A Well-Timed Murder

by Tracee de Hahn

  “Guy would have liked to join my uncle’s group. He was constantly tossing out ideas that he thought we would buy.” Patel smiled sadly. “Guy was a dreamer. Very inventive and very much imagination, but it was not a good fit for my uncle’s needs. It is a great trust my uncle has given me, and I must do everything I can to honor it. Family honor and business honor are all that we have.” He looked at her carefully. “Have you been to India?”

  “Yes, years ago when my father was an invited guest.”

  “Honor is essential for us. So many people depend on my uncle’s work. The people in my mother’s village depend on it. Our factories support cousins and aunts and uncles. A great web that depends on our uncle. He is a great man at our center.”

  “Because of this, you never discussed business with Monsieur Chavanon?”

  “We were discussing all the time, but to no mutual gain. It was the discussing of ideas and foolishness.” Patel paused. “I would be very uncomfortable if Marie and Christine thought that I had rejected my friend’s interest in a partnership.”

  “They’ve not mentioned it to me. Could you tell me about that day, when he died. You drove separately?”

  Patel looked startled.

  “You took Leo home afterwards. And the Fontenays arranged for Monsieur Chavanon’s car to be returned to his house later.”

  “Yes, I see. It was convenient. I have rental car, a very nice Mercedes, and the Institute is halfway between Basel and Guy’s home. Once the show started, I would have had no time for a visit.”

  Agnes glanced around. The café was filled with people having casual conversations that had nothing to do with the sale of watches or jewels; friends greeting one another.

  “I wanted to see Leo,” Patel amended.

  “Did you arrive before Monsieur Chavanon?”

  “Our timings were perfect and I arrived immediately after him.”

  “Did you speak to him earlier in the day?”

  Patel hesitated. “Yes, I am remembering that we spoke. Very briefly. I telephoned to firm up the details of my visit.”

  “You met inside?”

  “No, we arrived at parking together. Him in front. Me next.”

  “Tell me what happened then.”

  Patel’s cheeks sagged in dismay. “We spoke, it was the first time in person since my arrival in Switzerland. We were emotional as we always are upon first greetings. Then we went inside.”

  “But not together?”

  “You are correct. I went inside immediately.”

  Agnes waited.

  Patel filled the silence. “It was very cold, at least for me. I come from a warm climate, and the transition is hard every time, and more now that I am getting older. Guy wanted to take a walk. He pointed me in the direction of the doors and I went in. It was very informal gathering and I did not feel out of place or I would have returned outdoors and found him.”

  “Monsieur Chavanon suggested you go inside alone?”

  “He knew that I was cold and uncomfortable. It was a matter of politeness.”

  “What do you think he wanted to see so badly that he left you—his recently arrived friend—alone?”

  Patel wagged his head side to side. “I am not understanding these questions. Guy had an allergic reaction, and although I administered the EpiPen, he died. The dose was not enough.”

  “We are all in agreement about the inadequacy of the medicine.” Agnes leaned forward. “I’m interested in what happened before. How did he seem to you? In good spirits?”

  “Yes, it is as I told Christine. Her father was in very good spirits. He was happy to see Leo.”

  “Then what kept him outside that day? It must have been important to leave you and to delay seeing his son. Were there others in the parking lot?”

  “There were many cars, but no people.” Patel sat up straighter. “Maybe I know what Guy wanted to see. Why he went for a walk. There was helicopter landing in the field next to the school. He walked in that direction. Maybe he knew the person. Maybe it was an important customer for him? If that is the case, then he would have preferred to make the greeting alone.”

  Mentally Agnes collated what other information she had. Petit was in charge of interviewing more of the staff and faculty at the Institute, and he’d called her with an update after she spoke with Mercier. Madame Jomini had also emailed her an annotated list of the names of the guests at the reception.

  “Do you recognize the name of Han?” she said. “Monsieur Han arrived by helicopter.”

