Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  The chambermaid was surprised by how abruptly he had switched his attention to her. She looked a bit frightened.

  ‘Me? No. I had so much to do.’

  ‘Do you know if anyone went into the restaurant this morning after you and Madame Lajoux?’

  ‘No. I locked the door.’

  Dupin made a note.

  ‘Very good. When did each of you see Monsieur Pennec for the last time?’ Dupin stopped short. ‘Alive, I mean?’

  ‘I left at half eight yesterday. I always leave at half eight. For the last ten years I mean. Before that I was here every evening too, but I’m not up to it any more. Not like I used to be. Before I left, Monsieur Pennec and I did speak briefly about things to do with the hotel. It was just like it always is.’

  ‘And you, Mademoiselle Galez?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. Maybe around three o’clock yesterday afternoon. I saw him before that, as he was coming out of his room that morning, around seven o’clock. He asked me to do his room straight away.’

  ‘He has a room here? Monsieur Pennec lived in the hotel?’

  Mademoiselle Galez gave Madame Lajoux a look that was difficult to interpret, and Madame Lajoux took over.

  ‘He has a house on rue des Meunières, not far from the hotel, and he has a room here, on the second floor. He’s been sleeping here more and more in the last few years. It was just too much hassle to go home at night. He was there till closing every evening you see, he never left before midnight, never. He kept an eye on everything. He was an excellent hotelier you know. Like his father and grandmother. A great family tradition.’

  ‘Why did his room need to be done immediately?’

  Mademoiselle Galez seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  Again she seemed to be trying to think carefully. ‘He didn’t say it often.’

  ‘What did Pierre-Louis Pennec still do at the hotel? Is there a business manager or someone like that?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire!’ There was outrage in Madame Lajoux’s tone and expression. ‘Monsieur Pennec did everything himself. Everything. He has managed the hotel since 1947. I don’t know if you know the story of the Central. You’re so new here after all. You should know it! This is where modern art was invented. Gauguin had his famous school here, the Pont-Aven School.’

  ‘Madame Lajoux, I –’

  ‘Pierre-Louis Pennec’s grandmother founded all of this, she was the one behind it all. She was a close friend of the artists and encouraged them as much as she could. She even built them studios. You ought to know all of this, Monsieur le Commissaire, Marie-Jeanne is in all the history books and art books. Without Marie-Jeanne Pennec’s guesthouse and Julia Guillou’s hotel right next door, none of it would have existed. Sometimes the artists lived and ate here free of charge, most of them hadn’t a penny to their names anyway. And…’ She had to pause to draw breath, she looked absolutely outraged now. ‘And it’s a huge injustice that continues to this day that they make more of a fuss about Mademoiselle Julia than they do about Marie-Jeanne Pennec. Are you aware of all this, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘I – no. I had no idea.’

  ‘You’re going to have to buy a book about it. No buts. The bookshop is just by the bridge. And read up on everything. It’s all common knowledge here.’

  ‘Madame Lajoux, I –’

  ‘I understand, the main thing is the police investigation now, of course it is. You had asked whether Pierre-Louis Pennec managed the hotel by himself? That was the question. Oh yes! He ran it for sixty-three years, can you imagine? He was twenty-eight when his father, the wonderful Charles Pennec, died. He died quite young. He had inherited the hotel from his mother. She –’

  Madame Lajoux broke off and looked like she was reminding herself to concentrate.

  ‘When the time came he was twenty-eight and Pierre-Louis had no fear of the burden of tradition. He took over the hotel and has run it by himself ever since.’

  Francine Lajoux sighed loudly.

  ‘And as for me, I’m responsible for breakfast, the bedrooms and the chambermaids, as well as reception, reservations and all those things. I mean, Madame Mendu really does it these days, has for a few years now. She does it well.’ Madame Lajoux paused for a moment, took a breath and then spoke so quietly it was almost inaudible, as though she were exhausted, ‘But I’m still here.’

