Aaron Elkins - Gideon Oliver 04 - Old Bones

by Old Bones

  "Monsieur, I don’t deal in talk." A fine close. Georges Bonfante snapped shut the latches of his attaché case with firm, incontestable clicks. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think our business here—"

  "There was going to be a new will!" Claude said, his voice urgent despite the slurring. "What the hell do you suppose this council was going to be about?"

  The others shifted and glanced embarrassedly at each other. Leona Fougeray, eyes blazing, appeared to be on the verge of throttling her husband. Claire looked stricken; pale and trembling. Ray took her hand in his and squeezed it.

  "I want what’s mine," Claude whispered hoarsely. Two viscous tears rolled unevenly down his cheeks.

  Claire, weeping, took a step towards him, but her mother held her back with a thin, rigid arm. "He’s made his bed; let him sleep in it," she said through clenched teeth.

  "For heaven’s sake, the man is blind drunk," Jules said, his face pouchy with disapproval. "Why do we stand here arguing with him?"

  "Oh, is he drunk?" René murmured in his wondering way, causing Mathilde to raise her eyes to the beamed ceiling.

  Beatrice Lupis grunted. "Is he ever sober?"

  "Sh," Marcel said decorously. "This isn’t your affair."

  But Jules had snickered and Claude had heard. "You," he whispered malignantly to Madame Lupis, "don’t you dare… don’t you ever talk to me like …you fat-assed slut—"

  With lithe and shockingly unexpected speed Marcel Lupis stepped forward. The long, olive fingers of his right hand snaked out and grasped the lower part of Claude’s face like pincers, "Be quiet, you," Marcel said with all the passion he habitually employed to announce dinner. But his eyes were like gray ice, and when he took his hand away, Claude was silent.

  Claire burst suddenly into strangled tears and ran from the library, her hands to her mouth. Ray went after her. An instant later Marcel walked out, followed at once by Madame Lupis, and then by the others.

  None of them looked at Claude, whose spongy face was the color of putty except where Marcel’s fingers had left ugly, bright-pink dents a quarter of an inch deep.

  "RAYMOND, do stop pacing, and come and sit down.

  Eat some breakfast. Have a croissant."

  "Uh, I’m not hungry, thanks, Sophie. Uh, what time is it?"

  "It’s 8:50," Ben said, watching him curiously.

  "Well, either come and sit down anyway, or go outside," Sophie said. "You’re making me nervous."

  Ray threw himself restlessly onto the loveseat near the two armchairs in which they sat before the big, bright leaded glass window. Their breakfasts—coffee, croissants, rolls, butter, and jelly—were on a small round table in front of them.

  "That’s better," Sophie said. She and Ben continued to eat.

  Ray crossed his left leg over his right. Then he uncrossed them and crossed his right leg over his left. He wiggled his right foot and sighed. He jiggled the coins in his pocket.

  "What time is it now, please?" he asked.

  "It’s 8:52," Ben said. "Approximately. Would you like to borrow my watch?"

  "No, no, I never wear one. Sophie, just how are the Fougerays related to us?"

  She glanced up from buttering a torn-off end of her croissant. "Astronomically. Geologically."

  "Well, but how, exactly?"

  She popped the croissant into her mouth and licked butter from her little finger. "Well, let’s see. Claude is Guillaume’s cousin, you understand. And Guillaume was some sort of distant uncle of mine, and you’re my nephew, so—"

  "Sorry, hon," Ben said. "I hate to bring it up, but you and Guillaume were fourth cousins."

  She looked at him. "Truly? But he’s so much older, after all."

  "Doesn’t matter. Your great-great-grandfathers were brothers, and that makes Guillaume your cousin, not your uncle. And while we’re at it, Ray here’s your first cousin once removed, not your nephew."

  "Don’t be ridiculous. He’s Jeanne’s boy."

  Ben shook his head. "And Jeanne was your first cousin. Child of a first cousin is a first cousin once removed."

  Ray had heard this argument before, and he was on Sophie’s side. She and Ben had always been his aunt and uncle, and that was that. "But what about the Fougerays?" he said. "How are—oh, just for the sake of discussion—how are Claire and I related?"

