He pushed a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Never even occurred to you Bray would be arrested. You cleaned the gun and you hid it. You naturally assumed that the independence movement—the local terrorists—would be identified as the murderers. MANG had already made one attempt on Calais’ life—and perhaps you didn’t even know about the threats Bray had made against Calais. So when the gendarmes arrested your real father you were scared.”
Suez-Panama shook his head.
“Faced with the prospect of spending the rest of his life in prison, he killed himself. Hanging himself by the neck until his eyes bulged and his tongue stuck out.”
There was the last echo of the typewriter and then a long, painful silence.
The curtains—still dirty, still needing to be changed—shifted with the slight breeze. Trousseau ran a finger along his moustache. Patiently he folded his hands and waited.
Anne Marie got up and went to the sink. She let the cold water run over the back of her hand.
“That’s why you shouted at me in the Place de la Victoire. You need to believe the police murdered Bray. You mentioned Jerry Dupont—you wanted your father’s death to have been manipulated by the police. Because,” she turned off the tap, “the real murderer’s you. You didn’t have the courage to step forward. When it really mattered, when you could really have saved your father, you were scared.” She smiled. “Perhaps Hégésippe Bray knew that. Perhaps he hanged himself to save you. Who knows, perhaps he thought you were worth it?”
“He deserved to die.”
“Hégésippe Bray?”
“Raymond Calais.” The young man spoke quietly. A tear dried on his cheek. “A rich Béké who’d always had what he wanted—and who didn’t care about anybody else. He sent Hégésippe to St.-Laurent-du-Maroni.” The eyes shone. “Calais got what he deserved. And if I had to, I would do it all again. Just to see the fear in his eyes before I pulled the trigger.”
59
Worry
Trousseau came back into the office.
“Did you get the note from the procureur?”
“Note, madame le juge?”
“I asked you to get Bray’s suicide note—in order to compare the handwriting.”
“I’ve phoned twice.” He sounded offended. He returned to his seat behind the typewriter. “I spoke with his secretary.”
“But you haven’t got the note?”
Trousseau imperceptibly shook his head.
“Which implies, doesn’t it, the procureur doesn’t want me to have it?”
“You still don’t believe that Hégésippe Bray committed suicide?”
Anne Marie stood up, smoothed her skirt and walked over to the window.
In the port, the mine sweeper was preparing to weigh anchor. The sun caught the grey paint, making it strangely attractive. The rear propeller began churning the water and the hull swung away from the land.
“Madame le juge.” Trousseau was standing close beside her. There was a worried, embarrassed smile on his face. “I think you ought to go home. You’re not well and you need a rest. Go home, and see a doctor about your hand.”
“Not a witch doctor, Monsieur Trousseau?”
“You’ve been overworking.”
“Do you believe Suez-Panama? You think I ought to sign a warrant for his arrest?”
“These are all things we can talk about at another time.” Trousseau took hold of her wrist and stopped the movement of one hand against the other. “You’re tired and you haven’t been sleeping. And rubbing your hand like that can’t do any good.”
“Suez-Panama’s reaction doesn’t make sense.”
“For my sake, madame le juge.” He hesitated. “Please don’t be stubborn. Go home and rest. If you wish, I’ll phone Dr. Lebon.”
“Suez-Panama admits to killing Calais.”
Trousseau went over to Anne Marie’s desk and started tidying up. “Take your handbag, madame.”
“A twelve bore, Monsieur Trousseau. What sort of range does it have?”
He looked up. “Depends on what you’re aiming at.”
“A bird.”
“Sixty, even seventy, meters. Ask Chinois—he’s the specialist in ballistics.”
“Suez-Panama’s telling the truth?”
“Madame le juge, if he says he killed Raymond Calais, I don’t see why you shouldn’t believe him. The sooner we get this Calais killing out of the way, the happier I’ll be. It’s making you unhappy—it seems to have grown out of all reasonable proportion. You’ve been taking it too personally—and you’ve made yourself enemies.”
