by Michel Bussi
And this doubt.
What do I do now?
Reveal everything to the police, or continue to play the role of the little black mouse in the alleyways of Giverny?
14
The five photographs are spread out on the station desk. Laurenç Sérénac is holding a brown envelope.
“Good God,” says Sylvio Bénavides, “who could have sent that?”
“We don’t know. We found the envelope in this morning’s post. It was sent from a post box in Vernon, yesterday evening.”
“Just photographs. No letter, no message, nothing?”
“No explanation, no. But it’s as clear as can be. We’re dealing with a kind of collage of Jérôme Morval’s mistresses. A ‘best of.’ Sylvio, could you cast your eye over them? I’ve already had time to admire…”
Sylvio Bénavides shrugs and leans over the five pictures; Jérôme Morval is present in each one, but each time he is accompanied by a different woman, none of them his wife. Jérôme Morval behind a desk, leaning on the knees of a girl he is kissing full on the mouth, and who might be the secretary at his office. Jérôme Morval on the sofa in a nightclub, with his hand on the breast of a girl in a sequined dress. Jérôme Morval bare-chested, lying beside a white-skinned girl, on a sandy beach that looks as if it might be somewhere in Ireland. Jérôme Morval standing in a sitting room decorated with paintings that look like his own, while a girl in a skirt is kneeling with her back to the photographer, but not to the ophthalmologist. Jérôme Morval walking along a country lane, above Giverny—you can recognize the bell tower of Sainte-Radegonde’s church—hand in hand with Stéphanie Dupain.
Sylvio Bénavides whistles.
“This is the work of a professional!”
Sérénac smiles.
“I thought so too. He was incredibly confident, our ophthalmologist, and yet he didn’t have the physique of a movie star…”
Bénavides, disconcerted, looks at his boss for a moment.
“I wasn’t talking about Morval, I was talking about the man who took the pictures!”
Sérénac glances at him.
“You’re incredible, Sylvio. Anyway, go on, sorry.”
Bénavides blushes and continues.
“I meant, Chief, that these pictures must be the work of a professional private detective. A priori, I would say that the photographs, at least the ones of the office and in the drawing room, were taken through a window, with a zoom lens that even a standard paparazzo would have trouble affording.”
Sérénac examines the pictures again. He gives a cheeky grimace.
“I wouldn’t say they’re great. The interior photographs are a bit blurred, aren’t they? But who am I to criticize? Clearly Morval liked beautiful women. That’s what I should have done, really, be a private detective rather than a cop. It’s a cool job.”
Sylvio doesn’t respond to that. “In your opinion,” he asks, “who, apart from his wife, could have commissioned these photographs?”
“I don’t know. We’ll question Patricia Morval, but when I met her she wasn’t particularly forthcoming about her husband’s infidelities. And I also have the impression that in this case we’re going to have to treat the evidence with caution.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, Sylvio, I think you will have noticed that the nature of these five photographs is very different. In some, like the one taken in the nightclub, the one in the drawing room, and the one in the office, this blasted Morval is, without a doubt, sleeping with the girl in question…”
Bénavides frowns.
“Fine, OK,” says Sérénac, “perhaps I’m being a little too hasty. Let’s just say that Morval is intimate enough with them to stroke their breasts or be offered a little treat. But if you look at the photograph on the beach, or particularly the one taken near Giverny, there’s nothing to confirm that these girls were definitely Morval’s mistresses.”
“The last one,” Bénavides suggests, “is also the only girl we can actually identify. It’s Stéphanie Dupain, the village teacher, if I’m not mistaken?”
Sérénac nods.
“On the other hand, Chief, I don’t see what you’re getting at with your comments about Morval’s little hit parade. Surely fooling around is fooling around, isn’t it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m getting at. I don’t like—I really don’t like—getting anonymous presents. I’m even less keen on basing a criminal investigation on something sent by a poison pen. You understand, I’m a big boy now, I don’t like somebody prompting me where to look.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means, for example, that just because Stéphanie Dupain is included in this series of photographs, she isn’t necessarily one of Morval’s mistresses. But perhaps someone wants us to put two and two together…”
Sylvio Bénavides scratches his head, thinking about this hypothesis.
