‘Can you comment at this stage, Madame Cassel?’ Dupin knew it was a stupid question, they had only just seen it.
‘I have to look at it carefully using my tools. I don’t know, I think it could be it.’ She spoke absent-mindedly.
‘Let’s put it in my boot very carefully. You can look at it up close there. And Le Ber, walk around the wood and stand where you can watch the path.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And take your gun with you.’
Le Ber looked irritated for a moment. And Madame Cassel looked taken aback. ‘Shall I call for back-up?’ There was a touch of anxiety in Le Ber’s voice.
‘No. Just secure the path. Make sure you’re not seen. Come on, Madame Cassel.’ Dupin took the painting and carried it slowly to his car. Madame Cassel went on ahead and had the boot open for him when he got there. Dupin placed the painting carefully inside.
‘I’ll get my things.’ Madame Cassel went to Le Ber’s car, opened the door on the passenger side and took a big bag from the back seat. She came back over to Dupin. ‘I need my stereomicroscope.’
She took out a complicated-looking instrument, turned it on and bent right down into the boot. ‘This will take a little while… and I might not be able to give you a definitive answer, just my initial opinion.’
‘That’s more than enough for me. I’ll leave you to work in peace.’
Le Ber had taken his gun, walked up to where the path curved round the little wood and then disappeared behind the trees.
Dupin had to think things through. He walked back to the entrance of the shed and then kept going, towards the sea, which he kept catching glimpses of between the hills and trees. Only now did he realise how dirty he was. The shed had been incredibly dusty. He’d have the smell of it in his nose all day. He tried to brush the dust off his clothes but it was no use. He hadn’t gone far when he heard Madame Cassel calling.
‘Monsieur le Commissaire? Monsieur Dupin? Hello?’
‘I’m coming.’
Half a minute later he was standing next to her, a little out of breath. Dupin looked expectantly at the professor. Her face didn’t give anything away and she spoke in a serious, analytical way.
‘I’ve looked at the paint in detail in a few places, the brushstrokes and the signature. I obviously can’t say this conclusively, I would need more tools for that, but in my opinion the painting is by Gauguin.’ Then Marie Morgane Cassel beamed, ‘This is the painting.’
A relieved smile spread across Dupin’s face. He had the painting.
That was a start. But there was no time to waste; there wasn’t even time to celebrate. Now came the much trickier part. Whoever it was who had hidden the painting here, that person believed the painting to be genuine. It was probably the murderer and they would be coming back here to pick up the painting. Dupin was sure they wouldn’t keep it here for long; it was far too makeshift a solution for a painting worth forty million euro.
‘I would rather you left the vicinity now.’ Dupin sounded more alarmed than he had intended. Marie Morgane Cassel flinched slightly.
‘I… I –’
‘I’m sorry. I just meant that I don’t want to put you in a dangerous situation, or even an unpleasant one – we’re dealing with a murderer, perhaps even a double murderer.’
‘Oh yes… yes. I keep forgetting that.’
‘Inspector Le Ber will bring you back.’
‘Great.’
‘Thank you very much, Madame Cassel. You’ve helped us so much; this is the third time in fact. We are forever in your debt, without you –’
‘No problem, I’ve really enjoyed myself. This is where my work comes to an end, I suppose. You should have the Musée d’Orsay do the technical confirmation. You don’t have to go to Sauré though; speak to the museum president himself. I’ll be keeping up with your progress in the papers.’
‘No, I… I’ll give you a call.’
‘Please do. Let’s stay in touch.’ Dupin felt somewhat self-conscious for a moment, even he himself didn’t know why. But most of all he felt anxious. He went off a short distance, took his mobile out of his trouser pocket and dialled Le Ber’s number.
‘Le Ber, I want you to drive Madame Cassel back to her car now, it’s at the Central.’
‘Is it the original, Monsieur le Commissaire?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s insane. There’s a real Gauguin in your boot. Forty million euro’s worth. That is seriously crazy. What do you think –’ Le Ber sounded gobsmacked.
