Maryvonne, of course, had only arrived after it was all over and gossip already running rife. Never mind. He had one rock to cling to. An unimpeachable professional witness, a genuine expert. The lieutenant of the fire-brigade was still there. Maryvonne had asked him to hang on. He would have hung on anyhow: he knew his job.
"When I realised who it was…and then hunting in his pockets, wondering who to notify since he was alone here, I found your card. So it had her name written in, your girl here, so I thought I’d better ring your people and the duty guard put me through."
"You were quite right. Routine of course on the family, but this will blow the lid off: we’re in the shit now whatever happens. Never mind; it’s not irreparable. Can you give me your breakdown, the way you’ll be writing it up in the report."
"It’s easy enough to reconstruct, I think," leading the way back into the bathroom. "Look, he was running the bath, probably going to dress and go out again – around eight. There’s no sign of his having eaten. The autopsy will tell us whether he’d been drinking; there’s a glass in the kitchen. Okay, the water’s still running; he undresses, steps in. Stepped in awkwardly, or slips, and, the way one would, he grabs at something. In the event, this bracket. You reel a bit, you grab – as you see, it’s just the right height. He falls, and he brings down the shower curtain. It’s possible he grabs at that too. He has both feet in the bath; that’s the way we found him. Half in, half out.
"Now observe this building. This is all old, this plasterwork is old. Enamel paint over, above the level of the tiling, but shaky old stuff and softened by the steam. Look, it’s like cheese. The curtain rail, and this bracket, might have looked firmly fixed but weren’t: quite a slight pull sufficed to fetch them out. He may have grabbed the curtain while falling forward, and bumped into the bracket, but I say he grabbed the bracket too: which came first and helped the other down is of small importance. Now look at the silly idiot – he has this little electric fan plugged in on the bracket. Had never put in an extractor, the window’s shut for warmth, heavy condensation collects here. Habitually, he puts on the fan and leaves the door open to dispel the steam. Right, the fan stands on that shaky bracket… Floop into the water, it shorts of course, blew the fuses out but too late, he gets it in the worst possible way, standing ankledeep or more in the water. End of a very unfortunate tale which should, but won’t, discourage people who will frig about with flimsy electric appliances in bathrooms. Little heaters – hairdryers – curling-tong things, toothbrushes and crap, seven-tenths of the plugs in these old houses aren’t even earthed. If that wasn’t enough they plug in extension leads, three-way adaptors, radios, record-players – anything you like that will leave lengths of flex around to trip over. A classic way of killing yourself, the files are full of them. I’ll send you a copy of my report, Castang, since it’s tangential to a thing of yours. I’ll buzz now, okay? I was kept hanging about but I phoned in to explain."
"Is there anything one can still do?" asked Maryvonne. "I’m sorry, Henri. When I got here they’d already got the body out, there was no chance for photos or anything in situ, they were charging about mopping up – the water came down into the flat below of course after overflowing; that’s what alerted them. There was nobody here; they had to break the door open. I couldn’t see any point in calling technicians – prints everywhere of his own, of course, and firemen, and the doctor. I spoke to the doctor. Classic electrocution death, a bruise on the skull where he tumbled and caught his head on the side of the bath. This shelf here where he had shampoo – awkwardly placed. He might have got shampoo in his eye or something – the shower was on too, they told me. It’s just a bloody stupid coincidence, surely. I mean there’s no homicide picture; there was nobody here, and it couldn’t have been rigged up. And no suicide either. I mean, nobody commits suicide in such an awkward way as that, least of all a person like this. What do you think?"
"I don’t have any thoughts."
"I mean, is there anything you want me to do?" asked Maryvonne carefully.
"I don’t feel at all like a detective in the middle of the frigging night."
"So when there’s an official report from the firemen that this is accidental death…"
"So they know a great deal more about it than I do."
"So I report to Richard in that sense."
"You report to Richard in one line. That we fell out of the frying pan. Or got tipped."
ELEVEN
MARIE TOUCHET
Yet it had been a good day. Vera much enjoying ‘being spoilt’; she was stuffing herself happily with expensive fruit. And expensive chocolates!
"Where do these come from?" stretching out a greedy hand.
"Richard! He came in, even. I thought that dreadfully nice."