  Mademoiselle Galez came to her aid.

  ‘Madame Mendu took over the job of housekeeper from Madame Lajoux. You must have seen her out there at reception. She has an assistant, Mademoiselle Jolivet, who works at reception in the afternoons and as a waitress in the restaurant in the evenings. Then Madame Mendu works the reception in the evening and of course every morning too.’

  When the chambermaid had finished speaking, she looked uncertainly at Madame Lajoux. Quite rightly, as it turned out a moment later.

  ‘But those are all menial tasks. The management was done entirely by Monsieur Pennec. I –’ Her tone had been scornful. She broke off abruptly, evidently shocked at herself.

  ‘Is everything all right, Madame Lajoux?’ Dupin knew he had almost enough information.

  ‘Yes, yes. My nerves are somewhat on edge.’

  ‘Just a few more things, Madame Lajoux. What did Monsieur Pennec typically do at the end of the day?’

  ‘If the restaurant was still busy, he made sure everything was running smoothly, discussed the important things with Madame Leray and the chef. Corinne Leray doesn’t come in until late afternoon. She runs the restaurant but otherwise she has nothing to do with the hotel. Is that what you wanted to know, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  Dupin noticed that his little diagram of the names of the hotel staff, their responsibilities, hierarchies and working hours had become extremely confusing. ‘And then? Later, I mean. At the end of the day?’

  ‘At the end of the day, once he was finished with everything and the tables in the restaurant had been set for the next day, he would still always be standing at the bar. Fragan Delon would be there sometimes. Or one of the regulars. Or a local. But usually he was by himself.’

  Mademoiselle Galez apparently felt the need to clarify this.

  ‘Monsieur Delon was Monsieur Pennec’s best friend. He often came to the hotel, sometimes for lunch, and sometimes in the afternoon or evening time.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Galez! It is impossible for outsiders to judge whether people are best friends. It’s a very private matter.’ Francine Lajoux gave the chambermaid a reproachful look, as a teacher would an impertinent student who had been showing off inappropriately. ‘They were friends. More than that, we can’t say. And they didn’t always see eye to eye.’

  ‘Was Monsieur Delon here yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But you’ll have to ask Madame Mendu. Mademoiselle Galez and I aren’t here in the evenings.’

  ‘What time did Monsieur Pennec usually finish up at the bar? Did he always drink a lambig then?’

  ‘So somebody’s already let that one slip. Yes, a lambig. It’s our apple brandy! As good as a calvados, believe me, they just do more advertising! Pierre-Louis Pennec only ever drank lambig from Menez Brug. He went to the bar around eleven every evening and he always stayed half an hour, never longer. Does that help?’

  There was a knock at the door and a moment later Le Ber was standing in the doorway, speaking frantically.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, Loic Pennec is on the phone. He and his wife already know.’

  At first Dupin wanted to ask how the news had reached them, but he knew this would be a ridiculous question to ask. The wholevillage would obviously know by this point. He should have thought of that.

  ‘Tell him I’m coming straight away. I’ll be right there.’

  Le Ber disappeared into the corridor again.

  ‘Thank you very much, both of you. You’ve given us some important information. You’ve been really helpful. I would like to ask tha
t you let us know immediately if you think of anything else. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.’

  ‘I want you to find the murderer, Monsieur le Commissaire.’ Madame Lajoux was stony-faced.

  ‘You can get in touch at any time, Madame Lajoux, Mademoiselle Galez. I will definitely be in touch. Probably very soon.’

  ‘Whenever you need, Monsieur le Commissaire,’ they said, almost in unison.

  Le Ber was standing right next to the door when the Commissaire came out.

  ‘Monsieur and Madame Pennec are expecting you in –’

  ‘Le Ber, when the forensics team is finished, go into the restaurant with Madame Lajoux. I want her to double check whether anything is missing or altered – best do the whole hotel. And ask Madame Mendu whether Pennec’s friend Fragan Delon or anyone else was here late last night. Whether someone was at the bar with Pennec yesterday, however briefly. Oh yes, and speak to Madame Leray!’

