A French Country Murder

by Peter Steiner

  She looked down at her unfinished sandwich and jumped up to clear the table. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” said Louis. “Somebody I care about is in trouble, and I need to get back.”

  “Tomorrow? Already?” He thought she sounded both hurt and relieved.

  Louis invited Jennifer to visit an art museum with him, but she had to go back to work, she said. She had to type some reports. She was glad he had called. She really was glad, she said. When would he be back in Washington again? Would he write to her when he got home to France? She would love to go to France. She had never been to Europe at all. She would love to go. But if she went back to school, well, it would be a while before she could visit him in France.

  Louis stood in the museum alone and tried to make himself think only of the paintings in front of him. It seemed to him as though viewing these paintings and thinking about how they were made was a crucial thing for him to do right now. It was as though Solesme might turn up in their broad sunlit gardens or along their sunny paths, as if the light dancing off the sea, the girl at the piano, the woman with the teacup, could yield up clues and insights that would render him invaluable service in his meeting with Hugh Bowes. But no matter how hard he studied them, the paintings gave back only joy and melancholy, color and light.

  He found a phone. “There is nothing new on Solesme,” said Renard when he heard Louis’s voice. “I have reported her missing and have searched where I could, but there are no leads, no clues. Pierre did not see or hear anything that might be helpful.”

  “I am having dinner with Hugh Bowes this evening,” said Louis after a long silence. “And I am leaving tomorrow, arriving in Paris Friday morning. Air France, flight twenty-three from Washington Dulles Airport to Charles DeGaulle. Can you meet the flight? It arrives at eight Friday morning.”

  “I can,” said Renard.

  Louis heard the question in Renard’s answer. “I will feel safer if you meet the plane,” said Louis. “I believe that the person whose body was found on my doorstep—who could be a missing American intelligence officer who was also Ruth Chasen’s lover—and Ruth Chasen herself, were killed at the airport. See if you can discover whether Ruth Chasen or possibly Robert Pendergrass were on flights arriving at Charles DeGaulle on July twenty-fifth.”

  “It might be just one more coincidence,” said Renard, still hopeful that it might all turn out to be his friend’s imaginings.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Louis. “It isn’t my purpose that anyone should be arrested or convicted. I know that is your purpose—a crime has been done. In any case, I doubt that there will ever be sufficient evidence to arrest anybody. I only want them stopped. To that end, coincidence is more than sufficient. My scenario does not have to be true. It only has to be believable.”

  “Your dinner with Hugh Bowes?”

  “Mainly curiosity. Meeting him again was not my intention. I never imagined he would see me. But when he called and offered to meet, I couldn’t refuse. Incidentally, he found me with startling ease. He called me while I was at my son’s house, to demonstrate, I suppose, that changing hotels and names as I did was a ridiculous exercise on my part, and that he could always find me if he wanted to. Don’t worry. There’s nothing dangerous about meeting him. We’ll be at a restaurant. A public place.”

  “Charles DeGaulle Airport is a public place.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Louis, ignoring Renard’s concern, “do you think you could arrange for Jean Marie to meet us at the airport Friday?” Hearing Renard’s silence, he continued: “There is nothing dangerous or untoward about it. I just want to ask him some questions about the airport. Maybe get him to show me around. That’s all. I want to get some idea of how it was done. Where it was done, and so on.” Louis thought for a moment, then added, “I saw my children, both of them, Jennifer and Michael. They both seem to be doing well.”

  Renard waited for more in light of this uncharacteristic loquaciousness on Louis’s part, but the telephone was silent.

  XX

  WHEN LOUIS RETURNED TO THE PAINTINGS, THEY HAD LOST THEIR hold on him. He was disturbed by thoughts of Solesme. He then found himself engaged in imaginary conversations with Hugh Bowes, in which Hugh confessed that he had deposited the body at Louis’s door. Had Louis wounded him so deeply back then, that after all these years he had placed everything in jeopardy for the sake of a vicious prank? Louis imagined formulating just the right questions to reach the bottom of Hugh’s soul. Of course there were no such questions.

