by Kim Ekemar
She would have to deal with that rascal Alphonse also. Constance wondered briefly if she should throw him out on the street after that little stunt he had pulled stealing the money from her wallet. Perhaps she could find someone more loyal to take his place?
Constance absentmindedly patted her handbag again. In it was the chequebook she had stolen from her father’s desk when she had gone back for her slippers. Now she could cover the monthly rent and several other debts past due. Her worst fear was always to lose her flat. Now, with access to her father’s cheque account, she was filled with a feeling of being financially sound again. Her brothers would of course sooner or later find out, but she could always claim that their father had helped her out before he died … and by then they would all have come into their inheritance, anyway. She didn't feel too concerned about it. The thing to worry about was how to forge her father’s signature – she had to practice it diligently. Where could she find one to copy? Then she remembered: some years ago he had reluctantly signed the contract for her flat as a guarantor, at the landlord’s insistence.
*
Michel didn’t tell Juliette about his father’s death until after they had registered at the spa in Aix-les-Bains under the name Monsieur y Madame Claude Barré. When he told her about it over an early dinner, she spontaneously put her hand over her mouth in surprise.
“Does it mean that you now will take over the estate, as you’ve told me?” she asked him.
“With time, yes, I’m sure I will”, Michel replied with a faint smile. “However, I think it’s prudent to let things simmer down for a couple of weeks, at least until the testament has been read.”
He didn’t tell her that his father had intended to change it so that Clos Saint-Jacques couldn’t be sold or bought.
They stayed at the spa for three nights, one more than Michel had originally planned. He was unable to muster the necessary enthusiasm at the prospect of returning to his depressing potato sack wife. Instead he decided to prolong his enjoyment of the vivacious youth that Juliette possessed, now that she had finally acceded fully in response to his patient attentions. Besides, didn’t he have an excellent justification for delaying his return? Wasn’t the tragedy of his deceased father, who so atrociously had become a victim in an accidental fire, a perfectly acceptable reason?
*
Resting on one elbow, Claude watched Henri as he snored lightly in the faint early light that seeped through the curtains.
It was Tuesday morning. Today they would return to Lyon, Henri had advised. Claude’s head was swirling with plans for his future. He knew he had to manoeuvre Henri away from Rolf, which meant that he had to find suitable lodgings where they could live. Claude understood clearly that Henri’s negotiating powers were nonexistent, while he considered himself more than skilled in the art. Armed with the knowledge Juliette had provided him, he felt certain he could make a killing when Michel initiated talks about purchasing Henri’s share of the inherited property. I will be patient; the price will go up; Henri will be richer than he ever imagined. And, as a result, so will I.
Chapter XIX
Smoked oysters and charcoal-grilled turbot
THE MENU
Aperitif: Bitter Campari
*
Smoked oysters with garlic and finely chopped spring onion "al dente"
Charcoal-grilled turbot with julienne vegetables
White wine: 1929 Puligny-Montrachet Premier Cru
*
Emmentaler cheese
Digestif: Crème de Noyaux
Inspector Rimbaud forced his rotund body to pedal his bicycle faster than to his liking, late as he was for his regular Sunday lunch with Aunt Emilie.
Jean-Claude Rimbaud had been married for eight years before his wife left him for a fishmonger in Bretagne. The divorce had been devastating for Rimbaud. The only aunt on his father’s side, Emilie Beauchamp, had taken pity on him. Without his knowledge, she had talked with a close acquaintance in the police force about the possibility of having Jean-Claude moved to Bercy, where she could look after him better.
His aunt Emilie, a retired primary school teacher, was seventy years old. Her husband Jean Beauchamp, a military officer by profession, had died during the first year of the Great War. Their only son, Pierre, had ten months later also met a soldier's death. She had been inconsolable for the remainder of the war, and only after it had ended did she slowly recover with a renewed interest in exercising her magnificent abilities.
