Murder on the Ile Sordou

by M. L. Longworth

  “Marvelous,” Cat-Cat said.

  “Really?” her husband asked, looking at Prosper, who was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, reading Le Monde.

  “Of course,” she replied. “We’ve all been cooped up here; the guests are unhappy and our staff are frazzled. And with this storm tonight . . .”

  “Great,” Verlaque said. “The guys may not make it back, with the storm.”

  Cat-Cat sighed. “I figured as much,” she said. “They may have to share the spare room, but we have a folding bed we can add. At least Prosper appears to have had a shower recently.”

  “He dressed up for the occasion,” Verlaque said, smiling, and making a gesture with his fingers alluding to Prosper’s pink bow tie.

  “Oh, heavens!”

  “Hugo met us at the dock,” Verlaque began.

  Cat-Cat looked at Max. Max said, “I get your hint, judge. Actually I’ve been rethinking Hugo’s position here,” he said. “I’m going to ask him if he’d like to stay on.”

  “That sounds wise, considering how well he knows this place. I’ll go and tell Émile about tonight’s party,” Verlaque said as Niki Darcette came running in.

  “Serge is closing all the shutters in the bar,” Niki said. “And I’ll start here.” As if on cue the wind blew one of the shutters in the lobby closed. The hotel phone began to ring and Niki cursed, running behind the desk to answer it.

  “I’ll help with the shutters,” Max said. He walked over to the large French doors that led out to the terrace and opened them to close the shutters. The wind almost blew him off his feet, and rain came into the lobby, hitting the marble floor.

  “Max!” Cat-Cat screeched.

  “I’m trying to close the shutters as fast as I can!” Max hollered back.

  Verlaque grinned, amused that the usually calm and professional Le Bons were now acting like a normal married couple. He was about to go off to find Émile in the kitchen when Niki reappeared. “Phone call for you,” she said. “You can take it in the office.”

  “Thanks, Niki,” he answered. He left the lobby to the sound of people arguing and shutters slamming shut, walked into the office closing the door behind him, and sat down in a leather office chair, picking up the phone. “Oui.”

  “Salut,” Bruno Paulik said. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. I have news,” he added. “Jules Schoelcher is up in Paris researching Sordou, but in the meantime I’ve been talking to the police in Cannes.”

  “And?”

  “Niki Darcette only gave us half her story,” Paulik continued. “They were caught on the night of the robbery around the corner from the jewelry store. But they weren’t caught because of the robbery; one of Niki’s accomplices—that guy Robert she told us about—called out for help, and an undercover policeman who was off duty came to his rescue.”

  “What happened?” Verlaque asked, flipping through the piles of paper on Niki’s desk.

  “Robert had what he referred to as ‘made a pass’ at Niki,” Paulik said. “She claimed it was attempted rape; she had a knife and had cut his cheek.”

  Verlaque said, “That’s why she got six years.”

  “Yeah, I’m told her lawyer was sharp and had dug up all sorts of dirt on the guy. Otherwise she would have done more time. The undercover policeman reported that she screamed that Robert had it coming to him, and she would have kept going had he not showed up. The cop told the judge that it took all his might and five years of martial arts training to hold her down until reinforcements came.”

  Verlaque held a piece of paper in his hand and as he looked at it said, “A good-looking woman could have enticed Denis down to the cove.”

  “Yep.”

  “And Niki is about the only woman here who could have done that,” Verlaque continued. “Marine and Sylvie are out of the picture; Mme Poux too old; Marie-Thérèse too young; Cat-Cat Le Bon and Shirley Hobbs not at all his type; and Delphine Viale too prudish looking.”

  “Emmanuelle Denis would have had to make up some outrageous excuse to get him down there,” Paulik added. “And since they no longer sleep together, she couldn’t have used her sexual powers to tempt him. But Mme Poux . . . I think that she could have got him down there to meet her. When he found out who she was, that they once were sweethearts, he might have even wanted to rekindle their old love, for whatever reasons. Guilt?”

  “I hardly doubt guilt,” Verlaque said, “but curiosity I’d go with. Thanks for this, Bruno. You’ll call me when Schoelcher gets back from Paris?”