‘We don’t have time to discuss it now, Le Ber. You’ve got to put the padlock back and lock it. Nobody can know that we’ve been here.’
‘I’ll be right there.’ A minute later Le Ber was standing next to them, panting loudly.
‘Let’s get going.’ Dupin shook Madame Cassel’s hand, a little clumsily. They smiled at each other.
‘Au revoir, Monsieur Dupin.’
‘Au revoir, Madame Cassel.’
Madame Cassel turned on her heel, walked briskly to Le Ber’s car and got in. Le Ber came over to the Commissaire and spoke quietly.
‘Should I take the painting with me? I think it would be best.’
Dupin thought about it. ‘Please do, Le Ber. Take it with you. Best take it to the hotel first, to the restaurant. One of the officers from Pont-Aven can guard the restaurant if you need to get away again. When everything is over, you or Labat can drive the painting to the station.’
‘And what are you going to do, Commissaire?’
‘Wait.’
‘Shall I come back once I’ve dropped Madame Cassel off? With Labat? We could secure the area.’
‘No. I’ll stay here by myself.’ Dupin knew this was completely and utterly against police regulation. ‘For now anyway. We’ll see about later. We might need to arrange shifts. Who knows? I want you to be prepared for anything.’
‘Okay. We’ll be ready.’
‘Don’t say anything about the painting. And all of this stuff here – not a word to anyone. I’ll call Labat.’
‘Okay.’
Le Ber went to Dupin’s car, covered the painting with the blanket again, carried it very cautiously to his car and placed it carefully in the boot. Le Ber had already dumped everything that had been lying around in the boot onto the back seat: first-aid kit, kitchen roll, a bag of police equipment. He got in and started the car, rolled down the windows, leaned out and nodded to Dupin. Marie Morgane Cassel was in the passenger seat and Dupin smiled at her one more time. Then Le Ber carefully reversed up the path. The car eventually disappeared behind the wood.
Dupin went to his car, turned on the engine and reversed just as carefully up the path. He couldn’t let it be obvious at first glance that someone had driven along the path. Back on the road again, he turned in the direction of the beach and parked at the unsupervised car park above the large bay. It was just a few hundred metres to the shed. Nobody would notice his car here; nobody would suspect a thing.
He walked briskly back to the shed across the fields instead of taking the road. He had taken his handgun out of the glove compartment and stuck it into his belt. He would take up his position in the little wood. And wait.
He dialled Labat’s number. He could see that Labat had already tried to call him twice. It was half past one; Beauvois’ interrogation should be over by now.
‘Labat?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire?’
‘What did Beauvois say? Do we know everything?’
‘It wasn’t easy with that lawyer. He and Beauvois had clearly agreed to say as little as possible. So Beauvois told his story about the copy again, the same one he told you and Le Ber. He confirmed all the details we’d already heard, that he painted it thirty years ago because he was so fascinated that he –’
‘Does he have an alibi for both evenings?’
‘No firm alibis. He was in the museum on Thursday and stayed late, did tours for some local politicians and was at the art society meeting until ten o’clock that night. The
n he went home alone, according to his statement. On Saturday evening he had a convention in Le Pouldu. Some kind of local council thing. Cultural issues. Also until around ten o’clock.’
‘Le Pouldu?’
‘Yes. The places for these meetings must change. It’s on rotation… I’ve drawn up a list of Beauvois’ activities in the last four days, do you want to hear it?’
‘Did he leave Pont-Aven in that time?’
‘No, just that evening when he went to Le Pouldu.’
‘But otherwise he didn’t leave Pont-Aven?’
‘He says he didn’t.’
‘Where is Beauvois now?’
‘He left the Prefecture a quarter of an hour ago. His lawyer arranged it. But we could call him in again. Should I –’
‘I want you and Le Ber to be on standby at the hotel. I might need you.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Le Pouldu.’