“OK, I follow you so far. But still, you can’t simply discount these photographs.”
“Why not? Particularly since we haven’t got to the bottom of the mystery. Come here, Sylvio, and take a look at what it says on the other side.”
One by one, Sérénac turns over the five pictures on the desk. On the back of each photograph there are some numbers.
23-02 on the picture of the office. 15-03 for the one in the nightclub. 21-02 for the beach. 17-03 for the one in the drawing room. 03-01 on the back of the one showing the country lane near Giverny.
“Bloody hell,” whistles Bénavides. “What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
“They look like dates. Could they be the days when the photographs were taken?”
“Yes, but would they all really have been taken between January and March? That would mean our king of the cataract was in excellent health, don’t you think? And I would bet my right arm that the photograph on the Irish beach wasn’t taken in winter.”
“So?”
“So, we’ll find out, Sylvio! We have no choice. We’ll go rooting about. Do you want to play a game?”
Bénavides smiles suspiciously. “Not really, no…”
“Well, let’s say you don’t have any choice.”
Sérénac gathers the five photographs together, shuffles them, and then spreads them out in a fan, like cards. He holds them out to Sylvio.
“We each take a turn, Sylvio. Each of us draws a girl. And then we both have to find out their name, their CV, and their alibi on the day of Morval’s murder. We’ll meet up in two days and see who’s winning.”
“You’re weird sometimes, Chief.”
“No, Sylvio. It’s just my way of presenting things. And what would you rather do than find out the identity of these girls? Surely you don’t want to let Maury and Louvel take our place in the hunt for these heavenly creatures?” Sérénac laughs. “Fine, I’ll start if you can’t make your mind up.”
Sérénac draws the photograph of Morval kneeling over the girl in the office.
“The secretary playing doctors and nurses with her boss,” he observes. “We’ll see. Your turn…”
Sylvio sighs, then picks a card. He turns the photograph over. It’s the one in the nightclub.
“You lucky thing!” exclaims Sérénac. “The girl with the sequins.”
Sylvio blushes. Laurenç Sérénac takes another turn. He picks the photograph of the girl on her knees in the sitting room.
“Chef’s special. The girl with her back to us. Your go.”
Sérénac holds out the last two cards to Bénavides. He draws. Fate deals him the photograph on the beach.
“The stranger at the Irish seaside,” Sérénac observes. “You’re doing well, my little piglet.”
Sylvio Bénavides taps the photographs on the desk, then measures up his superior with an ironic smile.
“You don’t fool me, Chief. I don’t know how you managed it, but I was sure from the outset that you would keep the photograph of Stéphanie Dupain for yourself.”
; Sérénac returns his smile.
“No flies on you, are there? I’m not going to reveal my trick, but you’re right, boss’s privilege, I get to keep the beautiful teacher. And don’t pay too much attention to those codes on the back, Sylvio, 15-03, 21-02… I’m sure that when we’ve put names to those four other girls the numbers will speak for themselves.”
He puts the photographs in his desk drawer.
“So, shall we get started?”
“OK, let’s go. Wait a moment, Chief. Before we start, I’ve brought you a little present. To show that even if you do spend most of your time pulling my leg, I don’t bear a grudge.”
Bénavides gets to his feet before Sérénac has a chance to defend himself. He leaves the office and comes back a few moments later holding a white paper bag.
“Here, fresh out of the oven, so to speak.”
Sylvio Bénavides pushes the bag across the table and turns it upside down. About twenty brownies spill out of it.
“I made them for my wife,” Sylvio explains. “Usually she loves them, but for the last two weeks she hasn’t been able to swallow a single thing. Even accompanied by my homemade custard.”
