Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  There was an eeriness about the contrast between the careful order and cleanliness – the sheer banality of the room – and the gruesome sight of the corpse. The obligatory prints of paintings from the time of the great artists’ colony hung on the whitewashed walls. You could admire these prints even in the smallest cafés and shops in the village. Pont-Aven seemed to be wallpapered with them.

  Dupin went over the whole room very slowly a few times without looking for anything in particular, but found nothing. He clumsily took his little red notebook out of his trouser pocket and scribbled a few things on the page, practically at random.

  Somebody tried to force open the door but Dupin had locked it from inside, so they knocked loudly. Dupin was tempted to ignore it, but didn’t protest when Le Ber looked enquiringly at him and then went towards the door. It crashed open. All of a sudden, Salou had burst into the room and Labat’s eager voice was announcing, ‘Doctor Lafond is here. And the forensic experts, René Salou and his team.’

  Dupin heaved a deep sigh. He always forgot about Salou and his ‘scene of crime work’. René Salou was the greatest forensic expert in the world. He had turned up today with three people in tow who were now skulking behind him in silence. Dr Lafond was the last to come in, heading straight for the body. He murmured a barely audible ‘Bonjour, M’sieur’ in Dupin’s direction. It didn’t sound unfriendly.

  Salou turned briskly to Labat and Le Ber.

  ‘Gentlemen, if I could ask you to leave the room until our work is finished here. Only the Commissaire, Doctor Lafond and I should be here while my team is working. If you could have someone stand guard? Bonjour, Monsieur le Commissaire. Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur.’

  Dupin was finding it difficult to keep his anger in check. He didn’t say a word. The two men had never had much time for one another.

  ‘Docteur Lafond, if you would be so good as to make sure you don’t leave any new evidence behind you? Thank you.’

  Salou had produced his bulky camera.

  ‘My team will get started on the fingerprint work straight away. Lagrange, I want potential fingerprints first, from the bar, the glass, the bottle, from everything near the body. I want you to be systematic about it.’

  Lafond placed his bag on one of the tables near the bar, utterly calm and showing no sign of having heard Salou’s words at all.

  Dupin went to the door. He had to get out of there. He left the room without another word.

  By this time, there was considerably more noise coming from the little reception desk in the foyer. The news had definitely started to spread through the hotel and from there through the whole village. Some guests were standing at reception, all of them talking at once. Behind the crowded desk stood a short-haired, somewhat gaunt little woman with a large, pointy nose who was speaking in a firm voice. She was trying hard to seem calm.

  ‘No, no, don’t worry. We’ll sort it all out.’

  A murder in the hotel where you wanted to spend the most glorious weeks of the year; Dupin understood why the guests were upset, but he also felt sorry for the woman. It was just before the tourist season and Le Ber had said half of the hotel was booked up. Twenty-six guests were already there, four of them children, most of them from abroad; the majority of French people weren’t on holiday yet. The influx wouldn’t start properly for another week. Still, even if the hotel wasn’t booked out, the guests who were there were coming in and out, in the evenings and at night. Anyone who committed a murder somewhere like this would have to reckon with the possibility that somebody would notice something – that he would be seen, for instance, when he left the hotel through the foyer, or that someone would hear the struggle, a cry for help, Pennec’s scream as he fought for his life. Surely there were staff staying in the hotel at night too. It was a risky place to commit a murder.

  Le Ber came down the stairs. He gave the Commissaire a questioning look.

  ‘That’s the way it is, Le Ber. The crime scene belongs to the professionals for now.’

  Le Ber started to say something but stopped. He had learnt it was best not to ask Dupin about his methods or strategy. That was the only thing that used to annoy him about Le Ber when he first arrived, and sometimes it still happened – Le Ber always wanted to understand Dupin’s approach.

  ‘Where are the local police officers? Reception will have to be moved. I want to have this area free.’

  ‘Labat took them upstairs. He wanted to start questioning the guests about last night.’

