The office door opens. A figure Ferdinand knows all too well appears.
“Well, I never—what kind of manners are these? Nobody pushes me, Mrs. Claudel, Esquire, Mr. Brun’s lawyer. I was kept at the reception desk for over an hour by a certain Eric. I’ve been prevented from attending the interrogation of my client, which has already begun. That’s illegal, Mr. Commissioner. And I would have appreciated being let in without all the searches. I’m not hiding explosives in my cane, for God’s sake!”
At the word explosives, worried looks pass between the commissioner and his men. Balard is taken aback: he hadn’t foreseen this, just when he was about to get down to business. Within a few moments, the atmosphere changes. The old lady takes over the place, from her smelly perfume, to her handbag on his files, to her cane, which she taps at every turn to draw attention. The commissioner tries to regain control.
“Ma’am, under no circumstance would we keep you longer than necessary. It’s normal procedure. With all due respect, how long has it been since you practiced?”
“Shouldn’t you cede your place in the interrogation, Mr. Commissioner? There’s a conflict of interest when the victim is the commissioner’s mother-in-law,” replies Beatrice Claudel without missing a beat.
The party’s just getting started . . .
“Mrs. Claudel, your client is looking at fifteen years. That is, he’ll never see the light of day again. We have two witnesses swearing he threatened the life of Mrs. Suarez; he has a motive—some sordid story about a dog and canaries. Plus, there is his suspicious behavior, with the comings and goings in the complex’s trash area, and intimidation via books detailing murderers’ physical abuse. Not to mention inappropriate behavior with young children!”
“Have you finished?” The commissioner nods, and Beatrice Claudel continues. “I see nothing but speculation, Mr. Commissioner. So, if you don’t mind, let’s concentrate on the death of Mrs. Suarez and proceed with the facts. Nothing but the facts, Mr. Commissioner. I have here the medical examiner’s report, prepared just two hours ago. It confirms a natural death via heart attack. There is nothing astonishing about that for a woman who has been in the care of a cardiologist, Dr. Bernardin, for more than fifteen years. But you already knew that, Mr. Commissioner. Mrs. Suarez had been taking ASA, acetylsalicylic acid, and perindopril, a hypotensive, every day for eight years to reduce the risk of a cardiac event. I have here a copy of her prescriptions. Mrs. Suarez had several times charged me with picking up her medications, on days when she was too weak to leave her loge. As an oversight, I kept the prescription at the bottom of my bag. There are so many useless things knocking about in a woman’s handbag, Mr. Commissioner. As you can see, she picked up her medications at the pharmacy on Rue Bonaparte every month. The pharmacist can confirm that.
“Furthermore, Mrs. Suarez’s cardiac problems were taken very seriously by her doctor, given her family history. Her mother and aunt each had a myocardial infarction, at fifty-three and fifty-five years of age, respectively. They did not survive. Mrs. Suarez was fifty-seven. You will find here the death certificates and a note from Dr. Bernardin. I should point out that he is not infringing on any patient confidentiality, since these certificates were given to Mrs. Suarez so that she would be aware of potential risks.”
Balard can’t help but laugh richly and begins to put an end to the charade, when Beatrice, with a tap of her cane, takes over once more.
“Next, the time of death. The medical examiner places it between nine o’clock and nine thirty on Monday morning at the hospital, after her heart attack on Friday evening. Did you ask my client if he has an alibi? Do you have proof he was at the scene? Well, I’ll tell you. Mr. Brun, present here, was at the post office sending a package to his grandson for his birthday. The employees are precise: he arrived at the Garibaldi office around 8:55. He then used the ATM at 9:28. I have a copy of the receipt. He took out seventy euros, then left on foot. The grocer is adamant that Mr. Brun was the first one that day to buy chanterelles.
“In short, Mr. Brun’s busy life is not, it seems, the object of his arrest. Therefore, Mr. Commissioner, I ask you: since the medical examiner confirms the natural death as a result of a heart attack, and since my client has numerous alibis, what are we doing here? Why was my client kept in prison for over twenty hours? Why was he locked up under conditions that defy comprehension? Why?”
“Mr. Brun is wanted for premeditated homicide, following the testimony of two witnesses. For the moment, we prefer to keep their identities a secret.”
