Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

  “Alphonse is a dear friend of mine”, Constance mumbled.

  “I’m sure that it’s no concern of mine”, Rimbaud replied. “Now, let me explain to you what happened to your father. At first, everyone assumed that the smoke from the fire asphyxiated him. However, the coroner has determined that he died from suffocation several hours before the fire started. There were no traces of smoke in his lungs. In other words, he was murdered.”

  “Suffocation?” Constance sat up on her chair. “Who could have suffocated my father, strong as an ox? Besides, the only ones present in the house were family!”

  “You may recall that I interviewed you on the morning after your father’s death. Would you mind telling me again exactly what happened?”

  Constance looked pale, and her gaze was lost for a long moment in the skies beyond her windows.

  “It was that awful smell of smoke that woke me up”, she began. “I think it must have been around six o’clock in the morning. I shouted as I ran down the stairs, I remember that. I also remember hearing running feet behind me – those of my brothers joining me. Downstairs, there was black smoke welling through the cracks of my father’s bedroom door. I tried the door handle a couple of times, but the door was locked. Henri threw himself against it, but of course it’s a sturdy one made of oak like everything else in the house. Besides, it opens outwards, so it didn’t budge.”

  “Then what did you do?” Rimbaud asked as he noted Constance’s narrative in his blue notebook.

  “Michel shouted that we’d better break the window to the bedroom, and he rushed outside through the front door. I followed him.”

  “Henri stayed behind?”

  “I recall that Henri kept throwing himself against the door, to no avail. Anyway, he joined us at our father’s bedroom window some moments later …”

  “Some moments later? Can you be more precise?”

  Constance bit her lip trying to recall how much time had passed before Henri had joined them.

  “Maybe a minute. Definitely not two.”

  Rimbaud made a note.

  “Then what happened?”

  “When I reached Michel, he had picked up a stone. He threw it against the window, but it missed. The room beyond was black with smoke. He picked up the stone again and this time it broke the windowpane. The smoke came welling out. I realised that my brothers were too fat and clumsy to climb through the window, so it fell on me to crawl inside. I entered through the broken window by climbing on Henri and Michel’s hands and shoulders.”

  “And then?”

  “As I made my way towards the door, Henri shouted that I should stay close to the floor to avoid inhaling the smoke. By this time, Michel had rushed back inside, because he yelled to me from the other side of the bedroom door. When I opened it, there he was together with Justine and Gaspard.”

  “Now, my next question is important”, Rimbaud said sternly. “You say you opened the door from the inside, yet it was locked?”

  “The key was in the lock, Inspector, and after turning it, I was able to open the door.”

  “The key was in the lock …”, Rimbaud repeated. “That is very strange. Your father was killed around midnight, according to the coroner. The door was locked from the inside and the windows, too, were closed. Then, how could he possibly have been killed?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector”, Constance sobbed, tears running down her cheeks.

  “There’s something else that recently came to my attention. Before leaving for Paris, I asked the local bank about your father’s cheque account. It’s a routine investigation in a murder case like this, of course. The statement showed some surprises – four withdrawals have been made after your father’s death, all of them by cheques made out in your name.”

  Constance paled visibly.

  “Yes, my father helped me out with a loan …”

  “And for this he made four cheques instead of one? Which you cashed within a week after his death?”

  “I’m not sure why … I didn’t ask him why he preferred it that way …”

  “Do you have any additional cheques from your father that you still haven’t collected on?”

  “No”, Constance replied, half whispering.

  “Good, because I found it necessary to block the funds in the account until the full investigation has been completed. I’m sure you understand.”

  Constance didn’t say another word as Rimbaud took his leave.

  She’s lying through her teeth, he thought as he made his way down the stairwell.

  Chapter XXIV

  Salade Parisienne and oven-baked pheasant

  THE MENU

  Blanc de Blancs mousseux: Crémant d'Alsace brut Ribeauvillé

  *

  Salade Parisienne

  Stuffed pheasant with goose liver pâté

  Rosé wine: 1932 Domaine Turenne, Côtes de Provence

  *

  Goat cheese: Pouligny-Saint-Pierre

  Dessert wine: 1929 Château Rieussec, Sauternes

  “Jean-Claude, please have some of the sparkling Blanc de Blancs and then tell me all about your trip to Paris.”

  “To begin with, I can confirm that the people in Paris continue to be rude and unpleasant. For example this taxi driver –”

  “I meant – how was your talk with Constance? Let’s concentrate on your puzzling case, shall we?”

  “My meeting with Constance was a success I believe”, Rimbaud confirmed and sipped his chilled, sparkling wine. “There’s a great possibility that she did her old man in, perhaps in cahoots with her brother Michel.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Before I do, please tell me what you have in the oven that smells so wonderful?”

  “It’s a pheasant, stuffed with garlic and infused with herbs and liquids according to a secret recipe my mother passed on to me”, Emilie smiled. “It’s a pleasure cooking for you, because you enjoy everything I make.”

  “The true pleasure is mine”, Rimbaud politely replied and patted his potbelly, “since I’m the one eating it.”

