Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  Le Ber looked stunned.

  ‘Art? No idea. Monsieur Beauvois I reckon. Maybe someone who works at the gallery, or the new art teacher at the school here. We would have to ask someone.’

  Dupin thought about it. ‘No. I want an expert who isn’t from Pont-Aven. I want someone from out of town.’

  ‘An art expert from out of town? What’s going on?’ Labat had come up and was standing in front of Dupin too. ‘It would be incredibly helpful if you could keep us in the loop.’

  Dupin left the hotel without saying a word. He turned left, then left again and found himself in the quiet little side street. He took his phone out. ‘Nolwenn? Are you still there?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘I need your help. I need an art expert. An expert on the Pont-Aven School. Somebody who knows their work, the paintings. Not someone from Pont-Aven.’

  ‘Not someone from Pont-Aven?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter where, just so long as they’re not from Pont-Aven? And an expert.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘I need them very quickly.’

  ‘Do you mean immediately? By this evening?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It’s half past seven now.’

  ‘Well then as quickly as possible please.’

  ‘And do you want them to go to the Central?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nolwenn hung up.

  Dupin stood still for a few moments. He was thinking. Then he went further along the alleyway until it forked. This time he walked straight to the river and across the overly ornate wooden bridge to the other side, to the harbour. And he just stood there. The sea had come in again, the tide had almost reached its highest point, the boats were sitting proud and upright in the water. He watched the seesawing ships’ masts as they danced about in wild disarray. The little waves never reached the boats at the same time or in the same way and so each boat had its own rhythm. Each one dancing alone – and yet all together, in chaotic harmony. Dupin liked the sounds they made, the little bells at the very tips of the masts.

  He walked a distance along the harbour, his hands interlaced behind his back. If it was as he suspected, there was something unbelievable at the bottom of all this. A great story. He knew it would sound far-fetched.

  Only when he reached the last house right at the end of the harbour, did he turn around and take a circuitous stroll back to the hotel. He thought everything through over and over again.

  It took Nolwenn exactly thirty-two minutes to call back. The art historian was called Marie Morgane Cassel. She was from Brest, from the renowned Université de Bretagne Occidentale. Nolwenn quoted articles, experts from Paris. She was probably the best. Nolwenn had got Cassel’s mobile number via a series of different manoeuvres and through the use of the highest police authority – the homicide division –had reached her immediately. Marie Morgane Cassel had been astonishingly laid back, Nolwenn said, even though Nolwenn hadn’t actually been able to tell her even in the broadest terms why she was needed. It must all seem like quite an adventure. Nolwenn had informed her that the police urgently needed her as a consultant on a case and that if she agreed, two officers from Brest would bring her to Pont-Aven that very evening. On a Saturday. Immediately. Madame Cassel had simply asked whether she should pack an overnight bag.

  Le Ber and Labat were eating in the breakfast room when Dupin got back to the Central. Madame Mendu had been looking after them, feeding them regional specialities: rillettes (scallop rillettes were Dupin’s favourite), paté, Breton goat’s cheese, various types of mustard, baguettes and a bottle of red Faugères. Dupin sat down and ate with them.

  Nolwenn had been speaking to Labat and Le Ber. They knew that the Commissaire was expecting someone and indeed who that someone was. To Dupin’s surprise, neither asked any questions; they didn’t even make an indirect attempt to get anything out of him, even Labat, who seemed bizarrely cheerful now. Nolwenn must have had a word with them. Dupin didn’t think there could be any other explanation for it and he didn’t ask. Nobody knew as well as Nolwenn that you just had to leave him alone when things got serious, that’s the way he was. But perhaps it was just the calming effect of the food and red wine. Le Ber reported on his trip to the harbour to see the man who cut Pennec’s hair on Monday afternoon. The barber, a Monsieur Lannuzel, had laughed when

  Le Ber asked what they’d discussed – they had talked very little. They had never talked much and this Monday was no different. Pennec had been occupied by papers, but Monsieur Lannuzel had no idea what kind of papers they had been. Labat was silent during Le Ber’s report and then began presenting his own results with little enthusiasm. They had almost finished going through the telephone call lists now. That was important, and Dupin would take a look at them himself tomorrow morning. But his mind was elsewhere for now. And he had eaten a lot.

