Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘It’s me.’

  It took Dupin a moment to recognise the voice. And then he stammered anyway.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Laure. I could drop by tonight after work. Or oysters, we’ll go out for oysters. I –’

  He still missed that.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a case. I… I’ll be in touch.’

  Dupin hung up. Le Ber and Labat looked annoyed.

  He would really need to think about how he was going to sort out the Laure thing. It had been going on for three months and he still didn’t know what he wanted. It couldn’t go on like this.

  ‘I’ll continue then.’ Labat sounded noticeably put out.

  ‘So, Pennec would then go on a bit further, through the wood. Always the same route, but probably different distances along it. The whole walk lasted between one and two hours, depending. In the last few months he most likely didn’t go all that far any more. Afterwards Pennec spent time at the hotel again. They would be getting lunch ready. It wasn’t unusual for him to arrange to meet someone for lunch. He always stayed down here, as he did at dinnertime too. Kept an eye on things. For many years he then used to go up to his room at around half past two to relax. Finally he ran errands and did his shopping at around four or half past. By six o’clock he was back in the hotel. Preparations for the evening, dinner, conversations with staff, the chef, the guests. An early dinner in the breakfast room with the staff around half past six, before the influx of guests. They always ate the dish of the day, that was very important to Pennec – everyone should always have a good meal. Pennec would dart here and there during dinner, keeping an eye on everything, greeting people, seeing them to the door, going from table to table every so often and spending a lot of time in the kitchen. Sometimes at the bar.’

  Le Ber chipped in for the first time. ‘Pennec always stood at the bar for half an hour before the restaurant opened at half seven. Acquaintances or friends would come past. Special guests. Pennec himself rarely went out. He met people here. Never for very long. According to all of the staff, he was rarely on his own around this time. These last few days were no different. And we have the names of all the people he saw recently.’

  Dupin made a few cryptic notes for himself; the rituals that people created for themselves in their daily lives, their free time, interested him. Nothing showed the essence of individuals more clearly, he was convinced of it; it was here you began to understand them.

  Labat continued in his stern, systematic way.

  ‘Then at the end of the day there was the lambig at the bar, often alone. Once or twice a week with Fragan Delon, or even with another very trusted person. It was probably a great distinction to be invited to have a drink with Pennec.

  ‘And recently? Since Monday?’

  ‘Well,’ Le Ber took over, ‘it’s hard to tell. What we’ve got between Monday and today is still tentative. On Monday morning Pennec was out for two hours after breakfast. We don’t know where yet. He didn’t say anything to anyone at the hotel, but that’s not unusual. He rarely said where he was going when he went out and he didn’t have a mobile. He went to the barber on Monday afternoon at four o’clock, the one down by the harbour, and he stayed for around an hour. He’s been going there for decades. He had called the previous Thursday and booked an appointment.’

  Pennec was in fact quite a peculiar chap. Dupin would have expected someone to cancel their barber’s appointment after being given the kind of news that Dr Pelliet had given Pennec.

  ‘We’ll be speaking to the barber.’

  ‘Yes, you definitely should. People tell their hairdressers so much. Even the most private people.’

  Yet somehow, after everything he had learnt about Pennec, Dupin wasn’t counting on it in this case. Not if he had judged Pennec’s personality correctly.

  ‘He was with Madame Lajoux at the bar before dinner on Monday evening, talking about business, nothing unusual according to Madame Lajoux’s statement. After the restaurant closed he was by himself at the bar, Fragan Delon usually liked to come for a drink on Mondays but he was away. Frédéric Beauvois came on Tuesday morning around nine o’clock and stayed for about an hour. He’s a retired art teacher and chairman of the local art society amongst other things. He also runs the art museum, just around the corner from here. Pennec donated money to the museum now and again although we still don’t know the extent of these donations. From time to time Beauvois does tours of Pont-Aven for special guests at the request of the mayor and Pennec; so the Central is of course a must-see on the tour. The next one would have been tomorrow morning. Beauvois put together a little leaflet for Pennec a few years ago which is available all over the hotel, The Artists’ Colony of Pont-Aven and the Central Hotel. Pennec paid for everything, including the printing. He was absolutely determined to get it revised and expanded. That’s what they had wanted to talk about.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Madame Lajoux. And Delon knew a bit about it too, although none of the details.’

