original and which had been unknown until now. But Dupin hadn’t asked anyone about a copy yet, and nobody volunteered information around here. Nobody.

  But what worried Dupin most of all was the shadowy thought playing on his mind again, something from the conversations he’d had that day. Something wasn’t right. Something crucial. He hadn’t the slightest idea what it was, however hard he thought. But maybe it was just because of the bewildering whirlwind of events that day or how tired he was. And he was still hungry; he really hadn’t eaten much at Delon’s.

  Dupin hadn’t taken the most direct route back to the Central, choosing to walk through the streets of galleries instead, turning right, going down the steps, along the narrow lanes and up to the top of the hill. He leafed through his Clairefontaine over and over as he walked along, almost tripping a few times. Nothing had caught his eye that was able to relieve his shadowy feeling of unease, nothing at all. So he called Labat and explained what had happened (Labat always remained unimpressed by incidents like this). They had sent Le Ber a car from Pont-Aven; Monfort was driving. Beauvois was on his way to Quimper, there was a chance he would talk there.

  Labat had given Dupin a quick update on the latest news. Madame Lajoux had identified Sauré as the man whom she had seen speaking to Pennec in front of the hotel. No matter how much Labat pushed him – and this was the type of thing Labat usually excelled at – André Pennec would not confirm what time he would be back from his ‘official business’ in Rennes that evening. Labat had informed him that they would be waiting for him at the hotel and assumed that he would arrive before midnight. Dupin had tasked Labat with checking out Pennec’s entire stay in Rennes and reconstructing his day exactly, down to the very minute. And Madame Cassel wanted to speak to Dupin again, Labat didn’t know what about.

  Dupin wanted to be alone for a while longer so he went down to the harbour and just stood there, staring at the boats without really taking anything in. Then he walked to the hotel, spoke briefly to Labat again and went upstairs to the first floor. Madame Cassel was sitting in the breakfast room, in the same place as this morning; it seemed like days ago to Dupin.

  ‘Bonsoir, Madame Cassel. We are very grateful for your help, the lead you gave us was significant. We’ve been able to clear up the break-in at the crime scene.’

  ‘Really? I’m so glad. What happened?’

  Dupin hesitated.

  ‘Sorry for asking such nosy questions. My curiosity is of course less important than police confidentiality.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘I understand. Really. I’m glad that I could help.’ Madame Cassel looked tired; she too had been ‘on duty’ for twenty-four hours.

  ‘Well… you know, I… you should know, you could –’

  Dupin felt he owed her an explanation or two. Marie Morgane Cassel looked at the Commissaire in amusement.

  ‘Are you hungry, Monsieur Dupin? I’m starving.’

  ‘Hungry? Yes, to be honest, I am hungry
, very. I didn’t manage to eat today, I… I have to wait for someone anyway and they’re not going to be here before midnight.’ He looked at his watch, ‘There’s an hour and a half to go.’

  ‘There was something else I wanted to tell you. It’s to do with the painting and Charles Sauré.’

  ‘Sounds good. Let’s talk shop and eat something while we’re at it.’

  ‘Great. I’m sure you know where to go around here.’

  Dupin thought about it. ‘Tell you what. Do you know Kerdruc? It’s only two or three kilometres down the river, five minutes by car. There’s a pretty little harbour and a fantastic, very traditional restaurant; you sit right beside the river.’

  Madame Cassel seemed a little surprised at how enthusiastic Dupin was. He hadn’t the slightest desire to set foot in one of the touristy restaurants again, and the same went for Beauvois’ mill. He wanted to get out of Pont-Aven.

  ‘Wonderful. I can’t stay long, I have a lecture tomorrow morning at nine. But it would be great to eat something. And that sounds lovely. Kerdruc.’

  ‘We’ll take my car.’

  Marie Morgane Cassel stood up and they walked over to the stairs together.

  Labat was standing at reception. ‘You’re going out again?’

  ‘We still need to discuss something, Madame Cassel and I. Call me as soon as André Pennec gets here.’

  Labat looked glum. ‘André Pennec could turn up early, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Then call me when he’s here.’

  The landscape became more and more enchanting as the narrow little streets at the edge of Pont-Aven gave way to thick woodland. The trees were dripping with mistletoe and ivy, overgrown and moss-covered. Some of the trees here had entwined as they grew, forming a long dark green tunnel. Now and then the Aven shimmered between the trees on the left hand side as though it were electrically charged, a pale silver colour. The last of the day’s light bathed everything in its glow, lending the landscape even more of a fairytale atmosphere. By now, Dupin knew this landscape and this atmosphere very well (Nolwenn called it the ‘Breton Aura’). He always thought that if you were to meet a dwarf or an elf or some other mythical creature in this kind of light, you wouldn’t even bat an eyelid.