“I’m not convinced he’s Hégésippe Bray’s son at all.”
Trousseau switched off the desk lamp and turned to face her. “Yet that’s precisely what you’ve just accused him of.”
“I wanted to see how he would react.”
“Please don’t do that—you mustn’t rub your hand like that.”
“It hurts.”
“See a doctor. Put on a poultice of clay, put on ice—but for goodness’ sake, don’t rub. It makes it worse.”
“There are other things I’ve got to do.” She turned her back to the window. “Phone Lafitte, would you. Tell him I must see him.”
“I’m sure it can wait.”
“Phone l’inspecteur Lafitte. And kindly don’t tell me my job, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“If you wish, I can drive you home.” He ran a finger along the line of moustache. “Or get somebody to take you.”
“Nobody at home—and they probably won’t be back before this evening.”
Trousseau slipped his hand through her arm. “Come.” In his other hand, he held her handbag. “You really must get some rest.”
Anne Marie did not move. “Because if he really was Hégésippe Bray’s son, there wouldn’t have been any reason for the Deschamps woman to go into hiding. No reason for her to go over to Pointe-Noire and see a woman that she didn’t get on with anyway. Unless.…”
“Unless what, madame le juge?”
“Unless she was pregnant with another man’s child.”
60
SODECA
The bicycle was still there.
“Have you got the photographs of the murder weapon, Monsieur Lafitte?”
“I’m sorry.” The smile did not disappear from the symmetrical features. “I forgot.”
“On my desk by this afternoon, please.”
“Yes, madame le juge.”
“I want them by five o’clock at the very latest.”
It was mid-afternoon, and both bicycle and parking meter were now in the shade.
“Is Monsieur Trousseau coming?”
Anne Marie replied, “He’s with Suez-Panama.”
Lafitte looked at her carefully before speaking. “You think Suez-Panama murdered Calais, madame le juge?”
“This morning Marcel Suez-Panama admitted to murdering Raymond Calais.”
“Unlikely,” Lafitte said, then he closed his mouth as the girl placed the drinks on the low table. Her hair had become more unkempt beneath the starched white crescent. Lafitte handed her a fifty-franc note.
“What’s unlikely, Monsieur Lafitte?”
“There are enough potential culprits without your having to bother with Suez-Panama.”
“I’ve reason to believe Suez-Panama’s Bray’s natural son.”
Lafitte seemed unimpressed. He poured juice from the can into his glass. “Basse-Terre’s being deliberately cagey. A case of the right hand not telling the left hand what it’s up to. Basse-Terre’s where the préfecture is, and they’ve adopted a policy of keeping Pointe-à-Pitre in the dark.”
“Over what?”
The girl returned, bringing the change on a plastic saucer that she placed besides the drinks. Then she walked back to her stool and continued to stare out into the street.
There were no other customers in the pâtisserie.
“You mustn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
; “Your hand’s swollen, madame le juge. Rubbing it won’t make it any better.”
“In the dark over what, Monsieur Lafitte?”
“For more than a month, there’s been a juge d’instruction in Basse-Terre. Working away in secret. And nobody—other than the procureur—knowing about his presence.” A grin. “Slinging all Pichon’s work out of the window.”
“Pichon?”
“Renseignements Généraux. It was Pichon who dealt with the Pointe-à-Pitre scandal. Raymond Calais accused the mayor of connivance. According to Calais—the article appeared in a paper a few days after the attempt made on Calais’ life—there was an illicit agreement between the mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre and a contracting company run by one of the city councilors. Calais claimed to have proof of corruption—and maintained that was why he was shot at.”
“Pichon did all the investigation?”
Lafitte nodded. “As far as Pichon was concerned, there was no connection between Raymond Calais’ allegations and his being shot at. The mayor was clean.” Lafitte put down his glass. “Pichon is left-wing—and he’s fairly sympathetic toward the Communist mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre.” He was sitting with his legs apart and his elbows resting on his knees. “Pichon doesn’t like the Békés, that’s certain.”
