Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  He noticed that the maid was once again rubbing her old-fashioned watch with its tiny rectangular face and thin leather strap.

  “Do you always clean the rooms?” Paulik asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I take turns with Marie-Thérèse.”

  • • •

  Paulik and Verlaque got up and stretched after Mme Poux had left. A knock sounded, and Verlaque said, “Come in, Hugo.” But it was Marie-Thérèse who opened the door, balancing on her hip a tray holding a pot of tea and a plate of cookies.

  “Thank you,” Paulik said.

  “C’est l’heure de goûter!” Marie-Thérèse sang out.

  “Snack time, indeed. That’s so kind of you to remember us in here,” Verlaque said, taking the tray from her and setting it down on the table.

  Marie-Thérèse said, “It’s my job! I like to see that everyone is taken care of.”

  “Thank you,” Verlaque said. “And if you see Hugo out there, you can tell him that we’re ready for his interview.”

  “I saw him out on the terrace,” she replied. “I’ll go and get him.” And she left.

  “That was an amazing story that Mme Poux told,” Paulik said, biting into a cookie.

  “I wasn’t expecting it,” Verlaque said. “It was beautifully sad; a classic story of a young love that couldn’t be realized due to outside pressure.”

  “Romeo and Juliette,” Paulik offered.

  “Marseille style,” Verlaque added. “But one wouldn’t kill for that, would they?”

  “Lust, love . . .”

  “Money,” Verlaque said. “When we’re through here let’s see if that lawyer has arrived; my bet is that Mme Denis will inherit.”

  “According to her there’s not much left,” Paulik said.

  “If we believe that—”

  A loud knock cut off Verlaque’s sentence, and Hugo Sammut came in.

  “Hey,” Hugo said, walking across the room and sitting down opposite the two men.

  “Hello, Hugo,” Verlaque said. “Let’s begin with the afternoon of the murder; what did you do when we got back from the north shore of the island?” Paulik looked at Verlaque, puzzled, and the judge quickly explained that he and Marine had gone for a walk and got a boat ride back to the hotel with Hugo, who had been out with Sylvie. “Did you hear or see anything strange?”

  “Nada,” Sammut replied. “I pulled the boat up with you guys just after five p.m. and went to my cabin. A little later I looked out my window and saw Bill Hobbs sitting on a bench by the dock.”

  “With Eric Monnier,” Paulik suggested.

  “Mmmm, he was alone,” Hugo said.

  “Are you sure?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Can you see the whole dock from your cabin window?” Verlaque asked.

  “Both benches?” Paulik added.

  Hugo reflected. “Um, come to think of it, no. I can only see the north one; the south one is blocked from my view by the gazebo.”

  “Thank you,” Verlaque replied. “Do you remember what time you looked out the window?”

  “Nah, sorry,” Hugo said. “I was beat.”

  “And the gunshot?” Paulik asked. “Did you hear it?”

  “Nope,” Hugo replied. “I had a long nap and woke up a little after six-thirty p.m.”

  “And so you saw nothing suspicious?” Verlaque asked.

  “No,” Sammut slowly replied. “But on Monday morning, after the breakfast when I lost my temper, I saw Denis down by the cove.”

  “Go on,” Verlaque said.

  “Well, I walked down there to cool off, and he was standing on the farthest rock out, staring down into the water.”

  “Okay,” Verlaque slowly said. “And you found that odd?”

  Hugo shrugged. “It’s just that he stayed there for more than fifteen minutes, just staring, and not moving. That’s all. I found it weird. I got bored and turned around and came back to my cabin.”

  • • •

  “It is strange,” Paulik said after Hugo Sammut had left. “That story of Alain Denis looking down into the water.”

  “And more strange that Hugo didn’t hear the gunshot,” Verlaque said, “given that his cabin is closer to the cove than the hotel is. But I agree,” he went on, “that Alan Denis didn’t seem like the kind of man who would be interested in examining sea urchins and fishes. It’s almost as if he was the murderer, checking the depth of the sea, knowing that he would throw the pistol in there.”

