Dog Will Have His Day (Three Evangelist 2)

by Vargas, Fred

  ‘What about the typewriter, could we trace it through that?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a specialist on the spot, might as well use him.’

  XXIV

  SEVRAN HAD STARED hard for several minutes at the note which the inspector had unfolded in front of him, using tweezers. Looking puzzled, and concentrating, it was as if he were trying to identify someone’s face in a photograph.

  ‘Yes, I do know this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This is a slow, soft, smooth action. And if I’m not much mistaken, the machine is one of mine. Come along.’

  The two men followed him into a large room upstairs in the main house, full of typewriters: ranged around on tables and shelves were as many as two hundred black machines of unusual shapes. Sevran made his way unhesitatingly between the tables, and sat down in front of a black-and-gold typewriter with a dial.

  ‘Put these on,’ said Guerrec, passing him some gloves, ‘and type gently.’

  Sevran nodded, pulled on the gloves and put a sheet of paper into the carriage.

  ‘This is the Geniatus 1920,’ he said. ‘What is the wording I should type?’

  ‘There was a couple, new line, in the Vauban cabin, new line, but nobody’s letting on,’ Guerrec recited. Sevran typed a few words, took out the sheet and examined it.

  ‘No,’ he said, pulling a face, ‘it’s almost the same, but not quite.’

  He stood up quickly, annoyed that his expertise had failed him, went round the tables and sat down at a small oblong machine whose function was hard to guess from its shape.

  Sevran typed the first words of the message again, but not on a keyboard: this time a wheel turned until the right letter printed. He did not need to look at the metal disc, since he knew the order of letters by heart. He took the paper out and smiled.

  ‘This is it. It must be from the Virotyp 1914. Show me the original again, inspector.’

  The engineer compared the two pieces of paper.

  ‘Yes, it’s the Virotyp, no question. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guerrec. ‘Can you type the whole thing, so we can check it in the lab?’

  While Sevran was once more working the Virotyp disc, Guerrec was looking around the room. The table on which the Virotyp sat was near the door, but screened from the windows. Sevran brought him the second version.

  ‘This time,’ Guerrec said to him, ‘can you put your fingerprints on it. Please don’t take offence.’

  ‘Well, I do take offence,’ said Sevran, ‘seeing that it’s my house, and my machine, and I must be in the front line of suspects.’

  He took off the gloves and held the paper in both hands, pressing his fingers down on it, before giving it back to the inspector.

  ‘Kehlweiler, stay here, I’m calling my colleague to check the prints.’

  Sevran stayed with Louis, his expression both anxious and intrigued.

  ‘Is it easy for anyone to get in here?’ Louis asked.

  ‘In the daytime, yes, over the garden wall for instance. At night, or when we’re not here, we put the alarm on. But this afternoon, after I’d buried Ringo, I took Lina to the cafe to distract her, and I forgot to switch it on, I had other things on my mind. In fact we often forget.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about your machines?’

  Sevran shrugged.

  ‘You can’t really sell them unless you know what you’re doing. You have to find the right buyers, collectors, networks, addresses.’

  ‘How much are they worth?’

  ‘Depends on the model, how rare it is, its condition. This one, for instance, is worth five hundred francs, but that one over there might fetch twenty-five thousand. Who would know? Who would be able to choose the right one? There are some that look like nothing special and are very sought-after. The one in the back, with the lever inverted, see that? The very first Remington, 1874, and unique today, because the lever was badly engineered. Remington recalled them soon after bringing them out, and they reversed the lever, free of charge, for all their customers. But someone had brought that one over from America to France and Remington didn’t chase after him to change the lever. So my machine must be unique. But who would ever know that? A collector, yes, but he’d have to be a real expert. And there aren’t many of us, nobody would dare steal it from me, word would get out, and you’d lose your reputation, it would be professional suicide. So, you see, I don’t run much of a risk. And I’ve fixed each machine to the base with metal feet. You’d need time and tools to unscrew them. Apart from the cellar, where the door was forced the other day, I’ve never had any trouble, and even then they didn’t take anything.’