  The police car arrived a little before ten. Dupin had gone into the bar on his own again after dinner. It was perfectly quiet again, although the square was quite busy now. He jumped at a knock on the door. He hadn’t locked it. Le Ber came in.

  ‘The professor from Brest has arrived, Monsieur le Commissaire. Marie Morgane Cassel. We brought her upstairs to the conference room.’

  ‘No, no, she’s to come down here.’

  ‘Here? To the crime scene?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘As you wish. Nolwenn has organised everything for Madame Cassel. There’s a room here at the hotel for her.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And one of the local officers finally got hold of Commissaire Derrien just now. It wasn’t easy. He’s up a mountain somewhere with practically no reception. They could hardly understand him; the conversation kept breaking up.’

  ‘Up a mountain? I thought he was on La Réunion.’

  ‘They’re doing a tour of the mountains after the wedding, right up to the Piton des Neiges. It’s a volcano, the highest peak in the Indian Ocean. They’ll be back in Saint-Denis in two days.’

  ‘What are they doing up a volcano after a wedding?’ Dupin sighed. ‘What does it matter anyway? We’ll cope without Derrien.’

  So this is how it would be. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Le Ber how he came to be so knowledgeable about volcanic islands off the African coast, but he left it.

  ‘I think so too, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ll fetch the professor now.’

  A minute later Madame Cassel was standing in the doorway. She was very young for a professor – mid-thirties, he guessed. Long, fly-away, black-brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, a striking mouth, slim. A dark blue, figure-hugging dress.

  She stayed in the doorway.

  ‘Bonsoir Madame, I’m Georges Dupin, the Commissaire on this case. I’m investigating the murder of Pierre-Louis Pennec. You might have heard about it. I hope my colleagues have already told you a little about what’s going on.’ Dupin was irritated. What he’d just said was nonsense.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know anything at all yet. The two policemen who brought me here were very friendly but they said they didn’t know anything themselves. And all their colleague could tell me was that it was about the murder of that hotelier that was in all the newspapers, and that I could potentially help in some way. They said I would be told exactly how when I got here.’

  Dupin was glad he hadn’t read any newspapers today.

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s my fault. It’s very rude to let you get into a police car without anyone telling you why, even in the broadest terms. And it’s very kind of you to get in and come here anyway.’

  There was the hint of a smile on Marie Morgane Cassel’s face. ‘So what’s all this about, Monsieur le Commissaire? What can I do for you?’

  ‘I have a theory. It might be absurd.’

  Madame Cassel was smiling broadly now. ‘And I can help you with it?’

  Now Dupin had to smile. ‘I think you can.’

  ‘Good
. Let’s get started.’

  ‘All right then.’

  Marie Morgane Cassel was still standing in the doorway.

  ‘Come in. I’d like to shut the door.’

  He locked it and then went to the bar without saying another word. Madame Cassel followed.

  ‘What kind of estimate would you put on a Gauguin of this size?’

  Dupin pointed to one of the paintings on the wall, one of three dogs drinking out of a bowl on a table.

  ‘That’s a very famous painting of Gauguin’s, Still Life with Three Puppies – the fruit, the glasses, the bowl, these objects seem so incredibly familiar, but look closely and out of nowhere you start to see how the spatial relationships are fluctuating. You can see Gauguin’s typical approach very clearly here… Oh, I’m sorry, that’s not what you asked at all…’

  ‘I don’t mean this particular painting, it’s just an example. I mean the value of a Gauguin of this size.’

  ‘Gauguin often used this format, around ninety centimetres by seventy. But the value is not just a question of the size; it also depends on the period. Most of all it depends on the significance of the painting within his oeuvre and in the history of art. And also of course on how crazy the art market is feeling at any given moment.’

