Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘It’s unbelievable. Do you know what this means? This story is going to spread round the world. An unknown Gauguin has been discovered in a restaurant in the middle of nowhere in Brittany. It hung there unnoticed for over a hundred years and is among the most important works in his oeuvre. Its estimated value: forty million euro. Minimum, I would say.’

  ‘And two deaths. Two so far.’

  Marie Morgane Cassel looked ashamed. ‘Yes… you’re right. Yes. Two deaths. I’m sorry –’

  ‘I understand your enthusiasm. They’re two very separate things. You know, in my job I always see the other side too. The other side of things, the other side of people. That’s what I’m there for.’

  They stood there in silence for some time, side by side. Dupin was feeling uncomfortable about what he’d just said. ‘What do you think? Did it sound plausible, what Monsieur Sauré said?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. It’s an accurate insight into, how should I put it, the little conventions of the art world, his attitude, his approach. His whole personality. It’s a very peculiar world.’

  ‘You don’t think Charles Sauré murdered Pierre-Louis Pennec?’

  Marie Morgane Cassel looked at the Commissaire, momentarily thunderstruck. ‘Do you think he could have done it, Commissaire?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She was silent.

  ‘But do you think we can now assume that the painting is definitely genuine? Charles Sauré couldn’t have got it wrong?’

  ‘No. I mean, in theory he could have, of course. But I would trust his judgement – and his instinct. As I said, you won’t find a more knowledgeable expert in the whole world.’

  ‘Good. I… I trust you.’ Dupin smiled, which seemed to please Marie Morgane Cassel.

  ‘So we’re dealing with two deaths and the theft of a forty-million-euro painting then. A painting that, officially speaking, does not exist. We only have Sauré’s… let’s say, appraisal, that there is an original and that what’s hanging in the restaurant right now is not just something a copyist dreamt up.’

  Dupin paused. His smile had vanished. ‘What proof do we have that the painting that’s hanging in the restaurant isn’t the only one there is? The quick appraisal by Sauré, his confidence that what he saw was an original? That’s not enough. Not enough for a court anyway. Whoever has the painting now, they must be feeling pretty confident. He stole a painting that doesn’t exist – so long as we don’t have it in our hands and scientific experts can’t confirm that it is a Gauguin.’

  ‘Who actually owns the painting now?’

  ‘Madame Pennec. It’s all hers since this morning. It’s a very simple inheritance. The hotel belongs to her now and, as there are no other provisions, everything that is in the hotel too. Pierre-Louis Pennec didn’t manage to change the will in the end.’

  ‘So the donation is invalid?’

  ‘That will be up to Madame Pennec to decide.’

  Dupin’s mobile rang. Labat. ‘I have to take this call. Let’s go back to the car.’

  ‘Okay. Would it be best for me to go straight to Brest from here?’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift part of the way… Labat?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire. There are a few urgent matters here. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m standing by the sea in Carantec.’

  ‘Carantec? By the sea?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘What are you doing in Carantec?’

  ‘What’s going on, Labat?’

  ‘You have to get in touch with Salou. He wants to speak to you in person again. As does Docteur Lafond. Both of them are expecting your call… soon.’

  Labat waited in vain for Dupin to say something.

  ‘When will you be at the hotel? We’ve asked Madame Lajoux and Delon to be on standby. We haven’t been able to reach André Pennec or Beauvois yet. Who do you want to see first after your visit to Catherine Pennec?’

  ‘I need a car,’ Dupin thought for a moment, ‘at one of the big roundabouts in Brest, at the first roundabout if you’re coming from Morlaix, no wait, the Océanopolis would be best. That’s the simplest. The car is for Madame Cassel to get to the university.’

  Dupin had been to the Océanopolis in Brest many times and knew it very well. He’d always loved big aquariums, especially the penguins… and the Océanopolis was amazing.

  ‘Is Madame Cassel with you?’

  ‘She’s got to be at the university by half four.’

