by Michel Bussi
But that is unthinkable.
It isn’t serious. He realizes, not without a certain pride, that he still has a good memory.
He returns to reception half an hour later. Good old Liliane, she waited for him!
“Did you find what you were looking for, Chief Inspector?”
“Yes. Thank you, Liliane.”
Chief Inspector Laurentin observes Liliane tenderly. He remembers the day when she was given the job at Vernon, thirty years ago now. He had called her into his office, Room 33. She wasn’t yet twenty-five but already she possessed that kind of elegance that is rare among policewomen.
“What’s the new boss like, Liliane?”
“Not bad. Not as good as you…”
“Liliane, can I ask a favor? I don’t know anything about computers. You’re probably more clued up than I am now.”
“I don’t know. What do you want?”
“It’s a kind of… counter-investigation, I would say. I suppose you know your way around the Internet?”
Liliane smiles confidently.
“I don’t,” the chief inspector continues. “I retired too early. And I have no children or grandchildren to keep me up to date. I need to consult a website—wait, I wrote it down somewhere…”
Chief Inspector Laurentin rummages in his pockets and takes out a yellow Post-it with some words scribbled in clumsy writing.
“Here. It’s a website called Copains d’avant. I’m looking for an item from Giverny, a school photograph dated 1936–37.”
44
“James! James!”
Fanette runs close by the washhouse and crosses the wheat field where James paints each day. She is carrying, wrapped in a large sheet of brown paper, the painting of the water-lily pond that she has just begun on the Japanese bridge.
“James!”
Fanette can’t see anyone in the field, not even an easel, not even a straw hat. There is no trace of James. Fanette wants to surprise the American painter, show him her rainbow Water Lilies, listen to his advice, and tell him her idea about painting vanishing lines. She peers around for a moment, then crouches down and hides her painting behind the washhouse, in a little space that she has spotted under the cement.
Without anyone noticing.
She gets back up, drops of sweat pearling on her neck. She ran all the way here, to see that big layabout James. Fanette crosses the bridge again.
“James! James!”
Neptune, who was sleeping in the shade of the cherry tree by the witch’s mill, hears her. He passes through the entrance and trots toward her.
“Neptune, have you seen James?”
Neptune isn’t interested; he goes and sniffs the nearby ferns.
Sometimes that dog annoys me.
“James!”
Fanette tries to get her bearings in the sun. James always follows the sun, like a big lizard, less for the luminous quality it lends the countryside than for the comfort of his siesta.
Maybe that old slacker has fallen asleep in the field.
“James, wake up, it’s Fanette. I have a surprise for you.”
She goes on walking. The wheat brushes against her waist.
My God!
Her legs collapse beneath her.
The wheat in front of her is red! Not just red. Green, blue, orange. The colored ears of wheat have been flattened, as if someone has had a fight here, as if someone has knocked over a palette and disemboweled the tubes.
What could have happened?
I’ve got to think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the people of the village weren’t too keen on wandering painters, but to go from that to having a fight with James? An old artist who never hurt a soul…
An enormous shiver runs through Fanette’s body. She stops, petrified. In front of her is a path of flattened wheat, the stalks red, like a bloody trail. As if someone has dragged himself through the field.
James.
Fanette’s thoughts run wild.
James has had an accident, he’s injured, he’s waiting for my help, somewhere in the meadow.
The path of flattened wheat stops abruptly, in the middle of the field. Fanette stumbles on, parts the ears of wheat, cries out, stamps her feet. The field is enormous.
“Neptune. Please help me, help me look…”
The German shepherd hesitates, as if wondering what is expected of him. Then, all of a sudden, he starts to run across the plain. He goes in a straight line. Fanette tries to follow him, but it isn’t easy with the wheat lashing her arms, her thighs.
“Wait for me, Neptune!”
The dog waits obediently a hundred yards away, almost in the middle of the field. Fanette advances.
Suddenly her heart stops.
Behind the German shepherd, a patch of the field is flattened, an area three feet by six, just enough room for a prostrate body.
A straw coffin. That’s the first image that comes into her head.
James is there. He isn’t asleep.
He is dead.
A bloody gash opens up between his chest and his throat. Fanette falls to her knees and her mouth fills with bile.
James is dead. Someone has killed him!
Flies buzz around the open wound. They make a terrible noise. Fanette wants to scream, but she can’t. The acid bile burns her throat and she vomits up a viscous liquid over her trousers and her shoes. She doesn’t have the courage to rub them clean. She doesn’t have any courage at all. Her hands twist together. A swarm of flies licks at her feet. She needs to get help. She straightens up and starts running like crazy. The wheat bites at her ankles and her knees. Her belly is cramped with pain. She coughs, spits, a thread of saliva splashes her cheek, but she goes on running. She passes the stream, the mill, the bridge, the Chemin du Roy, without slowing down. A car slams to a halt just in front of her.
Idiot!
Fanette runs down the road until she is in the village.
“Mom!”
She goes back up the Rue du Château d’Eau. She is screaming now:
“Mom!”