  Delon hadn’t mentioned anything about someone called Beauvois to Dupin.

  ‘Madame Lajoux knew that Pennec wanted to see Beauvois about the brochure.’

  ‘What does amongst other things mean?’

  ‘Amongst other things?’

  ‘What is Beauvois “amongst other things”?’

  ‘Oh – he’s the chairman of lots of clubs and associations.’

  Le Ber looked at his notes.

  ‘There’s the Friends of Paul Gauguin Association, the Friends of Pont-Aven Association, the Organisation for the Remembrance of the Pont-Aven School, the Art Patrons’ Club and –’

  ‘That’s okay, Le Ber.’ Dupin was familiar with this kind of thing. Every town in Brittany had more clubs than residents.

  ‘When was the meeting arranged?’

  ‘Probably only Monday. They met regularly. Pennec ate dinner with the staff as usual this week.’

  ‘What else?’

  Le Ber glanced at his notes. ‘Monsieur Pennec’s son was there on Wednesday evening. But of course you must know that from Loic Pennec himself.’

  It occurred to Dupin that he hadn’t specifically asked about these things when he was at the Pennecs’. But it hadn’t been that kind of visit.

  ‘The son usually came once a week. Mostly just for half an hour before dinner, he used to stand at the bar. He never stayed long. On Thursday the head of Pont-Aven’s small harbour came, Monsieur Gueguen. He has an unbelievable number of job titles too; he is, amongst other things, chairman of several friendship committees that Pennec was on. The conversation took a little longer than the usual half hour. It went on until around quarter to eight. It was mainly about Pennec’s mooring for his boat at the harbour. He wanted to keep it as it’s such an excellent spot. We spoke to Gueguen briefly. He didn’t have anything of interest to report. Pennec seemed normal to him.’

  ‘Pennec’s boat is in the harbour here?’

  ‘He’s got two boats. They’re both here in Pont-Aven.’

  ‘Two boats?’ Up to this point only one boat had ever been mentioned.

  ‘Two motorboats. One is bigger and newer. Jeanneau Merry Fisher, 7.15 metres.’

  Le Ber’s eyes gleamed.

  ‘And a very old one, probably much smaller. The old one is in the harbour too but further down. Apparently he uses the new one almost all the time now, including on his fishing trips with Delon.’

  ‘And the other boat, what did he use it for?’

  ‘Apparently he barely used it. For going down the Aven, into the Belon sometimes, getting oysters.’

  ‘Anything else? Labat, what have you got?’

  ‘The hotel staff haven’t noticed anything in the last few days. We’ve spoken to them all in detail. They say he behaved completely normally.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  Labat didn’t let this get to him. ‘We’ve asked them to get in touch straight away if anything occurs to them.’

&nbs
p; ‘Keep going.’

  ‘And then there were three people with whom Pennec had more in-depth conversations recently, two of them regular guests. One conversation on Tuesday evening for half an hour before dinner, and one on Wednesday, that was late in the evening at the bar, also around half an hour. We have their details. Le Ber has already spoken to both of them. They were conversations about the weather, food, Brittany. About the tourist season. The third conversation was the one we’ve already told you about, the conversation he had with that stranger.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Wednesday afternoon. In front of the hotel.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  Dupin leafed through his notebook somewhat at random.

  ‘We absolutely have to know who that was.’

  ‘We’re on it. Pennec spoke to the chef every night. You know that already. You’ve spoken to him at length of course.’

  Now Le Ber took over again. ‘We’ve also started checking the telephone calls. He had a private line in his room, but he usually made calls on one of the three cordless phones from reception. He almost always had one of them on him, even when he was upstairs in his room. All the calls from these handsets end up on the general list of calls for the main line, which handles all the hotel and restaurant phone calls. So you can’t tell who placed a given call.’