  ‘You’ve got to bring me and Le Ber up to speed on the progress of the investigation, and soon.’

  ‘You’re right, Inspector Labat. You’re absolutely right. Speak to you soon.’

  They had made good time on this journey because the holiday-makers were still sitting in the crêperies. It took thirty minutes to get to the Océanopolis. The same policeman as yesterday, the one from Brest, was waiting for Madame Cassel in the same car. Madame Cassel and Dupin hadn’t managed to speak all that much this time either. Dupin had been on the phone for most of the journey, just like on their way there. Docteur Lafond, who was working on Loic Pennec’s autopsy, hadn’t said much as usual; but he had confirmed that Loic Pennec died last night, not this morning, that – as far as the evidence went – the fall had been the cause of death, and that, so far, there was no indication of violence against or injuries to Pennec before the fall.

  Salou noted that there were footprints within Pennec’s vicinity that were ‘reasonably likely’ to belong to a second person, especially right next to the lethal precipice. But he couldn’t confirm it. The storm and the heavy rain had more or less washed everything away; there was a danger it wouldn’t be possible to confirm the footprints even after further investigation. Dupin didn’t think things sounded half as positive as they had sounded in his first conversation with Le Ber – or else the great star forensic scientist had just been trying to make himself seem important.

  So far no members of the public had been in touch to report seeing anything suspicious, either yesterday evening when it happened, or this morning. The officers from Pont-Aven had begun a systematic questioning of all the locals, but hadn’t turned up any leads yet. Dupin hadn’t expected anything else here; this wasn’t a case which would be solved by anything as banal as fingerprints, footprints, textile fibres or random eyewitnesses.

  Dupin parked his car down by the harbour a little before four, very close to the Pennecs’ villa. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

  It took a long time for Madame Pennec to come to the door. Catherine Pennec was clearly in a bad way; her eyes were glassy, her expression frozen, even her hair, which had been so painstakingly done yesterday, was a complete mess.

  ‘Excuse me if I’m intruding, Madame Pennec, but I’d like to speak to you if possible. I know this is terrible, it’s a real imposition to be bothering you like this.’

  Catherine Pennec looked at Dupin blankly. ‘Please come in.’

  Dupin stepped inside. Catherine Pennec went on ahead without saying a word, and Dupin followed. He sat in the same armchair he had sat in only yesterday and the day before.

  ‘I’ve been given some medicine. I don’t know if I’m in a position to have a proper conversation.’

  ‘First of all, I’d like to express my deepest condolences, Madame Pennec.’

  This was the second time in forty-eight hours that he was offering his condolences to the same person. It was eerie.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This is a great tragedy. Either way.’

  Madame Pennec raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

  ‘We don’t yet know whether it was an accident or if your husband was pushed. Or… or whether your husband… whether he –’

  ‘Jumped?’

  ‘We might never be able to say with absolute certainty what happened. We don’t have any eyewitnesses yet. It’s impossible to find any significant forensic evidence at the scene now. You saw the rain that came down last night. Everything is tentative so far.’
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br />   ‘I just want to know whether it was murder. And, if so, you have to find the murderer, you’ve got to promise me. If it was murder, it must be the same person who killed my father-in-law, mustn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Madame Pennec. We can’t say anything yet. You shouldn’t concern yourself with that right now.’

  ‘I really hope you make progress soon.’

  ‘I won’t impose on you for too long. But there are a few things I have to discuss with you. Please tell me about yesterday evening, what time did –’

  ‘My husband left the house just before half nine. He wanted to go for a walk. He often drives to the coast in the evenings, sometimes to his boat at Plage Tahiti and sometimes he just goes for a walk here in the village. He likes walking, has done for years. He –’ Her voice cracked. ‘He liked the route from Rospico to Plage Tahiti. And in summer, in the tourist season, he would always go walking late at night. He’s obviously been in a bad state since the day before yesterday, and he was hoping it would calm him. He couldn’t sleep the night we heard the terrible news. Neither of us could.’