  Louis left the museum and walked toward the Metro station. But when he reached it, the escalator down into its yawning tunnel repelled him, and he walked on past. He was certain he still remembered the way to Wilson Boulevard. He could follow P Street to Georgetown and then cross the river to Roslyn. Once there, he could simply walk along Wilson until he found the restaurant. The prospect of a long walk through half the city comforted him. Setting out on foot might once again be the way to find solutions to what seemed to be intractable problems. It might draw things out, put them in order, settle the logic of things, give them clarity. Walking had led him to solutions once before.

  The day had turned uncommonly beautiful for a summer day in Washington. Crisp, dry breezes riffled shop awnings and people’s clothes. Brushing their hair from their faces, two young women smiled at him as he passed, as though he had been the subject of their conversation and now had suddenly appeared before them.

  Here in Washington after so many years, Louis was more a stranger than ever. Even though his children still lived here, Washington claimed only a small corner of his consciousness. Perhaps, he thought, because he had never painted or even drawn anything while he had lived here, he now had the sense that he had never really seen the city. It had never been as vivid a place for him as Saint Leon had become. His brushes were like a blind man’s stick, tapping here and there until he had formed a picture in his mind which, if it was not accurate—and who could know whether or not it was—was at least detailed and thorough.

  He was walking, he reminded himself, to meet Hugh Bowes who had, if not absolute power, then the illusion of absolute power, which was, to all intents and purposes just as effective, and which, Louis was certain, Hugh had never hesitated to exercise when he felt either the need or the desire.

  Louis stopped in the middle of the Key Bridge and looked down the river at the city. Traffic roared past behind him. A panhandler appeared as though out of nowhere, and when Louis ignored his pitch, he began ranting before finally moving on. With a terrible whine, an airplane passed low overhead on its way to land at National Airport. Several skaters raced past in their bright spandex, their helmets gleaming. The sun behind him reflected off the windows of the tall glass buildings in Roslyn and into his eyes.

  Not long after Louis had bought and moved into his house in Saint Leon, he had stood one morning on his terrace unpacking books which had just arrived from Washington, trying to decide whether to put them in the house or the barn. Why had he brought them? They were mostly about politics and cybernetics. He knew he would never read them.

  His steep driveway had been a difficult climb for Solesme even then. He saw her approach taking small steps on the balls of her feet. She turned with each step and pitched forward slightly, her head held back, her arms out slightly, one hand held palm down with the fingers extended parallel to the ground. She held a small cloth sack in the other. The breeze fluttered through her dress. She looked as though she were about to begin dancing. She smiled as she noticed him looking. She introduced herself as his neighbor and reminded him that they had met once before on his first visit to Saint Leon.

  She had brought an onion tart which she had baked. Since it was lunchtime, Louis invited her to eat the tart with him and share a bottle of wine.

  “I told Pierre I would only be gone a short time,” she said. “Just to say hello and welcome.”

  “It was very kind of you to come,” sai
d Louis. “It is nice to have neighbors I have already met once before. It makes me feel at home.” He offered to drive her back down the hill, but she declined. He watched until she disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  A week later, she telephoned to invite him to have dinner with her and her husband. He put on a clean shirt and cut some flowers from his garden, although he knew from passing it every day that the Lefourier garden was overflowing with flowers of every imaginable kind. But what else could he bring? Madame Lefourier—Solesme—and Louis exchanged kisses on the cheek as is the French custom among friends. She introduced Pierre who seemed to have grown even wider and more substantial than Louis remembered him from the earlier summer. Pierre and Louis faced each other silently across the table as Solesme served the cassoulet. Louis helped her carry the dishes from the table, while the great pyramid sat in his place, looking across the table as if Louis were still seated there.