“Ah, the witnesses! How reliable! No need to tell me the names of the two neighbor ladies in question. Mrs. Joly, a notorious alcoholic, who has replaced her morning tea with Floc de Gascogne liqueur for years. We all know she stays cooped up in her home, the third-floor stairs having already given her a memorable fall. When Mr. Brun supposedly had words with Mrs. Suarez, Mrs. Joly was already drunk. Next, the second witness, Mrs. Berger, known by the police to be a kleptomaniac, has a grudge against my client, more precisely against the late Daisy, Mr. Brun’s dog. Her Persian cat was scared stiff of that dog. She’d tried to give rat poison to Daisy, who had refused the piece of meat. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t ask you to believe me. I invite you to check your witness’s alibi. You will discover that when she claims to have heard a dispute, she was being held in the back room of the Franprix supermarket on Rue Bourseau for stealing mascara. They kept her there until she agreed to pay, at closing, at 7:00 p.m. So I ask you, Mr. Commissioner, do you have irrefutable proof against my client?”
Balard glances around for support from his men, but they all duck their heads.
“I’ll take your silence as a no. Therefore, nothing whatsoever is detaining my client. I hope not to see you again soon. Good day!”
With these words, Beatrice stands up and grasps Ferdinand’s arm, supporting him on the way to the office door.
As they’re exiting, the commissioner says, “Be sure to pay the one-hundred-and-thirty-five euro fine for unauthorized parking in a handicapped spot.” Beatrice shoots daggers at him, and the commissioner hastens to add, “I’m joking, obviously.” He immediately side-eyes his colleague, causing the man to rush off.
“I don’t doubt it,” retorts Beatrice. “Trampling my client’s rights was sufficient. You couldn’t have intended for a man over eighty, dehydrated and hypoglycemic, to walk over three hundred feet. Good day!” Beatrice turns to Ferdinand. “I’m not kidding, my friend. You’re in bad shape. We’re going to the hospital. You must see a doctor immediately. We’ll have them verify the terrible treatment and then we’ll see who’s paying far more than one hundred and thirty-five euros!”
Beatrice helps the old man into her black Mini. A true exercise in contortion for the tall Ferdinand, already worn out. Without putting on her seat belt, Beatrice tears out of the parking lot and onto the road, not taking the slightest glance at traffic. Ferdinand immediately buckles his seat belt and clings to the door handle.
“Slow down, Mrs. Claudel. It’s not an emergency.”
“Mrs. Claudel? Since when do you no longer call me Beatrice? Poor dear! They really turned your brain. And you haven’t seen your face! You’re white as a sheet, even paler than you were before.”
“I’d feel better if you slowed down. Maybe you should let me drive.”
“In your condition? We’d be ripe for an accident! Oh, shoot, we just missed the exit. Look out your side and tell me if anyone’s coming.”
“You’re going to back up on the freeway?”
“Is anyone there or not? No one? I’m going!”
Beatrice shifts into reverse for fifty yards to get to the access ramp leading to the hospital. She takes the corner, pedal to the metal.
“I mean it! Slow down or we’re gonna die!”
“Isn’t that what you wanted, after all? I’m kidding, my dear. No, seriously, we’ve had car accidents in my family. My husband was a Formula 3 driver and he died during a training run, may he rest i
n peace. And one of my nephews got himself run over by a bus in England. He looked the wrong way and died on the spot. So believe me, I am extremely careful. Stay buckled up, though, we just went through a stale yellow light.”
In the distance, the glowing H of the hospital appears. Ferdinand breathes a sigh of relief. Only a few more yards. At fifty miles per hour, Beatrice charges into the parking lot and comes to a stop with a controlled skid, in the area reserved for emergencies.
Totally bananas, concludes Ferdinand.
“Look, we’re safe and sound. Come on, let’s hurry.”
Getting out, Ferdinand staggers. He leans against the car for a moment and ascertains the extent of previous damage to the car: right side pushed in, rear bumper dented, and scratches just about everywhere. Yes, indeed, Beatrice is extremely cautious in a car.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Nutty as a Fruitcake
The room Ferdinand is consigned to is twice as small as the one he had during his previous stay at the hospital—and twice as inhabited. To his right, a little eighty-year-old dame with the look of an over-the-hill TV news anchor makes it known she’s more than delighted to have company. Ferdinand, meanwhile, struggles with the stiff neck that’s resulted from snubbing his neighbor’s idle chatter and keeping his head turned toward the window. He’s waiting for the medical team to remember his existence, when finally the tall white figure of Dr. Labrousse enters.