  “Maybe he was planning something nasty, and someone beat him to it.”

  “Such an odd thing,” Verlaque said. He was about to speak again when the door opened and Clément Viale breezed in.

  “Hello, old chum,” Viale said, sitting down.

  “Hello, Clément,” Verlaque said. “I’m going to get right to the point: just how big is your share in Sordou?”

  “Too big, unfortunately,” Viale replied. “I own a quarter; Max and Cat-Cat own half, and some private investors own the remaining quarter.”

  “And they’re worried,” Verlaque said.

  “We all are,” Viale answered. “It came as a total surprise that we couldn’t fill the hotel this month.”

  “But now it’s full?”

  Viale smiled. “Yes, but if you think—”

  “If I think what?” Verlaque asked.

  “Dough Boy, you’re being a smart ass, like you were when we were in university.”

  Verlaque stayed silent.

  “If you think that I—or Max or Cat-Cat for that matter—killed some has-been actor just to fill this place . . .”

  “It is full, now.”

  “It would have filled up.”

  “You said you were worried,” Verlaque said. “But let’s move on to another subject. Mme Denis.”

  Viale laughed nervously. “I suppose the barman told you he saw us leaving, late, together?”

  “Yes,” Verlaque said. “But I had been there too, remember? Anyway, Mme Denis told me of the spare room at the end of the hall.”

  Viale frowned, as if Verlaque were the guilty party. “Okay, we had a little tryst, in that room. Good detective work,” he said. “Bravo.” Viale made a gesture of clapping, without touching his hands together. “It was only two nights,” he added.

  “We’ve only been here for four nights,” Verlaque said.

  “Hey, you weren’t exactly a saint back in university!” Viale quipped. “You were the least faithful person I knew.”

  Paulik coughed and said, “Let’s stick to the present investigation, M. Viale.”

  “Did she hate her husband?” Verlaque asked.

  “We didn’t even talk about him!” Viale said, his voice getting hoarse. “We had other things to do.”

  • • •

  Verlaque was intrigued to finally spend a moment with Delphine Viale. Up close her face was somewhat softer; her eyes looked tired and her skin was pale compared to the other clients who actually spent time outside, but it glowed. She looked happier than she had when they first got to the island. She sat still, and upright, her hands folded on her lap. She wore her usual outfit of beige linen pants and a white, close-fitted blouse that showed off her thin waist. “I’m not sure what you said to Clément,” she began. “But he sure stormed out of here.”

  “We were talking about his investment here on Sordou,” Verlaque replied, half-lying.

  “Oh, that would make him angry,” she said.

  “He was worried, no?”

  “Yes,” Mme Viale replied. “I was never for this idea, investing in an old hotel, on an island too far off the coast, and near Marseille of all places.”

  “I can see the risk,” Verlaque said. “But also the attraction,” he quickly added. Something in him wanted to protect his old school chum, even if Cl�
�ment was an ass. And to stick up for Marseille, even it was a mess.

  “It is beautiful here,” she said. “But it was such a risk. The children, their future . . .”

  “I understand,” Verlaque said. Now I’m on her side, he thought to himself. I’m like a bloody yo-yo.

  “And you didn’t hear anything? See anything unusual?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve been taking sleeping pills.”

  The poor woman, thought Verlaque. He had never needed sleeping pills and couldn’t imagine using them when on a vacation.

  “It’s the financial situation,” she went on. “Clément invested our money, but it was my legacy. My father’s hard-earned money.”

  “You didn’t talk about it, before he signed on the dotted line?”

  “Yes, and no,” she replied. “I wasn’t given the full details. I was in the hospital at the time when he came with the proposal. I was drugged, half-out of it.”