  Louis invited them to come up for lunch. Solesme came walking up the driveway alone. He watched from the door as she approached. When he asked where Pierre might be, Solesme smiled and kissed his cheeks. She steadied herself with her hand on his arm. Every affair begins differently, and yet there are always not-so-secret signs future lovers give each other by which they can discern that it is beginning, is about to begin, or will soon begin. Once the signs begin to appear, like the first tremors of an earthquake, or the breeze that signals a storm, the affair becomes all but inevitable. Solesme and Louis had undoubtedly given each other signs, even when they had danced at the fête. But Louis could not remember any such signs. He seemed surprised the first time they kissed on the mouth, so that Solesme leaned away from him and looked in his face with curiosity. She laughed as she recognized his obliviousness.

  He looked with curiosity at her body lying tangled in the sheets of his bed. It did not look deformed. He was surprised at the beauty of its proportions. Solesme was slight. And though she moved in sex as she had danced and as she walked, with care and with an air of delicacy, she was not restrained or guarded, and she laughed and shouted with passion and abandon.

  She stared back at Louis with equal curiosity. “I am thinking about our differences,” she said, leaning on an elbow, her other arm draped across her white stomach. Whatever her ideas about their differences, she kept them to herself. From the very first, they were intense, devoted, and discreet lovers. They were careful to be certain that no one else knew.

  Louis did not ask Solesme about her marriage to Pierre. And Solesme made no attempt to explain it. The love affair between Solesme and Louis was about sex and affection. “Do all Americans have such peculiar notions about marriage and love?” asked Solesme one day, after Louis had wondered aloud where things between them might be leading. “You seem to imagine that every passion must eventually become public, that it must be officially sanctioned. In fact, everything always seems to have to lead somewhere for you. What a busy and purposeful people you are. This has already taken us where it is taking us. The fact that it might not be going anywhere else, does that frighten you?” It did frighten Louis, but only a little. And whatever fears he had, disappeared altogether when Solesme stepped out of her dress.

  Louis was enraptured by her body which was twisted to a considerable degree at the base of the spine. With his hand, he would trace the asymmetry of her back. The muscles on one side were more developed to compensate for the distortion in her bones. She lay on her stomach as she explained exactly where the bones were fused and misshapen. Then he kissed her back from top to bottom which excited them both. She also studied his body. Louis was nervous lying on his back while she looked at him, touched him, kissed him. He tried to roll onto his stomach.

  They met when they could, somewhat less frequently as time went along, but always, even in recent years, passionately and happily. The twist in Solesme’s spine became more pronounced. And while her face, hands, and arms were brown and wrinkled from the sun, her body still curved and moved in a way that excited Louis. The white skin under her dress still drew his hands and lips like a magnet. Sitting on a bench there on Wilson Boulevard facing Bennie’s Steak House, Louis thought of Solesme with desire and trepidation.

  Bennie’s Steak House was in a large, low building made of dark brick. Narrow windows ran the length of the front. People poured out of the Metro station behind where Louis sat. He heard their steps as they scattered in every direction on their way home. From time to time someone went into Bennie’s or someone came out. It was not yet even six o’clock. Louis sat and watched and waited.

  At seven fifteen, Hugh Bowes stepped from a limousine and walked quickly into the restaurant. Louis got up from the bench, crossed the street, and followed him inside. But Hugh was nowhere to be seen. “I’m meeting Hugh Bowes for dinner,” he said to the smiling young man at the podium. The young man’s smile disappeared suddenly. Perhaps he thought he was part of some momentous event of state. “This way, sir,” he said in a low voice and escorted Louis around the bar to a door in the dark paneled wall. He knocked on the door and opened it.