Anne Marie tipped the ice in her glass onto the back of her left hand. She held it against the skin till her hand turned numb. “What made Pichon so sure the mayor was innocent?”
“Witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what?”
“When the decision had to be made to employ a contracting firm, the councilor in question got up, stated his connection, and left the chamber. It was all quite legal and proper.”
“Raymond Calais must’ve known that.”
“Of course.”
“Raymond Calais was risking his reputation, surely, by making accusations that could be disproved so easily?”
“Calais’ motivation was not political, madame le juge—at least, that’s what Pichon thinks.”
She dropped the rest of the ice into the saucer. “Why make a scandal?”
“A warning.”
“A warning to who?”
Lafitte’s smile was irritating. “A warning to anybody who chose to listen.”
“Please don’t talk in riddles.”
“Calais was showing he wasn’t afraid to sling mud. Some people thought it was just an ill-advised attack on the mayor—but that wasn’t the point.” He stopped. “Are you all right, madame? You look pale.”
“The point, Monsieur Lafitte?”
“To frighten people.”
“That’s why they shot Raymond Calais?”
Lafitte shook his head. “Pichon’s convinced it was one of Calais’ own men who shot him.”
“Why?”
“Raymond Calais had his own little gang—some of them were armed. Pichon believes they were paid on a part-time basis.”
“Madame Calais told me they were merely friends who looked after Raymond Calais. It was their way of repaying the favors Calais had done for them.”
“Riffraff—unemployed layabouts Calais picked up around the docks. He used them for sticking up posters—or for pulling down the posters put up by the mayor and the Communists.”
“Where did Raymond Calais get the money to pay them?”
Lafitte finished his drink. “He didn’t.”
“Didn’t what, Monsieur Lafitte?”
“He didn’t pay his private army—or rather, he ceased to pay them. Because he was running out of funds.” Lafitte corrected himself: “Because he had run out of funds.”
“Calais had money. He was rich—he owned land.”
Lafitte clicked his tongue. “Sainte Marthe would’ve collapsed years ago unless he’d continued to pump money in. And that’s probably why Raymond Calais married his wife in the first place. This is all Pichon’s theory, you understand. Calais needed her money to pay for Sainte Marthe—as well as for his horses and all the other hobbies. You sure you feel well, madame le juge?”
“Where did Calais get his money from?”
When he spoke, Lafitte’s voice was softer. “Does SODECA mean anything to you?” His breath smelled of fruit juice.
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Société d’économie mixte pour le développement de la Caraibe. Part privately, part publicly owned. And Raymond Calais—as a conseiller général elected to one of the cantons of Pointe-à-Pitre—was automatically on the board of directors.”
“Go on.”
“By making allegations of corruption in the town hall, Calais was showing he was willing and ready to pull the chain on another scandal.” A grin darted across his face. “But this time a real one. At the SODECA.”
“What scandal?”
“That’s precisely what Basse-Terre’s being so cagey about.” Lafitte gestured with his hand. “If I wasn’t a friend of Pichon’s, I’d never have got this information.” He laughed. “As your greffier likes to say, Pichon’s not bad for a local.”
“Tell me about the scandal.”
“Sensitive information—and potentially very dangerous. I’d be grateful if.…” He took a deep breath. “You don’t know the juge d’instruction Méry?”
“No.”
“Always wearing a raincoat.”
“Tall and thin looking?”
“I don’t know,” Lafitte said. “I’ve never met him.”
“How do you know he wears a raincoat?”
“There’s a major inquiry going on. For at least a month now. Several detectives from the Brigade des Finances.…”
“Including a certain Azaïs?”
Lafitte nodded. “Possible.”
“Azaïs told me he was with Renseignements Généraux.”
“I’ll check with Pichon.” For a moment he stared at the empty glasses on the table. “Fifty-three million francs have gone missing.”