  “Hospital?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes, in Neuilly,” she replied. She looked him straight in the eye and replied, without flinching, “I tried to kill myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Amore

  “If I lived by the sea,” Sylvie said, holding on to the mossy cliffs by her toes and floating on her back, “I’d do a series of photographs, one taken every day, always at the same hour, treading water with my camera. Maybe large format; dig out my Hasselblad.”

  “Does anyone hand-print these days?” Marine asked, also floating and looking up at the blue sky.

  “Yeah, a guy in Marseille named Nicholas. He does the printing for all the photographers around here; well, the ones still taking pictures with film.”

  Marine’s toe lost its grip and she let go, doing a backward somersault in the water. “Dizzy,” she said when her head surfaced. “Those were easier to do when I was a kid.” She swam to the rocks and held on to them with her fingers, floating on her stomach. “It’s funny that I’m more frightened by the sea than the fact that there’s a murderer on Sordou,” she said, looking at Sylvie.

  Sylvie let go of the rock and began treading. “At least they can’t get us here, swimming,” she said, looking around.

  “Are you afraid?” Marine asked.

  “I wasn’t until now.”

  “So you aren’t afraid either,” Marine said. “I get the feeling that few of us are. I saw Mme Hobbs happily going off to paint; and Clément Viale told me he was going to try to walk around the island. Does our nonchalance in the face of murder mean that the killer was only after Denis, and somehow we sense this? Or are we being naïve?”

  “I think you’re right,” Sylvie said. “We’re not afraid. And that would mean the killer knew Denis, probably very well. We all sense that.”

  “Mme Denis was closest to him,” Marine said.

  “But she’s the only one among us who does seem afraid.”

  “Seems,” Marine said. “She could be faking it.”

  “What if she really is afraid for her life?” Sylvie asked. “Why?”

  “Because she and Alain were involved in something together?” Marine suggested. “Something crooked? Drugs?”

  “They really loved each other,” Sylvie said, swimming beside Marine and holding on to the rocks. “What if they were acting at hating each other? I saw that on a Miss Marple once.”

  “You watch Miss Marple?”

  “Yeah, with Charlotte,” Sylvie answered. “It’s dubbed into French on Sunday nights. She loves it. So, think of it: most of the time their fights were out in the open, where we could all see.”

  “Oh, you’re good,” Marine said, placing a foot on the rocky ledge and heaving herself out of the water. She slipped on the moss, scratching her knee, and fell down on the wet rocks, laughing.

  “You don’t have the technique right,” Sylvie said, lifting herself out of the water and also slipping on the moss.

  The women, still laughing, half-crawled to a dry patch on the rocks, where they had left their towels and books. “You know,” Marine said, shifting her weight to try to find a comfortable flat bit of rock, “Antoine told me that Mme Denis was really upset during her interview.”

  “See,” Sylvie said. “That goes with my theory that they were faking their hatred, and your theory that they were into something shady. Together. Maybe they were trying to cheat their crime partners, and so Alain was bumped off. And that’s why Mme Denis is frightened.”

  “So that means the killer had to swim here.”

  “Or they’re one of the staff.”

  “Now you’re freaking me out,” Marine said.

  “That’s why the Denis picked Sordou,” Sylvie said excitedly. “Because their contact was already here.”

  Marine fumbled in her beach bag that she had bought on sale at Monoprix. “I need to write this down,” she said. She pulled out a weathered notebook with a marbled cover.

  “Florence,” Sylvie said. “You bought that book on our last trip there.”

  Marine nodded and began writing. She said, “Your theory of the killer being already here works with Hugo’s opinion that the sea was too rough that evening for someone to swim in.” She wrote this down as well.

  “Hugo may be full of maritime facts,” Sylvie said, “but I’m not so sure he’s correct all the time.”

  “Hugo,” Marine said, looking at Sylvie.

  “What?”

  “I doubt he has an alibi, and he told you that he slept through the gunshot.”