It was, rather. Castang was touched. Like most departmental chiefs, Richard could display steel-jacketed egotism and blinding insensitivity. He was also capable of small charming unselfishness. He knew, too, how to engage loyalty. Grapple you with hoops of steel, thought Castang.
"How’s the child?"
"It screams and squabbles with its dinner," said Vera lovingly.
"Tremendous fighting with my nipple: it gets horribly frustrated at dinner not coming fast enough." All was well here.
His own dinner had come fast enough. In Noelle’s restaurant as promised. Well enough cooked and well enough served: things seen to by a quiet, competent young man who knew what he was about. Castang did not try to milk his free pass, and ate an unostentatious meal, but it would still have been a lot too dear for his pocket. But she’s giving reasonable value, he thought. Here, as elsewhere, Noelle knows what she’s about too. The place was clean, the atmosphere good, the lavatory spotless.
"You enjoyed your dinner, I hope," said the young man, bringing his bill.
"Very much. You’re the owner?"
"No, no – simply the manager."
"Sit down a moment and have a drink," said Castang showing his identity card.
"That’s kind of you but I’m afraid I haven’t time… I think you’d better come outside service hours."
"Now," producing the other card, with Noelle’s writing.
"Jeanne – can you manage for five minutes? No, if there’s a drink wanted I’ll get it… Try to make it brief. And I may have to interrupt you."
"It’s not complicated. And needn’t worry you. Just the way things are put together. You’re in partnership with her?"
"I wish I were: she drives a very hard bargain, the patronne. But she’s fair. She gives me a good salary and a good percentage. She realises I need an incentive. She knows I’ve my way to make, that I won’t stay long – unless I get a partnership. Well – hard but fair. That answer your question?"
"Thanks, I don’t want any more to drink. She’s a good-looking woman still."
"No, Mr Castang, there you’re up the garden path. And if I may say so politely, don’t try to put salt on my tail. I might add, you plainly don’t know the patronne at all well."
"Elaborate on that a bit."
"I’m not a fool, you know. Trying that way of getting a partnership would be a stupid trick. You have to understand her and I think I do. She has a great deal of charm, and uses it to get people to do what she wants. A very feminine charm, next door to sex appeal. So you start drawing conclusions. You’re wrong. She does have plenty of sex appeal; in fact she’s a warm woman with a lot of juice, and she does a lot on impulse. Make no mistake, she has it well worked out in her own head. Impulses all over the place, some of them foolish. A big potential for affection, or love if you call it that. But that’s kept in her family. You can believe me: I’ve got to know her pretty well in two years. Try anything on with her and I’d be out, but in a flash. I’ve no hold on her. What’s more I’ve seen people try this – and get their chair kicked out under them. She can be extremely ruthless. I shouldn’t tell you this but to get you quite straight…there was a cook who tried that. He thought he was pretty good, and he was good. I
can tell you; that evening I did the cooking. And she served. She’ll do the washing-up, she’ll clean the lavatory, but she won’t take any nonsense. All right?"
What’s the secret of success for her?"
"Quite simple, she takes immense pains. Tremendous energy. In here with flowers every day, unpacking crates, taking the curtains to the cleaners… Getting people to do things for her – charm the birds out of the trees. I’ve seen customers clear away their own dishes, because she was short of a waitress. Didn’t get a cent off the bill, neither; yet she’ll be absurdly generous on occasion. Sorry a minute; I’ve got to serve those people over there." Said too much already, and regretting it, thought Castang. But that’s the effect she has on people.
"I will have that drink after all. But I won’t keep you. One or two small points. So if you were to sum the patronne up, a lot of pretty cold thinking, disguised as spontaneity."
"All right, I’ll join you. No, that’s not quite right. She thinks, yes, all the time. You might be talking about the weather or something, and suddenly she’ll say ‘Why were those cucumbers so dear this morning?’ out of the blue. But it’s a genuine spontaneity. She’d been treating me like dirt, and suddenly she sent me a rug for my flat. Weeks before, I’d said something about wanting one."
"She’s been in your flat?"
"Of course she has. Oh fuck the fuzz, it thinks of nothing but sex."
"Just universal scepticism," said Castang grinning, thinking of Thierry.
"If I had a grippe she’d be there with aspirin. Probably make the bed while she was at it. She can be very bleak, and she can show much kindness – and now I’ll say no more about my employer, all right?"