  "Lord knows," Ben said.

  "Oh, come on, Ben," Sophie said. "You understand these things. You’re a lawyer."

  He laughed. "I’m a corporate lawyer. But I think—I think—Claire is the daughter of the first cousin of Ray’s fourth cousin once removed—Guillaume, that is—only from the other side of the family, so…"

  "Good heavens," Ray said, "I’m sorry I asked." He sagged back against the seat. Anything, beyond first cousins had always been and still was an impenetrable mystery to him.

  At that moment, Claire appeared, calm and cool in a belted trench coat. Wearing lipstick. Ray jumped up as if he’d been jabbed. After three steps he turned around to Ben and Sophie.

  "Oh, thanks," he said. "Er…’Bye." And, with Claire, he was gone.

  Sophie and Ben looked at each other, each with a single eyebrow raised. "I’ll be damned," Ben said, and got a look on his face that usually meant a homily was forthcoming. But for once he couldn’t think of one.

  HALF an hour later, Beatrice Lupis was laying out café crème and croissants for René du Rocher, who was seated in one of the pleasantly situated chairs in which the Buttses had had their breakfast. Mathilde was starting her first full day as mistress of the manoir by sleeping late. René was considering this unusual occurrence, wondering where it might lead, when four men in the dark berets and faded blue smocks that are the workman’s uniform of France appeared at the door.

  "We are here to begin on the drains, madame," their spokesman announced when Beatrice opened the door.

  "The drains?" Beatrice replied, and then smacked her forehead. She had completely forgotten. The ancient household drains had been showing their age in unpleasant ways for some time, but Guillaume, for reasons of his own, had chosen to ignore the problem so that the resourceful Beatrice had taken it on herself to have it attended to. Because no one even knew precisely where the drains were, the first step was the tearing up of the stone flooring in the cellar, and it was this the workmen had come to do.

  But this was not the time for it. There was a turbulent exchange between Beatrice and the foreman. Guillaume du Rocher had just been laid in his grave, she pointed out heatedly; surely out of respect for him the work might be postponed for a week?

  Certainly, the foreman replied, using his tongue to shift a toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right. That would be possible, but four days’ masonry work had been contracted to begin today, and the equipment had been brought all the way from St. Brieuc. He had no choice, he was sorry to say, but to bill them for the contracted labor and equipment costs, whether or not the work was done. They would be happy to come back later, but they would have to charge all over again. It made little difference to him, he explained, and the toothpick moved back to the left. It was up to madame.

  But it was monsieur who resolved the matter. René, aware that he was responsible for the domaine’s outlay as well as its income, came to the doorway and suggested that it might be best to permit the work, inasmuch as it was being paid for anyway. The men would be out of sight in the cellar, after all, and if they kept their noise to a minimum, used the back entrances, and were generally discreet, why, no impropriety would be done.

  Beatrice deferred and led the workmen around the kitchen entrance. René was well-pleased with the results of his timely and authoritative intercession, but before his second cup of coffee had been drunk the foreman was back. His trousers and sleeves were powdered with fine gray dust.

  "Monsieur?" He approached, a great deal more diffident than he’d been before; actually wringing his hands, in fact. Had he not left his beret in the cellar he would certainly have been twisting it. The toothpick was not
to be seen.

  "Monsieur…we’ve found…in the cellar …we’ve found…"

  "What, what?" asked René, alarmed.

  The foreman swallowed and took another step forward. "In the cellar …there’s a…a…"

  SIX

  "A skeleton?" Sergeant Denis stopped doodling. He sat straight up in his hard plastic chair and pressed the telephone closer to his ear with his shoulder. "Did you say a skeleton?"

  "Yes…Well, that is, not a whole one. There’s no… no head."

  "No head. I see. Monsieur du Rocher, is it?"

  "Yes, René du Rocher." This time Denis wrote it down. "And you found it in the cellar?"

  "Yes. That is, the workmen did. It was buried in the floor, under the stones. It’s been, er, wrapped in paper."

  "And you’re certain it’s human?"

  A pause. "Well, we think so. Mr. Fougeray, my—one of my guests—said it was."