Although now entering her twilight years, Emilie was in every sense a remarkable woman. She picked up every nuance when people spoke. She immediately saw connections between events or people that few others perceived. Besides, she possessed a natural gift for making food exquisite by combining different ingredients.
It had not been without difficulty for her to arrange her nephew’s transfer to Bercy. She had done it with such discretion, however, that Rimbaud never suspected that his aunt had been pulling the strings. Now that he was no longer married, she had felt that he needed a woman’s care to look after his well-being. The benefits turned out to be mutual. Emilie began to find life less dull when she learnt details of his work as a police officer. Her nephew was always full of news about unsavoury but nevertheless quite fascinating people. Although nature had endowed him with the unimaginative mind of a classic bureaucrat, Rimbaud was also good company when he was out of uniform. Besides, he could at times be a bit naive, which she found endearing.
Since he had moved to Bercy nine years earlier, she had insisted on inviting him to lunch on Thursdays and Sundays, which was when his work duty so permitted. She did this for several reasons. Cooking had always been her passion. Ever since she had become a childless war widow, she had had little enthusiasm and few opportunities to cook for someone who appreciated her efforts. After her nephew had moved to Bercy, she began enjoying the planning of elaborate meals again. Rimbaud was a gourmand and quite sincere in his recognition of her proficiency in the kitchen.
In exchange, Rimbaud spoke in confidence with her about the cases that he handled. She enjoyed very much discussing these with him, since they challenged her sharp mind. Rimbaud had on several occasions been assigned cases that he had got nowhere with on his own account. Aunt Emilie was secretly proud that she had put her nephew on the right track more than once, thus enabling him to solve them.
Inspector Rimbaud came to a halt on the gravelled entranceway in front of Aunt Emilie’s thatched-roof cottage, and almost fell off his bicycle from its sudden stop. Red-faced and panting, he went inside and was immediately met with yet another set of delicious aromas from his aunt’s kitchen. A natural-born bureaucrat and a man of otherwise considerable character, Inspector Rimbaud’s major weakness was food – especially well-prepared such. As all those who had tasted the magic of his aunt’s cooking could testify, the results could make even the firmest bureaucrat salivate, and her nephew was no exception.
“I’m so sorry for being late”, Rimbaud excused himself as he entered the kitchen. “I had to take the statements of everyone who was present when the fire started.”
“Of course your work should always come first”, Aunt Emilie replied and went to the stove to turn up the heat. “So tell me, what happened this morning?”
“Escoffier was on duty and got a call at the station. He reported it to me at 7:32. I got dressed and immediately went over to Clos Saint-Jacques. I could with my own eyes confirm that the fire had turned Patrice Lafarge’s bedroom into a burning hell. You can’t imagine the soot and the mess –”
“Tell me how Patrice died.”
“What his eldest son Michel told me, and this was corroborated independently by the other witnesses I interviewed, is that a fire started some time before six o’clock in the morning. Constance Lafarge was the one to give the alarm after she smelled the smoke. She was occupying the room directly above her father’s. She woke up her brothers and ran downstairs. When she tried the door, it was locked.”
Rimba
ud paused for his aunt's reaction.
“Surely you must remember that I used to be a primary school teacher. I had Patrice’s children in my charge at one point or another. However, I’m not ready to ask you anything yet”, she excused herself. “Please continue.”
“The only one missing among the siblings at this time was Gaspard, the older brother from a different liaison. That’s because he lives in a separate building some distance away. Constance and the other two brothers went around the building, broke a window and made their entrance into the room.”
“How did the fire start?” Emilie asked.
“It’s not yet clear, but apparently a burning log fell out of the fireplace. The fire wasn’t big, but it produced a lot of smoke. The oxygen in the room was consumed, and the abundant smoke caused Patrice Lafarge to die in his sleep from asphyxia.”