  “Inspired by your visit to Paris, I’m serving the pheasant with a Salade Parisienne of my own composition. But, tell me, why are you so certain that Constance was involved in the killing of her father?”

  “It’s simple logic. I was thinking about it on the train back. The door is locked from the inside. The window is broken, witnessed by the three children. Constance agrees to climb inside, knowing perfectly well that her two brothers are not in the physical condition to make their way across the window sill, which is located high up.”

  “Why does that make her the assassin?”

  “Earlier that evening, when everyone was asleep, she went to her father’s bedroom and killed him by placing a pillow over his face”, Rimbaud elaborated. “Then she started a small fire making sure it would eventually produce a lot of smoke. Leaving the bedroom, she locked the door from the outside – yes, from the outside! After waiting most of the night for the fire and smoke to escalate, she finally woke the rest of the household by shouting while rushing downstairs. All the time she had the key hidden on her person. Helped inside her father’s bedroom by her brothers, she then opened the door under the pretence that the key had been in the lock all the time!”

  “That’s impressive, Jean-Claude”, Aunt Emilie said with admiration. “I have to think that one through. Now, please serve yourself some of the pheasant, which comes with homemade goose liver pâté. Afterwards I’ve goat cheese for you, served with a drop of Sauternes.”

  “This rosé wine is really lovely”, Rimbaud told her, pleased both by her flattery and with her cooking. “There’s something else that strongly supports the argument that Constance is the killer. Patrice Lafarge’s bank statement showed the withdrawal of four large cheques after his death – all of them made out to Constance Lafarge. His chequebook is not mentioned in the inventory that Escoffier and I made after the fire. I’m not yet sure how or why this happened, but Constanc
e has no doubt benefited economically after his death.”

  “Taking on the role of the devil’s advocate”, Aunt Emilie mused after a long pause, “there’s a possibility that Henri was the murderer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Both Michel and Constance have told you that Henri stayed behind, while they rushed to the bedroom window at the back of the house.”

  “Yes?”

  “Imagine Henri entering the bedroom at midnight, smothering his father with a pillow. Then, after starting a fire, he leaves the room, locking it from the outside. When Constance wakes up from the smoke billowing through the building, he rushes after her downstairs. Constance tries the handle and finds the door locked. Henri throws himself against it in the knowledge that it won’t open, but it’s something the others notice. Michel and Constance run outside. Justine and Gaspard still haven’t appeared. Quickly Henri unlocks the door and puts the key in the lock, on the inside, before closing the door again. He then rushes out to help Michel lift their sister into the room. She crawls across the floor and, when she between coughs and the blinding smoke fumbles with the key to open the door, she doesn’t realise that the door is already unlocked.”

  Depressed Rimbaud pondered his aunt’s words.

  “This is not an easy case, is it?” he finally said with a sigh.

  “Dear Jean-Claude”, his aunt told him gently, “you should know better than I that it’s imperative to have all the facts before analysing the events. Now, next you need to interview Henri Lafarge at depth. If I may, here are a couple of questions I suggest you should confront him with …”

  Chapter XXV

  Inspector Rimbaud travels to Lyon

  The next morning, Rimbaud called Henri Lafarge’s number and got him on the phone on his first attempt. Henri made it clear he knew that the police now suspected that his father had been murdered. Surely Michel must have informed him, Rimbaud thought. They agreed to meet at Le Moulin de Molière the following day at noon.

  It was possible for Rimbaud to take a direct train from Annecy this time. It was raining as he got off at the central station in Lyon. Walking outside, he was lucky to find a cab before getting too wet. The rain kept pouring down as the taxi slowly made it’s way through the city.

  The bookshop turned out to be a pleasant surprise. The walls were covered with shelves, and the shelves were burdened with books of all shapes and colours. A bell chimed invitingly when he entered the shop, where he was met by Henri and a younger, quite good-looking man.

  “Let’s sit down in the morning room, inspector”, Henri offered. “Claude, could you fetch us some coffee, please?”

  Rimbaud followed him into a large room with a ceiling supported by wooden crossbeams. The room was furnished with antique furniture and still more books. Henri showed the palms of his hands to indicate that the inspector should seat himself in any of the worn, yellowish leather sofas.

  “As you are aware”, Rimbaud began, “we now know with certainty that your father was murdered in his sleep several hours before the fire broke out.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing”, Henri replied while shaking his head in disbelief.

  “That, nevertheless, is the case. It's been confirmed beyond doubt by the coroner.”

  “It’s incomprehensible … but, what is it you wish to discuss with me?”

  “As you must recall, on the morning of the fire I interviewed you and everyone else in the house. You told me that you followed your sister down the stairs and saw her trying to open your father’s bedroom door. Can you tell me again – this time with every possible detail, please – what happened from then on?”

  “I saw Constance push down the handle and with both hands try to open the door. It remained closed. Black smoke came seeping from under the door. I told her to step aside and pushing the handle downwards I threw my weight against the door. It didn’t move. Michel had come downstairs by then. We all shouted for our father to open the door. Then Michel yelled that we’d better enter through the bedroom window, which is located at the back of the house. We rushed outside together.”