  ‘I want to know everything.’

  Labat wanted to say something but stopped himself. Le Ber continued.

  ‘In the last four days before his death he talked to his half-brother on the phone once, we know that at least. He called André Pennec from his landline and they spoke for ten minutes on Tuesday afternoon. You of course wanted to speak to André Pennec yourself. We’ve got short calls to Delon from his handset in the last three weeks, one to a notary here in Pont-Aven, one each to the art teacher and the mayor.’

  ‘Which calls were this week? The one to the notary?’

  ‘Yes, Monday afternoon.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Is she Pennec’s notary? I mean is she the notary who looked after Pennec’s professional affairs? His will?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘We need the will. Speak to Nolwenn tomorrow morning. She wanted to make an appointment for me with the notary who executed Pennec’s will. What was the name of the notary he called?’

  ‘Danielle Denis. I’m told all the “best people” in Pont-Aven have her look after their affairs.’

  ‘Madame Denis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Dupin knew her vaguely. She was, he knew, a very highly regarded person in the area and in Concarneau too. Undoubtedly an attractive woman, probably early forties, a little bit younger than him, who was admired and respected for her elegance, unerring style and fierce intelligence. ‘A real Parisian’ one might have said, although Madame Denis had spent her entire life in Pont-Aven. She had only lived in Paris during her student years and hadn’t been particularly impressed by it.

  ‘Tell Nolwenn to find out if Madame Denis is Pennec’s notary. First thing tomorrow morning. And make an appointment for me to see her. How many calls on the general landline list are from this week? I’m talking outgoing calls.’

  ‘At least four hundred, maybe five hundred numbers.’

  ‘Call all of them, find out who Pennec called and what it was about. I want to hear about every phone call Pennec made in the last few weeks. Find out all you can. Concentrate on this week.’

  Le Ber’s face showed he hadn’t expected anything less. Labat’s face reddened slightly.

  Dupin knew that anything they could establish from investigations of this – extremely laborious – kind would only be useful if the murder had not been a ‘coincidence’. If something happened ‘spontaneously’ that evening, as an escalation of something that was hidden before, then none of it would be of any use at all.

  ‘We need a bit of luck now.’

  Labat looked at the Commissaire somewhat scornfully. ‘It could also be someone who’s not in the picture at all.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the half-brother first thing tomorrow morning. Did Lafond call again? Or Salou?’

  ‘We’ve spoken to both of them again. Salou doesn’t want to say anything yet, we don’t think he’s got anything for now. You know he would have shown off about it straight away. Doctor Lafond believes it was definitely a knife rather than a sharp, pointed object. Four entry wounds. Time of death was somewhere between eleven o’clock and one o’clock, according to his initial, provisional estimates.’

  Dupin was surprised that Lafond had said anything before his report was complete – that wasn’t usually his style.

  ‘But he doesn’t know anything else,’ said Le Ber before Dupin could ask his follow-up questions, ‘not how long the blade was, how big the knife was, what kind of knife it was.’

  ‘None of that gets us any further.’

  Dupin took a look at his watch. Half past eight. Labat and Le Ber had got a lot done, there was no doubt about it.

  ‘That was some good work, Inspector Labat, Inspector Le Ber. Very good work. You should be off home now.’ Dupin meant it.

  Labat was visibly annoyed by the elaborate praise and the Commissaire’s concern. Neither inspector seemed to know what to say. Dupin rescued them. ‘See you tomorrow then.’

  The two inspectors stood up, still a little unsure, as if they still weren’t certain whether they could trust the Commissaire’s words.

  ‘Really. I’m only staying a little while longer myself. Go to bed early. Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be another tough day. Bonne nuit.’

  Labat and Le Ber paused again in the doorway.

  ‘Bonne nuit, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  Then they hurried away.