  Another man wearing a dark suit and glasses stood inside the door. Hugh Bowes was seated at a table in the center of the small room. The table was set for two, with a white, heavy cotton cloth and a vase with a single red rose. Hugh looked at Louis as the young man closed the door. “Security,” said Hugh, smiling apologetically, as the man with the glasses stepped forward and patted him down. That done, the man left. Hugh smiled, got up from the table, and offered Louis his hand. “Louis,” he said, “I’m delighted to see you. Delighted we could meet. I hope you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing at the room which would be theirs alone. “We won’t be bothered.” A waiter appeared briefly. “How does steak sound? And a nice California red. You drink California wine, I hope,” said Hugh and parted his full lips to laugh. He was heavier than he used to be. He wore glasses with thick gold frames. He had little hair, but he still parted what he had. His face was jowly and pale. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a red-and-yellow striped tie. He had heavy gold links in his cuffs. His thick fingers were curled at the edge of the table.

  “You look as though life in France agrees with you,” said Hugh. “I get to France often, but rarely outside of Paris.”

  “You should get out in the country if you can,” said Louis. “It is wonderful there.” He thought his voice had sounded tenuous and uncertain.

  “I know it is, but,” said Hugh Bowes, and he raised his hands in a shrug to indicate that his time was not his own. “Forgive me, Louis, for appearing brusk, but what is it you wanted to see me about? Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I was sorry to hear about Ruth’s death,” said Louis.

  “Thank you. She was struck down so unexpectedly. She had so much life left in her. It was a terrible loss.” Hugh rested his hands on the edge of the table and frowned at the dark hairs curling up over the edges of his cuffs. He looked up. “Thank you for mentioning it.”

  “Are you doing all right?” Louis asked.

  “Of course, it was an unbelievable shock. I simply couldn’t grasp it at first. I was devastated. Her loss will always be with me. Again, thank you for asking.” He looked at Louis. “You’ll appreciate that I can’t stay long, Louis. I have a meeting in my office in less than an hour. I was just able to take some time for supper. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “There was, on the day after Ruth’s death, as it happens, a dead body deposited on my doorstep. He was a black man; his throat had been slit.”

  “Good heavens,” said Hugh putting his hand to his cheek. “Who was it? Why was he put there? What have the French police found out?”

  “He had the appearance of a North African . . .”

  “Some connection with the work you did at the agency, you think? You were involved with North Africa, weren’t you?”

  “The Middle East, mostly,” said Louis. “Anyway, I can’t imagine how there could be any connection. That’s all ancient history. But still, it
does have that appearance. Or,” he paused. “Someone wants it to have that appearance.”

  Hugh rubbed his chin, musing. “The Algerians are very active right at this moment. In fact, they’re very busy in France right now. You know, there were those bombings in Paris a few years back. Of course you know. Algerian rebels were responsible. We know who they are and where they are. They were never arrested. For reasons I am not at liberty to offer. Still, I can’t imagine why you might have been brought in. I suppose they could think you’re still connected with us in some way. They could be trying to send us a message, although it’s a strange way to do it.”

  The door opened and their dinners were brought in by the young man that had shown Louis into the room. He set the plates down without looking at either of the men. “Please be careful,” he said. “The plates are very hot.” He left the room as quickly as he had entered.

  Hugh had already swung the napkin across his front. He poured them both wine and began to eat. He cut small pieces of steak rapidly and deftly. As he was chewing one piece, he was cutting and picking up the next one to be eaten. He ate efficiently, and without apparent pleasure.

  “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Louis. It could be something. We’ll look into it. We’ll check with our French police connections. Of course, we’ll let you know what we discover as it concerns you. I’m sorry about this, Louis. I’m sure you thought you were rid of politics from your life forever.”

  “This is more than politics,” said Louis. Hugh did not look up from his plate but continued cutting and chewing. “It’s murder,” said Louis, speaking a little louder, leaning forward slightly, as though it might be difficult for Hugh to hear through his eating. He seemed voracious and indifferent at the same time. It was as though eating simply occurred in one’s life as a natural physiological event, like breathing, and just as with the air one breathed, what you ate, how it might taste, didn’t matter at all. Louis had the impression that Hugh ate steak for the sole reason that he always ate steak. “And Hugh,” said Louis, “what do you make of the fact that this murder happened the same day that Ruth died?”