Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  “I’ll be right back with the wine,” Marie-Thérèse said, anxious to be gone. “That is, if you want some.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Marine said. “And please bring us two bottles of sparkling water.” After the girl had left, Marine asked, “How did it go this morning?”

  “Fine,” Verlaque replied. “But no earth-shattering discoveries. About the most interesting thing to come out of it is that Niki Darcette has spent time in jail for robbery.”

  “Really?” Marine asked.

  “I’ll fill you in later,” Verlaque said. He wasn’t especially keen to talk about the case in front of Sylvie. “And that Alain Denis was unpleasant to just about everyone here.”

  “It’s funny how things come out about people after an awful event like this one,” Marine said. “Past lives and so on, or how they react to tragedy. For example, who would have known that soft-spoken Mme Hobbs, who paints watercolors, was also a nurse during the Vietnam War?”

  “That’s so true,” Verlaque agreed. “Some people get tense, and others—like Niki and Marie-Thérèse—seem more relaxed.”

  “How is Mme Denis?” Sylvie asked.

  “Sad, and angry, but not necessarily about her husband’s death,” Verlaque replied. Marie-Thérèse appeared with the salads, and he tilted his body to the side so that Marie-Thérèse could set down the starter in front of him. “That reminds me,” he went on. He waited until the girl had gone and then told Marine and Sylvie about Mme Denis’s missing ring.

  They discussed the ring, and expensive jewelry in general, while eating their first course. “The food is wonderful here,” Marine said, finishing her salad. “But I have a craving for . . .”

  “A steak,” Verlaque said. “Rare.”

  “Gummy bears,” added Sylvie.

  “I was going to say potato chips,” Marine said. “Those English ones that you buy, Antoine, at Monoprix . . .”

  “French ones are just as good,” said Paulik. “Especially the handmade chips from Allauch. I have a cousin . . .”

  Conversation stopped as a gray-haired, uniformed man came bounding up the terrace steps. Despite the warm July day he wore a jacket, whose multiple medals and stripes could be seen from yards away. He stood at the edge of the terrace and it didn’t take long, as there were few diners, to spot whom he was looking for. The “merde” that he whispered could be heard by everyone on the terrace, which was followed by a long sigh. He then walked over to Verlaque’s table.

  Paulik set his napkin down and quickly got up. “Général Le Favre,” he said. “Hello . . .”

  “Welcome to Sordou,” said Verlaque, who was also on his feet. Sylvie and Marine looked on. “May I present Dr. Marine Bonnet, and Sylvie Grassi.”

  Le général nodded briefly in their direction and shook their hands.

  “Do you have news for us?” Paulik asked, perplexed.

  “News?” le général repeated. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded newspaper, throwing it on the table. “Gentlemen, do I have news for you.”

  Verlaque grabbed the newspaper and opened it up. “Merde,” he said, handing it to Marine.

  “Merde is right,” Le Favre said. “And more expletives were said this morning at the precinct. The phone has been ringing off the hook.”

  Marine said nothing and passed the paper to Paulik. He looked at it, then said, “La Provence. Figures.”

  “Granted, it doesn’t have a circulation like Le Figaro or Le Monde,” Le Favre said. “But, it means we’ve lost a few days of investigation without the whole world knowing where—and how—Alain Denis was murdered. Plus . . . that photo!”

  “Let me see,” Sylvie said, taking the newspaper from Paulik. She looked at it and then laughed.

  “The journalist obviously had a front-row seat in the dining room,” Le Favre continued after he had glared at Sylvie.

  “I have no idea how,” Verlaque said, shaking his head back and forth.

  “Les hublots,” Marine suggested. Marine looked at the photograph again and said, “The photo was taken from the kitchen. I went in there yesterday, looking for Marie-Thérèse, and I saw that some of the round mirrors in the dining room and bar are actually windows, so that the chef can observe the diners.”

  “The cook took these photos, and wrote the article?” Le Favre asked, the sarcasm in his voice heavy.

  Verlaque thought of Niki Darcette. “The cook . . . unlikely . . . more probable one of the hotel staff; they are desperate to fill up the rooms.”