  “Are you saying that the three of you ran outside at the same time?” Rimbaud asked looking up from his notebook. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Please go on.” The inspector made a note in his little book. “What happened next?”

  “We arrived at the back of the building. There are two windows leading to the bedroom, both located about one metre seventy centimetres from the ground … that’s nearly as tall as I am, so that’s how I know. Michel shattered a windowpane by throwing a rock against it. Constance, being the nimblest among us, told us to give her a hand to climb inside. She stepped on our hands and shoulders and cleaned the window frame of broken glass before climbing inside. Then –”

  “She cleaned the frame of glass, you say?” Rimbaud interrupted. “What did she use to do that? Surely she didn’t do it with her bare hands.”

  “No, she wore this large morning gown, just like the one she had given our father for his birthday the day before. She knocked out the remaining shards with her elbow. Anyway, she jumped inside –”

  “There must have been broken glass on the floor. Didn’t she cut her feet?”

  “She was wearing slippers.”

  Rimbaud recalled that he had seen the slippers below the broken window and that she had worn them when she had received him in Paris. How and when had she recovered them? At that moment Claude, with almost imperceptibly swaying hips, entered carrying a tray with three cups of coffee and a bowl of sugar. He sat down next to Henri and, with dainty gestures, placed the cups on the table. Rimbaud refused the sugar when Claude offered it to him: he preferred his coffee black.

  “Go on.”

  “Michel cautioned her to keep her head near the floor. We could hear Constance coughing a lot, before she called back that she was fine. Michel and I rushed back inside the house. Justine was waiting outside the bedroom door with a bucket of water. Then she and Michel ran outside to fetch more.”

  “What about your other brother, Gaspard?”

  “He lives in a cottage some distance away. Gaspard later told me that he had heard shouts from the main building. He arrived some five or ten minutes later.”

  “What did you see when the bedroom door opened?”

  “We could see Constance on her hands and knees. She was coughing terribly. A large cloud of black smoke came rolling towards us. After helping her out to get some fresh air, Michel and I crawled inside with wet rags and buckets of water. I guessed that the fire must have originated near the fireplace, and I was right.”

  “How so?”

  “We eventually found that the source of the smouldering smoke was the morning gown that Constance had given Father. Left on the floor too close to the fireplace, it must have caught fire when a burning log fell out.”

  “What were the other gifts your father received on his birthday?”

  “Justine had suggested that I’d give an antique piece of furniture with shelves for all the books he had lying around. My father was an avid reader, just like I am, and fortunately we had the appropriate thing here in the shop.” Henri glanced surreptitiously at Claude, which Rimbaud found disturbing. “And Michel gave him some expensive bottles of vintage brandy, which my father had a weak spot for.”

  “In your opinion”, Rimbaud asked, “who would gain by your father’s death?”

  My question has caught Henri off guard, Rimbaud noticed. Curious, Claude watched Henri.

  The same moment the door opened, and a man in his early fifties entered the room. He had no doubt been a handsome man in his younger days, Rimbaud observed.

  “Oh, Henri – I see you’re busy with Claude.” There was a hint of jealousy in his voice, which was flavoured with a German accent. The newcomer’s gaze wandered to Rimbaud and gave him a quizzical look.

  “I’m being interviewed by the police regarding m
y father’s recent death, Rolf”, Henri reproached him. He turned to Rimbaud and spoke to him in a clear, almost loud, voice, apparently for the benefit of Rolf.

  “No, Inspector, I have no idea how anyone could gain anything from my father’s murder.”

  “After leaving Bercy on Sunday, following the fateful events, have you had any thoughts or discussions with your sister and brothers, that may shed light on the murder?”

  Surprisingly his seemingly innocent remark made Henri noticeably uncomfortable. Why does this simple question make him cringe, Rimbaud wondered, and then caught the surreptitious glimpse Henri cast in Rolf’s direction.

  “No, Inspector, I have nothing to add in that respect.”

  With a disdainful look at Claude, Rolf turned around and left the room.

  There are some serious elements here for a jealousy drama, he deduced, making a mental note to follow up on Henri’s whereabouts after he left Clos Saint-Jacques the day of the fire.

  Rimbaud continued his interview for another half an hour, but he learnt nothing more of interest.

  Chapter XXVI

  Alphonse takes action

  Alphonse fumbled with the keys as he tried to open the door to Constance’s flat. It was six in the morning, and despite a long night out, he was still boiling with rage that she had tricked him.

  After the show at Moulin Rouge, where he worked as a chorus dancer and where Constance some time ago had been demoted to cigarette girl, he hadn’t been able to find her. So he had opted for another night out with some of his co-workers. However, this night had been different, because they had gone to a bar where they provided not only young girls and cheap liquor, but hashish as well. The effects of the heady mix wouldn’t disappear for several hours to come.

  He was filled with rage, yes, because the cheque, which Constance fulfilling her endless promises had finally handed him, had bounced. It had made him look bad among the numerous friends and acquaintances he owed money. And the fault, he reasoned, was Constance’s.