“Missing where?”
“In the SODECA accounts.” Lafitte drove his fingers through the short, upright hair. Drops of perspiration had formed at his temples, giving him more than ever the appearance of a Flemish cyclist. “Somebody’s been embezzling. Fifty-three million francs is a lot of money. And it’s all vanished.”
“Hence Méry’s being here in Guadeloupe?”
Lafitte nodded. “Méry has been making use of Pichon’s services.”
“And why does Pichon tell you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps he’s afraid of a cover-up.”
Anne Marie waited a moment in thoughtful silence. She looked at her hand. The numbness was going away and the need to itch was returning. “Where does Raymond Calais come into all this?”
“Fifty-three million francs isn’t a sum that disappears overnight. Someone’s been embezzling—and he’s been doing it for a long time. Long enough for Raymond Calais to have found out—and to make use of the knowledge. As I said, SODECA is jointly owned. Fifty percent is private; the other fifty percent is controlled by the département.”
“What does SODECA do?”
“It is involved in virtually all building operations undertaken by the municipal authorities. In Basse-Terre as in Pointe-à-Pitre or the Saintes. Every town authority has to work with SODECA.”
Anne Marie did not hide her irritation. “But what exactly does SODECA do?”
“Suppose the city of Pointe-à-Pitre wants to re-house people who are at the moment living in insalubrious shacks within the city limits—no plumbing, no drainage—and all the dangers of leprosy and tuberculosis. Pointe-à-Pitre calls in the SODECA—and SODECA does the entire job. It buys up the land, temporarily re-housing the local people elsewhere. It has the power of compulsory purchase. It subsequently calls in various private companies for the preparation of the land. As you know, most of Pointe-à-Pitre is swamp and needs reclaiming.”
“Go on.”
“SODECA needs the cooperation of certain construction companies. So it puts out to tender. All the new housing projects you see in Pointe
-à-Pitre—they were put up by SODECA, who then sold them back to the city. But with a hole of fifty-three million francs in its budget, the SODECA would fall apart.” Lafitte shook his head. “Disastrous. A lot of companies working for the SODECA—companies that SODECA owes money to—would collapse with it. They’d just go bankrupt. Plus, of course, the political scandal would be equally dangerous. And the unemployment—most unrest here starts in the building trade. That’s why Pichon’s afraid of a hush up.”
“Bankrupt?”
“A lot of illustrious heads could fall.” Lafitte smiled. “There’s a total blackout. Even including you and me, there can’t be more than a dozen people who know about the fifty-three million francs. I doubt if the mayor of Pointe-à-Pitre knows—and yet he’s on the SODECA board of directors.”
“How did the situation first come to light?”
“The irony is that Raymond Calais must have been threatening to spill the beans for at least several years. The accountants were called in as a matter of routine—and it’s the accountants who’ve discovered what has been going on.”
“Who are these accountants?”
“Cabinet Foch—a highly respected firm from Paris. Been in Basse-Terre since May.”
“A reputable company can’t remain silent over an affair like this—its reputation would be put in jeopardy.”
“There’ll be pressure on the Cabinet Foch to keep quiet at least until next year. Next May and the presidential elections. A scandal like this is going to put the local administration in a bad light. And the administration in Guadeloupe’s the responsibility of Giscard d’Estaing. Politically speaking, silence is necessary until the elections are over.”
“Does Pichon have any idea who’s doing the embezzling?”
Lafitte laughed and the suddenness of the laughter after the hoarse whisper took Anne Marie by surprise. “They’re all in it—all the rich Békés and mulattos who control this island. Even the president of the Chamber of Commerce.” Again the hand through the short hair. “Can you imagine that? The president of the Chamber of Commerce—Giscard’s right-hand man in Guadeloupe and on television every other evening—being thrown into jail? Or dear old Jacques Calais—respected managing director of General Motors Guadeloupe?”
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