Was it murder or suicide? Loic Pennec was dead. Two days ago someone had murdered his father. And now the son too? Dupin had to think clearly. He had to concentrate now. Concentrate fully. Take things step by step and not let himself get confused. Not by the second death. Not by the commotion that would break out now. Whether this was an accident, murder or suicide, there was going to be a huge scandal and he didn’t even want to think about what would happen when word got out. He had to know the reason. What had set everything off? He had to work quickly. Had there really been a genuine Gauguin hanging in the restaurant? That was the first question. He had to know. Know for sure. But how could he find out? And if it was a genuine, undiscovered Gauguin, then the question was who would have known about the painting? About the forty million euro? This was the crucial question. Who did Pennec tell? And when? Sometime in the last few days when he knew he was going to die? Or years ago? Decades ago? Had he even told anyone? His son must have known. And Catherine Pennec too. Or had the son not known anything either? It was obvious old Pennec hadn’t had a very close relationship with his son, however much Loic Pennec tried to hide it. And what about Madame Lajoux, his – Dupin was sure of it – lover? And Fragan Delon? And Beauvois who had advised him on all things art, whom Pennec seemed to have trusted? And the question was an even broader one. What about André Pennec? Or might an outsider have recognised the painting as an original? And what had set everything off now, at this specific point in time? The single unusual thing that had happened in the last week was that Pennec had found out that he was likely to die in the near future.
Dupin had almost reached the other end of the beach, where a small road became a slipway for launching boats into the water. On the right hand side, a little higher up amongst the old dunes was a pretty little hotel called the Ar Men Du; for Dupin’s money, it had the best restaurant on the coast. This was a special place. Here, in Finistère, there were a few spots where you could really feel it: the edge of the world. Yes, this is where the world ended, on this craggy, wild ledge. There was nothing but the endless ocean in front of you, an expanse so large that you couldn’t see it all – but you could definitely feel it. Thousands of kilometres of water, the open sea, not a scrap of land, nothing.
Dupin urgently needed to make a quiet phone call. It wasn’t possible out here, but in this weather nobody would be in the Ar Men Du. He could sit in the bar; the hotel guests had their own breakfast room. He would make his call and drink coffee.
The owner of the Ar Men Du was Alain Trifin, who had been running it for some years now. It used to be a dive but Trifin had seen its potential and made something of it. Dupin liked him a lot; he had a dignified, intelligent, laconic manner, and his conversations with Dupin were short but genuine. Dupin rarely went to the Ar Men Du, but whenever he did it struck him that he should do so more often.
Trifin smiled when he saw Dupin coming in, soaked from head to foot and dripping. Dupin stood in the doorway while Trifin disappeared into the kitchen without a word and emerged with a towel a moment later. He was tall with thick, short hair and prominent, well-defined features, a very good-looking man.
‘Dry yourself off first, Monsieur Dupin. Coffee?’
‘Thanks – yes please.’
‘I take it you’d rather be alone.’ Trifin pointed to the table in the corner, right by the big window.
‘There are a few calls I need to make. I –’
‘Nobody will disturb you here.’ He glanced out at the lashing rain as though by way of explanation.
Dupin dried his head and face, took off his jacket, ran the towel over his clothes once and laid it on the chair before he sat down. A little puddle had formed in the spot where he had been standing. Trifin signalled to one of the two waiters.
A moment later Trifin was standing at the huge espresso machine. A very young waiter brought the coffee, trying to be as discreet as possible. He moved as though his greatest ambition was not to be noticed by Dupin.
Dupin dialled Le Ber’s number and it rang for a long time before he picked up. At first the only thing Dupin could hear was a horrible hissing sound. Then he heard Le Ber’s distorted voice which was almost impossible to understand, even though he was shouting.
‘Hang on, Monsieur le Commissaire, hang on,’ nothing for a few seconds and then Le Ber was back, ‘Monsieur le Commissaire, I’ve come a bit closer to the rocks, but that’s not helping either. The wind is coming off the sea. I’ll go back to the car.’ He hung up before Dupin could say anything.