  "A doctor, this Mr. Fougeray?"

  "Oh, no. He owns—er, he’s a butcher." "A butcher," Denis said, writing dutifully.

  "He said if it wasn’t a person, then it might be a large monkey of some kind, perhaps a gorilla."

  Oh, yes, Denis thought. A gorilla buried in the cellar of the Manoir de Rochebonne. Wrapped in paper. Well, it had been a foolish question.

  "Monsieur du Rocher, please touch nothing—"

  "Oh, no, of course not."

  "—and lock up the cellar."

  "Lock it up? I’m not sure there’s a lock."

  "Close the door, then." Denis paused. "There is a door?"

  "Yes. Well, I’m sure there must be."

  "Close it then, and don’t allow anyone in. I’ll have someone there shortly."

  "Fleury," Denis said when he replaced the receiver, "go on out to the Manoir de Rochebonne—you know the place?"

  Fleury looked up from the well-thumbed office copy of Lui. "Near Ploujean?"

  "Yes. Someone’s found a skeleton in the cellar. I want you to keep it secure until the chief gets there. And take some statements."

  "Fine," Fleury said, rolling up the magazine and wedging it into its place behind the A-G file cabinet. He stretched. Nothing ever surprised Fleury very much. "You’re really going to call Monsieur Giscard on this? It’s probably just a goat."

  Denis looked up. "A goat? Why a goat?"

  Fleury shrugged. "Why a person?"

  Sergeant Denis eyed him. He had never understood Fleury very well. "People don’t bury goats in cellars." Or gorillas either.

  Fleury shrugged. "Isn’t Monsieur Giscard at his convention in St. Malo all week?"

  "It’s not a convention, it’s an institute, very scientific, with professors giving lectures. But he’ll have to be interrupted."

  Fleury grinned. "He’ll probably appreciate it. He gets grumpy when he’s around anyone smarter than he is."

  FLEURY was right. Four and a half days of relentlessly abstruse scientific lectures had made Monsieur Giscard— that is, Inspector Lucien Anatole Joly—somewhat irascible. And the fact that most of the undeniably brilliant presenters were a decade or two younger than he was had not helped matters. True, there had been some high points: Gideon Oliver in particular was a lucid and engaging lecturer with, thank God, a sense of humor—an attribute not seemingly in great supply among scientists.

  Still, what practical value was there in what he had to tell them? In over twenty years of police work Joly had called for the assistance of a forensic anthropologist three times, and not once could he say that it had made the difference between resolving a case and not resolving it. No, when it came down to it everything turned on the application of the well-established methodology of criminal investigation, diligently pursued. Without that, there was nothing, no matter how many forensic scientists you had on your side, gabbling about sternocleidomastoidal insertions, or sarcosaprophagous insects, or carboxyhemoglobin levels.

  By the fifth afternoon, he was restless and bored, and he had begun to think up excuses for calling his office. When the message came for him to do just that, he responded with a sigh of relief and left the lecture hall with such alacrity that he stumbled over the legs of the Hawaiian FBI man dozing so comfortably in the aisle seat.

  "Pardon, monsieur," Joly said.

  "No problem," said the FBI man amiably without opening his eyes.

  WHEN he had hung up after talking to Denis, Joly called the public prosecutor, Monsieur Picard, to inform him of the case, as was his duty. This he did, as usual with some resentment. Pleasant and harmless he might be, but Monsieur Picard was not a policeman and didn’t think like one, and to be subordinate to him was a raw, never-ending frustration. That was the one thing Joly admired about the American justice system with its impossible decentralization of police powers into thousands of squabbling jurisdictions. At least they were not under the thumb of the damned judiciary.

  Picard, never content simply to let the professionals do their work, would figure out some way of interfering, even in a case like this.

  As indeed he did. "Listen, Joly," he said after he had heard the details, "isn’t that American skeleton expert at your conference?"

  Joly was hardly concerned that the gritting of his teeth might be heard at the other end of the line. "Yes, sir," he said, as near as it can be done without opening the mouth.

