by Mark Hebden
Nosjean studied him. He had the same features as Madame Crébert, he saw now, the same blond good looks, the same weakness about the mouth. He was immaculately dressed with a touch of the dandy about him, and Nosjean wondered if he were a homosexual.
‘Did you know the boy well?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I’m much younger than my sister and we were very good friends.’
‘So you know the things he did?’
‘Most of them.’
‘Had he ever made fireworks? We think there might be a connection between his death and the theft of explosives at St Blaize.’
Delacolonge considered for a moment. ‘Well, a lot of youngsters fancy making fireworks, don’t they? But you don’t think he stole gelignite, do you?’
‘I didn’t say it was gelignite,’ Nosjean pointed out immediately. ‘Why did you think it was gelignite?’
‘Isn’t that what they use for blasting?’ When Nosjean didn’t answer Delacolonge went on quickly. ‘I always thought it was. In any case, I doubt if he’d know what to do with it if he did steal it. More than likely blow himself up. And that wasn’t what happened, was it?’
‘No.’ Nosjean eyed Delacolonge. ‘I wasn’t thinking that he stole the stuff. I wondered if he knew anyone who might steal it.’
Delacolonge shrugged and Nosjean closed his notebook.
‘Mind if I come and have a chat with you in the next day or two?’ he asked.
Delacolonge looked startled. ‘Why me?’
Nosjean gestured. ‘Parents are a little confused and distraught at a time like this,’ he said. ‘It’d be nice to talk to someone who knows what goes on but isn’t too involved. Did the boy talk to you much?’
‘Often. Always round at my place when he was in trouble. Came to get things off his chest.’
‘Ever stay the night?’
‘He has done.’
Nosjean felt he was on to a scent at last. Dandified young uncles who had a place of their own where young nephews often spent the night – it seemed to suggest all sorts of things.
‘I’ll call round and see you,’ he said.
Delacolonge nodded. ‘Any time. Number 19, Apartments Sagnier, Rue Mulhouse. Ring up first in case I’m working, though.’
‘What do you do?’
Delacolonge hesitated. ‘I’m a poet.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of future in poetry these days.’
Delacolonge managed a twisted smile. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. ‘I have to work for a living, too. I’m a male nurse at St Saviour’s.’
‘What’s St Saviour’s?’
‘It’s a nuthouse.’ Delacolonge gave a small deprecatory smile. ‘They call it a nursing home, but that’s what it is. For disturbed people. They’ve got some funny types there, believe me. Some of them a bit homicidal. They should never let them out.’
Nosjean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do they let them out?’
‘People come and fetch them. Sometimes for a week-end or a public holiday like Bastille Day.’
It put a new idea into Nosjean’s head. But there was the other one, too, that featured Delacolonge himself. Nosjean had a marked distrust of people who called themselves poets.
‘This poetry of yours,’ he said. ‘Had anything published?’
Delacolonge gave a sad smile. ‘Isn’t much demand for poetry these days,’ he said. ‘Just one slim volume. I paid for it. We gave most of the edition away to friends. They were quite polite about them.’
‘You said “we.” Who’s “we”?’
Delacolonge looked blank. ‘Delphine and I,’ he said. ‘Delphine’s my wife. She’s looking after the baby.’
‘And that, Nosjean thought as Delacolonge waved and ran up the steps to the Créberts’ house, seemed to shatter that theory.
Still unsatisfied, Nosjean decided to try Doctor Nisard. There had been something about Madame Crébert that had worried him. She seemed strained in a way that went beyond the death of her son, and there seemed to be a distinct division of loyalties, as if she were the sort of person who took sides firmly and found it impossible to change even when the evidence suggested she should. The way she had set herself against her husband was clear proof of it.
Doctor Nisard seemed to think the same. He was an old man with grey hair and a wise, strong face.
‘Well, they’re an odd lot, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘In what way, doctor? Is there insanity in the family?’