  “Yes,” Paulik said. “Wait a minute; hold on.” Verlaque could hear the commissioner speaking to someone else. “Flamant wants to speak to you,” Paulik said.

  “Bonsoir, Juge Verlaque,” Alain Flamant said, after taking the phone from Paulik. “We’ve been researching Denis’s films and have come across something really interesting,” he said.

  “Go on,” Verlaque said.

  “Alain Denis and the director Jean-Louis Navarre hated each other. Openly.”

  “The Inspector Pernety director?”

  “Yes.” Flamant told the judge about the threats, the affair with Navarre’s wife, and the fistfight on set. “But it seems that a lot of people who worked with Denis hated him,” Flamant continued. “So I was getting discouraged, until our junior officer Sophie Goulin came across a photo in the archives of Télérama.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It was a fund-raiser for disenfranchised youth in Paris,” Flamant said. “And Navarre was among the celebrities raising money for the cause.”

  “How were they doing it?” Verlaque asked.

  “Swimming,” Flamant said.

  Verlaque sat down. Flamant continued, “It says in the photo’s caption that Navarre swims every day. He even swam the English Channel a few years back. We have a call into Navarre’s home and his office, but no one’s answering. Hopefully we’ll have better luck tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks for this, Alain,” Verlaque said. “And pass my thanks onto Mlle Goulin.”

  Paulik came back on the phone. “We’ll phone you ASAP tomorrow morning,” he said. “I sure wish you had a cell phone that worked over there.”

  “Me too.”

  “And Léa says to tell you that the grapes are bigger than they were last week; they’re no longer pearls, but marbles.”

  Verlaque laughed. “I can’t wait to see them.” He hung up and looked at the piece of paper; Niki Darcette had been making rough notes for a press release announcing Sordou as an oasis, the island once a vacation spot for Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Marcello Mastroianni, and the late Alain Denis.

  Verlaque folded the paper and put it in his pocket; was Niki Darcette’s rage reason enough for murder? He thought not; she might have attacked a thug from Cannes—someone she knew well—but Verlaque couldn’t see Alain Denis’s tawdry harassment as something that would cause her to shoot him. Emmanuelle Denis, and Brice, were the only people on Sordou who knew Denis well enough to hate him, as his murderer obviously had. Mme Denis had no alibi, and Brice’s alibi was very shaky. Paulik had suggested that Prosper could have taken a nap at any point during their day together on Monday, giving Brice ample time to run down to the cove.

  But now they had someone who openly hated Denis and was a strong swimmer. Why would anyone ever swim the channel? thought Verlaque. Madness. He didn’t even like going under it on the Eurostar from Paris to London. He thought about swimmers as he left the office, carefully closing the door behind him. Was swimming the common thread? Is that why the murderer chose an island to carry out the deed? He thought of Mme Poux; had an old rage resurfaced when she saw her old—as Bruno had called him—sweetheart? Or had Jean-Louis Navarre somehow swum here, hid out, and then swum back to some boat anchored offshore? But why wait all these years?

  He saw Marine walking down the hall and they
embraced. “I told Émile about the party,” she said.

  “Thank you!” Verlaque said. “I was going to but got sidetracked.” He filled her in on his phone call with Paulik and Flamant.

  “I wish we had better phone service here,” Marine said.

  “That’s what we said.”

  “Well, Émile thinks the party is a great idea,” Marine continued. “We talked about the film Babette’s Feast. Émile said he saw it with his parents when he was young, and it was one of the things that made him want to be a chef. We’re calling tonight’s party ‘Antoine’s Feast.’”

  “Except I won’t be able to buy everyone a forty-year-old Clos de Vougeot,” Verlaque said.

  “Is that the wine that Babette offers her guests?”

  “It was cheaper back then,” Verlaque said, smiling.

  Marine put her arm through his as they walked into the Jacky Bar. “I can’t believe you remember which wine they drank in the movie,” she said.

  “Like Émile, it was one of my favorite films for a long time,” he answered. “And one of my last memories of my grandfather, Charles, who, in the middle of the screening, cried out when he saw the Clos de Vougeot. When we got home from the film, guess what bottle he brought out from the cellar? And it was forty years old.”