  Dupin wanted to go back to the restaurant and bar, seeing as he’d had to leave so abruptly that morning. He wanted to take another look at everything. He took down the crime scene cordon, opened the door, and locked it again from the inside. Everything looked exactly as it had when Pennec’s body was found, and crucially it looked exactly the same as it had looked two nights ago when the murderer left the hotel after the crime. Dupin went up to the bar, to the place where Pennec had been lying. He knelt down and looked around from this lower angle. It was truly unsettling to see how utterly peaceful and pleasant the room was.

  The walls were whitewashed, rough plaster. Prints, paintings and copies in narrow frames jostled for space on the wall, close together or on top of one another, practically covering up the walls in the restaurant and bar. Landscapes for the most part, the Pont-Aven landscape and coast, the mills. Breton farm-girls. Dupin hadn’t noticed quite how many paintings there were that morning.

  The dining room of the Central was not beautiful, but if you wanted you could imagine yourself back to its great, glamorous days – there were still enough traces of those times. You could sense the erstwhile charm and elegance. Pont-Aven had a unique blend of the provincial, born of the poverty of its origins as a fishing and farming village, combined with a sophistication thrust upon it in more modern times by the arrival of artists from Paris and the wider world. Dupin recalled a photograph he’d seen in a book about Pont-Aven in Nolwenn’s office. It was of a group of artists sitting on a wall on a moss-covered stone bridge, all of them looking into the camera. Most were well dressed in big hats and fine, if threadbare, suits. Three or four houses in the background showed the harsh realities of the area, farmers and fishermen struggling to survive. To the left of the bridge was the Central. They were all there, the whole Pont-Aven School, Gauguin, his close young friend Emile Bernard, Charles Filiger and Henry Moret. If Nolwenn started listing them off, the list became endless; Dupin only knew a few himself. The artists had obviously made a joke of it, the famous ‘Bretons’, putting on the wooden shoes that tapered at the toe, stretching their legs out in front of them so that the shoes were as prominent as possible in the photo.

&n
bsp; Suddenly there was a knock at the door that made Dupin jump. Another knock. Scowling, he went to the door and opened it. Madame Lajoux stood in front of him.

  ‘Could I come in for a minute, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  Dupin composed himself. ‘Of course. Please come in, Madame Lajoux.’

  Francine Lajoux moved tentatively, stopping after a few steps.

  ‘I’m finding it difficult, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  She looked like she’d aged years since that morning. It was terrible to see; her face was haggard, her eyes red. Dupin noticed for the first time how snow-white her hair was.

  ‘This must be absolutely awful for you, Madame Lajoux. You and Monsieur Pennec were very close.’

  ‘This is where he was murdered.’ She struggled to remain calm, seeming to summon all her strength.

  ‘Would you prefer to go outside?’

  ‘No, no. Yes, we were very close, you know, Monsieur le Commissaire, but…’ she looked uncertainly at Dupin, ‘but never too close, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Absolutely, I know what you mean. I didn’t mean to imply anything.’

  ‘Everyone always talked. And the way everyone has been looking at me since this morning. Such nasty gossip. He loved his wife. I don’t care about myself you know, Monsieur le Commissaire, I care about him. His reputation.’

  ‘Don’t take any notice of them, Madame Lajoux. Ignore it.’

  Madame Lajoux kept her eyes lowered. ‘Do you know anything more yet, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘We know some things, but not enough.’

  ‘Can I help? I’d like to. The murderer has to be caught and punished. Who could possibly have committed a crime like this?’

  ‘You can never tell.’

  ‘You think so? Really? That’s a horrible thought.’

  ‘Have you seen André Pennec yet?’

  The change of topic was abrupt, but Madame Lajoux answered immediately and in a clear voice.

  ‘Oh yes. He had the audacity to take a room here in the hotel. Madame Mendu let him have one. He came in this big fancy limousine straight from the airport. What a ridiculous man! And it’s a bold move to stay here. Such hypocrisy, Monsieur Pennec wouldn’t have been happy about that. He left the hotel straight after he’d brought his things to his room. He drove off in his big car.’