  ‘I want only guests and staff coming in and out of this hotel from now on. Someone should be on duty in the foyer. Not you, someone from the local police force. You said an employee had found Pennec?’

  ‘Yes, Francine Lajoux. She’s worked here for more than forty years. She’s upstairs in the breakfast room now with a chambermaid. She’s in shock but we’ve called a doctor.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to her.’ Dupin hesitated a moment, undecided. Then he took out his notebook. ‘It’s five past nine now. Labat called at 7.47. He had just been informed by the police in Pont-Aven. They had taken a call from the hotel here. Madame Lajoux must have found Pierre-Louis Pennec around half past seven. That’s not even two hours ago. We don’t know anything yet.’

  Le Ber couldn’t believe that the Commissaire had actually made notes like this, even though it was generally known that Dupin had a note-taking method that was, to put it mildly, very unique.

  ‘Pierre-Louis Pennec has a son, Loic. There’s also a brother, a half-brother. He lives in Toulon. The family should be informed soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘A son? Where does he live?’

  ‘Here in Pont-Aven with his wife Catherine, down by the harbour. No children.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him straight away. But I’ll speak to Madame Lajoux first.’

  Le Ber knew it would be useless to argue, knew what the Commissaire was like when he was on a ‘proper case’. And this was a proper case.

  ‘I’ll get you Loic Pennec’s exact address and the phone number for the half-brother. André Pennec is a well-known conservative politician in the south, he’s been a member of parliament for twenty years.’

  ‘Is he here now? In the area, I mean?

  ‘No, not as far as we know.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll call him later. No other family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get Salou to tell you everything when he’s finished. And Lafond is to call me, even if he says that he won’t comment until his report is complete.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And I want to speak to Derrien. Somebody needs to try and get hold of him immediately.’

  Derrien would be sure to know Pont-Aven like the back of his hand. His knowledge would be helpful. And it was really his case after all.

  ‘I think Monfort is already doing that.’

  ‘What does the son do? Does he work in the hotel too?’

  ‘No, probably not. All Labat knew was that he had a small company.’

  ‘What kind of company?’

  ‘Honey.’

  ‘Honey?’

  ‘Yes, miel de mer. The beehives have to be twenty-five metres or less from the sea. The best honey in the world, according –’

  ‘All right. Our priorities, Le Ber: I want to know what Monsieur Pennec did in the last few days and weeks, in as much detail as possible. Day by day. I want everything written up as accurately as possible. Everything, even the everyday stuff. His rituals, his habits.’

  One of the guests at reception suddenly raised his voice.

  ‘We are going to get all of our money back. We’re not going to accept this.’ An unpleasant little creep, heavy-set and greasy. His wife looked on obediently.

  ‘We are going to leave this minute – that is exactly what we are going to do.’

  ‘I don’t think you will be leaving now, Monsieur. Nobody is leaving.’

  The man turned to Dupin, bristling with anger. He was going to lose his temper any moment now.

&n
bsp; ‘Commissaire Dupin. Commissariat de Police, Concarneau. First you are going to be questioned by the police, along with every other guest.’

  Dupin had spoken so quietly he had practically hissed. Combined with his impressive build, his words had the desired effect. The little man took a few swift steps backwards.

  ‘Inspector Le Ber,’ Dupin, speaking loudly and formally now, ‘the police officers will question Monsieur,’ he stopped and prompted the man with a look, so that he meekly stammered ‘Galvani’, ‘the police will question Monsieur Galvani and his wife about last night. Thoroughly. Take personal particulars, check their identification.’

  Dupin was tall, strong and well-built, with shoulders that cast quite a shadow. According to the local gossip, he was carrying some extra weight; so nobody was ever expecting the skilful speed and fine precision of which he was so effortlessly capable. He certainly didn’t look like a commissaire, even less so in the jeans and polo shirts which he almost always wore – and Dupin liked to exploit this fact.