  “I do not recall the name. In the short time I was at the reception I had a few words with a very nice woman from England. That is the only person I remember.” Patel rubbed his forehead. “I went inside, walking fast to escape from the cold, and then quickly, too quickly after he arrived, Guy was dead. We did not have time to speak again.”

  Agnes toyed with her spoon to give Patel a moment to compose himself.

  “How long do you think Monsieur Chavanon was outside after you left him?”

  “This is impossible to know.”

  “Tell me what you did from the time you left him, to the time you saw him enter the reception. That will help gauge the time.”

  “I crossed the room, it was already crowded, and asked where to hang my coat. Then I went to the toilet to check my appearance after the drive.”

  “Maybe five minutes to this point?”

  “I could not say. Next I went to the main room. I did not see Guy or Leo, and without knowing anyone else, I stood at the edge of the crowd for a time.”

  “Until Monsieur Chavanon arrived?”

  “No, I had decided to see what food was on offer. A very nice buffet they served, with many veg choices. That is when I was speaking with the very nice English lady. I saw Leo come in and go straight to his father. That is when I noticed Guy had arrived. Unfortunately, before I could join them, I had an important phone call. I left the room for only a few minutes to speak in private, and when I returned…” Patel’s voice broke. “He was already ill.”

  A small chocolate was served with the espresso. Agnes unwrapped it and placed it in her mouth, savoring the sweetness after the bitter coffee, thinking that this was one of the pleasures Guy Chavanon, Koulsy Haroun, and Rudolph Versteegh had to forgo. The threat of cross contamination could be life threatening.

  Patel leaned close and lowered his voice. “I have worried this last week about Marie. How does my friend’s company survive in the current climate? Big industry is the future, and Guy was not prepared for that path. Has she said anything to you?”

  Agnes had forgotten how open Indians were to speaking about business. “Christine seems confident that the company will continue in the family’s hands.”

  Patel sat back with a thud. “It is a relief to know that the complaints Guy had were perhaps just that. Complaints and not the indication of serious trouble.”

  “He’d told you he was struggling?”

  “One moment he had big plans and the next he was in despair. You understand that I did not want to be asking him closely about the details. I have the backing of my uncle and we are a large company. We are the future. Guy was a very proud man. It was not polite to show up a friend who might be in trouble.”

  Agnes looked around the crowded café, one ear attuned to snippets of conversation. It was what she expected. Gossip about friends and colleagues. Complaints about tired feet and long hours. Discontent with pricing. Pleasure at a good deal made. Boredom with a show visited too many years in a row. She wondered what Mercier knew and how it was tied to Gianfranco Giberti. Maybe Chavanon hadn’t spoken to Mercier but Giberti had? She was certain they were both lying to her.

  “Thanks for your time, Monsieur Patel.”

  “I hope that you will soon be able to leave this sad topic behind. For the sake of Marie and Leo.” They rose. “You have finished with questions at the Institute?”

  The image of the blood smeared across the wall of the shed came to mind and Agnes shook her hea
d. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  They neared his booth.

  “If Madame has no further questions for me, I must see to my clients. It is an auspicious day, but they quickly move on to other merchandise if I am not there to supervise the buyings.”

  Twenty-two

  “They’re still looking,” said Marcel Aubry. A uniformed officer was seated at a monitor to one side of the security booth, scrolling through footage from the day the Roach died.

  “Inspector Lüthi, any other hints?” the officer called out, pausing the video. “‘The most beautiful woman in the world’ isn’t much to go on.”

  Agnes shook her head, laughing. “When you see her, you’ll know who I’m talking about.” She turned to Aubry. “I was walking through the crowd in the pavilion when it came to me. I saw her on the footage the other day and I remembered seeing her before, in Tokyo when we nearly caught the Roach three years ago.”

  “They’re pulling up the Tokyo video at the station. When they find her on one or the other, we can do facial recognition.”