“A sad end for anyone”, Aunt Emilie said. “Now, if you have finished your Campari, I will serve you smoked oysters with my garlic sauce. The charcoal-grilled turbot will be ready in about fifteen minutes … Oh, dear, I’m sorry if the menu today sounds a bit morbid, but I really had no idea of what would happen when I planned the menu yesterday.”
Chapter XX
The murder victim in the locked bedroom
On Monday, just before lunchtime, Doctor Treville called Inspector Rimbaud from the morgue.
“I have doubts about the cause of death after having conducted the autopsy. It could be that everything isn’t what it seemed at first look”, Doctor Treville told him cryptically.
“What do you mean?” Inspector Rimbaud asked. “Not what it seemed at first look? Didn’t Lafarge die from asphyxia?”
“Yes, he did, but before I sign off on the death certificate, I’d prefer to have a second opinion from someone with more experience. I’ve called the coroner’s office in Annecy, and they have agreed to receive the body for further inspection. There, of course, they have much better equipment. Within a couple of days we’ll have their answer, settling any doubts for good.”
“I’m surprised, to say the least”, Inspector Rimbaud said. “From every angle it looks like an accident – and now, all of a sudden, you’re hinting that it wasn’t?”
“I don’t want to go into any details until I have my suspicions confirmed.”
*
Doctor Treville called Inspector Rimbaud two days later.
“It turns out that my suspicions were correct”, he said. “Patrice Lafarge died sometime around midnight, at least five to seven hours before the fire was detected. He did die from asphyxia, but the fire wasn’t the cause.”
“What on earth are you trying to tell me?” Inspector Rimbaud replied, surprised.
“There was no smoke in his lungs. His air supply was cut off before the fire started.”
“Do you mean that …”
“What I mean is that someone smothered him to death, probably using a pillow or something similar. There are no marks of strangling, you see. Nevertheless, there’s no doubt Patrice Lafarge was murdered in his sleep.”
After finishing his conversation with the doctor, Inspector Rimbaud sat thinking for a long time behind his desk in the little office he shared with constables Escoffier and Morgeau. Then the truth sank in. If Lafarge had been murdered, then it must have been one of his children who had done it.
He began going through his notes, now viewing them from a different perspective. What could have been the motive? His first reading only revealed the innocence in their statements. On a second reading, however, he detected some odd comments in Michel Lafarge’s narrative. Why had he tried to explain away his father’s death as an accident, some firewood falling from the fireplace and igniting the floor? The building was several hundred years old. It must have happened many times, without anyone dying from it.
Then there was Gaspard, who had told him that Michel and his father-in-law wanted to turn the property into a full-blown vineyard. Lafarge had said he was going to change his testament to prevent this. That surely gave Michel a motive for the murder. Rimbaud knew he must confront Michel Lafarge again, but it also meant that he had to look him up in Bordeaux where he lived. With a sigh, he reached for the phone and dialled his aunt.
“Aunt Emilie? I’m sorry, but this time I do have to cancel your invitation for lunch tomorrow. I have to go to Bordeaux on an urgent matter.”
“Why do you need to go Bordeaux all of sudden?” she inquired.
“Let me ask you this first. How well do you know Patrice Lafarge’s children?”
“With the exception of Gaspard, they were all my pupils in primary school. I saw them grow up, so of course I know them fairly well. Since they have moved from Bercy … Oh, now I see, you’re going to Bordeaux to have a talk with Michel!”
“Yes, I’m obliged to. You see, the fire didn't cause Patrice Lafarge's death – the coroner in Annecy has confirmed that he was murdered. From my interview with Michel last Sunday, I consider him my main suspect.”
“Patrice murdered!” Aunt Emilie exclaimed.
“Yes. He was smothered to death, but there was no smoke in his lungs. He died five to seven hours before the fire woke Constance.”
“You intrigue me, Jean-Claude. You told me the door was locked from the inside, remember?”