  ‘Was he on his own yesterday?’

  ‘He always went for walks by himself. Even I never went with him. He took his car.’ Her voice became even more solemn. ‘It took him ages to find his car keys. And then he was saying “see you later” at the door.’

  ‘How long would he usually be gone for?’

  ‘Two hours perhaps. We left at almost the same time yesterday, that’s why I know exactly what time he left the house. I drove to the all-night pharmacy in Trévignon; my doctor prescribed sleeping tablets for us, both of us. We needed to sleep. We would usually never take anything like that.’

  ‘You did the right thing. There’s no need to reproach yourself.’

  ‘I went to bed when I came back; I put his tablets on the bed in his room. They’re still there.’

  ‘You have separate bedrooms?’

  Catherine Pennec looked at Dupin indignantly. ‘Of course. Otherwise I would have noticed straight away that my husband wasn’t back this morning.’

  ‘I understand, Madame Pennec.’

  ‘There was absolutely nothing unusual about the situation last night, Monsieur le Commissaire. The walk, the time, the route, nothing out of the ordinary, it was like always… apart from what happened of course.’ Madame Pennec sounded almost like she was pleading with him, beseeching him.

  ‘I understand. This is so terrible. I won’t impose on you any longer with all of these things. There’s just one more important issue we have to speak about – everything depends on it and you haven’t brought it up yet.’

  Madame Pennec looked the Commissaire in the eye. Dupin thought he saw uncertainty in her gaze for a moment, but he might have been mistaken.

  ‘You mean the painting. You know. Of course. Yes, that bloody painting. It’s all about the painting, isn’t it?’ Her voice was confident.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘It’s hung there happily for over a hundred and thirty years. And now?’ She broke off for a moment. ‘Nobody ever spoke about the painting, we weren’t even allowed to. You’ve got to understand, it was taboo in the Pennec family. Everything depended on this secret, the whole family depended on it. It had to be kept secret, whatever else happened. Even after Pierre-Louis Pennec died, do you understand? It’s a disaster. That much money is a disaster. They were probably right to keep it so secret. Fate only took its course after Pierre-Louis Pennec had made the decision to donate it to the Musée d’Orsay. You must know about that too?’

  Now it was beginning. Dupin knew this stage in every case. At a certain point the first real stories came to light. Up until that moment everyone tried to present seamless, impenetrable fronts so as not to give away anything of real significance. And everyone had their reasons – not just the perpetrators.

  ‘Yes. We’re aware of your father-in-law’s intention.’

  ‘He discussed it with my husband just this week.’

  ‘Pierre-Louis Pennec told your husband about it?’

  ‘Of course. It’s a family matter, after all.’

  ‘And how did he react? How did you react?’

  She answered very clearly. ‘It was his business. Not ours.’

  ‘The painting belongs to you now, Madame Pennec. It’s part of the hotel which you and your husband inherited. And now it’s just yours.’

  Catherine Pennec didn’t say anything.

  ‘Will you follow through with the donation to the Musée d’Orsay? It was Pierre-Louis Pennec’s final wish after all, even if he never managed to arrange it legally-speaking.’

  ‘I’d say so. Right now I’m not able to think about anything beyond today. I’ll deal with it in the next few weeks.’ She looked exhausted.

  ‘Of course not. I’ve already asked too much of you. You have been extremely helpful. Just one last question: who else knew about the painting?’

  Madame Pennec looked at Dupin with some astonishment. ‘I couldn’t say exactly. I thought for a long time it was just me and my husband. But my husband was sure Frédéric Beauvois knew about it too. And I sometimes suspected Madame Lajoux knew. Maybe he told her about it once.’ She paused. ‘I never trusted her anyway.’

  ‘You never trusted her?’

  ‘She’s a fraud. But I shouldn’t say things like that. I’m just so worked up. I shouldn’t make comments like that.’

  ‘What makes you think Madame Lajoux isn’t sincere?’