‘Le Pouldu?’
‘Yes. In a wood near the Buvette.’ He was back at the shed by now.
‘What is going on?’
‘We have the painting, Labat.’
‘What?’ Labat had yelled into the phone in his excitement.
‘We’ve just seized it.’
‘Where?’
‘In a shed here.’
‘In a shed? The Gauguin?’
‘Correct.’
‘Is it definitely the real painting?’
‘Labat, I need you to get going right away, go and meet Le Ber at the Central. He’s driving Madame Cassel back to the hotel as we speak. He has the painting with him.’
‘Madame Cassel?’
‘She has provisionally confirmed the authenticity of the Gauguin.’
‘And what are you doing?’
‘Waiting. Until someone comes to pick it up.’
There was a long pause.
‘Do you know who it is?’
‘I think so. Wait with Le Ber at the hotel. And the most important thing to remember is that nobody can find out that we’ve seized the painting.’
‘But –’
Dupin hung up.
It was already over thirty degrees again and the sun was blazing like it did in the south. In Brittany this was classed as a ‘heatwave’ and it was going to cause sensational headlines in the local papers tomorrow. The little wood where Dupin stood was not very big; it was perhaps a hundred metres long and very typical of the province. Dupin always used to think of thick, endless woods of birch and oak when he thought of Brittany. In reality, while it had indeed been one almighty, dense wood in days gone by, extensive deforestation since the Middle Ages meant it was now the least densely forested region in France.
This might be a long wait. And there would be all those urgent official calls to make afterwards. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for that. He wanted to know if he was right, and he wanted to get it over with. The whole thing needed to come to a head. He wasn’t interested in anything else.
It was quarter past five now. Dupin had been waiting for more than four hours. He hated not being able to do anything.
He kept walking back and forth, from one end of the wood to the other. He felt like he knew every single tree, every blackberry bush, every fern. In his boredom he had counted the number of oaks, larches, beeches and horse chestnut trees in the wood. Interestingly there were far more oaks than any other kind of tree. He had looked for the tallest fern, and for the tree with the most mistletoe. He really liked mistletoe tea. He had spoken to Nolwenn three times and each time he had had an important reason to call her. But he never managed to make the calls last longer than ten minutes. Nolwenn knew how much he hated waiting. He had brought her up to speed quickly. She hadn’t asked any questions and she had especially avoided bringing up Guenneugues – or any of the other things that couldn’t be put off any longer. She had just reminded him to call his sister. His mobile had rung a good ten more times but he had just looked at the caller ID and let it ring. Only when Salou had called – his fourth attempt since this morning – did he pick up. He actually did feel a little bit guilty about that – maybe there really was some news. Salou was still beside himself with rage and said that Dupin’s behaviour amounted to a boycott of his work. Dupin wasn’t paying enough attention to get worked up about it. He also didn’t feel at all inclined to take Salou into his confidence. In brusque tones, Salou finally reported his findings on the copy in the museum: inconclusive so far. And he announced the ‘official result’ of the investigation at the cliffs: ‘Potential traces of the presence of a second person, but robust traces cannot be documented.’ So there hadn’t been any news after all.
Dupin was hungry. But more than anything he was thirsty. He hadn’t thought of bringing anything to eat or drink. There was a bottle of Volvic in the car, but that was no good as he couldn’t leave. He should have had Le Ber come back after all. He had to distract himself. Maybe he actually would call his sister.
He reached for his phone. ‘Lou?’
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you arrested him yet?’
‘What?’
She laughed.
‘Nolwenn told me you were trying to get in touch the day before yesterday. So what are you doing?’
‘You’re waiting for someone somewhere, am I right?’
‘I –’
‘You always call when you’re waiting somewhere.’
It didn’t come across mean. And she was right.
‘I’m sitting on a roof in Quirbajou. We’re almost finished here. It’s nearly forty degrees. A crazy house. I’m good though. Lots to do. Good stuff.’