  Marine smiled. “How wonderful that old Bordeaux must have been . . .”

  Verlaque stopped, and she laughed. “Oh, you’re teasing me, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Marine answered. “I know it’s a Burgundy.”

  • • •

  Serge gently released the cork from a champagne bottle, and Max Le Bon clapped his hands together. “Excuse me, everyone,” he said, looking around the room. “Now that everyone is here, I’d like to, once again, offer my apologies that your vacation has been interrupted by an investigation.” Cat-Cat nodded; she had told Max not to say “murder,” and he had thankfully remembered. “Given this evening’s storm,” Max went on, “we’re all housebound—or hotel bound as it were—and Judge Verlaque has generously offered to throw us a party.”

  The staff and clients politely clapped, with Clément Viale and Shirley Hobbs both hollering “hooray.”

  “I’d also like to welcome our illustrious guests, Général Le Favre, and Sordou’s only native, Prosper Buffa.”

  Serge and Marie-Thérèse walked around the room, serving champagne, and Émile Villey appeared from the kitchen carrying a platter of canapés. Cat-Cat took the platter from the chef and began to serve, and Émile spoke. “Salut, everyone. I’d like to tell you about tonight’s menu, which I’m calling ‘Antoine’s Feast.’” Laughter broke out and to Verlaque’s surprise Niki Darcette toasted, “Merci, Juge Verlaque!”

  Émile continued, “I’d like to thank Marie-Thérèse and Niki, who pitched in with some very important last-minute help. I’ve made a summer menu, so let’s just forget about the storm out there: we’ll begin with cucumber and melon gazpacho and then red snapper ceviche shooters, followed by vegetable spring rolls. Once we’re sitting we’ll eat roast bass with olive oil, mussels, and cherry tomatoes, and, finally, in honor of our meat-loving host, a rack of grilled lamb with stir-fried summer vegetables, wasabi purée, and a cilantro-mint vinaigrette.”

  A loud round of applause rang out. “And not to forget dessert,” Émile said, holding up his hand. “A chocolate cake served with fresh strawberries and vanilla bean ice cream, surrounded by a concoction I call ginger and lavender drizzle.”

  Serge had turned up the Brazilian jazz, so even if Émile had wanted to keep speaking he couldn’t have. Émile walked to the bar, took a glass of champagne, waved to Verlaque, who waved back, and went into the kitchen.

  The dinner was a rousing success, with various guests, including Marine and Sylvie, taking turns in the kitchen, helping the chef prepare the food or helping to serve. As it had with the Danish puritans in Babette’s Feast, the good food and wine cheered everyone up. The Viales looked like they were having a good time, at a table with the Le Bons. Niki and Marie-Thérèse took turns serving and sitting down to eat, and even Serge helped himself to a few glasses of the Krug champagne that Verlaque had ordered.

  “The party is a success,” Marine whispered in Verlaque’s ear. “The silence of the past few days has been unbearable,” she went on. “And look, our loners have found good company.”

  Verlaque squeezed her hand and looked around the room. Niki Darcette was sitting at the bar, chatting with Serge; Mme Poux was sitting with Marie-Thérèse and Sylvie, the three of them laughing; and Eric Monnier had ended up with Prosper and le général. Marine looked at their table and said, “Prosper and Général Le Favre are having the time of their lives. But Eric Monnier doesn’t seem as happy.”

  “He’s a poet,” Verlque said. “I can’t imagine poets ever being really happy.”

  “And your man from northern England?” Marine asked.

  “Philip Larkin?” Verlaque asked. “No, I doubt he was that happy, but I’ll know more after I’ve read his biography; I just ordered it from that English bookshop in town,” he went on.

  “Why do you think all poets are sad?” Marine asked.

  He thought of Frank O’Hara’s poem about Billie Holiday. “Because they’re trying to sort out the human condition and put it down on paper using rhythm and the most appropriate and beautiful words they can find?”

  “Say no more,” Marine said, smiling.

  • • •

  “Reminds me of Vietnam,” Shirley Hobbs said to Verlaque as she was finishing dessert, licking the ginger and lavender drizzle with her finger. The guests had once more changed places and tables, and Verlaque was now sitting with the Hobbses.