  “Antoine,” Marine said. “I can’t imagine . . .”

  “Commissioner,” Le Favre said, looking at Bruno Paulik. “Outsiders were strictly forbidden to come onto Sordou.”

  “And they didn’t,” Paulik replied. “There were two policemen on the dock, and a boat at the mouth of the harbor.”

  “So no last-minute hotel clients?” Le Favre asked. “No plumbers? Electricians?”

  “No,” Paulik replied. “Only one delivery . . . of food.”

  Le général raised his left eyebrow. “Who delivers the food?”

  “Isnard,” Verlaque replied. “He’s harmless; a local fisherman. He came last night with baskets full of food, along with his cousin . . .”

  The four friends looked at each other and Paulik slapped his forehead.

  “Merde!” Verlaque bawled.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  3 Rue Valois

  Officer Jules Schoelcher had a book with him—one that Magali had given him, about a policeman in Glasgow—and although he liked the book, he couldn’t stop staring out of the TGV’s window. He was amazed how the blue sky of the south turned gray somewhere around Valence. He took a photograph out the train’s window and his cell phone indicated the nearest village: Saint-Vallier. He had never been to Saint-Vallier, nor was ever likely to go, but he was fascinated and amazed that his BlackBerry knew where the TGV was, speeding along at more than three hundred kilometers an hour.

  Alain Flamant, a fellow officer, had driven him to Aix’s TGV station, fifteen minutes to the south of the city, and Jules had jumped on the train, his ticket in hand, almost missing it. Flamant made a “call me” gesture with his hand up to his face, and Jules saluted back.

  Commissioner Paulik had called Jules from Sordou’s phone, telling him to ask a secretary to book a return trip on the first class train; Jules had begun to object and Paulik stopped him, saying, “You’ll be glad of the extra space, especially on the way back. . . . You may have some paperwork to go through.” Jules Schoelcher was Paulik’s favorite police officer, and one day he might well be a commissioner. Schoelcher’s fastidiousness had helped enormously in a multiple-murder case a few months back, and Paulik knew that no one was better to do research than Schoelcher, the Palais de Justice’s Alsatian-born keen observer and careful record keeper.

  Jules was suddenly hungry and made his was to the bar car, holding on to the luggage racks above the passengers’ heads as he was bumped along. He got to the bar car, two cars down, only to find a line of about fifteen passengers. He stood in line, trying to decide what to do. He could wait and pay too much for a mediocre sandwich, or hold off and get a quick bite in Paris. Either way, Paulik told him to keep the bills for any expenses, as he’d get reimbursed. But Jules didn’t like charging the state for something overpriced. He shifted his weight and realized that he wouldn’t have much time; he’d get to the Gare de Lyon at 12:45 p.m. and then have to make his way to his first stop in the first arrondissement: the Ministry of Culture. The line was barely moving, and he remembered that Magali had thrown an apple in his backpack before he left the apartment that morning, before he knew he’d be going to Paris. He shrugged and turned around and made his way back to his seat. He sat down, pulled the apple out of his backpack, and took a bite, thinking of Magali, and wondering how many espressos she had made that morning at her job.

&
nbsp; The flat, industrial land north of Lyon gradually morphed into green rolling hills, some of them covered in vines. Jules grabbed his phone and snapped a picture. It was blurry, but he sent it to Magali anyway: “In Burgundy,” he wrote. The phone told him where he was, so he added: “Cluny. On my way to Paris for some digging around . . . getting back to the Aix TGV station sometime after 10 p.m. I’ll take the shuttle home. OXOX Jules.” He knew that he could take a taxi back to Aix and charge it as an expense, but why, when the shuttle took exactly the same route and cost less than 4 euros?

  By the time the train arrived in the suburbs of Paris, Jules was very hungry. He looked at his watch and knew that they wouldn’t be arriving at the station for fifteen minutes, but some of the passengers were already quickly gathering their bags and suitcases and leaving their seats. He turned around and watched them go through the automatic doors and stand in the narrow entryway. He shrugged, and the businessman beside him, now slowly packing up his computer, smiled. “They do that every time,” he said. “Just watch, it will be backed up, with people standing in the aisle, any minute.” The train slowed down, but was still ten minutes from central Paris when the aisle was now full of passengers, some of them leaning on the backs of seats.

