by Kim Ekemar
Constance and Michel hurried through the main entrance and continued to the back of the house, where Patrice’s bedroom was located next to the terrace where they had shared his birthday meal the previous day. With the curtains drawn, the two windows to Patrice’s bedroom were dark. Michel picked up a large rock and aimed it at one of the windows. It missed its target and instead hit the wall. Michel threw the rock again. It broke the glass this time, and a hissing sound could be heard as the rock briefly opened up the heavy curtains. No flames could be seen, only the black smoke that came billowing out.
Henri arrived and took in the scene. Michel shouted at him to help get Constance through the window. She put on an expression that made it clear she wasn’t attracted to the idea of having to enter the smoke-filled room on her own, but she didn’t object. With the help of her brothers, she climbed on their hands and shoulders until her waist was level with the windowsill. With the sleeve of her morning gown, Constance used her elbow to clear the window frame of broken glass before jumping down onto the floor inside.
“Constance, keep your head close to the floor, cross the room and open the door”, Michel shouted after her. “Surely the key must still be in the lock. Mind you, if there’s fire, don’t open the door until I tell you to, because the air will fan the flames. We will meet you there with buckets of water.”
They could hear Constance coughing heavily as she crawled across Patrice’s bedroom.
“I’m by the door now”, Constance’s muffled voice told them. “And, yes – there’s a key in the lock.”
“Henri, stay here in case it’ll become necessary to evacuate father or Constance through this window”, Michel yelled, taking command of the situation.
When he re-entered the house through its main entrance, Justine was standing by the bedroom door with a bucket of water.
“Justine, one bucket won’t be enough”, Michel ordered. “We must have more water!”
Justine found more buckets in the kitchen, and they ran outside to the pump in the courtyard. Michel pumped as fast as he could while Justine changed buckets once one was full. When they had filled four, they grabbed two each and ran inside to Patrice’s bedroom door.
“Constance, open up!” he shouted.
She obeyed. Thick black smoke rolled out of the room. Constance, lying on the floor, was coughing with difficulty into the sleeve of her morning gown. Michel groped blindly along the floorboards until he could feel her arm. He grasped it and dragged Constance across the hallway into the drawing room where the smoke was less dense.
Gaspard arrived out of breath. Justine left her two buckets by the doorway, and together they went to fetch more water. Seeing that Constance was safe, although still gasping for air, Michel entered the bedroom covering his mouth and nose with a wet handkerchief. No flames could be seen. He guessed that the smoke must come from the fireplace that for some reason was malfunctioning and threw the first bucket in that direction, then another bucket, then a third. Justine returned with more water.
Eventually, the black smoke began to clear. Henri entered the bedroom. He hurried over to the bed where his father lay to feel his pulse.
“He’s gone”, he announced in a weary voice a few moments later.
*
The clock on the wall of the local police station showed 7:29 when the telephone rang. The lone policeman on duty took it off the hook on its fourth ring.
“Bercy police station, Constable Fernand Escoffier speaking. In what way may I assist you?”
“This is Michel Lafarge”, he heard a weary voice say. “There’s been a fire at Clos Saint-Jacques. Sadly, my father has become a victim of it. Perhaps you can send someone from the police authorities to take charge?”
“Certainly, monsieur. I will call my superior at once.”
Chapter XV
Sunday morning at l’Auberge le Cheval Blanc
On Sunday morning, Claude did get up in time for breakfast. He had made a pact with Juliette that they would take it together at nine o’clock sharp.
As he got dressed before going downstairs, he thought of the interesting piece of news she had divulged the previous afternoon: she had been brought here by Henri's brother, who would come back for her as soon as he had settled his business with his father’s will. How could he use this titbit for his own purposes? He felt certain that he could twist Henri around his little finger, and it wouldn’t be difficult to get fancy gifts from him even with old Rolf still hovering in the background. From what he had deduced listening to Juliette, Michel was the brightest of the Lafarge children, and he counted on the backing of a rich wine merchant in Bordeaux. The family was gathering at their father’s house this weekend because of something relating to the patrician’s testament. Claude smelled an opportunity. Henri, a mediocre middle-aged man who slavered for affection from pretty young men, was a soft touch. So, how could he take advantage of the situation?