“Ah, Doctor! There you are. Can you get me out of here? I can’t take it anymore. My skull hurts. My roommate does nothing but talk. And very loudly at that. Is she deaf or what? Do something, please.”
“Mrs. Petit? Isn’t she adorable? Always a funny story to tell.”
“That’s what you think. Try sharing a room with her and you tell me whether you appreciate hearing the same two stories on a loop. Then at night, how she coughs! Is whatever she’s got contagious? What’s she in for?”
“A fall in her kitchen. I assure you, she’s getting out soon. RIGHT, MRS. PETIT? HAPPY TO BE LEAVING?” Then Dr. Labrousse turns back to Ferdinand. “I’m going to tell you a secret: she’s got a crush on you. She told all the nurses and her grandchildren that you look like Clint Eastwood or Anthony Hopkins, only more mature.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment. A cross between a trigger-happy cop and a cannibal? Thanks so much! Can’t you switch my room? Or better, allow me to leave? It’s been more than two days. I feel like I’m going to catch a hospital-acquired infection.”
“Calm down, Mr. Brun. First of all, how is your jaw doing?”
“Fine. But what am I doing here? I feel great, apart from this damned pain in my skull.” He sends a dark look toward the neighboring bed. “I want to go home. They’re keeping me without explanation.”
“Rest assured, it’s nothing serious, Mr. Brun. We just want to get you back on your feet and use the time to do some supplementary testing.”
“No wonder the hole in the social services budget is so big. Who’s paying for these tests no one needs? Not me, I hope.”
“No, it’s not you, Mr. Brun. I have to say, I’m rather surprised by the results of your analyses.”
“You were surprised last time, too,” Ferdinand retorts, impassive, recalling his days after the bus incident.
“Yes, but positively that time. What’s surprising me today is the weakness in your heart. Have you done anything crazy lately? I’m trying to understand what could have changed in such a short time.”
“I don’t rightly know. I just took a ride here in a car the size of a yogurt cup at Formula 1 speeds, driven not by Michael Schumacher, but by a blind nonagenarian who’s unaware of the dangers. Maybe it’s that?”
“Hmm, I don’t think so. In any case, we’re going to have to take care of you. Take it easy. Get yourself pampered by your family, and avoid pointless physical exertion, emotional shocks, and ill-advised romps with Mrs. Petit. I’m joking! Come on, I’ll give you something to quiet your migraine and if everything checks out tonight, you’ll be gone tomorrow morning. Take heart, Mr. Brun!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Going to Confession
The medication prescribed by Dr. Labrousse to relieve the headache turns out to be effective—so effective that Ferdinand no longer hears his neighbor’s ramblings. He can’t even tell whether she’s still in the room or if he’s been transported elsewhere.
Ferdinand feels good, like he’s floating on a little cloud, cradled by an all-encompassing warmth. He begins to daydream, to wander. Life seems so sweet all of a sudden. It’s one of those moments when you tell yourself to pause here, to leave the bookmark in your life at this precise instant. Even though he’s at the hospital—he who always shunned these death traps, as he calls them—he feels safe. All his problems seem to fly away: Mrs. Suarez, the murder accusation, and even that business about the retirement home.
Only the situation with Mrs. Claudel remains tricky. Ferdinand is much too ashamed about it. He’ll keep avoiding her and spending his free time with Juliette instead—if her father agrees, of course. Just then, a face peeks into the room.
“Oh, my child, I’m so happy to see you. We have to talk about that retirement home business again. Believe me, I don’t need it!”
“Um, Ferdinand, it’s Juliette, not Marion. I brought you things to eat.” Her arms are full, not with flowers, but with irresistible goodies, including caramels (provided he hasn’t lost his teeth), licorice, candied chestnuts, and nougat.
“Oh, pardon me, little one, where was my head? It’s nice of you to come, but I don’t want you to have any problems with your father because of me.”