Nisard hesitated. ‘Well – certainly, the boy’s elder brother isn’t normal. Huge chap. Must be eighteen or so now. Beetle-browed. Strong as an ox. He once beat up Charles-Bernard when he upset him. Almost killed him. Judge demanded a psychiatrist’s report. Result was that when he did it again two years later, the parents were told he had to have treatment. He went into St Saviour’s and he’s never been out since.’
‘They never mentioned this to me.’
Doctor Nisard managed a thin smile. ‘It’s not something you make a lot of song and dance about, is it? It’s probably what made the mother a little odd.’
‘Is she abnormal, too?’
Nisard shrugged. ‘Subject to depression.’ Suicidal at times. I suppose it’s natural with your elder son in a place like St Saviour’s. It’ll be worse still now that the younger son’s been murdered.’
‘What’s the younger son like? Was he unbalanced, too?’
‘I wouldn’t say so, but he was given to fits of fury. She leaned a lot on her brother, of course – young Delacolonge. He was surprisingly good with her, as a matter of fact, and was about the only one who could get her out of her depressions. All the same–’ Nisard shrugged ‘–there’s certainly an odd strain running through the family. Her mother committed suicide and her grandmother was found dead – in circumstances that suggested her grandfather had pushed her down the cellar steps. Nevertheless–’ Nisard paused ‘–Madame Crébert is a woman of warmth when she’s not under strain. She’s law-abiding, unobtrusive, kind and serious – too serious, in fact.’
‘What do you mean by that, Doctor?’
‘She takes remarks to heart when they’re often uttered only lightly. Then she’s motivated by resentment or imagined grievances, and tends to be unstable, flitting from one idea to another. She’s self-centred and easily moved by hate or love. She’s a patient of mine.’
‘Does she hate?’
The doctor frowned. ‘Let me put it this way: When she married, she was very much in love. I’ve known the family for some time and that was patently obvious. But her husband’s a businessman who’s often away and then she feels forgotten. When she’s low in spirits or tired or unwell, she actively hates him for what she considers his neglect of her. In fact, he’s never neglected her. He’s a good husband in his own way and she’s no worse off than the wife of any other busy man.’
‘This hatred,’ Nosjean asked. ‘Could it turn to hatred of her own son?’
The doctor sighed. ‘Well, her condition’s certainly become worse in recent years and nowadays she’s in a more or less depressed state a lot of the time. She now even has a tendency to unbalanced opinions and morbid and delusive projects.’ He raised his hands in a defeated gesture. ‘I would have said that any hostility she felt would be towards the husband not the son. Nevertheless in her misery she could feel the boy was coming between her and her husband.’
‘But he was thirteen years old. A good athlete, too, I understand, and well muscled for his age.’
The doctor gestured again. ‘She’s a large woman,’ he said quietly.
‘And the diazepam capsules that were found?’
Nisard shrugged. ‘I recommended them for the mother,’ he said.
Seven
While Nosjean was busy with the Créberts, De Troquereau was talking to Major Georges Martinelle.
The major wasn’t unlike De Troquereau in appearance. He was small and slight and carried himself erect, clearly enjoying the fact that he looked a little like
Napoleon. Indeed, there were several pictures of the Great Emperor about his gymnasium and he seemed all the time to be holding his face to the light so that visitors could see the resemblance.
For a while he tried to bully De Troquereau with his military manners and commission. ‘I don’t have to like the sort of people who come here to learn gymnastics,’ he said. ‘Any more than I have to like you, Sergeant Troquereau.’
De Troquereau was unmoved. He’d grown up knowing how to deal with people like Major Martinelle. ‘De Troquereau actually,’ he said mildly. ‘Charles-Victor de Troquereau. In fact, if you want the full treatment, Baron de Troquereau Tournay-Turenne.’
Martinelle’s eyebrows shot up and De Troq’ smiled inwardly. His parents were as poor as church mice and he’d joined the police force because he couldn’t afford to do anything else, but it was still sometimes pleasant to use his background to put ill-mannered people in their place.