  Guerrec came in with his colleague and pointed out to him the Virotyp, the door and the windows.

  Then he thanked the engineer briefly, before leaving.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll find any prints on the machine except Sevran’s,’ said Guerrec, as they went back towards the town hall. ‘Yes, anyone could have typed the note, but Sevran’s awkwardly placed all the same. Still, I don’t see why he would be interested in secret couples. Nor do I see what motive he could possibly have to type the note on one of his own machines.’

  ‘He can’t have. Sevran can’t have typed it, he didn’t leave the cafe while I was playing Lefloch, he was still there when I went to the town hall with you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who else stayed there?’

  ‘His wife, I think, though I couldn’t see her when she was at the bar, Lefloch, Antoinette, Blanchet . . .’

  ‘This business about the 7 ball bothers me. It seems pointless, gratuitous, meaningless, but it must mean something.’

  ‘Whoever passed me the note didn’t want to be identified. By mentioning the ball, he’s making us think he was among the thirty or so people in the cafe when I was playing Sevran. Right? And what if he wasn’t?’

  ‘How else could he know about the 7?’

  ‘By looking through the window. He waits, he listens, he finds the first significant detail which would place him as present inside the cafe. Nobody would be able to see him from inside, it was getting dark and pouring with rain, but he’d be able to see in.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he, or she, might either have been inside until you played the 7 ball, or outside. But it doesn’t help us much. It’s taking a lot of trouble not to be identified.’

  ‘Either he’s scared stiff of the murderer, or it’s him.’

  ‘Him? What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s the murderer. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer identified a scapegoat. We need to watch it, Guerrec, maybe we’re being sent off on a false trail. Somewhere round here there’s a truly evil person, that’s the way I see it.’

  Guerrec contorted his thin face.

  ‘You twist things, Kehlweiler. Anyone can see you’re not used to anonymous letters. They’re common, terribly common. We had a case in Pont-L’Abbé six years ago, recent as that. It isn’t murderers who write them, it’s cowards, sneaks, beneath contempt.’

  ‘So a murderer who premeditates his act and bashes an old woman over the head isn’t beneath contempt?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s someone contemptible who acts. The writers of anonymous letters are passive, people who haven’t been able to make any impression on others. There’s a gulf between those worlds. It can’t be the same person, it just doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Have it your own way. Keep me briefed about the prints, the alibis and Spain. If that’s allowed, and if you’re willing to accept my help.’

  ‘I tend to work on my own, Kehlweiler.’

  ‘In that case, our paths may cross.’

  ‘It’s quite true that you prompted this whole investigation, but you don’t have the right to join in. I’m sorry to remind you, but you’re just a man among others now, on the same footing as everyone else.’

  ‘I hear you, I can live with that.’

  Louis returned to the hotel at seven, but did not find Marc there. He lay down
on his bed, phone in hand. He called the number of the police station in the 15th arrondissement, the one covering the rue de l’Abbé Groult. At this time, Nathan would still be at his desk.

  ‘Nathan? This is Ludwig. Nice to talk to you.’

  ‘It’s the German, is it? How are you doing? Retired now?’

  ‘I’m swanning around in Brittany.’

  ‘Anything to do down there?’

  ‘Lots of fish of course. But an old fish too. Marcel Thomas, rue de l’Abbé Groult, fell from a first-floor balcony, twelve years ago, can you give me any details?’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll have a look for the file.’

  Nathan returned ten minutes later.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The guy fell, recorded as an accident.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but the details?’

  Louis could hear Nathan leafing through papers.