“Yes, it’s all inexplicable, and that’s why I have to go to Bordeaux for another interview with Michel Lafarge.”
“Tell me”, Aunt Emilie asked after a brief pause, “how do you think Michel could have killed him if the room was locked?”
“My working theory for the time being is that Michel waited in front of the fire in the drawing room until everybody else in the house had gone to sleep. Around midnight, he went to his father’s bedroom and put a pillow over his face. After making sure he was dead, he locked the door from the inside and made his exit through one of the windows. He somehow arranged for the fire to start later, maybe by wrapping a burning coal inside some cloth. Then, after Constance had woken everybody up, he was the first to rush outside to his father’s bedroom window and break the glass. Of course, at the time no one bothered to verify whether the window was in fact unlatched or not. After Constance had jumped inside, Michel got the opportunity to shut it again by reaching inside the broken windowpane.
“Why would he go through this elaborate scheme?”
“To cover up the murder by making it look like an accident. Fortunately, I adhere closely to police procedure, and the key to the room is still in my pocket.”
“And his motive?”
“I don’t know for sure, although I have my suspicions. Usually these crimes have to do with money.”
Chapter XXI
Inspector Rimbaud travels to Bordeaux
Including the transfer in Lyon, it took well beyond seven hours to transport Inspector Rimbaud from Bercy to Bordeaux. As he stepped down on the platform, he looked with discontent at his pocket watch only to find that the train had arrived nearly two hours late. There wouldn’t be sufficient time to return the same day to Bercy, and he decided that he’d better prepare himself for a night in Bordeaux.
After settling in at a simple but clean hostel in the old town, it was a quarter past four. Rimbaud asked for directions at the front desk. He was pleased to discover that Michel’s Lafarge’s office was located within walking distance.
When he reached the address, Rimbaud looked at his watch. It showed ten to five. A young man opened the door after he had rapped on it twice.
“Yes?”
“Inspector Rimbaud from Bercy here to see Monsieur Lafarge. It concerns his father’s recent death.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Less than a minute later, the young man returned and asked the inspector to please follow him. Rimbaud was led through several rooms and a corridor before reaching a door on which the young assistant knocked.
“Come in”, a muffled voice ordered.
As Rimbaud entered the room, two persons were waiting to receive him.
“Inspec
tor Rimbaud”, said the man he recognised as Michel Lafarge. Michel took three steps forward with his hand extended.
“I present you to my father-in-law, Serge Dupois”, he continued as he grasped Rimbaud’s hand. “Just as you arrived we were sharing the grief of my father’s unexpected death.”
Rimbaud shook his hand and turned to shake Monsieur Dupois’s. Michel’s father-in-law was a heavyset man with thick, wavy hair and a salt-and-pepper moustache. Beneath heavy eyelids, he seemed to analyse the depth of Inspector Rimbaud’s soul with his impenetrable dark-brown eyes. Although silently instructing himself to maintain a professional attitude, Rimbaud felt an immediate dislike for the man.
“Which is the precise reason why you are finding me here”, Rimbaud replied. “I have some details to share with you regarding his death and also some questions in the hope that your answers will shed light on the circumstances of his unfortunate demise.”
“We are at your disposal, Inspector”, Serge Dupois replied in a dark voice. “Please step inside our office where your inquiry will be conducted more comfortably.”
Rimbaud was led inside a large, windowless room, where the walls were covered by books and dusty wine bottles lying behind glass doors. The lack of daylight gave the room a gloomy aspect. There was some weak electric lighting on the walls, but the main source of light came from candles placed on large candelabras. It gave him a surreal sensation of having descended to the dungeons of a medieval castle.
The three men sat down around a large conference table.
“There must be some great concern that has made you travel from Bercy to meet me here”, Michel began. “Surely you could have called me …”
“You’re absolutely right, monsieur – I felt the need to meet with you in person”, Rimbaud said quietly. “You see … your father wasn’t a victim of an accidental fire.”