Fanette violently pushes open the door, which bangs against the coatrack that is nailed to the wall. She enters the house. Her mother is standing in the kitchen, at the work surface, as always. Blue smock. Hair pulled back. She drops everything, knife, vegetables, without thinking.
“My little one, my poor little one…”
Her mother doesn’t understand. She spreads her arms wide, holds out her hands, instinctively. Fanette takes just the one, and pulls on it.
“Maman, you’ve got to come… Quickly!”
Her mother doesn’t move.
“Please…”
“What’s wrong, Fanette? Calm down, tell me.”
“Mom… he’s… he’s…”
“Calm down, Fanette. Who are you talking about?”
Fanette coughs, choking. She mustn’t lose it. Her mother holds out a cloth. Fanette wipes her face and bursts into tears.
“Gently, Fanette, gently. Tell me what’s going on.”
Her mother strokes her hands, rests her shoulder against her temple, like lulling a baby to sleep.
Fanette coughs again, then manages to articulate a few words.
“It’s James, Mom, the painter. James is dead. Down there, in the field!”
“What are you saying?”
“Come. Come on!”
Fanette suddenly gets to her feet and starts tugging her mother’s hand once more.
“Come quickly!”
Listen to me, just for once, I beg you.
Her mother falters. The little girl chants her command, louder each time.
“Come on! Come!”
Fanette seems almost hysterical. Some curtains on the Rue du Château d’Eau are being pulled back. The neighbors must think the little one is having some sort of tantrum. Her mother has no choice.
“I’m coming, Fanette, I’m coming.”
They cross the bridge over the stream. Neptune has returned and has fallen asleep under the
cherry tree, in the courtyard of the mill. Fanette drags her mother by the hand.
Faster, Mom.
They step forward into the meadow.
“Over there!”
Fanette walks into the field. She remembers the way even without Neptune; she recognizes the flattened wheat. She keeps on walking and reaches the exact spot where James is lying, she’s sure it’s here.
“This is the place, Mom, right here.”
The hand her mother was holding falls limply. Fanette feels dizzy. Her eyes widen in disbelief.
There is no one there.
No body lying in front of them.
I must have made a mistake, I must have got the wrong place, by a few yards…
“He was here, Mom… Or somewhere close by.”
Fanette’s mother looks at her daughter strangely, but she allows herself to be guided by the hand pulling her. Fanette goes on looking; she searches the field for a long time. Then she starts to get annoyed, with her, with everything.
“He was here, I swear…”
Her mother doesn’t say a word; she simply follows her calmly. A sly little voice slips inside Fanette’s head, a tiny worm in the fruit.
She thinks I’m insane. My mother thinks I’m insane.
“He was—”
Suddenly her mother stops walking.
“That’s enough, Fanette!”
“He was here, Mom. He had a deep wound between his heart and his throat…”
“Your American painter?”
“Yes, James.”
“Fanette, I’ve never seen your American painter. No one has ever seen him.”
Never seen him? What does she mean? Vincent has seen him, Paul knows him too. Everyone…
“We’ve got to call the police. He was dead, I tell you. Someone has killed him. Someone has taken his body and put it somewhere.”
Don’t look at me like that, Mom. I’m not insane. Please believe me, you’ve got to believe me…
“No one’s going to call the police, Fanette. There is no body, there has been no crime. There is no painter. You have too much imagination, my little Fanette. Much too much.”
What’s she going on about? What does she mean?
Fanette screams: “No, you can’t…”
Her mother bends down gently until she is level with her daughter’s eyes.
“OK, Fanette. I take back what I said. I want to believe you, to trust in you again. But if your painter exists, if he’s dead, if he’s been murdered, then someone will notice. Someone will look for him and find him. And that someone will tell the police.”
“But…”
“This isn’t the concern of an eleven-year-old girl, Fanette. The police have better things to do at the moment, believe me. They already have another corpse to deal with, a real corpse that everyone has seen, and no murderer. And we already have enough problems, without attracting even more attention to ourselves.”
I’m not insane!
“I’m not insane, Mom.”
“Of course not, Fanette. No one said you were. It’s late now, it’s time to go home.”
Fanette is crying. She has no strength left; she follows the hand that guides her.
He was here.
James was here. I can’t have invented it all. James exists, of course he does.
And his easels? a voice screams in her head. His four easels? His lovely box of paints? His canvases? His painting knives?
Where have they gone?
You don’t just disappear like that.
I am not insane!
The soup doesn’t taste good.
Her mother has rubbed out the questions that Fanette had written on the slate, and replaced them with a shopping list. Vegetables, always. A sponge. Milk. Eggs. Matches.
The house is in darkness.
Fanette goes to her room.
That evening she doesn’t sleep. She wonders if she should disobey her mother, and go and tell the police everything. Tomorrow.
I’m not insane… But if I go and see the police, all on my own, Mom will never forgive me. The first thing the police will do is come and tell her everything. Mom doesn’t want to have anything to do with the police. That must be because of her cleaning. If the rich families thought that she was involved with the police they would be reluctant to take her on. I’m sure it’s that.