  ‘Nothing special. It was the night of 12 October. The Thomas couple had had friends to supper, Lionel Sevran and Diego Lacasta Rivas, who left at 10 p.m. to go back to their hotel. The couple were in the flat with their two children, and Marie Berton, the nanny. Nobody came in after ten, the neighbours confirm that. The accident happened around midnight. Let’s see, questions, colleagues, neighbours, I’ll jump all that. The wife was questioned for several days. She was in bed, reading, nobody was able to find any evidence against her, or against Marie Berton who was also in bed. Neither one could have gone out without the other hearing. They were each in their bedroom until they heard the husband scream. Either the two women are backing each other up, or they were telling the truth. Lionel Sevran was also questioned, he was asleep in his hotel, and same goes for Diego Lacasta, he talked non-stop, there are pages of it. Wait, I’m skimming. Lacasta got very worked up, defended the two women with all his might. Then there was a reconstruction a week later. Wait. The inspector notes that everyone maintained their statements, the wife was in tears, so was the nanny, Sevran was very upset, and Lacasta said virtually nothing.’

  ‘I thought you said he talked non-stop?’

  ‘The week before, yes. He’d probably had enough. So, suicide was ruled out, murder was improbable and unprovable. The railing on the balcony was very low, he’d had a lot to drink. Conclusion, accidental death, permission given for burial, case closed.’

  ‘Name of the inspector in charge?’

  ‘Sellier. He’s not there now, promoted captain.’

  ‘Yes, to the 12th. I know him. Thanks a lot, Nathan.’

  ‘Have you got some more on this story?’

  ‘Two weddings, a disappearance and a death. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Not exactly normal. Good fishing, Ludwig, but look out, you don’t have any backup these days. Proceed with caution and follow to the letter the calm and moderate advice of your toad. That’s my best advice.’

  ‘I’ll give him a kiss from you, and my love to your daughters.’

  Louis smiled as he rang off. His friend Nathan had seven beautiful daughters, like in a fairy tale, which had always enchanted him.

  Sellier had left the office. Louis found him at home.

  ‘So, the bit of bone led to a murder,’ said Sellier after listening carefully to Louis’s summary. ‘And all those involved in the Marcel Thomas affair are down there in Brittany.’

  Sellier’s voice was deliberate, a man who took care to recall things methodically.

  ‘The investigation here is being handled by Guerrec. You know him?’

  ‘A bit. He’s rather annoying, doesn’t say much, you wouldn’t give him marks for GSOH, but he’s pretty straight as far as I know. No miracle worker. But then neither am I.’

  ‘From your interviews for the Marcel Thomas affair, is there anything that sticks out in your mind?’

  ‘I’m trying to remember, but I can’t think of anything. If it really was a murder, then I fucked up. But there wasn’t anything to go on.’

  ‘Could one of the women have crept out to the terrace?’

  ‘You can bet I checked that out. They had an old parquet floor, Hungarian Point chevrons, that I remember very well, the blessed parquet. Every section of it creaked. If one of the women killed him, it must have been with the connivance of the other, no doubt about that.’

  ‘And no one came to see them after Sevran and Lacasta left?’

  ‘No, that was clearly established.’

  ‘How come you remember the case so well?’

  ‘Because of, well, because of a few niggling doubts. Some of the cases I’ve handled, the killers have been caught, and I’ve wiped them from my memory, but the ones where there was a shadow of doubt linger in corners of your mind.’

  ‘What kind of doubt?’

  ‘About Diego Lacasta. He did a U-turn. He was a warm, expansive guy, all Spanish honour and emotion, determined to defend the two women, especially the nanny. Doesn’t surprise me if he married her. He was obviously besotted with her. And when he came back with his boss a week later for the reconstruction, he’d retreated into being a proud haughty Spaniard, without speaking a word. He didn’t defend anyone, he just let the situation take its course, in sulky silence. I thought it was his Iberian temperament – you have to remember I was young and prejudiced in those days. But still, because of him, I remember the reconstruction, the creaking floorboards, his closed face. He’d been the only one who had lit up the case for me, and the flame had gone out. That’s all. It doesn’t take much to plant a doubt, but that’s just me.’

