Summertime All the Cats Are Bored

by Philippe Georget

  “Josetta Braun’s body was not visible from the path to the beach. According to the gendarmerie’s report, you heard a sound and went toward it. What kind of sound?”

  “A kind of slipping sound in the grass.”

  “What kind of slipping?”

  “A furtive slipping, the kind you sometimes hear when you’re walking. Especially in the morning. It must have been a snake. Or maybe just a lizard.”

  Little animals that took off through the grass as soon as anyone approached. Sebag often heard them when he was running on trails. If he’d had to go looking for them every time, he’d have spent more time in the underbrush than on the trails.

  “And that was enough to make you go look around in the reeds?”

  Vernier’s breathing sped up imperceptibly. His weary eyes rested on the policeman for a moment before moving on to stare at something behind him.

  “Do we always know why we do things?” he said evasively. “The noise must have seemed to me louder than usual . . . ”

  While hardened criminals accustomed to lying have a tendency try to make their interlocutors believe what they’re saying by looking them straight in the eye, others always have a moment of weakness when they’re telling a lie. As if they feared that an experienced policeman could read them like a book. In almost twenty years with the police, Sebag had seldom misinterpreted what people did with their eyes.

  “Did you know Josetta Braun well?”

  “Well? Uh . . . no,” Vernier stammered. “I wouldn’t say that. I’d met her a few times in the campground. I believe she was a nice girl. It’s . . . terrible, what happened to her.”

  “The gendarmes’ investigation isn’t making progress. You, who . . . met Josetta and who were the first to be on the scene of the crime, might you have some idea about this murder?”

  The question seemed to frighten Vernier. His eyes shifted away again and looked over Sebag’s left shoulder.

  “There was some talk about the crime being committed by a vagrant, I think.”

  “Yes. That’s what the gendarmes say when they don’t have a lead.”

  “I see.”

  The conversation was bogging down. Robert Vernier didn’t want to go where Sebag was trying to lead him.

  “Would you like a little more lemonade?”

  His glass wasn’t yet empty. He declined the diversion with a wave of his hand.

  “You were saying that it was a terrible crime. Probably the work of a sadist.”

  Vernier nodded mechanically.

  “How could anyone do that to the face of such a young, pretty girl? She was almost disfigured. Her mouth was crushed, her temple cracked open. I’ve seen the photos: she was genuinely butchered.”

  The retiree shrank into his armchair.

  “No, really: a sadist did that.”

  Vernier’s cup clattered as he set it back on the saucer. His hands were shaking.

  “You had no difficulty recognizing her?” Sebag continued.

  Without breathing, Vernier answered him. His voice was toneless.

  “No . . . Her eyes were still open. Her beautiful blue eyes . . . Empty.”

  “The worst of it is thinking that the last thing they’ve seen is the twisted face of a murderer. Yes, that is truly horrible. What a bastard!”

  “You’re right,” Vernier admitted. “Only a bastard could do that.”

  “To beat in the face of a young woman with a rock . . . ”

  Robert Vernier was very pale. He’d aged ten years. His lower lip sagged.

  “It was a huge stone. Five pounds at least. You’d have to be sick to hit somebody with that. Besides, it must have made a strange sound.”

  The old man put his hand to his mouth and jumped to his feet. He mumbled an excuse and disappeared. Sebag had a moment of fright: if he was wrong, he wasn’t just an imbecile but the worst sort of scum.

  He finished his lemonade.

  Vernier hadn’t batted an eye when he’d mentioned the stone. However, the gendarmes had been deliberately vague regarding the murder weapon, and had even gone so far as to suggest to the reporters that it might be a hammer. The murderer had thrown the stone far away, and it had been discovered by investigators only later on. Vernier couldn’t have seen it next to the body.

  Sebag heard a toilet flush somewhere in the house. A few seconds later, Vernier reappeared, wiping his mouth with a paper tissue.