  Agnes studied the bank of monitors. “I remember that she turned and walked away from the camera. Before she moved, there was a man with a dark tie to her left. He wasn’t with her, but very near. Perhaps she wanted to give the impression that they were together. He was talking on a mobile phone.”

  Aubry called over to the officer, “Got that?”

  “Absolument.”

  “You think she’s an accomplice,” Aubry said.

  “I think it’s an extraordinary coincidence if she’s not connected with the Roach, and if you catch her, you’ll have answers.”

  Agnes was still thinking about the Roach when she arrived at the Perrault et Chavanon booth in the Palace pavilion.

  Gisele stepped away from a client to greet her. “She’s here, in the back.”

  Agnes understood who she was. Marie Chavanon had returned to work.

  “She should have stayed home,” Gisele said. “Perhaps you can suggest she leave?”

  “Aren’t you happy to have the extra help?” The booth was even more crowded than the previous day.

  “Not like this. Madame is in a furor. Now there’s an atmosphere hanging over us.”

  “Is that an accusation?” a man’s voice carried from the small back office. “Two days certainly makes a difference. Is there something else you’d like to ask?”

  Gisele turned away, shrugging at Agnes, and fixing a smile on her face before circulating among the clients. Agnes didn’t move. A minute passed. She couldn’t hear Marie Chavanon’s response. Finally, Stephan Dupré emerged from the back room, red faced. He stopped when he saw Agnes.

  “She shouldn’t be here.” He jerked his head toward the back room. “Talk some sense into her.”

  He hastened toward the exit and Agnes followed.

  “If you have a moment?” she said when she caught up to him.

  He marched to the nearby café bar and ordered a whiskey. “Make it a double.”

  Agnes joined him and asked for a glass of tap water. “Tell me more about Guy Chavanon being followed.”

  Dupré downed his whiskey in a long swallow and set the glass on the counter. “You’re not interested in what Marie and I are fighting about?”

  “Right now, I’m interested in Guy Chavanon.”

  Dupré drew in a deep breath; his shoulders rose and fell. He looked away from Agnes. “I’ve always wondered what people will say when I’m dead. What they’ll remember, what they’ll exaggerate.” He nodded toward his empty glass. “I’ve a few photographers who’ve traveled with me into rough places, and they’ll probably talk about my ability to hold my liquor. There’ve been times when we’ve needed it to get through the work.” He motioned to the bartender for a refill. “But you’re here to talk about Guy. Even dead, everyone is interested in him.” He planted both hands on the counter. Agnes wondered if he was meditating.

  “What do you think of him?” Dupré finally said. “You must have a picture in your mind by now.”

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “It’s incomplete. I can’t decide if he was a complex man or a simple one. His life was clearly rooted in his work, yet from all appearances he was a family man. He seemed to live in a world of invention and dreams, distant from the world of business. He was perhaps volatile. He was a scientist and also had an artistic temperament.”

  Dupré gave her an appraising look. “You’ve nailed it. Guy was all those things. He was brilliant and he was a screwup.”

  “Do you think he invented something important at the end of his life?”

  Dupré took a sip of whiskey, savoring it this time. “I don’t know.”

  “Whoever broke into the workshop must have expected to find something. You said he was afraid he was being followed.”

  “Have you forgotten that I exaggerated?”

  “But you didn’t invent it. What did he tell you?”

  “He talked about a car parked on the street. He saw it too many times, or at an odd time of the day. It stuck in his head and bothered him.”

  “Did he describe the car?”

  “He must have, but I don’t remember. I forgot about it.”

  “But you remembered at the funeral?”

  “I had forgotten, but it came back to me. Don’t know why. Maybe it was the atmosphere that day. The shock that Guy was dead. We look for answers even when we have them.” Dupré rubbed his forehead. “There were days when I was convinced he’d finally done it, invented something meaningful. The other half of the time I knew he hadn’t. We’d built him up as a great thinker. An inventor. But what did he ever create? Mechanical toys, small refinements, not the kind of thing we credited him with. Maybe he’d decided to believe his own myth. Maybe Marie’s right and he was crazy.”