Dupin looked out the big window towards where Le Ber would now have been visible, had the weather been better. It was even darker now, and water was running down the window panes in steady streams.
The coffee was wonderful. If it hadn’t been for this tragedy, this brutal crime, this whole case, it would have been extremely cosy, being warm and dry in here while the storm raged outside. But he couldn’t appreciate it right now.
It took much longer than he had expected for Le Ber to call back. This time Dupin could hear him loud and clear.
‘I’m sitting in the car. I’ve spoken to Salou again. He has been able to pinpoint the place where Loic Pennec fell. Salou thinks he probably wasn’t alone.’
‘He wasn’t alone?’
‘There are potential traces of a second person. Salou says it’s incredibly difficult to make out, and the rain has already washed away a lot of the trace evidence.’
‘Can we assume this information is reliable yet?’
‘No.’
‘Tell Salou to let me know as soon as he is sure.’
‘He will.’
‘Le Ber, I want to know who painted the copies that are hanging in Central, especially the painting next to the restaurant door. We need the name as soon as possible. This is the only thing we should be concentrating on right now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I just said.’
‘You want to know who painted the copied paintings in the restaurant?’
‘Yes, that one in particular.’
‘Now? You mean right now?’
‘Now.’
‘And the second body? Within the space of three days, somebody murders Pierre-Louis Pennec and then they probably murder his son. Almost wipes out the whole family. The forensic –’
‘I need the painter who did those paintings.’
‘Shouldn’t I stay here? At the crime scene?’
‘We also urgently need to get hold of the member of staff Monsieur Pennec spoke to at the Musée d’Orsay.’
‘He’s on holiday until the end of next week. Labat spoke to his secretary yesterday but she wasn’t able to reach him. Apparently, Pennec spoke to the secretary on the phone when he rang the Musée d’Orsay last week, but the secretary doesn’t have a clue what it was about or what Pennec wanted, she just transferred his call.’
‘We’ve got to find him. What’s his name?’
‘Labat knows.’
‘It doesn’t matter for the moment. What’s important is that we find him as soon as possible. And I want to see Madame Cassel.’
Le Ber seemed confused. ‘Madame Cassel? Now?’
‘Get me her mobile number. That’s enough to be going on with. I forgot to make a note of it.’
‘Who is going to give Madame Pennec the terrible news? You should do it, Monsieur le Commissaire.’
‘Labat can do it. He should get going immediately, right now. I’ll drive over to Madame Pennec later. Tell him to let her know I’ll be coming.’
‘There’ll be trouble, you know.’
‘He should get going straight away. She shouldn’t just find out any old way. And of course we’ve got to know as much as possible about Pennec’s walk. When he set out, where he was going – and why? Was he on his own?’
‘I’ll let Labat know. But it’s going to be difficult, I mean after delivering news like this –’
‘Call me as soon as you have anything. The most important thing is to locate the m
an from the museum… And the copyists.’
Dupin hung up. The rain had eased off all of a sudden. To the west, way out over the sea by the towering black cliffs (the Men Du from which the area and the hotel took their name), a crack had opened in the clouds. A sun beam fell theatrically through it, tracing a dazzlingly bright, perfect circle on the otherwise deep black sea.
So there were vague indications of a second person. Dupin hadn’t bought the idea of an accident in any case. There was more to it than that. He felt around for his notebook, which had been some-what protected in his breast pocket. He dried it as best he could with a napkin, but it hadn’t got too wet. He made a few notes.
His mobile rang; Le Ber again.
‘Yes?’
‘The name of the man from the Musée d’Orsay is Charles Sauré. He’s the director of the collection. I just spoke to his secretary again – we managed to get her personal number. Monsieur Sauré has a house up in Finistère, in Carantec.’
‘In Brittany? He has a holiday home here in Brittany?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Isn’t that a strange coincidence?’
‘I don’t know about that, Monsieur le Commissaire – lots of people from Paris have holiday homes in Brittany. Especially these intellectual types.’
‘True. And he’s staying there at the moment?’
‘That’s what his secretary thinks.’