  ‘Okay. I have a complete list of all the hotel staff.’

  ‘Are there any other entrances to the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, you can get in through the kitchen. The entrance is in the courtyard, you just need to go down the little alleyway behind the hotel to get to it. There’s a big, cast-iron door there, but it’s practically never used and they keep it locked. The key is hanging up in reception.’

  ‘What kind of festival was on in Pont-Aven last night?’

  ‘Oh, just the local Fest-Noz, you know? It’s when –’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  They were held throughout the summer, the ‘traditional Breton dance festivals’ with their traditional folk music. They weren’t exactly Dupin’s cup of tea. They were held in a different village every evening, no matter how small a village might be, and there was endless folk dancing.

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, you should really be –’

  ‘The chef, just briefly.’

  Le Ber had obviously already thought of this. With a gesture that had only a touch of resignation about it, he pointed along the corridor.

  ‘We’ve taken one of the free rooms.’

  He made another attempt, ‘If you want, I’ll speak to the chef.’

  ‘We’ll do it very quickly.’

  ‘Apparently Edouard Lenaff doesn’t like talking very much anyway, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  Dupin looked at Le Ber, a little irritated.

  ‘What?’

  The room was amazingly spacious and bright for such an old building and it was furnished with simple but pretty white wooden furniture, old oak parquet and pale upholstery. There was a lanky youth at a small table near the door, somehow managing to look utterly indifferent. He took almost no notice of them when they came in.

  ‘Hello, Monsieur. Commissaire Dupin, Commissariat de Police, Concarneau. I understand you saw Pierre-Louis Pennec yesterday evening.’

  Lenaff gave a brief, friendly nod.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Quarter to eleven.’

  ‘Are you sure of the time?’

  Lenaff nodded again.

  ‘How are you so sure?’

  ‘I was done for the day, the kitchen just needed tidying. It’s always about quarter to eleven then.’

  ‘Where exactly did you see him?’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘More specifically?’

  ‘On the stairs.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Down the stairs.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Outside. I wanted a smoke.’

  ‘And what direction was he headed?’

  ‘No idea. Towards the bar, I think. He always went to the bar later on.’

  ‘And did you speak to each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. Dupin had no idea where this chap got the passion that he evidently put into his cooking. He wasn’t a top chef, but Dupin knew the restaurant was well respected. Even Nolwenn had recommended it, which meant he must be good.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Nothing major.’

  Dupin’s astonishment prompted Lenaff to add a little more. ‘Plans for today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What we would cook today, the dish of the day and stuff. We always have a special dish of the day. That was important to Monsieur Pennec.’

  An astonishingly detailed outburst, thought Dupin.

  ‘And that’s all you talked about, nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you didn’t notice anything about Monsieur Pennec? Was he acting out of character at all?’

  ‘No,’ answered Lenaff, as expected. ‘Not at all.’

  Dupin sighed. ‘So he seemed normal to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he alone? Did anyone join him?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘And apart from that, did you notice anything unusual? In the hotel or about anyone else?’ Dupin knew the question was pointless. Before Lenaff could answer he added: ‘I would ask that you come to us immediately if anything of interest does occur to you. You’re an important person for us. Presumably Pierre-Louis Pennec went to the bar after your conversation and he was probably murdered there just a short time later. Do you understand why your testimony could be of great significance?’

  Even at this, Lenaff’s gaze and facial expression did not change. Dupin hadn’t really expected them to.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’m sure we’ll see each other again in the next few days.’

  Lenaff stood up, silently shook the Commissaire’s hand and left. Le Ber and Dupin were left alone in the room.

  ‘Huh.’ Dupin stood up too and turned to go. He couldn’t suppress a grin. In some ways it had been a very Breton conversation. He secretly quite liked the chef. And had decided to come and eat here sometime. He had learnt a lot.