"Last thing – was her husband often in?"
"A rarity, and not with her. Didn’t come checking up, if that’s what you mean. Rung up the odd time for a table. A week ago – ten days? – he was here, with two men from Paris – business of some sort. They don’t talk when you’re listening… Paid the bill like anybody else: she doesn’t give away free meals much – you’re privileged. Okay now? Good night to you – yes, to be quite honest I want your table! Jeanne – lay up here." Castang left quite pleased with himself. But don’t be pleased with yourself now, will you? You were fortunate. Intelligent young man. Intelligent too of Noelle, to know how to hang on to him while giving so little away…
It was no trouble finding his way in the dark to the village where he had left that woman the day of the funeral. Curiosity had been growing…
He couldn’t recall ever having been out here at night. Quiet? – yes, relatively. Plenty of movement, plenty of cars. The restaurant up the road, and the pub, were doing good business. The farmers go to bed early, but how many farmers are there left? Tax farmers, most of this crowd.
The battered little Alfa Sud was not there, but light showed dimly behind the curtains in the cottage. Wrought iron antique knocker. Didn’t look faked but you couldn’t tell. Lot of very clever fakes about, a lot of them much too smart for mere fuzz. Especially around here. Nice, this country living. Between cars there was good still air. In the gaps between car exhaust there was a smell of lilac, and wet lilac bushes.
She took her time. Cautious too. The light did not go on in the hallway. There was quite a fair amount of light on the street, that way. He was being scrutinised through a judas. When the door opened – good plain slab of oak, that – it did so a crack, on a solid chain runner.
"What is it, please?" Soft voice, low.
"Police Judiciaire, Madame, good evening."
"Good evening – good heavens, Police Judiciaire? How very odd. Do you mind showing me some identity?" She turned the light on. He saw an elegant hand, another black and white skirt but a long one this time, in chevrons.
"Thank you. Come in please. I’m sorry, but I live alone, and people say all sorts of things at the door, and at night…"
"You’re quite right to be so careful." It was the old kitchen of the little cottage, and there were antique roasting-jacks and stuff, and not much room. "I’m sorry to bother you. Thought this might be a good time to catch you quietly, shall I say? It’s unofficial."
"You’d better come in then, and sit down." A small but cosy sitting room. Tiled floor, wooden presses and things smelling of beeswax. Irregular plaster walls. Overhead beams. He wouldn’t crack his head – she was taller than he was. Being thin, and the long skirt, made her look taller still. Oddly attractive. And somehow lots too of sex appeal. Not like Noelle but yes, like. Different style… Silk jersey top, black down to the wrists. And then those huge horsewoman’s hands, strangely well-shaped, very competent looking. She sat upright on a wooden armchair and looked at him calmly. Large clear brown eyes. "I have to take it, I think, that this must be about Etienne Marcel."
"Why so?"
"Because I think I saw you at the funeral. I am observant, even in moments of emotion."
"So am I. That brought me here. To be frank, I followed you home."
She laughed.
"Do you know, I wondered about that little car."
"Yeck, I didn’t know I was that bad at being discreet." It put her at her ease. The soft voice rose to a soprano caw when she became animated. Harsh but clear, attractive, a ring to it.
"Good then, you’ve tracked me down. What now?"
"I thought we’d have a talk. And I know it’s a boring subject but I expect it might be about sex. The fuzz is obsessed with sex, or so I got told about half an hour ago. We’re all Irish parish-priests at heart." Uninhibited laugh.
"You know Ireland?"
"No, except that judging by the tourist literature it’s impossible to find more barefaced liars."
"I’ve been there about horses. All right, sex is a subject like another. Whose?"
"You know about the black chief, filling in the immigration form? – when it came to Sex he crossed out M or F and wrote in ‘Immense’." Her upper body was slim and well-shaped; bent gracefully to the laugh. "Etienne’s, I should imagine."
She didn’t waste time, nor try to prevaricate. She didn’t bother offering him a drink. She did not stiffen, showed no hostility. He knew nothing about her intelligence, but this was a sophisticated woman. She was going to keep her distance. She didn’t mind laughing at his stupid jokes. What struck one about her was her balance. The time she took was no more than that needed to get up, take a small cigar from a box above the carefully restored cottage fireplace, and strike a match.