But I can’t just do nothing either! I have trouble thinking—my poor brain has turned to jelly.
I have to look. I have to understand what happened. I have to find some proof, take it to my mother, to the police, to everyone.
That’s why I need someone to help me.
I’ll start tomorrow, I’ll lead the investigation. No, tomorrow there’s school, it’s going to be a long, long wait, locked up indoors all day. But as soon as school is out, I’m going to look.
With Paul. I’ll tell Paul everything. Paul will understand.
I’m not insane.
45
Laurenç Sérénac picks up the phone with a hint of anxiety. It’s rare for him to be called at 1:30 in the morning, especially on his personal number. The voice at the other end of the line doesn’t reassure him. It is whispering incomprehensible words. He just manages to make out “maternity” and “United States.”
“Who is this, for God’s sake?”
The voice becomes slightly more audible.
“It’s Sylvio, Chief. Your deputy.”
“Sylvio? Damn it, it’s one o’clock in the morning. Speak louder, for heaven’s sake, I can only make out one word in three.”
The strength of the voice increases slightly.
“I’m at the maternity unit. Béatrice is asleep in her room, so I’ve taken the opportunity to slip out into the corridor… We have some news!”
“So it’s the big day? You wanted your favorite boss to be the first to know? Congratulate Béatr—”
“No,” Sylvio cuts in, “I’m phoning about the investigation. With the baby and Béatrice it’s more a case of wait and see. We rushed to the maternity unit of Vernon Hospital because Béatrice thought she was having contractions. We waited for two hours at the so-called accident and emergency department, just to be told that Béatrice wasn’t going to give birth for a while, that the baby was calm, relaxed, in the warm, and that everything was fine. In the end Béa was so insistent that they ended up giving her a room. Oh, Béatrice says hello, by the way.”
“Wish her the best of luck from me.” Sérénac yawns. “Fine, Sylvio, go ahead. Tell me, what is this scoop of yours?”
Bénavides replies as if he hasn’t been listening. “How was your day at Monet’s gardens?”
Laurenç Sérénac hesitates, trying to find the right word.
“Disturbing. And you, what about the Beaux-Arts in Rouen?”
“Instructive.”
“And that’s why you’ve called me?”
“No. In terms of the Beaux-Arts, I have quite a bit of new information, but it complicates everything we already know, so we’ll have to go through some things…”
The sound of footsteps echoes from the receiver, almost drowning out what Sylvio says next.
“Hang on, boss, they’re bringing in a girl on a stretcher, and I don’t think it’s going to fit in the elevator.”
Sérénac waits for a moment, then gets annoyed:
“Are they done? Right, your information.”
“OK. I’ve found Aline Malétras.”
Laurenç Sérénac stifles a curse.
“You mean the bombshell? Morval’s mistress, the one who works for an art gallery in Boston?”
“Exactly. Because of the time difference I couldn’t get through to her during the day. But in the end I managed to speak to her a quarter of an hour ago, between two cocktails. It must be about eight o’clock on the East Coast.”
“So did she tell you anything?”
“About Morval’s murder, no. She seems to have a concrete alibi. On the morning of the murder she was just leaving a nightclub in a New
York suburb, hold on…” He reads. “The Krazy Bald-head, and there was a gang of witnesses. We’ll have to check it out, but—”
“We’ll check, Sylvio, but it’s true that she doesn’t seem to be the kind of girl to go home alone. And in terms of job, paintings, gallery, collections, do you see a connection with Morval?”
“Not from what she’s told me. She hasn’t heard from our ophthalmologist for almost ten years.”
“What do you think?”
“She was in a hurry. She cut me off. She only remembered that he was crazy about the paintings of Claude Monet, and that she found it a bit, how shall I put it, ‘common.’ I think she said something like that.”
“And she’s still working for the Robinson Foundation?”
“Yes. According to her, she deals with exchanges between France and the United States. Exhibitions, welcoming artists on both sides of the Atlantic, exchanges of paintings.”
“At what level?”
“She seemed to imply that she was on first-name terms with all the fashionable painters on both continents, and that she went and picked up their paintings from their studios, but maybe she just goes to gallery openings and offers people champagne and canapés.”
“Hmm. We really need to know more about this damned Theodore Robinson Foundation.” He yawns again. “Tell me, Sylvio, I don’t want to offend you, but the lovely Aline doesn’t seem to have told you very much. Was it worth calling me up in the middle of the night just for that?”
“There’s one more thing, Chief.”
“Ah…” Sérénac pricks up his ears.
“According to Aline Malétras, she went out with Jérôme Morval about fifteen times, including the time we saw in the photograph. That was taken in the Club Zed, Rue des Anglais, in Paris, in the fifth arrondissement. That was ten years ago. Aline Malétras was twenty-two years old but she wasn’t a blushing violet. Morval had money and everything was going well until—”
“Speak louder, damn it!”
“Until Aline Malétras fell pregnant.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said.”
“And did she keep it, the little Morval?”