His sister had moved to the Pyrenees with Marc seven years ago, to an absolutely tiny backwater with lots of wine, olives, a real Cathar castle and two magnificent stone quarries not far from Perpignan. She was three years younger than him, an architect and carpenter, and she built crazy houses made entirely out of wood. Low energy ones. Dupin loved his sister, even though they rarely saw each other and seldom spoke.
‘Yes, I… I’m on a case. And yes… I’m waiting.’
‘Complicated?’
‘Yes.’
She obviously hadn’t heard anything yet.
‘Two dead. And a genuine Gauguin.’
‘A genuine Gauguin?’
‘A Gauguin that has lain undiscovered until now – probably the most important painting in his oeuvre, according to Le Figaro.’
‘No way!’ She laughed. ‘Sounds exciting. Mum will love that.’
Their mother was an antiques dealer and was passionate about fine art. Dupin actually wondered why she hadn’t called yet. She would really like this case.
‘Wouldn’t you like to come to Paris next weekend? And visit her?’
Anna Dupin did not travel out to the sticks. They always had to come to her in Paris. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to get away. We’ll see.’
Dupin didn’t really want to go. It was also an aunt’s birthday that weekend and he couldn’t stand her. One of his mother’s three sisters, the worst kind of arrogant, stuck-up Parisienne and he would have to accept everyone’s condolences all evening because he now had to eke out a living in the back of beyond.
‘Blame the case. You know there’s nothing she loves more than a good chance to complain.’
‘I’ll do my best. How’s Marc?’
‘Really well. He’s in Toulouse. Some engineering convention.’
‘Did you build the house?’
‘This one? Yes.’
‘I’d love to see it.’
‘I’ll email you some photos… And how are you, apart from this case?’
‘Hmmm. I don’t know.’
Lou always asked the most complicated questions.
‘You never know.’
‘Sometimes I do.’
‘Still in love? With Adèle?’
‘No.’
It had been a while since they’d spoken.
‘That’s a pity, it sounded so promis
ing. Anyone new?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’
Lou was absolutely convinced that he still loved Claire and she’d told him so many times. And that was why he lost interest in any woman who came after Claire. Lou knew him well.
‘Well actually… I just mean I’m not sure.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. I… wait a second, Lou.’ Dupin could hear something. The sound of an engine.
‘Lou, I think I’ve got to –’
‘Stay in touch!’
‘I will.’
He could hear it very clearly now. A car. Coming up the path. He moved a little deeper into the little wood; he must not be seen under any circumstances. The car was approaching now, coming around the bend. It came hurtling up the path at top speed. Then Dupin heard the brakes. A car door opened and slammed shut again. Dupin waited a few moments, then pulled out his gun and moved carefully through the trees towards the shed. Through the leaves and the branches he could see parts of the car glinting in the sun. A dark car. His footsteps quickened. Then he stepped out of the wood.
A large black limousine was parked directly in front of the shed. The fender was practically touching the wall.
‘André Pennec,’ murmured Dupin in surprise.
An hour and a half later, Inspector Labat was driving to Quimper for the second time that day. André Pennec was sitting in the back of the car and Labat was bringing him to the station. There had been a very unpleasant scene at the shed, but it hadn’t lasted long.
Dupin was standing in front of the dark, ugly villa he knew so well by now. Soon Le Ber would come and wait outside the front door in his car.
He gave the doorbell another quick ring. He didn’t have to wait long for the door to be opened.
‘Good evening, Madame Pennec… I’d like to have a word.’ Dupin had spoken very firmly.
Catherine Pennec looked openly hostile for a moment, an unadulterated, scathing gaze which transformed into a look of absolute surrender. She was wearing the high-necked, black dress again. Without showing any emotion or saying a word, she turned around and walked slowly in the direction of the drawing room.
Death in Pont-Aven Page 24