  “You’re right,” Jules said.

  “Told you,” the businessman said. “I take the TGV every week. You ride often?”

  “Oh no,” Jules replied. He didn’t want to say that he was a policeman, nor that this was only, perhaps, his fifth or sixth time on the fast train. He looked out the window, which had water spots streaking against its glass. “Rain,” Jules said.

  “Welcome to Paris.”

  “Well, Provence is too hot for me in the summer,” Jules said. “I don’t mind the rain.”

  The businessman laughed. “Where you from?”

  “Alsace,” Jules said. “Near Colmar.”

  “Provence is different than Alsace, that’s for sure.”

  Jules thought to himself: yeah, cheaper housing, it’s cleaner, and people are polite. As if reading Jules’s mind, the man said, “It’s nice and orderly up there, and the real estate sure is less expensive, but I love the warmth and joie de vivre of the Provençaux.” Jules thought of Magali and smiled. The train slowed down as they pulled up along the platform of the Gare de Lyon. “Have a nice day,” the man said, standing up. “Enjoy the rain.”

  Jules smiled and said, “You too.”

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, after making his way through the throngs of vacationers shuffling in the Gare de Lyon—many of whom it seemed to Jules had two large suitcases each—he was sitting on the Line 1 metro, making his way to the Ministry of Culture. He looked at a red-covered map book that Mme Girard—Judge Verlaque’s impossibly well-organized secretary—had thrust into his hands before Jules had left. “You can’t depend on your smart phone all the time,” she had said. “You may be out of Internet range; Judge Verlaque already told me that the phones don’t work on the RER. You never know with these things.” Jules happily took the book, as he preferred paper; he had been raised reading maps with his parents while on vacation. He easily found the Rue Valois, squeezed in between the Jardin du Palais-Royal and a huge Bank of France building. Knowing that he had five stops to wait, he set the book on his knee and looked at his fellow passengers, enjoying the variety, especially compared to safe and smug Aix-en-Provence. He wondered what they thought of him. . . . Did he look like a university student? A young urban professional? He had worn good slacks, and a white shirt and tie, and was glad that he had a jacket.

  He looked up at the metro map and saw that the Musée du Louvre/Palais-Royal stop was approaching, and he tried to remember the last time he had visited the Louvre: it was a school trip, when he had been fifteen or sixteen years old. He thought of that trip, and how half the class had been in awe of Paris, and the Louvre, and the other half thinking of their next cigarette. He had been among the first group. The Mona Lisa had been disappointing, as their teacher had warned, but Jules had fallen in love that day with the high realism of the Flemish Renaissance. He remembered trying to get as close as he could to the paintings, to see the artists’ brushstrokes, and then being embarrassed by a guard who had yelled at him across the vast room. The doors to the metro opened and Jules quickly got up, realizing that he was at the Louvre.

  It was only a three-minute walk to 3 Rue de Valois, and the rain was now a light drizzle. Jules remembered enough of high school history—thank you, M. Mandar—that he knew what Valois meant: it was the name of the kings and queens of France during the Middle Ages, almost up until 1600. He thought of Albert, one of his classmates—the smokers—whose standard comeback line when someone was displeased (which was often the case, especially for Albert) was “Let them eat cake!” Albert had loved the French Revolution, especially the gorier bits.

  “Actually, it was brioches she said,” Jules would correct him.

  “If she even said it at all,” M. Mandar would add.

  The Ministry of Culture was easy to find, as the entire building was wrapped in a tarp, the kind they put on buildings that are under construction, or being renovated. The ministry’s name was written in large letters along the side, along with a line drawing of what the renovated building would look like. The entrance was blocked off, surrounded by a ten-foot-high temporary wood fence, and construction workers came and went through a tiny opening. Jules stood there, collecting his thoughts. “Excuse me,” he asked a worker going in, who was carrying a hammer. “Could you please tell me where the temporary entrance is?”