Dupin knew Carantec, a very pretty village on the north coast. A bit gentrified but not unpleasant, not too chic. He had been there twice, the last time was the Easter before with Adèle – her grandmother lived there.
‘Do we have his number?’
‘Just a landline. His home number.’
‘Have you tried it yet?’
‘No.’
‘Call it out to me.’
‘0-2-9-8-6-7-4-5-8-7.’
Dupin made a note of the number in his notebook.
‘What does “director of the collection” mean?’
‘No idea.’
‘I’ve got to speak to Madame Cassel.’
‘0-6-2-7-8-6-7-5-6-2.’
‘Have her brought to the Ar Men Du.’
‘You’re in the Ar Men Du? In that restaurant over there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want Madame Cassel to come and see you there, in the Ar Men Du?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Okay. I’ll arrange it.’
‘I’ll wait here. Oh yes, I’ve got to see Madame Lajoux this afternoon. And old Delon. And André Pennec, in the hotel. And we might need a few police officers for searches. Find out who’s on duty.’
‘Searches?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Monsieur le Commissaire.’
‘Yes?’
‘You should be keeping us in the loop.’
Dupin hesitated. ‘You’re right. I will. As soon as I can. Is Labat at Madame Pennec’s?’
‘He should be there by now, I reckon. He… he protested very strongly.’
‘I know… I mean, I can imagine.’ Dupin added pensively, ‘I’ll go and see Madame Pennec myself later.’
Dupin hung up.
He motioned to the waiter to bring a second coffee. The waiter had understood immediately, just as he was beginning to make the signal. He had to speak to Charles Sauré. It could be very important. A few large raindrops had fallen from his hair onto his notebook, a few lines had run and then he had smudged them with his fist. He had trouble deciphering the numbers; his notebooks always looked pathetic after two or three days on a case – even without rain.
Dupin dialled Sauré’s number. A woman answered.
‘Bonjour, Madame. This is Commissaire Georges Dupin from Concarneau.’
There was a short pause before the woman’s voice answered quietly and very cautiously: ‘Oh my god. Has something happened?’
Dupin knew all too well the fear it caused when the police called out of the blue and didn’t immediately say why they were calling.
‘I’m so sorry to be calling like this, Madame. No, nothing has happened. Nothing at all. There’s no reason to be concerned. I just have a few questions for Monsieur Charles Sauré. It’s not about him at all, it’s just that he might be able to help us with certain information.’
‘I understand.’ Her voice sounded noticeably relieved. ‘I’m Anne Sauré, Charles Sauré is my husband. He’s not at home at the moment. But he’ll back soon. By twelve at the latest.’
‘Do you know where he is right now?’
‘In Morlaix, picking up a few things we needed.’
‘Does your husband have a mobile?’
‘Could you tell me what this is about first?’
‘He was… well, it’s complicated. It’s about his museum, an issue in connection with the museum. I just need some information.’
‘Well he doesn’t have a mobile. He hates all that kind of thing.’
‘Hmmm, I see.’
‘Feel free to call again at twelve. Let’s say half past to be on the safe side. He’ll definitely be back by then.’
‘Thank you very much, Madame. And I’m sorry to have given you such a fright earlier.’
‘Au revoir, Monsieur le Commissaire.’
‘Au revoir, Madame.’
The gap in the clouds had long since closed up and the storm and the rain had started again.
Dupin made yet another signal to the waiter. ‘Another coffee, please.’ He knew it was his sixth today. But now that he was on a case, this really wasn’t the time to cut down on coffee (although he had been intending to do so for years and Docteur Pelliet had strongly recommended it). ‘And a croissant.’ He was thinking about his stomach again. They had left the Central in such a rush.
His wet clothes clung to his skin. It would take them hours to dry. This was what he got for steadfastly refusing to buy one of those ugly waterproof jackets that almost all the locals had… Nolwenn liked to tease him that it was very unbreton of him. Dupin stared out at the rain, lost in thought. A dark-coloured car came up the sandy path to the hotel car park and stopped right at the entrance. He recognised the policeman. It must be Madame Cassel already. That was quick.