  ‘Everyone knew they’d been having an affair for decades, and her swanning around as hotel manager. We knew she was getting money from him. To this day. And that she sent some of the money to her son in Canada. He was a waster whom she spoiled.’

  Her voice had hardened for a moment. Dupin took out his notebook.

  ‘Can you say for sure that they knew about the painting?’

  ‘No… no, I don’t know. I really shouldn’t be saying anything anyway.’

  ‘And what about Pierre-Louis Pennec’s half-brother, André Pennec, did he know about the painting?’

  ‘My husband was sure he did. He once said Pierre-Louis’ father told André. The painting was the great family secret of course. How could he not know?’

  Dupin wanted to say that this was exactly why it would have been very helpful for the investigation to have been informed about the painting directly after the murder of Pierre-Louis Pennec – so they would know the motive. He also wanted to tell her how much time they had wasted because of it. And the even more serious issue: that her husband might still be alive if someone had told Dupin about the painting. But it was pointless.

  ‘And Monsieur Beauvois?’

  ‘He’s the worst of the lot. My father-in-law was a fool not to see through him, he –’ She stopped herself.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s a pompous idiot. That ridiculous museum. So much nonsense in one man’s head! When you think about how much money he wheedled out of Pierre-Louis Pennec. All that renovation work at the museum. Why? It’s ludicrous. The museum is third rate and is going to stay that way. Provincial.’ She looked utterly exhausted after this outburst.

  ‘I really will leave you in peace now.’

  Madame Pennec heaved a deep sigh. ‘I hope you find out what happened to my husband soon; it doesn’t make any difference, but it would still help me.’

  ‘I hope so too, Madame Pennec. I really do.’

  She made as though to stand up.

  ‘No, no, don’t get up. Please. I’ll see myself out.’

  Madame Pennec seemed to find it difficult to accept this offer, but she managed it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘If you need any help or if you think of anything else that could be relevant… please don’t hesitate. You’ve got my number.’ Dupin had stood up.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Au revoir, Madame.’

  Dupin left the gloomy room in a hurry.

  Outside again, a warm beam of sunlight fell on Dupin’
s face; the sky was a blazing blue, not a cloud to be seen. Although he had experienced it many times in his nearly three years in Brittany, Dupin was always fascinated by how abruptly the weather could turn. It was a sight to behold. An entirely innocent, warm, sunny day, when you would swear that the summer had finally decided to maintain a stable, high pressure front for weeks, could turn into an autumnal day in the space of half an hour, threatening rain and storms, and then you’d bet anything that this was a solidly low pressure front and it was going to plague you for days – and vice versa. It was as though the previous weather had simply never happened. Dupin sometimes thought that he had never known what this thing called ‘weather’ really was before moving to Brittany. And that he had only really understood it for the first time here. It was no wonder the changeable weather was a constant topic of conversation in Brittany. And Dupin was deeply impressed with how accurately some Bretons could predict it – over thousands of years the Celtic inhabitants had made a great art of it. Even Dupin had started trying his hand at this art form. In some ways it had become a little hobby of his (although so far he had only impressed himself with his successes).

  Dupin stood outside the door for a few moments, took out his Clairefontaine, and made a series of notes. There were a few things he needed to do urgently. He took his mobile out of his pocket.

  ‘Le Ber?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m on my way to the hotel now. I want to speak to Madame Lajoux, then you and Labat. No, you and Labat first, then the others. Did you manage to get hold of Beauvois and André Pennec?’

  ‘No, neither yet. Beauvois doesn’t have a mobile and Pennec is driving, probably in Rennes on business. His voicemail is turned on. We’ve left him multiple messages asking him to get in touch with us immediately.’

  ‘Fine. I need to speak to him today no matter what. Same goes for Beauvois.’

  ‘We’re doing all we can.’

  ‘One more thing. Check whether Madame Pennec was at the all-night pharmacy in Trévignon last night and if so, when. I need the exact times. I want to know what she bought, how she seemed, everything. Speak to the person who served her.’

  ‘Is she under suspicion?’