  “Farther up the street,” he said, motioning with the hammer. “But they’ll all be at lunch now.”

  Jules looked at his watch; it was 1:15 p.m. “You’re right,” he said, and thanked the worker. His stomach growled. He hadn’t come across any restaurants or food shops between here and the metro; it was unlikely that he’d find a kebob shop in the immediate vicinity. He turned around and, where the Rue de Valois met another street, saw a furniture shop with a curved white leather sofa in the window, and beside it, a bistro. He quickly walked across the street and looked at the menu, written on a chalkboard. The prices weren’t as dear as he had imagined, and he had a quick look around at the terrace, which was packed, protected from the drizzle by an awning. He walked in, trying to look as Parisian as he could, and motioned to the barman with his thumb that he was a solo diner. Jules loved this kind of small bistro; the only sound was the laughter and chatter of the diners and the clanging of dishes and glasses. A harried waitress, but one who had the time to smile, showed Jules to a small wooden table in a corner where he could eat and watch the crowd outside. He was now starving; he quickly ordered a goat cheese crème brûlée with caramelized onions to start, and a classic steak tartare to follow. “Salade ou frites?” the waitress asked.

  Jules decided to be bold and asked if the French fries were homemade.

  “Certainement,” she replied.

  “Frites, alors,” Jules said. “Et de l’eau, s’il vous plaît.” He felt like he was cheating, in a way—having a big lunch before he had even got any work done—but what else was he to do until the ministry reopened? He took out one of the little notebooks that he always carried and flipped through it until he got to the Sordou case. He was to go through the records at the ministry’s cultural monuments division and research anything to do with Sordou’s lighthouse, and the family of lighthouse keepers, the Buffas, especially Prosper Buffa. Bruno Paulik had filled Jules in as much as he could: Prosper, Verlaque had reported, was non-communicative and spoke half the time in incoherent riddles.

  The goat cheese crème brûlée arrived, and Jules regretted not having a glass of Riesling to sip. He tried not to eat too quickly, but wanted, at the same time, to be inside the ministry as soon as it opened. A very smartly dressed elderly couple sat at the table next to him. Normally, that would have bothered Jules, as their table was almo
st touching his. But they didn’t speak. The man, who wore a tweed jacket, even though it was a warm, rainy July day, had a silk handkerchief poking out of his pocket. He was obviously enjoying the goat cheese starter as much as Jules was, as after each bite he set his fork down and closed his eyes. His wife, with dyed blond hair (or so Jules assumed), ate cold salmon, but picked at it. She too was elegantly and carefully dressed, but it was her purse that caught Jules’s eye. Even he knew—thanks to his sisters, and to Magali—what a 4,000-euro Hermès purse looked like.

  Jules looked at the diners on the terrace; most of them, judging by their expensive sunglasses and black clothing, seemed to be locals. He wondered how many of them worked across the street. They were civil servants, like him, but their world seemed miles away from his own.

  • • •

  While Jules was in Paris, Alain Flamant began to go over the records of every film Alain Denis had ever been involved in. There were more than he could imagine: fifty-four to be exact. There were also two recent unauthorized biographies of the actor, and Flamant was able to get ahold of both authors when he got back from the train station. The first author confirmed that Denis was “a royal pain in the ass on set” but wasn’t willing to elaborate. “Buy the book,” he said before hanging up. The other biographer, a certain Franck Martini living in Toulouse, was more than willing to talk, perhaps due to alcohol—Flamant could hear the clinking of ice cubes while they spoke. “A number of people have threatened Denis over the years,” Martini said, taking a loud sip. “But everyone I spoke to confirmed that the most hated enemy of Denis was the director Jean-Louis Navarre.”

  “The guy who made the Inspector Pernety series in the seventies?” Flamant asked. “I used to watch reruns of those on TV.”

  “Same man,” Martini said. “Navarre said that Denis couldn’t act, and that he was too pretty to play a cop. They once even had a fistfight. He hated Denis on the set and hated him even more when Denis had an affair with Navarre’s wife.”