“Don’t worry, Ferdinand, I talked to him. He still doesn’t like you—you didn’t do much to smooth things out—but he’s willing to try for a fresh start. Our lunches aren’t guaranteed, but this is something. It’d be too bad not to come over to eat anymore, especially since it’s so much better than the cafeteria.”
“But I don’t know how to make much. I just made you some sauce dishes here, some pies there. Meanwhile, there was nothing in the fridge. My wife, now she was a veritable Cordon Bleu, and I encouraged her. ‘It’s not bad. Edible. You’ll be able to make it again!’”
“You were always like that? I mean, never giving compliments?”
“I’m mischievous. And forthright. That you can’t fault me on. Maybe people take my jokes as spitefulness if they don’t know me, but I always tell the truth, even if it doesn’t please everyone.”
“Like a three-year-old?”
“Or ten! Don’t you think? I’ve never known how to lie so people aren’t hurt. I’m just like that, a man of truth. A straight shooter. I never cheated on my wife, for that matter.”
“And you want a medal? My father never cheated on my mother, either!”
“That you know of. But fine . . . never mind. You’re still a child. I don’t know why we’re talking about this anyway.”
“You were telling me about how your wife reached the point of not being able to stand you anymore.”
“Ah, yes, she didn’t like the truth, she always took it personally. But it was objective feedback. And I didn’t like questions with one right answer. What if she asked me, ‘Is the skin on my neck sagging more than before?’ How could I lie? ‘No, my lovely, you’re as firm as the day we met!’ My body was drooping, too—she must have noticed it—so I wasn’t going to tell tales. It would have broken the trust between us.”
“So how would you answer?”
“‘It’s getting a little turkey neckish, a bit like the texture of tripe.’”
“I don’t believe it! But why were you so . . . imaginative?”
“I don’t know, it just came out. Sometimes, she wouldn’t ask me anything but I couldn’t keep myself from making comments. It was to help her, with constructive criticism. Sometimes, I didn’t even need to say anything, she understood just looking at my face. For example, if she asked me what I thought of her new dress, I would tell her, ‘No, that
dress doesn’t do anything for you. We can see your flabby arms and it gives you an awful belly. It looks like you’re pregnant. Unless you are pregnant?’
“Once, she came back from the hairdresser with gray hair! She didn’t ask for my thoughts, but at the same time she’s a woman. A woman coming home from the hairdresser always looks for her husband’s approval. But I said, ‘Your silver hair isn’t working! I know it’s cheaper, but you look like a granny!’
“Then again, she nearly made me soil my pants over a pair of underwear. All I did was put them on her pillow without saying anything, so as not to order her around. But she got up on her high horse, saying, ‘Do I look like a servant to you? You could have sent a telegram with: HOLE STOP MEND STOP URGENT STOP. It wouldn’t have been worse!’ How could I have guessed a mere pair of underpants could cause so much hassle? It’s just she was good at sewing. She made Marion’s clothes and little things for the house, like towels and tablecloths made out of the same red gingham, which I still can’t stand the sight of!”
“Please, reassure me, did you love your wife?”
“Of course.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No, not directly. That sort of effusiveness is always out of context. It bothers me. When she asked me squarely, ‘Do you still love me?’ like an ultimatum, I didn’t answer with ‘Of course, my dear,’ even though it would have saved time and averted loads of arguments. I flat out couldn’t. I didn’t feel my heart ache like it did at the beginning, when we were young. So I answered with a joke, ‘Bah, we get along, we’re used to each other, we have our little routine, and frankly I’d be too lazy to look for better.’ I never did have any luck with women!”
“What century are you living in, Ferdinand? No woman would tolerate even one percent of your actions or comments! Or else you’d have to pick somebody with amnesia. Tell me if you’re interested, I know someone! Also, stop attributing everything to bad luck. Women leave you because you make them. Period! And you’re not even capable of learning from your mistakes. Look how you’re behaving with Mrs. Claudel. She’s still reaching out to you. You can rectify the situation. Same with Marion. So do it! I dream of being able to relive my last conversation with my mother. I think about it a lot. I wasn’t very nice to her at the end: I resented her for paying more attention to Emma. I resented her because I wasn’t the only princess anymore. We’re all a bit selfish. But not stupid! Did you ever do something, just once, just to make your wife happy?”
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