“Sure as shootin’.”
“Comment?”
“That means, yes, count on it.”
“Ah.” I nodded. “Have a good day. Ciao.”
Paul showed me out, and I walked back to the car. He had raised many more questions for me than he’d answered. He’d been out yesterday with a rifle. But of course, if he were a crack shot, he wouldn’t have missed. Then again, possibly…
Hell, I thought, possibly anything.
I got in the car and started off toward the road. I rounded a turn and came upon a group of youths running alongside a boy on a motorbike, heading back toward Paul’s house. It was still a bit chilly, and I’d left my windows up, so that as I passed the boys their voices were muffled and indistinct, though shrill, and blended with the noise of the motor. I had the uneasy feeling that I’d heard those same voices before.
13
Jacques Magiot and I had been acquaintances for over forty years, and a mutual antipathy had developed between us over the course of time. When he was beginning his career with the police, I was a gadabout. He was a few years older than I, and before we’d finished secondaire, we’d had many of the same friends. Our fathers, as a matter of fact, had been quite close. After they had retired, they spent most of their afternoons together playing boules. So it was more or less assumed that we would become friends. It never happened. Once he tried to recruit me to the force, and I’d laughed at the notion. From that time, the condescension with which he’d always treated me-friendly condescension, to be sure-turned to subtle derision. I think he always considered me a do-nothing, and it no doubt angered him when I began to increase my father’s already substantial fortune through my own resources. Still, we would meet at parties occasionally and exchange pleasantries. As a policeman, he was competent for routine problems, entirely without imagination, and through some admixture of luck and obstinancy had arrived at the position of police chief of Valence.
The police headquarters building was a large neoclassic monstrosity in the center of town. Arched and pillared, it might have been made by a blind, one-armed Roman. It was the largest building in town, built sans doute on the theory that if might makes right, big makes beautiful. Tant pis.
I was ushered down the hall from the front desk to the room of one of the subordinates, a Monsieur Procunier. He was a short, heavy bald man with a large nose and a florid complexion. He sat behind his desk and bade me sit facing him.
“Nice of you to come,” he began sarcastically. “We’ve been by your house several times. Have you received that message? There have been some murders lately, you realize.”
I nodded. “My good man, Monsieur Magiot knows where he can find me, and no one said there was any urgency. Indeed, there couldn’t have been, or you’d have stationed someone at the house and brought me here as soon as I appeared. Now I’m here, voluntarily, to answer questions, I presume, and I have little use for sarcasm. Let’s get on with it.” I smiled. “By the way, will Monsieur Magiot be in?”
“He’s in now. He’s to see you when I’m through taking your report.”
“Fine. I’m at your disposal.”
He asked me the same questions they’d asked the previous Wednesday, adding only a reference or two to Chatelet’s death. Did I have any suspicions? Had anything out of the ordinary happened to me since Wednesday? I didn’t know what Fritz might have told them, so I mentioned the episode with the rock and left out yesterday’s shooting incident.
“You think it was a prank?” he asked.
“Without any doubt. I heard children’s voices.”
“Would you like a police escort?”
“Good God, no! Whatever for?”
“Protection.”
So it went. How well did I know the people at the gathering? What was the purpose of the meeting? Did I know that if more than three people met at any time, it could be construed as a subversive gathering and was forbidden?
“Thank you,” I said. “Is that all?”
He directed me to Magiot. Jacques was dealing with some of his men when I entered, and I stood quietly by the door while he finished talking with them. After they’d filed out, he reached out his hand.
“Jules,” he said. “Good to see you. It’s been quite a while. Nasty business, this, eh? I’m awfully sorry about Routier. He was a good friend of yours, I understand. Do sit down. Cigarette?”
He carried his age very well. Though he was not compelled to by regulations, he preferred to wear his uniform while on duty, and it was well tailored. His dark hair was in a military cut over a disciplined and impassive face. He sat gripping his pipe lightly with both hands over the bowl, his elbows resting on the desk.
I took the cigarette, and sat. “How are you, Jacques? Your man Procunier is quite a personality.”
He waved it off. “Oh, sorry about that. I’ve just been so busy lately I’d rather have him take the routine things. You made a statement?”
“Oui.”
“Good. To tell the truth, I was a little concerned about the circumstances of the death at your place. Several foreigners, that sort of thing. You know gatherings of that size are forbidden.”
“To drink beer?”
“I know, I know. In your case, it’s rather silly. But there are reasons, as I’m sure you’ll understand. There have been rumors that Routier was mixed up in some international matters. Would you know anything about that?”
“Nothing whatever. We’d been friends for a long time, and he never mentioned anything to me. Also, Jacques, between us, he didn’t really seem the type, did he?”
He smiled condescendingly. “Yes. Well, I thought I’d ask.” He shifted in his chair and, looking down into the bowl of his pipe, said rather softly, “We think we know who did it.”
“Really,” I said. “Who?”
“How well do you know this Auguste Lupa? That was the first time he’d been to your house, wasn’t it?”
“Not exactly. He’d been there that morning. As to how well I know him-hardly at all. I only met him last Tuesday, and he seemed a nice enough chap. He’s really an excellent chef, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. That’s one of the reasons we find it strange he was there. He should be working at night. We’ve gone by La Couronne several times and have failed to find him. Why wouldn’t he be there during working hours?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It does seem suspicious.”
“Suspicious, ha! Damned suspicious, I’d say.”
“But, Jacques, you haven’t been able to get in touch with me either in all that time, and there’s nothing suspicious about me, is there?”
“I hate to bring it up, Jules, but you don’t work like your common man. Your hours are your own to order.”
I smiled to myself. Probably my wealth would gall him forever. “So you suspect Lupa?”
“Look at the facts,” he said. “Lupa’s the only new man at the party. He’s a foreigner, from Belgrade or somewhere-”
“He’s an American citizen,” I interrupted.
“All right, America. Doesn’t change the fact. Then, Routier’s sitting in Lupa’s seat and even drinking from his glass when he keels over. Lupa hadn’t even taken a sip from that glass. In the confusion of Lavoie’s glass breaking, Lupa dumps cyanide into the glass and arranges it so that Routier goes back to his seat. We don’t know exactly how he did that, but it seems reasonable. We’ve also got some problems with motive, though this international angle might come into play there. Then Lupa can’t be found when we want him, he refuses to cooperate at all, and”-here he paused for effect-“we went to see Vernet, the owner of La Couronne, and got Lupa’s papers, and they’re forged. Cleverly, but definitely. We’re going to pick him up tonight.”
I sighed. “Well, that’s certainly a relief, Jacques. I’m glad you’ve found him. It does look rather bad for him. Forged, you say?”