  After hanging up, Louis lay on his bed for another five minutes, with arms folded. Time to get moving and have something to eat. As he left his room, he picked up a message slipped under the door, which he hadn’t noticed when he came in.

  If you want me, I’ve gone to the machine with some questions needing answers. Look out for your wretched toad, it’s poncing about in the bathroom.

  Marc

  Louis asked at the hotel for some bread and two bananas, and set off on foot for the machine. He walked slowly. Guerrec didn’t appeal to him, too much of a sobersides. René Blanchet certainly didn’t appeal to him. The mayor, although more inoffensive, didn’t appeal to him either. Nor did the anonymous letter. But Darnas did appeal to him, and he was precisely the man he’d have liked to demolish. He was out of luck. With Sevran, you could have a conversation if you kept off dogs, but the dog was dead. As for the women, Marie Lacasta’s old face did appeal to him, he seemed to see it all the time, but she was dead too. Lina was also beginning to obsess him. She had killed the dog, in an act which was far from normal, despite what her husband said in his efforts to protect her. He seemed to want to protect her all the time, the hand on the shoulder to protect her, calm her down or hold her back. As for Pauline, yes, she still appealed to him, and he was out of luck there as well. Because Pauline didn’t seem to want to come near him, she was stiff, out of defiance or something. Well, he’d said he’d leave her in peace, better make an effort to keep his promise. Very noble to make promises, easily done, then you have to keep them, which is a pain in the backside. Just now, Mathias must be on the train, with the yellow folder. Thinking about that folder required an effort of him. It was a heavy and painful thought, and gave him a nagging headache.

  He saw from a distance the weird black shape of the machine Marc had talked about. As he got nearer he could hear various rattles, clanks and squeaks. Kehlweiler shook his head. Marc was becoming obsessed with this pointless machine. What stupid question had he asked it now? And what machine could ever reconcile the incompatible contrasts of young Vandoosler, his nervous emotion and his capacity for concentrated study? Louis couldn’t have said which had the upper hand, Marc’s deep calm plunges into research, or his panic attacks like a swimmer about to drown. Would he have described him as a slender cetacean, a regular denizen of the deep, or a desperate pup, thrashing about on the surface of the waves?

  Marc was standing there, reading the message the machine had just delivered to him by the flame of his cigarette lighter, and at the sa
me time, singing a song. He didn’t seem to be thrashing about. It wasn’t the first time Kehlweiler had heard him sing. He stopped a few metres away to watch and listen. If it hadn’t been for the murder of the old woman, which made him furious, and the difficult thoughts attached to the yellow folder travelling towards him, he would have appreciated the scene. The night was chilly, the rain had stopped, the stupefying machine had suspended its clanking, and alone in the dark, young Vandoosler was singing.

  Farewell to life, farewell to love,

  Farewell to you ladies of France.

  The war goes on, the guns still boom,

  A soldier’s the plaything of chance.

  In chalky Craonne, our bones will be laid,

  For death is leading the dance.

  ‘What did the machine answer?’ Louis asked, interrupting him.

  ‘The machine can go fuck itself,’ said Marc, crumpling up the message. ‘All it does is shit on everything, the Middle Ages, life, the solar system. You’ll see, but ask it out loud, otherwise it doesn’t work.’

  ‘Out loud – is that the rule?’

  ‘I just made that one up, so as to find out what you’re thinking. Clever, eh?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Basically what you think of the murder, what you think of Pauline Darnas, what you’re expecting from the folder marked “M”, for which you have made Mathias your slave. And as supplementaries, what you think about the future explosion of the sun, and about me.’

  Kehlweiler went nearer the machine.

  ‘We’ll ask it. Is this the handle?’

  ‘Yes, you do five turns, hard. Then I’ll pick up the answer.’

  The machine set in motion all its workings and Louis watched it with interest.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it? Here’s your message. Read it yourself, I don’t poke my nose into other people’s correspondence.’

  ‘It’s dark, I haven’t got a lighter, or my toad, or anything. Read it to me.’