Marie Morgane Cassel got out, looked around, spotted Dupin through the glass and headed for the hotel.
She shook the rain off her coat as she stood in front of his table. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Pierre-Louis Pennec’s son fell from the cliffs… fell or was made to fall, we don’t know which yet. Over there.’ Dupin pointed in the direction of Plage Tahiti.
Madame Cassel turned pale. She placed her hand to her right temple. ‘How awful! I don’t envy you.’
‘Thanks. I mean, yes. It’s a terrible thing. And it’s going to cause such an uproar, it’s absolutely dreadful.’
‘I can believe that. Did you want to talk about the painting a bit more? Is that why you wanted to see me again?’
‘I wanted to ask you whether you would have time to come with me to an interview? I have to go to Carantec to see the director of the collection at the Musée d’Orsay.’
‘The director of the collection? You mean Charles Sauré?’
‘He was the one who spoke to Pennec. We haven’t managed to interview him yet so we have no idea what they discussed. I want to hear it from Monsieur Sauré myself.’
‘And how can I help you?’
‘What does the director of a museum collection do?’
‘They’re responsible for its artistic direction… the question of what paintings the collection has, buys, sells. All in close cooperation with the president of the museum of course.’
‘Would Pennec have gone to him in connection with this painting? If it were a genuine Gauguin, I mean.’
‘Why would he have gone to him if he knew it was genuine? I mean, it wouldn’t have been to verify it.’
‘That’s just it.’
‘And so that’s what you’re trying to find out?’
‘Yes and I need your help to do it. The
whole art thing –’
Marie Morgane Cassel seemed to be thinking it over. ‘I have no idea how I could be of any help to you. And I need to be back in Brest by five. There’s a big conference for art historians all weekend. It’s not really my type of thing, but I’m giving a lecture today.’
‘I would really appreciate it… Charles Sauré is going to tell me things I don’t understand. I have to know whether it’s a genuine Gauguin – that’s the most important thing at the moment. We need some solid facts here. And we can make sure that you get to the university by five, that won’t be a problem.’
Madame Cassel moved towards the door. ‘Shall we take your car?’
Dupin had to laugh, just like he had last night. ‘Yes, let’s take my car.’
It had been an exhausting, nerve-wracking journey. The type of journey Dupin hated. In ‘this weather’ the tourists obviously hadn’t gone to the beach. They’d decided to go on ‘day trips’ instead, spending the day in the city doing sightseeing, grocery shopping, souvenir-buying. This was why there was such overcrowding on the N165, the southern section of the legendary route nationale that went right the way round the wild, rugged half-island. Brittany had no motorways after Rennes although the route nationale was a sort of motorway, with its four lanes and a speed limit of 110. The traffic was ‘slow to halting’, which was the technical term used by ‘107.7’, the national traffic broadcaster. Everyone trusted it implicitly, from the Canal Coast to Champagne, from the Côte d’Azur to Brittany. First the traffic was halting until Quimper, then halting until Brest. And then halting to Morlaix. For the entire journey.
Under normal circumstances (so for ten months and twenty days of the year) the journey would have taken a good hour, but today it took two and a half. They arrived a little before one o’clock. Marie Morgane Cassel and Dupin hadn’t spoken much. Dupin had had to make a string of phone calls. Le Ber twice, Nolwenn once (she was already up to speed; Dupin was always baffled as to how she managed it) then Labat and Guenneugues (it was as excruciating as ever; Dupin had claimed the connection was bad a minute in, said ‘I can’t hear you any more, can you hear me?’ a few times and then hung up). Labat had been at Madame Pennec’s house. It had been a depressing conversation according to Le Ber. She hadn’t heard the news so he had to break it to her. She collapsed and as a precaution Labat had called for help; her GP had come to the house and given her a sedative. What time Loic Pennec had set out, whether he had been alone, whether he had met up with anyone, there was no way to ask any of these questions under the circumstances. Nolwenn’s had been the only cheering phone call – she had found out Charles Sauré’s exact address. Dupin didn’t want his visit to be announced.
Death in Pont-Aven Page 15