  Monsieur Galvani spluttered something incomprehensible, and looked to his wife for protection, as she was a good head taller than he was. Dupin turned aside, and saw the hotel employee smiling furtively at him. He smiled back. Then he turned to Le Ber who was frowning and looked quite embarrassed.

  ‘The most important thing is that you and Labat reconstruct yesterday and last night in as much detail as possible. What did Pennec do? Where was he and when? Who saw him last?’

  ‘We’re working on it. The chef was probably the last person to see him.’

  ‘Good. Which staff members are at the hotel this morning?’

  Le Ber took out a very small black notebook. ‘Mademoiselle Galez and Mademoiselle Jolivet, both very young, chamber-maids, and Madame Mendu, who, if I understand correctly, is going to be something of a successor to Madame Lajoux. And she’s also responsible for the breakfast. Madame Mendu is standing over there.’

  Le Ber motioned discreetly towards reception with his head.

  ‘Then there’s Madame Lajoux and the chef, Edouard Lenaff. And an assistant of his.’

  Dupin made a note of everything.

  ‘The chef? At this hour?’

  ‘They get all their supplies from the big supermarket in Quimper very early in the morning.’

  ‘What’s the kitchen boy called?’

  Le Ber rifled through his notebook.

  ‘Ronan Breton.’

  ‘Breton? His name is Breton?’

  ‘Breton.’

  Dupin wanted to say something but didn’t.

  ‘And the chef was the last person to see Pennec alive?’

  ‘So it would seem at this point.’

  ‘I want to speak to him as soon as I’m finished with Madame Lajoux. Just briefly.’ Dupin turned away and climbed the stairs. Without turning around he called, ‘Where on the first floor is it?’

  ‘It’s on your right, the first door.’

  Dupin knocked gently on the door to the breakfast room and went inside. Francine Lajoux was older than Dupin had expected – definitely over sixty, pure white hair, an angular face with deep wrinkles. She was sitting in the far corner of the room and beside her was a buxom little red-haired chambermaid with a somewhat chubby but pretty face – a Mademoiselle Galez, who gave the Commissaire a friendly and relieved smile. At first Madame Lajoux hardly seemed to notice that the Commissaire had come in, continuing to stare motionlessly at the floor.

  Dupin cleared his throat.

  ‘Hello Madame, my name is Dupin, I am the Commissaire in charge. I’m told it was you who found Pierre-Louis Pennec’s body this morning.’

  Madame Lajoux’s eyes were red from crying and her mascara had run. For a moment nothing happened but then she turned her gaze to the Commissaire.

  ‘An abhorrent murder, isn’t it, Monsieur le Commissaire? This is an abhorrent murder. Cold-blooded murder. I have been a loyal employee of Monsieur Pennec for thirty-seven years. I was never even off sick once… Well, maybe twice at most! It looked like he had been beaten up, didn’t it? The murderer must have made those stab wounds with a huge knife. I hope you catch him quickly.’

  She didn’t speak in a hurried way, but she did speak with impressive speed, without pauses and with a lilting intonation.

  ‘Poor Monsieur Pennec. Such a wonderful man. Who could have done such a horrible thing? Everyone liked him, Monsieur le Commissaire. Everyone. Everyone respected him, respected and admired him. And in our beautiful little Pont-Aven! Horrible. Such a peaceful place. The pool of blood was so big. Is that normal, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  Dupin didn’t know how to respond. Or what he should respond to for that matter. Feeling rather worn out, he placed his pad in front of him and made a note. There was an odd pause. Madame Galez took a surreptitious peek at his notebook.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know it must be awful for you to have to think about this again, but can you tell me about how you found the body? Was the door open? Were you alone?’

  He was well aware that this was not a particularly sympathetic response.