  “Pardon me . . . I still find it very difficult to discuss that painful moment.”

  “I’m the one who should ask your pardon, Mr. Vernier. I shouldn’t have stirred up those memories.”

  Sebag rose as well.

  “I’m going to leave you now; I’ve disturbed you for no reason. I think we’re going to have to close this case. All that remains is for me to bid you good-bye . . . ”

  “You’re leaving?”

  Vernier extended his soft, damp hand. Sebag turned around and saw, on a piano pushed up against the wall, the photo of an elderly woman smiling rather sadly in front of the Great Pyramid of Giza. It was that photo that Vernier had been looking at during much of their conversation.

  “Your wife?” he asked.

  “Yes. She died three years ago. After a long illness, as they say on the news. Cancer.”

  “You went to Egypt?”

  “It was our last trip. She was already sick, but she wanted to go there before she died. She’d dreamed about it all her life.”

  Sebag took the photo in his hands and examined it more closely. Mrs. Vernier looked tired. It wasn’t only her smile that hollowed her cheeks.

  “I’m sure she must have loved that last happy time spent with you,” he said, putting the photo back on the piano.

  He ran his fingers over the keyboard of the piano. He’d also dreamed of going to Egypt. Were they going to have to wait until he was dying to finally make the trip?

  “Was she the one who played the piano?”

  “Yes. She also sang. She sang very well; she even belonged to a chorus.”

  Vernier was beginning to perk up.

  “My wife also sings in a chorus,” Sebag said.

  “She does?”

  “You loved her a lot, didn’t you?”

  “To tell the truth, until she fell ill I’d never really realized it. That’s stupid, isn’t it? But we were living together; we got along well. We didn’t really talk about love.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  He tried to reply but his voice broke again. Sebag put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. He was determined to go all the way. You can’t be a cop without being a bit of a bastard.

  “I imagine Josetta’s parents are also weeping in front of their daughter’s photo. The loss of a daughter must be even harder. You have a daughter, don’t you? And every day, Josetta’s parents ask “why?” I know they’re calling the gendarmes all the time, asking whether the investigation is getting anywhere. It’s impossible to grieve when too many questions remain unanswered.”

  He paused for a moment; his hand was still on Vernier’s shoulder. He’d reserved for the end the second, more important reason for his visit.

  “By the way, I was about to forget! Looking through the file, I noticed that something was lacking. A detail. The gendarmes got fingerprints from almost a hundred people, but they forgot to get yours. That was stupid on their part, and it might cause a problem when we finally have a real suspect. The defense could rush into that breach. You don’t mind going through that formality, do you?”

  “No,” Vernier mumbled faintly.

  “Fine, fine. So I’ll ask the gendarmes here in Gien to come see you. I’m not allowed to take your fingerprints myself. I’m outside my own territory . . . ”

  He let go of the old man’s shoulder and took his hand, which was hanging inert alongside his body. He
shook it again.

  “Don’t bother to see me out, Mr. Vernier. I can find my own way.”

  Three boys were roller-skating on a vast esplanade bordered by high sycamores with twisting trunks. They were weaving between posts and jumping over the chains that kept cars out of the area. Sebag sat down on a bench. Using a cane, an old man was trying to cross the esplanade. He walked hesitantly, frightened by the daring roller-skaters. The kids paid him no heed; for them, he was merely another obstacle providing new challenges. Their pants legs crumpled over their shoes, baseball caps worn backwards on their heads, and MP3 headphones screwed into their ears, they swept past him several times but never actually touched him. The old man walked on; his mouth was open and he was short of breath. He raised his cane, grumbled two or three curses the kids couldn’t hear. Having perfectly mastered their art, they had no idea of the fear they were arousing, and probably took his raised cane as a friendly salute. Sebag stood up to escort the old man to the end of the esplanade.

  “Little jerks!” the old man said.

  Instead of thanking his rescuer, he spluttered his oaths in his face.

  “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” Sebag replied, himself astonished by this sudden recollection of the Gospels.