"I won’t tell you any lies. If you want to push me over into the mud, it’s your affair. I’ve fallen in the mud all my life; face first, pretty often. I’m used to it. One gets to expect it. It’s up to you. Don’t push me over, and I’ll be grateful. Yes, I was Etienne’s mistress."
Said very naturally. It was not unlike Noelle’s saying ‘If I’m not frank with you you’ll only pester me’ but both less provincial and less material. Castang tried to choose his words in answering.
"If this has a direct bearing on his death, or if you have any knowledge about that circumstance, even a knowledge of a likelihood or a possibility, then you’re a witness. Your story will have to be heard by the Judge of Instruction. Try to conceal or distort such knowledge, then I couldn’t help you, and I wouldn’t show you any sympathy. I’m doing my work. But if, as is perfectly likely, you can help me, and are willing to help me, then I can respect your discretion. Give me your promise, and you’ll have mine. Don’t break it, and neither will I. As for the Judge, it’s a woman, I know her fairly well, she’s not an inhuman woman. She won’t throw you to the press, and a statement to her can be arranged in confidence. If it came to a trial, and having to bear witness in a courtroom, I can’t guarantee your privacy there, you realise. That’s about as far as I can go without knowing more."
"That’s pretty fair, I think. Let’s say I can promise you that I know nothing about his death. Wittingly, that is. If it came out that I knew something without knowing it – I’m putting this badly – something I didn’t know was germane,
is that the right word? – it would be in innocence and you’d have to accept that."
"All right. Now I’ll put this in formal terms, so you know where you stand. Code of Procedure. I’m an officer of Police Judiciaire, meaning I’m under oath. I’m acting in this inquiry under a mandate from a Judge of Instruction. Means a statement made to me has evidential value, I can make notes, write it up into a statement, ask you to sign it."
She drew quietly at the little cigar. When she smiled, her eyes, much lined at the corners, crinkled up attractively.
"I like putting a horse at a jump. I like doing it at a high or awkward jump, without really knowing whether he’ll clear it. I’m like that. All my life, every time I had two sous I had twelve cents’ worth of thirst,"
"Fire ahead in your own words, taking your own time, I’ll make a note or ask a question if I have to."
"I’m married to a Belgian, a businessman. I’d like to keep him anonymous if I can, because it’s nothing to do with him and he hasn’t deserved any trouble at my hands. We’re not divorced, we’re separated, by consent, and he pays me an allowance just the same as an alimony. So write me down if you will as Madame Touchet, Marie Touchet. Because that’s really who I was. You don’t understand? You’ve never read Dumas? Of course but you’ve forgotten. King Charles the Ninth takes the King of Navarre for a walk at night and shows him a secret, a cottage with a young peasant woman in it. She has a baby, I don’t have a baby, but the parallel is close enough otherwise. You see, Henri, says Charles, this is the only place in the world where I can be myself, and am valued for what I really am. It’s historical, in fact. The baby grew up to be a celebrated royal bastard, the Duc d’Angoulême, and occupied quite a prominent position at the court of Henri Quatre, and later of Louis the Thirteenth. What happened to Marie Touchet I’ve no idea. She got forgotten, I dare say. I hope she wasn’t persecuted. As for Etienne, I met him at the riding school on the outskirts of the town here. I was living in a flat in a footloose way; I’m an aimless, silly woman. He sat on a horse like a sack of spuds, because it was pure pretentiousness on his part: no feeling at all and moreover he was frightened out of his wits, and rather pleasantly he admitted as much and well – we became acquainted. I don’t want to go into details of the sex thing unless you oblige me. Just it didn’t happen as trivially or as casually as you might believe. Whatever you’ve been told he wasn’t a skirt-chaser or whatever I might look, I’m not a mantrap. There was struggle, and on both sides. When it took place it took place – no I won’t talk about it, or not now anyway. I may be able to later. Etienne got this cottage, through pull I suppose, but I pay the rent. I wasn’t a whore and I wasn’t ‘kept’. I pay my own way. I’ve taken presents from him because he was happy to give them. Nothing elaborate, no jewellery or stocks. He was quite well off. I don’t know how rich he was. I have never asked," angrily. "My furniture is my own and nearly all I brought with me, and you can check on that."
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