As he approached her in the restaurant, Juliette received him with her prettiest smile. She had thoroughly enjoyed the quick-minded young man’s company the previous day. He wasn’t bad looking, either, although judging by his clothing he was too poor for her to even consider a dalliance with. Claude noticed her calculating look as he sat down, and he knew exactly what she was thinking. They were one of a kind, interested in the same things, if not in each another. It suited him perfectly.
Their breakfast lasted until lunch was ready to be served. With so much gossip still to be exchanged, they didn’t even leave the table. They reluctantly allowed the personnel to change the linen tablecloth and set the table with clean glasses and fresh cutlery. It is safe to say that, despite the lack of physical attraction, each had found a soul mate in the other.
“So, Michel was supposed to pick me up today about this hour, but he called me in the morning to say he was delayed”, she told Claude in a breathless voice. “I insisted that he should tell me why, but beyond admitting that the situation was very, very grave and that I had to forgive him for being late, he refused to say anything. I can’t imagine what has happened, but I know him well enough to know when he sounds worried and tired.”
She laughed.
“I know it’s not another woman, anyway. After meeting Michel in all kinds of places on the sly, I assure you that he wouldn’t be able to hide that from me! Anyway, I would rip his eyes out if he were unfaithful to me. With anyone except his wife, that is, poor thing.”
“It’s funny you would say that – I could say the same for Henri”, Claude smiled while rolling his eyes and placing his hand on Juliette’s arm in confidence. “I mean, I’m only Henri’s assistant when we go looking for antiques around the countryside, but after working and travelling with him for months on end, I assure you I know him more intimately than you may think. So when he called me this morning – it must have been after the call his brother made to you – he told me to stay put until he came for me. Stay put! Where can I go from here when he holds the purse? You’re right … Henri was tight-lipped, too, about what’s going on. But I agree with you – it’s not a question of another woman in Henri’s case, either!”
Instantly, they both fell over shrieking with laughter, which was met with frowns and disapproving stares from the guests occupying nearby tables.
“But why is Michel so worried about his father and the estate, when you tell me he has a comfortable income living in Bordeaux?” Claude asked, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Dear Claude”, Juliette grinned. “It’s now way past noon, the men who presently rule our lives have announced that they’re delayed and I’m getting thirsty. Why don’t you order us a couple of martinis while I polish my reply?"
In a matter of seconds Claude had managed to catch the waiter’s eye and make him prompt the bartender, who had just begun his shift, to prepare their cocktails. After the drinks had arrived, Juliette made a short story much longer telling him what she thought of Michel Lafarge’s life in Bordeaux. Claude laughed until he got tears in his eyes.
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“Don’t tell anyone”, she concluded, “but I’m sure Michel and his father-in-law are planning to buy out all the other heirs by one means or other to develop an immense vineyard. Do you know anything about this?”
“Not a thing, dear”, Claude lied easily, while snapping at the waiter for another round of drinks. “I’ve told you, my skill lies in handling antiques and old books and anything else aged over thirty or so …”
They both broke down laughing hysterically, comprehending each other perfectly. They were secluded in a hotel waiting for the men who would pay for their weekend. There existed an unspoken understanding that they would pass a few more hours together, and then they were most likely never to meet again.
“Let me tell you something interesting about Henri …”, Claude began as the third martini burnt pleasantly in his throat.
Chapter XVI
The police investigation
Fernand Escoffier‘s immediate superior officer was Inspector Jean-Claude Rimbaud. It took twelve rings before Rimbaud finally answered.
“Yes?” Escoffier heard a sleepy voice acknowledge the call.