  The old man looked at him in surprise, while he punctuated his sentence with an enigmatic hand gesture halfway between a greeting and a blessing. Proud that he’d tried to slow the growth of misunderstanding between generations and the rise in the feeling of insecurity, Sebag sat down again. He lit a cigarette. The kids were now swooping around a baby carriage pushed by a young woman.

  The inspector glanced at his watch. “After having vigorously stirred the sauce and brought it to a boil, let it simmer for ten minutes and serve it hot.” He took a last drag on his cigarette and threw the butt on the asphalt. Then he went back to Vernier’s house and rang the bell.

  He didn’t have to wait as long as the first time. It was as if Vernier had been watching for him through the curtains.

  “I think we still have things to say to each other . . . ”

  Vernier did not respond, but he stood aside to let Sebag come in. In the living room, before they sat down, Sebag took the photo of the late Mrs. Vernier and put it face down on the piano. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Vernier.

  “This time, I’d like something stronger than lemonade. Whisky, if you have any.”

  Vernier opened the doors of an old wooden dish cabinet and came back with two bottles and two elegantly decorated glasses. He poured Sebag a healthy dose of whisky and gave himself a little Banyuls dessert wine. They took a first sip in silence.

  “You were right not to take Banyuls,” Vernier forced himself to say to fill the gap. “It isn’t very good. When I’m in Argelès, I usually buy six bottles of it at the Domaine de La Tour Vieille, and that lasts me all year. This year I didn’t have time to buy it, so I got some at the supermarket in Gien. It’s another brand, and it’s less expensive, but it isn’t as good.”

  Sebag waited another few seconds. He knew what he wanted to say, but he was trying to find exactly the right tone. Vernier gave him a hand.

  “I can’t sleep without drinking two or three glasses.”

  He raised his glass and took another drink. Sebag cleared his throat.

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean to kill her . . . ”

  The old man was expecting it, but Sebag’s assertion nonetheless hit him hard. A punch in the stomach hurts, even if you’ve been forewarned. He put his hands to his mouth. He eyes sought something in the room that he could look at. He gasped several times. Like someone who’s suddenly catching his breath after having been under water too long. Then his eyes came back and met Sebag’s. And he began to talk. He talked without the inspector having to ask any questions.

  He told him everything and then some.

  He’d met Josetta for the first time very early one morning, on the beach near the campground. It was still dark. He was taking his usual pre-dawn walk. He’d seen them hidden in a hollow in the sand only when he was already upon them. The man who was busy on top of Josetta hadn’t noticed, but the young woman had seen him. He’d even had the impression that she’d started breathing faster when their eyes met. She’d looked at him without hostility and even, it had seemed, kindly. As if she was making him a gift of her pleasure. She’d smiled. He’d run away.

  Then he’d seen her again in the campground. Her tent was pitched only a few yards from his trailer. Josetta’s image had begun to haunt him. All the more because the young woman wasn’t very prudish. She often came out of the shower half-naked, and Robert hadn’t needed to peek at her very long to see her little breasts before she decided to put them in her bra. He had the feeling that she was aware of his presence. Several nights in a row, he’d gone to stand near her tent. Once he’d even heard her moans. He knew that she was alone that night. Robert couldn’t sleep. His desire was too strong. Contrary to what he’d thought, the volcano was not extinct.

  One evening, he’d followed her to the beach. It was almost midnight. She’d undressed and gone swimming naked. When she came out of the water, Robert was still there. Sitting two yards from her clothes. She’d dried off in the moonlight. She’d put on her T-shirt. Only her T-shirt. The erect nipples of her still-wet breasts had immediately formed halos on the fabric. She’d taken his hand and led him away. He’d walked one step behind her, hypnotized by the moonlight and a pair of very firm buttocks.

  She’d lain down in the reeds. Smiled at him. Kissed him.