  “Did you see signs of mental instability?”

  Dupré shook his head. “I don’t know. Fixating on a car, maybe that’s a sign? Guy was always different. Focused. What’s the difference between focused and fixated? Between concern and paranoia?”

  “Did Madame Chavanon talk to you about him?”

  “I know that she’d given up.”

  “On Monsieur Chavanon or the company?”

  “I thought both. But who knows.”

  Agnes took another sip of water. The Pavilion was crowded but there were few customers in the café bar. The show had a momentum and now was the time for serious purchasing, not chatting with friends and colleagues. “When was the last time you saw Monsieur Chavanon?”

  “The day he died,” Dupré said slowly.

  “You saw him that day? And you never told anyone? Why?”

  “To avoid questions.” Dupré clinked his ice absently. “I saw Guy, but I didn’t talk to him. I intended to. I was watching for him, hoping to pretend a chance encounter. I wanted to catch him alone and outside. Maybe invite him to my place.”

  “What happened?”

  “Marie was gone for the afternoon. I can see the road from my front porch, and I waited there, bundled up like an old man. Guy drove up and parked near the factory.”

  “Do you know where’d he been?”

  “No, only that he’d been gone a short while. I assumed he’d picked up a newspaper or concluded some other small errand. I could tell he was in a dark mood when he parked. He spun into the lot in a hurry and headed toward the workshop. I started out to intercept him.”

  Dupré seemed to consider what had happened that day. “Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have died.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “He got halfway to the workshop, then turned around and walked to the factory. I watched, thinking he wouldn’t spend much time there; it was a Saturday and he might only be picking up something. He stayed a few minutes, then ran back to his car and roared off.”

  This matched Ivo’s account of Chavanon’s arrival and departure.

  “What were you going to discuss with your friend that day?”

  “It was personal, not anything a
bout what happened later.”

  “Something about his wife?”

  Dupré swallowed and sat up a few inches straighter. “So what if it was?”

  “Do you think Monsieur Chavanon would have been surprised?”

  The whiskey glass spun on the napkin. The man didn’t reply and Agnes thought she had her answer.

  Before she could insist, her phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. The message was from Petit: Blood is human.

  Agnes hoped it was a riddle. But she knew it wasn’t. The bloody shed. Dupré’s confessions would have to wait.

  Twenty-three

  Agnes made the familiar trek across the lawn behind the Institute. She slipped through the hedge, and Petit rushed to greet her. Officer Boschung and Bernard Fontenay were behind him, waiting in front of the shed. It wasn’t raining, but they looked as despondent as if standing in a downpour. Hamel stood back from the group.

  Petit looked uncertain. Hamel annoyed. Fontenay sick with worry. Agnes thought that summed it up for her.

  “The other samples were animal?” Agnes directed her question to Petit, who’d filled her in on the telephone. “Only the two taken from the back wall were human blood?” She’d counted on the tests proving the blood was from an animal; this was bad news.

  Fontenay gave a grunt and stepped away. “How could this happen here?”

  “Let’s take a breath before we panic half the canton,” said Agnes. “This could too easily escalate, and none of us want that.”

  She could tell from Boschung’s expression that he agreed with her or, at a minimum, hoped she was right. She remembered what Petit had said, the blame would rest with them … with her. “Are you going to take new samples?” she asked. “You know there’s a chance of a false positive.”

  Hamel stepped forward. “It’s too late.”

  “We can test blood for years,” she said. “Really for as long as it exists.”

  The groundskeeper motioned toward the interior of the shed, handing her a flashlight and pushing the heavy door open. Agnes didn’t need the powerful beam to understand the problem. The back wall of the shed had been washed. It wasn’t precisely clean, but the blood was gone, leaving streaks where the wood had been wetted. The dark substance on the stump had been thinned, and the floor around it was muddy.