  "Well, I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you talk with him and see if…"

  GIDEON remained at the lectern for a few minutes after his third presentation of the week, answering the questions of a few people who had clustered around him. This was over swiftly, however; the attendees were anxious to take full advantage of the coffee break to fortify themselves for the upcoming session on "Recent Advances in Ionization Analysis by Means of the Gas Chromatograph-Mass Spectrometer."

  When they left, he began crating the two skulls and assorted bones the University of Rennes had lent him. (He had wanted to use his own demonstration materials from the anthropology lab in Port Angeles, but the postal authorities there had made uneasy noises about shipping dismembered human remains across international borders, and in the end it had seemed simpler to borrow them in France.) He was feeling cheerful as he packed the bones in polystyrene chips. For one thing the lectures were going well; for another it was very pleasant to be at a conference strictly as a presenter and not an attendee. It meant he could skip sessions when he felt like it. (He always could, of course, but this way he didn’t feel guilty.) And inasmuch as ionization analysis exerted less than a hypnotic pull on him and the weather was brightening, he thought he might get a taxi into the Old Town and walk the famous ramparts.

  John Lau came up sipping one cup of coffee and holding out a second. "Here. It’s good."

  "Ah, thanks, John." He sipped gratefully. "Sorry if I spoiled your nap."

  John laughed, the sudden, baby-like burble of pleasure that always made Gideon smile in return. "Sorry, Doc. I didn’t think you noticed."

  "Only when you snored."

  "Ah, hey, come on. Anyway, it wasn’t your lecture. It was that second beer with lunch."

  "It was that third beer."

  The big FBI agent considered solemnly. "That too," he said.

  "How are you going to make it through an hour and a half of ionization analysis?" Gideon asked unsympathetically. John was an attendee; he wasn’t supposed to spend his afternoons walking around St. Malo.

  John blew out his breath. "Oh, Christ. I—" He turned and moved a step to the side, with what Gideon had come to recognize as a policeman’s instinctive discomfort at sensing someone behind him.

  "Pardon me," the man said in a cultivated, nasal voice with only a slight French accent. "I didn’t mean to interrupt."

  "That’s all right." Gideon recognized him; a tall, bald, self-contained man, rather stiff, who could have doubled for Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, except for his gleaming, steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been soberly attentive through Gideon’s lectures so far, and had asked several polite, intelligent questions, but always wi
th a discreetly veiled, unobtrusively superior skepticism; a man not inclined to accept anybody’s judgment but his own. He was exactly the sort of man whose posture, or way of speaking, or perhaps whose mere presence, brought out Gideon’s not-too-deeply-buried insecurities. All he had to do was gaze down his long nose and raise an eyebrow preparatory to making a remark, and Gideon felt like a ten-year-old in grownup’s clothes caught out playing pretend-scientist.

  "I am Inspector Joly of the OPJ—the Office of Judicial Police," he said, gazing down his long nose.

  John held out his hand. "John Lau, FBI, Seattle."

  Joly made a formal, straight-backed ghost of a bow to each of them and ceremoniously shook hands.

  "Something has come up that may be of interest to you, Dr. Oliver…"

  "ANY particular reason for assuming it’s human?" Gideon asked as Joly pulled the blue Renault out of the parking lot of the new St. Malo Conference and Exposition Center and turned south on the Boulevard des Talards. They skirted the industrial docks of the Bouvet Basin, where huge cranes glided like colossal spiders among the stacked container loads of coal, fertilizer, and wood pulp.

  "Yes, the attestation of a butcher," Joly said drily. "Aside from that, there are apparently some hand bones. I assume there wouldn’t be any other animals with anything like human hands—aside from the apes, of course."

  "As a matter of fact, there are. The skeleton of a bear’s paw isn’t hard to confuse with a human hand or foot. Even the flipper of a small whale."

  "Ah," said Joly.

  John, who had been quick to accept the inspector’s invitation to see the French criminal justice system in action, spoke up from the back seat. "Hey, great, we’re really narrowing things down. It’s either a person, a bear, or a whale. The case is practically solved."

  "Not quite," Gideon said, "there’s always the possibility of a polydactylous pig; that is, one in which the primary metapodials have shortened and doubled. It’s not that unusual, really…"