“Inspector, this is Fernand. I just received a call from Clos Saint-Jacques. There’s been a fire, and I was informed that there’s a victim: Patrice Lafarge.”
“Thank you, Fernand”, the inspector replied, at once wide awake by the news. “I’ll go to Clos Saint-Jacques at once. Call Doctor Treville and ask him to meet me there.”
Inspector Rimbaud got dressed in haste and went to the shed next to his little cottage to fetch his bicycle. Clos Saint-Jacques lay on the other side of the small town, but he knew a shortcut through the woods. Dawn had barely arrived with a cloudless sky, and there was mist rising from the meadows as he rode past them. The day promised to be beautiful. Entering the woods, he had to cross Roland Lafarge’s estate before arriving at the limit of Patrice Lafarge’s property. Twenty-five minutes after he had set out, he stopped his bicycle on Clos Saint-Jacques’s front yard. The geese by the little pond immediately protested against his arrival. As he parked, two men he had never met and a woman who he vaguely remembered as Patrice Lafarge’s daughter Constance, hurried outside to receive him.
“And you are …?” the elder of the two men asked.
“Police Inspector Jean-Claude Rimbaud, at your service, monsieur.” Inspector Rimbaud had lived the past nine years in Bercy, arriving after Patrice Lafarge’s two elder children had moved from the town. Constance, who now had a tired, world-weary air about her, had left a few months after his arrival. “May I ask whom I’m addressing?”
“I’m Michel Lafarge. This is my brother Henri and my sister Constance. We’ve had a terrible experience this morning. The house was on fire, and I’m afraid our father didn’t make it alive.”
Inspector Rimbaud looked around but couldn’t see any traces of the fire.
“You better come inside and see for yourself.”
Michel led the way into the building while his siblings remained outside. The acrid, pungent smell of smoke hung on the air. Michel put a handkerchief over his nose as he crossed the large drawing room. Inspector Rimbaud found one in his pocket and followed the example.
Michel pointed at the open door leading to Patrice’s bedchamber. Before entering, Inspector Rimbaud stopped for a moment to survey the room from the threshold.
The door opened towards the drawing room. Inside, the bedroom wall to the left was blackened with soot and had a large fireplace, now covered with a mush of wet ashes. Remnants of burnt picture frames hung above and around the fireplace. In front of it, pushed against the opposite wall, there was a four-poster bed. Only flagging pieces of the canopy remained, and the sheets and quilt were partly burnt. The shape of the dead man's body could be distinguished underneath the quilt. Beyond the bed, on the far end wall, there were two windows, one with its glass broken. The floor was covered with ashes marked with the imprints of naked feet and different shoe wear in various sizes.
Inspector Rimbaud made a mental note of all this before he cautiously entered. He motioned Michel Lafarge to remain outside the chamber.
“We must follow police protocol”, he cautioned sternly.
Rimbaud walked slowly across the room until he reached the bed. He touched the side of dead man’s neck to see if he had a pulse. The body was cold. Colder than expected, he thought, for a man who has just died in a fire. He recognised Patrice Lafarge as the man in the bed, a distant neighbour he had occasionally saluted in town in his position as the local head of police. The face of the deceased was tranquil, as if he had died in his sleep. Treville will tell me more about his death later, Rimbaud decided.
He looked back at the entrance from where he had come. From this new angle, he could see that on the left side of the doorway there was a large, antique piece of furniture that looked like a wardrobe. On the right side were the remnants of a smaller piece of furniture, a commode of some sort, and a grandfather clock. More remnants of burnt picture frames hung above the commode.
Inspector Rimbaud turned around again, as a gust made the ashes whirl around him. The wind came from the broken window. Treading carefully, he walked over to it. There was dirt from a small footprint on the sill, which appeared to be soil from the flowerbed beneath the window. He made another mental note that he must ask about this method of entering. Then he noticed a pair of soiled slippers lying among shards of glass on the floor beneath the window.