  ‘I’m thinking of a painting that Gauguin did here in Pont-Aven. Not directly after he arrived, a little while later.’

  ‘Gauguin was in Pont-Aven four times between 1886 and 1894, although the length of his stay varied. Did you know that he lived right here? In this hotel?’

  ‘I knew that, yes.’

  ‘By his fourth stay, he wasn’t even in Pont-Aven any more, strictly speaking. It had already become too much hassle for him so he lived and worked in Le Pouldu. The critical periods were definitely 1888 and then 1889 to 1891 – his second and third visits, this was when he produced his most important paintings, he…’ The professor was in her element. She was clearly a passionate scholar. The information came pouring forth.

  ‘Let’s say a painting from the second or third visit. Just hypothetically.’

  ‘There are some paintings approximately this size, which were produced during that time. You’ll definitely know a few of them – The Yellow Christ of course, Portrait of the Artist with the Yellow Christ, or Portrait of Madeleine Bernard who was Laval’s fiancée as well as being Gauguin’s muse and long-term correspondent. Have you got a particular painting in mind?’

  ‘No, no known painting,’ he hesitated somewhat, ‘I’m talking about a hitherto unknown painting.’

  ‘An unknown large Gauguin from the years 1888, ’89 or ’90?’ It was clear Marie Morgane Cassel was very excited. She was speaking more quickly now.

  ‘Those are the years when he developed his revolutionary approach, which he then applied to everything he did: technique, colour, everything. It meant he was finally able to free himself from his ties to Impressionism. He had returned from his first trips to Panama and Martinique, and was already the leading light in the artists’ group. In October he moved to Arles to live and work with Van Gogh – which only lasted two months and ended in a terrible fight, during which Van Gogh famously cut off a bit of his own ear, you know that of course… Sorry, I’m going off topic again. An occupational hazard I think.’

  ‘Exactly, a painting from those years.’

  ‘It’s highly unlikely, Monsieur Dupin. I don’t think there are paintings from that time and of that size that we’re not aware of.’

  Dupin’s voice grew quiet. ‘I’m aware of one.’ Even more quietly, almost inaudibly, he added: ‘I think there is one hanging in this room. A hitherto unknown painting by Gauguin. From that time.’

  There was a long pause during which Marie Morgane Cassel stared incredulously at the Commissaire. ‘A genuine Gauguin? An unknown painting from one of his most important periods? You’re insane, Monsieur Dupin. How could a real Gauguin have ended up here? Who would hang a Gauguin in a restaurant?’

  Dupin nodded good-naturedly. He took a few steps towards the centre of the room. ‘One night,’ this was the story that Juliette had told him years ago, ‘Picasso had eaten at a restaurant with a group of friends and it had turned into a long, wonderful evening. They ate and drank a huge amount. Picasso was in an extremely good mood and drew and painted all night on the paper tablecloths. When they went to pay, the landlord suggested he sign the tablecloth instead and leave it behind. And in the morning there was a Picasso, a real, large Picasso hanging on the wall of a country inn… Why couldn’t a similar thing have happened here in Pont-Aven between Marie-Jeanne Pennec and Gauguin?’

  Marie Morgane Cassel was silent.

  ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. But maybe there was no safer place for a painting like this. Where nobody would ever have suspected a thing. Where it had always been and where everyone knew it. And Pierre-Louis Pennec could see the painting whenever he wanted.’

  The art historian was still silent.

  ‘Look, this room has an extremely high-tech air-conditioning system, who builds that kind of thing into a restaurant in Brittany? The air-conditioning is completely over the top. For the purposes of the restaurant, a much smaller, simpler unit would have been fine. Pierre-Louis Pennec must have invested a huge amount in it, not to mention the building work it needed. It’s the kind of system that you only find in hospitals, massive offices… and museums.’