  ‘I was completely alone. Is that important then? The door was closed, but not locked like it usually is. Yes. Monsieur Pennec locks it when he leaves at night. Even at that stage I thought something wasn’t right. I think it was quarter past seven or thereabouts. I make the breakfast every morning you know. I’ve been here at six o’clock every morning for the last thirty-seven years. Thirty-seven years! Six o’clock on the dot. The teaspoons were missing. The breakfast ones. You know when there aren’t that many guests, we just do breakfast up here but in the tourist season we do it in the restaurant too. I wanted to get some teaspoons from the restaurant. They’re often missing, we need to fix that. I’m always saying it! I must speak to Madame Mendu again. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the restaurant, just the body. Poor Monsieur Pennec. Do you know why nobody heard anything last night? Because of the big festival. It was so loud everywhere, all over the village, it’s always like that when there’s a festival on. It gets so rowdy. I didn’t get a wink of sleep before three o’clock. And yes, I was on my own. I screamed. And then Mademoiselle Galez came. She brought me here. She’s such a dear, Monsieur le Commissaire. This is so awful.’

  ‘So you didn’t notice anything unusual last night or in the last few days? Anything about Monsieur Pennec, here in the hotel? Think back. The smallest detail could be important. Something that may seem insignificant to you.’

  ‘Everything was as it always is. In perfect order. That was very important to Monsieur Pennec.’

  ‘Nothing at all then.’

  Madame Lajoux made a gesture of resignation.

  ‘No, nothing at all. We’ve all spoken to each other as well. All the hotel staff who are on duty today, I mean. Nobody noticed anything unusual.’

  ‘In general terms – do you have any idea what might have happened here?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire!’ She looked absolutely indignant. ‘You’re asking as though something criminal has happened here.’

  It was on the tip of Dupin’s tongue to observe that murder was generally considered a crime. ‘Out of all of Monsieur Pennec’s employees, you had worked for him the longest, is that correct?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘So of all the people here in the hotel, you knew Monsieur Pennec best.’

  ‘Of course. An establishment like this one, Monsieur le Commissaire, is a lifetime’s work. A true calling, as Pierre-Louis Pennec always used to say.’

  ‘Did anything catch your eye in the restaurant or the bar? Apart from the body, that is.’

  ‘No. The tourist season is just starting, you know. It’s always really hectic around now. There’s so much to do.’

  The expression on her face changed dramatically. Now she spoke very slowly, in a laboured, strained voice. ‘There are terrible rumours going around, you know. People say we were having… we were having an affair, Monsieur Pennec and I. In the years after his wife so tragically
died. A boating accident. I hope you won’t take any notice of those brazen liars, Monsieur le Commissaire. A grotesque lie. Monsieur Pennec would never have done anything like that. He continued to love his wife even after she died and he remained faithful to her always. In any case… Just because we were so close and so friendly. People have active imaginations sometimes.’

  Dupin was somewhat baffled.

  ‘Yes of course, Madame Lajoux. Of course.’

  There was a small pause.

  ‘What else can you tell me about the accident?’ Dupin hadn’t asked this question with any particular purpose in mind.

  ‘It happened out of the blue one day. It was dusk and Darice Pennec went overboard in a storm. Nobody wears lifejackets here, you know. They were coming back from the Glénan Islands. Do you know the archipelago? Probably not, apparently you’re new round here. It’s absolutely beautiful. Just like in the Mediterranean. Some people even think it’s like the Caribbean. Dazzling white sand.’

  Dupin would have liked to say that he obviously knew the Glénan Islands, that he had in fact been living here for almost three years. In Breton eyes, if your family hadn’t lived in Brittany for generations, you were ‘new’ here. But at some point he had come to terms with this and given up arguing.

  ‘Storms blow up so quickly here, you know. She disappeared immediately. The sea does that sometimes. He was out until the following morning looking for her. That was a long time ago now, twenty years or so. She was fifty-eight years old. Poor Pennec, he was almost fainting with exhaustion when he came back in to land.’

  Dupin decided not to delve any further.

  ‘And what about you?’ Dupin turned smoothly to Mademoiselle Galez, receiving an indignant look from Madame Lajoux in the process. ‘Did you notice anything in particular yesterday, today or in the last few days? It could be a small detail.’