Sérénac slumps down in his chair.
“You’re like a mother to me, Sylvio. I admit it. In fact, I asked to be transferred to this godforsaken hole just so I could have you as my deputy!”
“Don’t go too far…”
“And when’s the baby due?”
“Any day now. She’s scheduled to give birth in exactly five days. But afterward, you know…”
Sérénac munches his first brownie.
“Christ! They’re divine. Your wife is missing out.”
Sylvio Bénavides bends down to retrieve the file resting against his chair. When he straightens up his superior is on his feet again.
“And with a cup of coffee,” Sérénac adds, “they’ll be out of this world. I’m just popping down for one. You want one too?”
The printout that Sylvio is holding unspools all the way to the floor.
“No thanks.”
“Really, nothing?”
“OK, then. A tea. No sugar.”
Many minutes later Inspector Sérénac comes back with two paper cups. The brownie crumbs have been cleaned from the table. Sérénac sighs, as if to tell his deputy that he’s allowed to take a break. No sooner has he sat down than Bénavides starts his summing up.
“So, Chief, I’ll cut to the chase. The autopsy report confirms that Morval was stabbed first. He died in the minute that followed. It was only then that someone crushed his skull with a rock, then put his head in the stream. The crime happened in that order, forensics are sure of it.”
“Given the doctor’s track record, perhaps three jealous husbands were in it together. A conspiracy of cuckolds. That would explain the ritual aspect, like Murder on the Orient Express.”
Bénavides stares at him in consternation.
“I’m joking, Sylvio, only joking… OK, I’m going to be serious for two seconds. I admit, there’s something strange about this case. A connection between all the elements that isn’t quite coming together.”
A flash appears in Sylvio’s eyes.
“I absolutely agree with you, Chief…” He hesitates. “By the way, I have something to show you. Something that’s going to surprise you.”
15
Fanette has been running, as she does every day at the end of school. She has left the other children in the class behind, and since then she has been playing hide-and-seek through the lanes of Giverny to avoid bumping into Vincent, Camille, or Mary again. It’s too easy! She knows all the lanes by heart. Once again, Paul wanted to go with her, just him, not the others. He told her he didn’t want to leave her alone because of the criminal who might be stalking the streets, but she stuck to her principles and said nothing.
It’s my secret!
There it is, she’s nearly there. She passes the bridge, the washhouse, that rickety old mill with the tower that scares her.
I swear to you, Paul, tomorrow, I’ll tell you who it is, the secret meeting I’ve been having every day for a week. I’ll tell you tomorrow.
Or the day after.
Fanette continues on her way, along the path toward the meadow.
James is there.
He is standing a little farther off, in the wheat field, in the middle of four easels. Fanette silently steps forward.
“It’s me!”
A big smile distorts James’s white beard. He holds Fanette tightly in his arms. Just for a moment.
“Hurry up then, little imp. To work!” There aren’t many hours of daylight left. Her school day ends far too late.
Fanette goes and stands at one of the easels, the one that James lends her—the smallest one, suited to her height. She leans toward the big varnished wooden paint box and helps herself to tubes and brushes.
Fanette doesn’t know much about the old painter she met a week ago, except that he’s American, that his name is James, and that he paints here almost every day. He told her that she is the most gifted little girl he’s ever met, and he has met a great many, from all over the world. He used to be an art teacher in the United States, he tells her. He never stops saying that she talks all the time, and even though she’s very gifted, she needs to concentrate more. Like Monet did. She needs to be able to observe and imagine. That’s James’s refrain. Observe and imagine. And paint quickly too; that’s why he brings four easels, to be able to paint as soon as the light settles on a corner of the landscape, as soon as the shadows move, the colors change. He told her that Monet brought six easels with him when he walked in the fields. He paid children her age to carry everything, early in the morning and late in the evening.
The nerve of it! James was just trying to trick her into carrying his things, Fanette thought. She guessed what he was up to, but pretended to believe him.
