‘That one,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but I can’t put a name to it.’
Lucien nodded. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘But I can put a name to it.’
He looked quickly towards the bar and round the rest of the room, then drew even closer to Marc and Vandoosler.
‘It’s Georges Gosselin, Juliette’s brother,’ he whispered.
Vandoosler clenched his fists.
‘Pay the bill, St Mark,’ he said curtly. ‘We’re going home at once. Tell St Matthew to join us as soon as his shift’s over.’
XXXII
MATHIAS RAN HIS HANDS THROUGH HIS MASS OF BLOND HAIR GETTING it even more tousled, if that was possible. The others had told him everything and he was shattered. He had not even changed out of his waiter’s costume. Lucien, who felt he had done more than his bit for the time being, had decided to let the others get on with it and to move on to something else. While waiting to go and meet the photographer at six o’clock to pick up the first prints of the promised notebooks, he had decided to polish the big dining table. He had brought the refectory table into the house when they moved in, and did not want it spoilt by cavemen like Mathias or careless people like Marc. He was putting beeswax on it now, lifting the elbows in turn of Vandoosler, Marc and Mathias to get under them with his bulky cloth. Nobody protested, because they knew it would have no effect. Apart from the sound of the cloth polishing the wood, the silence lay heavy over the refectory as each of them tried to sort out and digest recent events.
‘If I’ve got it right,’ Mathias said at last, ‘Georges Gosselin attacked Sophia and tried to rape her in her dressing-room fifteen years ago. Then he ran off and Daniel Dompierre saw him. Sophia didn’t say anything, because she thought it must have been Julien-is that right? A year or more later, the critic met Georges Gosselin and recognised him, so Gosselin shot him along with his pal Frémonville. But the way I see it, it’s far worse to kill two guys in cold blood than to be charged even with assault and attempted rape. A double murder is out of all proportion.’
‘The way you see it maybe,’ said Vandoosler. ‘But for a weak, secretive sort of person, to be put in prison for assault and rape might seem like the end of the world. He’d lose his image, his reputation, his work, and his peace of mind. What if he couldn’t bear to be seen for what he was, a brute, a potential rapist? He panics, acts instinctively, and shoots the two men.’
‘How long has he been living in rue Chasle?’ Marc asked. ‘Do we know that?’
‘Must be about ten years, I reckon,’ said Mathias. ‘Ever since the old grandfather with his beet fields left them his money. Juliette has been running Le Tonneau about ten years, so I guess they bought the house at about the same time.’
‘Well, that would make it five years after “Elektra” and the attack,’ said Marc, ‘and four years after the murder of the two critics. So why, after all that time, should he come and live near Sophia. Why was he so keen to stick close to her?’
‘Obsession, I suppose,’ said Vandoosler. ‘He was obsessed. He wanted to be close to the star he had tried to beat up and rape. Return to the scene of his crime, call it what you like. He wanted to come back, to watch and wait for her. Ten years waiting, with his secret violent thoughts, then one day he would kill her. Or have another go, and then kill her. A maniac, under the guise of an unobtrusive nobody.’
‘Does that actually happen?’ asked Marc.
‘Oh yes, it happens, alright,’ said Vandoosler. ‘I’ve caught at least five guys of that type. The slow killer, who chews over his frustration, and puts off the moment, calm as can be on the surface.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Lucien, lifting Mathias’ huge arms.
Now he was shining the table with a soft cloth, and barely listening to the conversation. Marc thought that he really would never understand Lucien. They were all sitting there intensely, with the murderer only a few yards away, and all Lucien could think of was polishing his table. And yet without him, they would have got nowhere. It was practically all his own work, but he didn’t give a damn.
‘Now I understand something,’ said Mathias.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Why I felt warm. I understand now.’
‘Well, what should we do next?’ Marc asked his godfather. ‘Tell Leguennec? If something else happens, and we haven’t told him, he’d have us for aiding and abetting.’
‘Yes, and concealing information from the agents of the law,’ said Vandoosler, with a sigh. ‘We’ll tell Leguennec, but not straightaway. There’s one little detail missing in this scenario that bothers me a bit. St Matthew, would you be so good as to ask Juliette to come over? Even if she’s cooking for tonight, ask her to come. It’s urgent. As for the rest of you,’ he said sternly, ‘not a word to anyone, do you understand. Not even to Alexandra. If a whisper of all this gets to Gosselin, I wouldn’t give much for your chances. So not a word until further notice.’
Vandoosler interrupted himself and grasped Lucien by the arm. Lucien was still polishing the table with wide sweeps, and stooping to the surface to take a view of how it was coming up.
‘Do you hear me, St Luke?’ said Vandoosler. ‘That means you too. Not a word. I hope you didn’t hint at any of this to your photographer?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Lucien. ‘I may be polishing the table, but I can hear what you’re saying.’
‘That’s just as well,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Sometimes you give the impression of being half-genius and half-idiot. It’s infuriating, take it from me.’
Mathias went off to change his clothes before going to fetch Juliette. Marc looked down at the table in silence. It was true that it was beautifully polished now. He ran his finger over it.
‘Feels good, huh?’ said Lucien.
Marc shook his head. He did not really want to talk about the table. He was wondering what Vandoosler had in store for Juliette, and how she would react. The godfather was good at breaking things, he had got it down to to a fine art. He always cracked nuts with his bare hands, never deigning to use a nutcracker. Even when they were fresh, which makes it harder. But that had nothing to do with this.
Mathias brought Juliette in and seemed to help her onto the bench. Juliette didn’t look at ease. It was the first time that the old commissaire had so formally asked her to come. She saw the three evangelists sitting round the table with their eyes fixed on her and that didn’t make her look any more comfortable. Only the sight of Lucien, carefully folding his polishing cloth, seemed to relax her a little.
Vandoosler lit one of the shapeless cigarettes he always had loose in his pockets, no-one knew why.
‘Marc told you about Dourdan, did he?’ said Vandoosler, looking hard at Juliette. ‘The production of “Elektra” in 1978, in Toulouse, and the attack on Sophia?’
‘Yes,’ said Juliette. ‘He said that complicated things without making them any clearer.’
‘Well, now, they’re becoming a bit clearer. St Luke, pass me the photo.’
Muttering, Lucien fished about in his bag and gave him the photograph. Vandoosler placed it in front of Juliette.
‘Fourth on the left, fifth row down, recognise him?’
Marc stiffened. He would never have gone about it this way.
Juliette glanced at the photograph but without concentrating.
‘No,’ she said. ‘How am I supposed to recognise anyone? It’s an opera Sophia was in, isn’t it? I’ve never seen an opera in my life.’
‘It’s your little brother,’ said Vandoosler. ‘And you know that as well as we do.’
Bang goes the nut, thought Marc. Single-handed. He saw the tears come into Juliette’s eyes.
‘Alright,’ she said with a trembling voice, her hands shaking. ‘It’s Georges. But what about it? What’s wrong?’