  But while she was unbuttoning his pants, he’d felt his body betraying him. His desire was still there, however. “It’s okay,” she’d murmured, understanding his problem. She’d taken his hand and guided it toward her vagina. “It’s okay,” she’d repeated. And she’d smiled at him again. Her smile made her cheeks swell, and her white teeth glimmered in the moonlight. A beautiful smile. Unbearable.

  That’s when he’d lost his head. He’d grabbed a stone and had made that smile disappear forever. He didn’t remember having hit her several times. He’d read that in the newspapers, and it was surely true. He didn’t doubt that he was capable of having done it. He hadn’t recovered consciousness until he was on his way back to the campground. But he knew she was dead when he’d left her there.

  Vernier swirled his Banyuls around in his glass before drinking it down at a single draft. Sebag took a long swig of his whisky in order to respect his silence. He had before him a broken man. Already dead. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He knew he’d never get used to it. You couldn’t get used to it. People who say you can are either liars or madmen.

  Robert resumed his confession. What he had to say now was not necessarily easier to admit than the murder itself.

  As a young man, he’d had sexual difficulties on several occasions. The most difficult to endure had been the compassion those women had thought they had to show, whereas he was well aware that it was mainly pity, or even scorn, that they were feeling. These failures had kept him at a distance from women. And then Solange had come along. She knew what she wanted. She proved to be enterprising, and she succeeded in overcoming his shyness. And his so-called impotence. A real miracle: with her, everything had always worked fine. He’d been faithful and ended up forgetting his earlier misadventures.

  The failure with Josetta erased at a single blow all the years of peace with Solange. It cast him back into the sad memories of his adolescence. He’d reacted in a bestial manner to Josetta’s smile. The smile of all women. He’d since thought a great deal about that terrible night and that was all he’d found to explain his barbarity. He saw no other way to understand it. But that was not a justification. Nothing could ever cleanse him of that monstrous act. It was as if sixty-five years of repressed violence had been set free in a single sentence.

  Vernier took out handkerchief. He wiped his eyes
and blew his nose at length. Sebag took advantage of this to look at his watch. It was after 1:00 P.M., and they still weren’t completely done.

  “It’s horrible,” Vernier went on, “horrible to realize how lives can be turned upside down in a moment. Josetta’s life, of course. Mine, too, though that doesn’t matter. I’m thinking especially of my children and grandchildren. What a disaster! What shame! To find out that their father, their dear old grandpa, is nothing but a murderer. Worse than that: a murderer who’s a dirty old man. It was because of them, you see, that I didn’t go turn myself in at the gendarmerie. I wanted to do that. If it could have brought Josetta back to life, I’d have done it. Without any hesitation. But after all, it wouldn’t have changed anything. So since no one seemed to suspect me, I didn’t say anything. It was all over for her, and for me too, but by keeping quiet I could still let my family live a normal life. And when I died, the secret would die with me.”

  He poured himself another glass of Banyuls, which he drank more rapidly than the first.

  “I still have one question, Mr. Vernier: why did you pretend to have discovered the body? You could have waited until someone else came across it by accident.”

  “I was afraid it would be too long. She was off the path. I didn’t want animals . . . or the sun . . . you see what I mean, I wanted her to be found quickly and put out of harm’s way.”

  The telephone rang in the entry hall. Vernier started but didn’t get up.

  “That’s probably my daughter,” he explained. “If I answer, I won’t be able to lie to her. I don’t have the strength for that anymore. If I can still grant her a little reprieve . . . ”

  Vernier himself was going to be granted a reprieve. Sebag had come to Gien on his own initiative, and had no power. He would first have to call Castello, who would notify the prosecutor in Perpignan and the local gendarmes. He finished his glass of whisky. It was not very good, but it was better that way. He got up.

  “Aren’t you going to arrest me?” Vernier asked, also rising.

  “No, not right now. I can’t. I’ll come back to take you to the gendarmerie. We’ll make an official deposition there. You have until tomorrow.”