James is nice, but he tends to get himself muddled up with old Monet a bit too much.
And to treat me as if I’m an idiot!
“Stop daydreaming, Fanette. Paint!”
The little girl tries to reproduce the Norman washhouse, the bridge over the stream, the mill beside it. She has already been painting for quite a while.
“Do you know who Theodore Robinson is? Our teacher talked about him.”
“Why?”
“She’s entered the class for a competition. An international competition, Mr. James. Yes, INTERNATIONAL… The Robinson prize! If I win I’ll get to travel to Japan, or Russia, or Australia… I’ll see. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, well!”
“Not to mention the money…”
James gently sets down his palette on his paint box. Sooner or later, he is going to dunk his beard into the paint. As he does every day.
Green, today.
I’m a bit mean, I never tell him when his beard is covered in paint. It makes me laugh too much.
James comes over.
“You know, Fanette, if you work hard, if you believe it, then you really do have a real chance of winning that competition.”
He’s scaring me a bit.
James must notice that Fanette is peering at his beard. He runs his finger over it, spreading the green paint a little more.
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not teasing you, Fanette. I’ve told you before. You have a gift. There’s nothing you can do about it, that’s just how it is. You were born with it. And you know it too. You have a talent for painting. More than that, even. A little touch of genius, in a way. But none of that matters if…”
“If I don’t work, is that it?”
“Yes, you must work. It’s indispensable. Otherwise, talent… well… Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to say to you…”
James moves slowly. He tries to step over the ears of wheat to avoid crushing them. He shifts the position of one of the easels as if the sun up there had suddenly put on a sprint.
“What I was trying to say, Fanette, is that
genius is useless if you’re not capable of… how can I put it? Capable of being selfish.”
“What?”
Sometimes James comes out with complete nonsense.
“Selfishness! My little Fanette, genius annoys every person who doesn’t have it, which is to say almost everyone. Genius takes you away from the people you love, and makes others jealous. Do you understand?”
He rubs his beard, smearing the paint all over the place. He doesn’t even notice. He’s old, James is. Old old old.
“No, I don’t understand at all!”
“Let me put it another way. If I take myself as an example, it was my absolute dream to come and paint in Giverny, to discover Monet’s landscapes for myself. You can’t imagine, in my village in Connecticut, the hours I spent looking at reproductions of those paintings, how many times I dreamed of them. The poplars, the Epte, the water lilies, Nettles Island… Do you think it was worth it, leaving my wife, my children, my grandchildren, at the age of sixty-five? What was more important? My dream of painting here, or spending Halloween and Thanksgiving with my family?”
“Well…”
“You see, you are hesitating. Well, I didn’t hesitate! And believe me, Fanette, I don’t regret a single thing. But I live here almost like a tramp. And I don’t have a quarter of your talent. So do you see what I mean when I say you need to be selfish? Do you think those first American painters who stayed at the Hôtel Baudy in Monet’s time didn’t take risks too? That they didn’t have to leave everything behind?”
I don’t like it when James starts talking like this. It’s as if he’s thinking exactly the opposite of what he says. As if he really does regret it, he is bored to death, as if he is thinking about his family in America all the time.
Fanette picks up a brush.
“Well, Monsieur James, I must get back to work. Sorry to be selfish, but I have a competition to win.”
James bursts out laughing.
“You’re right, Fanette. I’m just a grumpy old fool.”
“And a mad one. You haven’t even told me who Robinson is yet!”
James steps over and looks at Fanette’s work. Narrows his eyes.
“Theodore Robinson was an American artist. He was the most famous Impressionist where I come from, the United States. He was the only American artist ever to become close personal friends with Monet. Claude Monet usually avoided other people like the plague. Robinson stayed in Giverny for eight years. He even painted the wedding of Monet’s favorite stepdaughter, Suzanne, to the young American painter Theodore Butler. And it’s strange, Fanette, another of his most famous paintings depicts precisely the same scene that you are painting at the moment…”