  This was the shadowy thought that had stuck in his mind from the conversation with Beauvois. The thing about the air-conditioning. This was what had so preoccupied him this entire time, without him knowing what it was. And it wasn’t just in his conversation with Beauvois that air-conditioning had come up – the unwieldy word was written half a dozen times in his notebook. Who needed it in Brittany at all? And a unit this size? And why only have air-conditioning in this one room? It all fitted perfectly, however ridiculous it sounded.

  ‘So you think this would have been a reliable way of keeping the air humidity and temperature constant and –’ Marie Morgane Cassel broke off and seemed to be thinking hard.

  Dupin hadn’t intended to let the professor in on his thoughts and the case to such an extent. That wasn’t his style at all.

  ‘Thirty million. Maybe more. Forty million. It’s hard to say.’

  Now it was Dupin’s turn to be speechless. It was a long time before he could compose himself. ‘You mean… thirty million euro?’

  ‘Maybe forty million or even more.’ In a casual-sounding voice she added, ‘I know that Picasso story. It’s true.’ She had started moving slowly through the room, her eyes completely focused, scanning every single painting.

  Thirty million. Maybe forty million. Or more. Dupin could feel goosebumps on his forearms. This was a motive. A huge motive. When there were sums like this at stake, anything was possible. There isn’t much that people wouldn’t do for that kind of money.

  ‘A Sérusier, a Gauguin, a Bernard, an Anquetin, a Seguin, a Gauguin, a Gauguin. All copies. Good copies… Marie-Jeanne Pennec must have commissioned some of them herself, they’re almost as old as the originals. Or they were given to her as gifts, that happened quite often too.’

  She inspected each painting carefully as she moved from the bar, where they had been standing, towards the door. Dupin was watching her intently. Suddenly she stood still. In front of the last painting. Where there were no tables.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ She was absolutely outraged. ‘The painter – or the copyist, I should say – has made absurd mistakes here. This is meant to be one of Gauguin’s most important paintings, Vision after the Sermon or Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, another painting from 1888.’

  ‘And?’ Dupin had positioned himself next to her and was staring at the painting, transfixed.

  ‘A lot of infelicities have crept in here. The base colour, the red, it’s a garish orange here. Overall it’s a bit too big. There are more Breton farm women in this painting than there are in the original, and they’re closer to the edge here. And above all, the
priest is standing in the middle, underneath the tree trunk, do you see? That’s wrong too.’

  Marie Morgane Cassel was angrily pointing out the relevant parts of the painting as she spoke. ‘In the original he’s standing right in the corner. Bottom right. The whole perspective in this copy is wrong; it’s like a wide-angle lens. You can see some landscape here at the top, a little bit of the horizon. In the other one… in the real painting, there’s just a red expanse with the branches above it. This one almost has a larger maelstrom. Gauguin loved that maelstrom. But –’

  She broke off. Froze, almost motionless. She leaned in as close to the painting as she could, until her eyes were only a few centimetres away from it, then examined it closely, starting from the bottom. It was a few minutes before she spoke again.

  ‘It’s astonishing! Just bizarre. An off-the-wall Gauguin… if he’d actually painted it. But he didn’t. Even though it does clearly have an imitation of his signature.’

  Dupin wasn’t following. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Gauguin never did a painting like this. The painter of this piece has done an improvised version of Gauguin’s painting.’

  ‘And who painted it – I mean, who on earth came up with this painting?’

  ‘No idea, any one of the hundred painters who imitated and did versions of Gauguin paintings. And still do. Someone who might also have painted the other paintings here, who knows? They’re all very well done, by people who know their craft. They are familiar with Gauguin’s style, his paintbrush, his way of working.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, you don’t know of any such painting by Gauguin. No painting that looks like this one.’ Dupin needed her to be absolutely clear on this point.

  Marie Morgane Cassel took some time to answer. ‘Yes. You’re right. Strictly speaking that’s all I can say.’ Her gaze was still fixed on the painting, concentrating hard. ‘An extraordinary piece of work. A fantastic painting. This imitator is very good.’

  She shook her head. Dupin wasn’t sure what that meant.

  ‘But would you categorically rule it out as a Gauguin? I mean, as being painted by Gauguin himself.’