Martinelle was silent for a moment then he drew a deep breath. ‘I once knew a Colonel de Troquereau Tournay-Turenne,’ he said. ‘12th Cuirassiers.’
‘Uncle,’ De Troq’ said cheerfully. In fact he’d never even heard of the man Martinelle mentioned, though he had to be a relative of some sort.
The possibility seemed to subdue Martinelle a little, so that he answered with considerably more circumspection and, when they got down to facts, it was De Troq’ who had the upper hand because Martinelle even began to fall over himself to oblige.
‘The boy had the makings of a good gymnast,’ he said. ‘It seemed worth taking trouble with him. Besides, I gathered he was always in trouble with his parents. They thought he was clever but other boys from the same school who came here said he wasn’t. He was also inclined to bully, and from my experience, when people are bullies, it’s because they lack something – usually praise – and take it out on others. When I discovered he was good at gymnastics – he had the perfect build for it – I made a lot of it and I gathered later from his teacher that he’d stopped his bullying. He needed something he could do well. He found it here.’
‘Did he ever come on his own?’ De Troq’ asked.
‘Certainly. With a prize pupil, you have to give them extra attention. And, let’s face it, I was paid for the lessons.’
‘Any friends?’
‘I gather he wasn’t popular. Most of his real friends were older.’
‘Know any of them?’
‘Boy named Fesch. Arnold Fesch. Alsatian family. Lives in the Rue d’Albert. He might know something.’
De Troq’ paused. ‘Did he have any friends out Vieilly way?’
Martinelle shook his head. ‘I never heard him mention anybody.’
De Troq’ nodded. ‘Did he come here the night he disappeared? He was supposed to.’
There was a slight pause and Martinelle looked shifty for a moment. ‘The place was closed,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t here.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At home, with my wife.’
‘Will she verify that?’
‘Surely you’re not suggesting I–’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to eliminate people.’
Martinelle considered for a moment. ‘Then, no,’ he said. ‘I doubt if–’ he stopped. ‘Just a minute. That was the night I went to the library reading room. I sometimes go to read the military magazines.’
‘Until as late as ten o’clock? That’s the time the boy died.’
Martinelle frowned. ‘I went for a drink afterwards. In fact I had one or two.’ He paused. ‘Things aren’t quite as they should be between me and my wife and sometimes I don’t hurry home.’
‘Would they know you at this bar you went to? Could they vouch for you?’
Martinelle shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Not exactly a personality. Just an old soldier. Besides, I visited several.’
‘It would help if someone could vouch for you.’
Martinelle frowned. ‘I don’t think they can.’
‘That,’ De Troquereau said, ‘is a pity.’
Arnold Fesch was a tall strong boy with full red lips and pimples and a thatch of blond hair that stood up on his head like the bristles of a yard broom.
‘Well, he was a friend, and he wasn’t,’ he said. ‘Mostly it was on his side, if you know what I mean. He seemed to have a crush on me. Little boys do get them on bigger ones, you know.’
‘Nothing more than that?’
‘Such as what?’
De Troq’ paused then brought it out bluntly. ‘Sexual?’
Fesch looked startled. ‘You mean, between him and me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name of God, no! I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’
‘Did he?’
‘How would I know? He made no suggestions to me. But I wouldn’t know. It’s not my line, anyway. I’ve got a girl. She and I – er – well–’
Fesch managed to blush and De Troq’ suspected that he and his girl had already begun to taste the delights of growing up.
‘You could ask her,’ Fesch offered.
‘Would she tell me?’ De Troq’ smiled. ‘Had he any other friends you know about? From Vieilly, for instance?’
Fesch shook his head.
‘Ever hear him mention Vieilly?’
‘I believe his father used to shoot there a bit.’
‘Did you know of any of his friends outside school?’
Fesch frowned. ‘Well, there was one. I think he was older than Charles-Bernard. He had a car – he mentioned it – so he must have been.’
‘Know of any way we could identify him?’