There was some commotion coming from the drawing room. He went back, taking care to use the same path as when he had entered the room. As he returned to the bedroom door, he found himself face-to-face with a flushed Doctor Treville.
“What do we have here, Jean-Claude?” Treville asked.
“At the look of it, Monsieur Lafarge became a victim of a fire that started some time before dawn”, Inspector Rimbaud replied. He indicated the path he had taken going back and forth in the room. “Please try to keep to my footprints when you walk up to the bed. I doubt there’s been any foul play, but better safe than sorry as the saying goes. Standard police protocol, as you well know.”
“Of course.”
Doctor Treville cautiously made his way across the room along the path that Inspector Rimbaud had signalled. The inspector followed him to once again study the room.
The fireplace is the obvious source where the blaze originated, Rimbaud thought. Had Monsieur Lafarge lit a fire before going to bed? Perhaps some coal or a piece of firewood had fallen from the hearth and ignited … what? A carpet? There was none to be found, but there was a heap of burnt clothing at the foot of the bed. What time had Lafarge gone to bed? A fire burning in the fireplace couldn’t have lasted longer than a couple of hours, yet the blaze hadn't been detected until the early morning hours.
The corner between the fireplace and the only door leading to the room was more ravaged than the rest of the chamber. Why had the fire spread from the fireplace to the door?
“Jean-Claude, on my first, superficial inspection I can only determine that Monsieur Lafarge died from asphyxia, caused by the smoke and from lack of oxygen”, Doctor Treville called out. “However, I need to bring him down to the morgue for an autopsy to confirm my preliminary diagnosis.”
“I understand. I will call for an ambulance”, Inspector Rimbaud nodded and left the room. In the drawing room there were now five people waiting. He looked asking at Michel Lafarge.
“Gaspard Lafarge, our brother. And this is Justine, who has been helping my father with the household for years”, Michel introduced the newcomers to Rimbaud.
“I need to use your telephone to call for an ambulance”, Inspector Rimbaud requested. “Afterwards, I need to interview all of you to establish exactly what happened.”
“I’ll show you where the telephone is”, Justine offered, beckoning the policeman to follow her into the kitchen. The phone hung on the wall in a corner.
“Monsieur Lafarge rarely received any calls”, she explained, “and he always complained that he
had difficulties sleeping with noises that were mechanical. So when his children finally talked him into installing one, he wanted it to be far away from his bedroom.”
“And the door next to it?”
“It leads to my bedroom.”
Inspector Rimbaud made the phone call and was promised that an ambulance would be sent to Clos Saint-Jacques immediately.
Chapter XVII
Inspector Rimbaud’s interrogation of those present at Clos Saint-Jacques
The ambulance arrived. Under the supervision of Doctor Treville, the deceased was carried out and taken to the morgue. Not until then did Inspector Rimbaud ask Michel to assemble everyone who had been sleeping on the estate when the fire had begun.
“I’m sure you’ll forgive me for following police protocol, which is my duty”, he began in a loud and somewhat pompous voice when they had all been united. “I’ll take your statements one at a time, to enable me to make a full report to the corresponding authorities about Monsieur Lafarge’s tragic death. I’d like to begin with you, Monsieur Michel.”
While the others remained in the drawing room, Michel followed the inspector into the kitchen. Rimbaud overheard how Constance complained to Henri about her feet being cold. As soon as Inspector Rimbaud had closed the door, Constance took the opportunity to sneak into Patrice’s bedroom to retrieve her woollen slippers. Due to the agitated conversation taking place in the drawing room, no one noticed that Constance lingered before she returned wearing her slippers.
In the kitchen, Inspector Rimbaud brought out a pencil and a thick notebook before sitting down opposite Michel.
“Could you please state your full name, occupation and relationship with the deceased?”
“My name is Michel Lafarge. I’m Patrice Lafarge’s eldest son in his marriage to Adèle Lafarge. I’m a respected wine merchant living in Bordeaux.”