  ‘What do you think, Monsieur le Commissaire? It would be incredibly unlucky if nobody saw or heard anything at all last night.’

  Dupin was tempted to say that this wouldn’t be the first time he had been incredibly unlucky but he restrained himself. ‘We’ll see. Nobody is to go into the rooms downstairs, Le Ber. When our colleagues are finished, we’ll lock everything up. I’ll see the Pennecs now.’

  Dupin left.

  Le Ber was used to this by now. The Commissaire was obsessed with having the crime scene locked up indefinitely, even if it was a public place, for far longer than the forensic team needed. He wanted it kept locked until he was sure there was nothing more to be gleaned from it. It always caused a huge amount of trouble. This habit of his didn’t have anything to do with any police guidelines – it was just that the Commissaire had his own ideas, and Le Ber knew it would be pointless to discuss it. He had also learnt that these unorthodox methods could have astounding results. During Dupin’s first investigations in Brittany he had had serious arguments with any number of people, not just with Guenneugues, and Dupin hadn’t always won. But ever since his first successes as a Commissaire, especially after solving the sensational murders of two tuna fishermen in his second year, a case which was etched into Bretons’ memories and made Dupin very well known in the region, there had been far fewer arguments.

  The Central was on Place Paul Gauguin, the village’s pretty little main square. It was a beautiful, dazzlingly white building from the end of the nineteenth century and it had obviously been lovingly and carefully looked after over the decades. It was right next to the much larger Julia Hotel, the famous hotel that had once belonged to Julia Guillou. The Julia had later become the town hall and had housed part of Pont-Aven’s art museum for a number of years. The sycamores that Julia Guillou had had planted in the face of bitter resistance from the local authorities still stood in front of the hotel. They had been planted to provide her guests, the artists, with some cool shade on the terrace in summer.

  Loic Pennec and his wife lived on rue Auguste Brizeux, not far from the Central, but then nothing was
far from the Central in Pont-Aven. Commissaire Dupin was glad of the walk, not least because he really needed another coffee. He always needed coffee, lots of coffee, and he felt he needed it more than ever today. Without a sufficient amount of caffeine, his brain didn’t work properly; he was absolutely convinced of it.

  Dupin crossed the famous stone bridge over the Aven and took a sharp left onto rue du Port, which led straight down to the waterfront where it met rue Auguste Brizeux. Down here by the harbour, imposing hills rose on either side of the legendary Aven. Dupin had to admit they had chosen an excellent area to settle way back when, this place where the Aven flowed into the sea – more specifically, the place where the river, which initially wove through the winding valley like a little mountain stream, became a kind of inlet, which then meandered picturesquely for more than seven kilometres to the open sea, branched off into countless tributaries and occasionally formed beautiful lakes. The river and sea were inextricably bound by the tides.

  Dupin was so overwhelmed by the number of bars and cafés in Pont-Aven every summer that they all blurred into one uninviting mass. Having almost made it to the harbour, he picked one of the cafés that did without those huge enlarged photos of crêpes and cakes. The coffee came quickly, but it was incredibly bitter. It did help a little, but Dupin didn’t order a second one. He was thinking. He couldn’t form a proper opinion of Madame Lajoux, he didn’t know what to make of her. One thing was for sure – she wasn’t as naive as she let on. He got out his notebook and made a few notes. There was quite a lot in his notebook already – never a good sign. The less he knew about which way the wind was blowing in a case, the more ‘very important’ notes he made. There was still an air of the surreal about the whole case, but that was a familiar feeling for him too. If he were honest, he knew he had felt that way quite often. He had to pull himself together now. There had been a murder. This was his area of expertise.

  The Pennecs lived in one of the dozen or so imposing villas made from dark, almost black, stone along the waterfront. Dupin thought they looked dreary and impersonal, and were too big to blend into their surroundings. An enamelled plaque at the entrance read ‘Villa St Gwénolé’.