  “So?” Sylvie asked. “I did too.”

  “Perhaps that fight at breakfast was staged.”

  “You mean Hugo was also acting?” Sylvie said, immediately realizing what she had said. “The actor Alain Denis, getting everyone to act. Merde.”

  “But it did seem genuine,” Marine said. “Hugo was livid. And so was Denis.”

  “Were they trying to cheat Hugo?” Sylvie asked, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

  Marine lay back on her side, propping her head up on her elbow. “I think we’re getting carried away.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sylvie said. “For Hugo’s sake. I’m going to do a bit of serious fashion-magazine reading to get my mind off this. My God,” she said, looking at a page in Elle. “Whoever thought of these high-heeled running shoes is going to make a mint.”

  “Hideous,” Marine said, glancing at the photograph and then flipping over onto her stomach. She picked up her Florentine notebook and wrote down the names of the staff and guests on Sordou. She read over her list, thinking of each person, possible motives, and their ability to point a gun at someone and pull the trigger. This was the hardest thing to do, and why she preferred the theory that the murderer had swum into the cove. She looked at the female names, knowing that a woman could physically shoot someone; Antoine had told her that one of the best shots at the Palais de Justice in Aix was a female officer named Sophie. But what kind of rage would lead to a premeditated murder? Marine stared at the names. “Amore,” she whispered in Italian. Sylvie looked over and smiled, and continued reading. “That’s what you’d kill for, wouldn’t you?” Marine asked her friend. “I mean, as a woman.”

  Sylvie set down the magazine. “Love,” she said. “That’s about the only thing that I’d kill for,” she said. “Especially if someone threatened or hurt Charlotte.”

  Marine looked at Emmanuelle Denis’s name. Defending her son. Had Alain Denis hurt Brice? Denis could be violent; they had a glimpse of that at the hotel. Marine took her pencil and drew a line between the names “Emmanuelle” and “Brice.” She wrote: “Brice? Brice had been at the cove; we found his hat, and he admitted to being there. Could he be defending his mother? Did he really place his hat at the cove, hoping it would be found, by either us, or the police, to take the suspicion away from Emmanuelle?” Marine put her pencil down and res
ted her chin on her hands, thinking about the boy. Although dishonest, it seemed a heroic thing to do, and it suited the character of a young boy who was a self-professed romantic, and who read Thomas Mann while on holiday.

  Chapter Thirty

  Prosper Has More Guests

  “My grandfather always said ‘never trust a skinny chef,’” Verlaque remarked as he watched Bruno Paulik gather up his papers and slide them into his leather satchel. They had just finished interviewing Émile Villey; throughout their meeting the chef had made a valiant attempt to stifle his yawns.

  Paulik grunted. “Émile seems honest to me,” he replied, “just very focused on cooking.”

  “Oh, I agree with you there. He wouldn’t shut up about his monkfish with the ginger and chili.”

  “Don’t forget the noodles and cilantro,” Paulik said, keeping such a straight face that Verlaque thought he might be serious. “And I don’t see Émile having the time to think up a murder, contact Denis, rush down to the cove, and then make it back in time to cook,” Paulik continued. “He doesn’t have a motive either.”

  “Alain Denis complained about the lamb on our first night.”

  Paulik laughed this time. “I mean, the meals are fairly simple here, and he’s only cooking for ten people plus staff, but all the same, he’s a busy guy.”

  “Yes, I agree: Émile is solo in the kitchen; he even makes the hotel’s bread and jam,” Verlaque said. “Then would he kill for someone else? Is he sweet on Emmauelle Denis? Or was he defending the honor of Niki Darcette?”

  Paulik shook his head back and forth. “It was a premeditated murder,” he said. “I know that Émile claimed not to have heard the shot because he was too busy banging pots and pans around, and no one came into the kitchen at that time to give him an alibi, but I think that our murderer knew Denis well and planned this.”