  “Really?” Verlaque asked.

  “Not the food. Everyone pitching in,” she said. “It reminds me of the mess halls and makeshift operating rooms. It brings out the best in people.”

  Verlaque smiled and was about to ask her more about her experience in Vietnam when Clément Viale appeared, holding a deck of cards. “Poker,” he said. “Are you guys in?”

  “I’ll come later,” Verlaque said.

  “Brice, buddy,” Clément called. “You’re in.”

  “The boy’s too young,” Verlaque said. “That’s unfair.”

  “Oh, Brice is as sharp as a whip,” Bill Hobbs said in English, hiccuping.

  “Whip?” Clément asked.

  “Cravache,” Verlaque and Bill Hobbs replied in unison.

  “Bill, you know the word for a whip?” Shirley said to her husband.

  Hobbs laughed and then shrugged. “I do listen to those language tapes you brought along,” he answered. “Guess I’m picking it up! Vive la France!” he cried with an accent that made Shirley laugh and Verlaque cringe. “I think I’ll play a few hands too!”

  • • •

  “Thank you for showing me those poems the other day, Eric,” Verlaque said. He had helped clear the tables, giving Marie-Thérèse and Niki a break, and Émile had given him a tour of the state-of-the-art kitchen. The storm seemed to be getting louder, but so did the music. The men at the poker table were now teaching Emmanuelle Denis how to play, and Mme Poux was sitting in an armchair, with her stocking feet resting on a footstool, a tiny glass of Serge’s homemade Limoncello in her hand, listening to le général and Prosper tell stories. Verlaque could see that she was laughing.

  Eric Monnier poured the judge another glass of whiskey. “I’m glad to have shared something with you,” he said.

  “Marine and I were talking about poets over dinner,” Verlaque said. “I have the impression that poets are a sad lot. Is that true?”

  Monnier tried to smile. “You may be right.”

  “I’m sorry,” Verlaque said. “I don’t mean to pry.” He changed the subject. “What was Sordou like in the fifties?”

  “Oh, dear boy, we didn’t dare step foot
on the island. The hotel was for the very wealthy, a smaller version of those Mediterranean hotels on the Côte, or in Italy. Capri, say. We’d swim by, though . . .” He took a sip, smiling at the memories. “Trying to get a glimpse of someone famous.”

  Verlaque smiled, imagining the skinny but tanned and healthy boys from Marseille, swimming along Sordou’s rocky coast. “Did you ever? See anyone?”

  “I may have seen Melina Mercouri’s breast once,” Monnier said. “Falling out of her swimsuit. At least that’s what I told my buddies.”

  “Eric!” Bill Hobbs called, holding up his hand of cards. “We need you,” he called out in English.

  “I’m needed at the poker table,” Monnier said to Verlaque.

  “Yes, so it seems. Go along then.”

  Monnier got up, touching his glass once more to Verlaque’s. He bumped into the table as he walked away, and Verlaque laughed and relit his cigar. “Les nageurs,” he mumbled to himself. “Damn swimmers,” he repeated in English.

  “Excuse me,” Brice Dortignac said. “May I sit with you a bit?”

  “Sure, Brice,” Verlaque said, pulling out a chair and trying not to sound too eager. A chance to have Brice alone was one of the things he had hoped would happen at the party, if anyone would be able to remember, or make sense of it, tomorrow.

  “Thank you, judge,” the boy said, sitting down with a flop. Verlaque smiled: Brice was as well spoken as a university-educated adult, but his body was that of a teenager, all lanky awkwardness. “You said ‘damn swimmers,’” Brice said.

  Verlaque puffed on his cigar. “Yes,” he answered.

  “Given the weather,” Brice said, nodding toward the banging shutters, “I assume you’re not going for a swim.”

  “No. I was thinking that the mystery surrounding your stepfathers’s death may very well have to do with swimming.” He stared at the boy, looking for a reaction.

  “Not a bad theory,” Brice said.

  “You’re not curious?”

  “Nope.” Brice set his glass carefully before him, holding on to it with both hands. Verlaque leaned over it, feigning curiosity.