‘No. He was a bit secretive about him. He was that sort. Liked to pretend there was more going for him than there was. He was a bit dreary, really, you know, and used to make up stories about himself to make himself seem important. He – well – he learned about me and my girl – you know how it is – and he tried to tell me he’d had a girl, too. I didn’t believe him. Not for a minute. I know when people are – well, when they’ve – you know.’
‘You can tell?’
Fesch gestured airily. ‘I can always tell.’
‘You’re lucky,’ De Troq’ said. ‘I can’t.’
Doctor Anatole Bazin, the director of St Saviour’s Nursing Home, was inclined to be guarded. The place was run for profit and he had no wish to put off prospective customers.
‘Yes,’ he admitted to Nosjean. ‘We do have a boy here called Crébert.’
‘Son of Paul and Régine Crébert?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Can you tell me anything about him, doctor?’
‘I have no right to. He came here to be cured, that’s all.’
‘Will he be cured?’
‘We hope so.’
‘I’d like to know more about him.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘This is a police enquiry, doctor. His brother’s been murdered. We’re trying to find who did it.’
Bazin frowned, then he gestured. ‘What do you wish to know?’
‘Something about him. We know his history.’
‘He’s a strong boy. He’s inclined to fits of rage and has to be watched carefully.’
‘Are your patients allowed out?’
‘Of course. Our patients aren’t mad. They’re people with mental problems and they have families and friends who wish to see them and are willing to be responsible for them.’
‘Are you certain that this responsibility is always really responsible?’
‘We have to accept that it is.’
‘But it might not be?’
‘There’s that possibility.’
‘On the night of the 14th – Bastille Night – were any of them out?’
‘Two women. With their families. Both sound families.’
‘What about patients who weren’t out? Are there any who might possibly have done this thing?’
‘There is certainly one. But he’s always carefully watched. He doesn’t go out.’<
br />
‘Name?’
Bazin hesitated then he shrugged. ‘Young Crébert.’
‘Human beings aren’t infallible,’ Nosjean said. ‘Could someone at some time have neglected their duty so that he became free to wander for an hour or two?’
‘No.’ The answer was sharp and brisk.
‘Can you be absolutely certain of that? Remember, we’re talking of murder.’
There was a long pause. This time the answer was not so sharp or so brisk. ‘No. I can’t be absolutely certain.’
When Nosjean left he was in a thoughtful mood. He had learned a lot about Charles-Bernard Crébert but not, he felt, enough. He needed to know what made him tick, and if you want to know something about a child, he thought, why ask his mother and father when his schoolteacher probably knows him best of all?
The director of Charles-Bernard’s school suggested the boy’s form-mistress. Normally, at Charles-Bernard’s age, he said, a boy had a form-master, but the man who normally had the class had been injured in a car accident and a Mademoiselle Solange Caillaux had agreed to look after it. ‘I thought there would be trouble,’ the director continued, ‘because they’re at the age when they can be troublesome. But–’ he smiled ‘–Mademoiselle Caillaux is extraordinarily pretty and instead of causing trouble for her, they all fell in love with her and the only trouble they cause is over who’s going to carry her books to her car at the end of the day.’
The director was right. Solange Caillaux was pretty. Prettier, Nosjean had to admit, than Odile Chenandier. She looked like a young Brigitte Bardot, which was a change from the Catherine Deneuves and Charlotte Ramplings in his life. Nosjean could quite understand why her pupils fought for the pleasure of carrying her books. He decided to enter the fray himself by suggesting a meeting for a drink.
‘So I can get to know something about the boy,’ he lied.
As a pleasant evening out, the meeting was a great success. Most of the time, self-interest was wrestling with Nosjean’s job, and on the whole self-interest won hands down, so that as an exercise in detection it got them nowhere. Mademoiselle Caillaux hadn’t been with Charles-Bernard Crébert’s class long enough to know any of them much, though she had already formed the opinion that Charles-Bernard wasn’t one of those who were likely to take up the cudgels on her behalf.