by Kim Ekemar
“What on earth do you mean by that!” Michel shouted and placed his hands on the desk, looking genuinely upset.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your father was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Michel and his father-in-law looked at each other in disbelief. Rimbaud watched them carefully. He could only conclude that, if they were putting on an act, they were very good at it.
“Please explain yourself!” Michel urged. “Why on earth would anyone want to kill my father? For what reason? It’s absurd!”
“I’m sure that the motive will become clear once the investigation is finished”, Rimbaud replied drily. “You see, the coroner has determined beyond doubt that someone suffocated him, most likely with a pillow, some six hours before the fire started.”
“A strong, large man like my father, smothered with a pillow!” Michel exclaimed. “Never!”
“Well, for the moment this is the hypothesis that the police are working with”, the inspector said authoritatively. “That’s why I’m here, because I need to corroborate some facts at the time of your father’s death.”
“Of course. Ask me whatever you like.”
“According to my notes, you told me that your sister Constance woke you, shouting that the house was on fire.”
“That’s correct”, Michel replied.
“Then you rushed downstairs together, only to find your father’s bedroom locked.”
“Yes.”
“Yet there seems to be a consensus among all interviewed that it wasn't your father habit to lock his bedroom door. In fact, he didn’t even lock the door to the house when went into town for supplies.”
“That may be right, but nevertheless, when we tried to open the door, it was locked.”
“Then you went outside and ran to the back of the house where there was a window to the bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“Whose initiative was it to run outside and break the window?”
“It was mine.”
“So you shouted to the others to run outside?”
“Words to that effect, certainly.”
“And then what happened.”
“We all ran around the house, broke the window, and Henri and I helped Constance to crawl inside –”
“Wait … leaving the building, in what order did you run outside?”
For the first time Michel hesitated, Rimbaud noticed.
“Well, I was the first one outside, and I think I was followed by Constance and then Henri.”
“Who broke the window pane?”
“I did. I used a rock that I found on the ground.”
In his neat handwriting, Rimbaud wrote this down in his notebook.
“Is that really of any importance?” Dupois sneered. “Why should it matter in what order they reached the window to break it and enter in their attempts to save their father?”
“In a police investigation well conducted, the smallest detail matters”, Rimbaud replied curtly.
The inspector looked up and let his gaze wander between the two men.
“It’s a fortunate coincidence to find your father-in-law here in your company, because one of my questions concerns the two of you.”
“What might that be?” Dupois asked suspiciously.
“Everything changed when the coroner confirmed that the death of Monsieur Lafarge wasn’t accidental”, Rimbaud began. “So, you were correct earlier when you mentioned that there must exist a motive for someone to want him dead. I have gone through my notes from the morning of the fire with great care. There’s one comment that now strikes me as important, although I admit I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Inspector.”
“One of those interviewed by me – never mind who – made a comment that has me curious.” Rimbaud paused and looked at the two men. “Apparently, the two of you have for some time had plans to convert the property of Patrice Lafarge into a much larger vineyard – a profitable business venture, no doubt, judging by the success your uncle, Roland Lafarge, has been enjoying. However, your father refused the idea completely. In fact, he had gathered his children for his birthday only to tell you all that his real plans were to conserve the woods and land in perpetuity. That must have been a huge disappointment for both of you, considering your interest in expanding your wine business.”
Rimbaud studied their reactions carefully. Serge Dupois clenched his teeth in silence. Upset, and with his face flushed, Michel rose from his chair.
“Are you insinuating that I had anything to do with my father’s death?” he shouted.
“I’m not insinuating anything at all”, Rimbaud said calmly. “I’m only stating what I wrote down on the day that I interviewed you and your family.”
“Well, it’s one thing that my father stubbornly refused to see the potential of making a great vineyard, as my uncle has done”, Michel retorted angrily, “and quite another to wish him dead for that very stubbornness!”
“Of course, you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry if I have offended you in any way.” Rimbaud rose. “Thank you for your time. I gave you a promise to let you know when your father's burial can take place, and it’s a promise I’ll keep as soon as the coroner releases the body.”
“Will you be taking the train back tonight, Inspector?” Michel asked.
“No, I’ll stay the night and leave in the morning”, he replied. “It’s a very long journey from here to Bercy by train. What about you … were you able to make it back to your Monday appointment in time?”
The question made Michel blush.
“Why … I … I had …,” he stammered, “no, I had to … to make rearrangements.”
Dupois looked at Michel sideways, with his eyebrows knitted as if he couldn’t make sense of their exchange.
“I see”, Rimbaud said, wondering what could have caused Michel such embarrassment. Had he caught him in a lie? He decided to find out where Michel had gone after leaving Bercy.
“I bid you a good day, gentlemen.”
Chapter XXII
Mussels in white wine and coq au vin
MENU
Sherry: Valdespino Don Gonzalo Oloroso Viejo VOS
*
Mussels boiled in white wine, assorted spices, parsley, garlic and spring onion
White wine: 1930 Muscadet de Sèvre et Maine sur Lie
*
Coq au vin
Red wine: 1924 Domaine du Pegau Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Cuvee Reservée
*
Heated Val de Soane brie cheese with cherry marmalade
Red port: 1925 Fonseca Vintage
Rimbaud knocked on his aunt’s front door, unable to prevent himself from salivating in anticipation of their Sunday meal. With a sudden movement, she pulled the door open.
“Come in, Jean-Claude, do come in”, she shouted before running back to the kitchen. “I have to save something that’s on the stove!”
“Whatever it is you’re trying to save, it smells delicious”, Rimbaud said, sniffing the air appreciatively as he entered her cottage.
“I’ve boiled mussels in white wine today, and I’ve also prepared a casserole of coq au vin”, Aunt Emilie exclaimed happily as he entered the kitchen. As always he was amazed by her agility. Despite her advanced age, she moved effortlessly across the kitchen to keep her pots and pans from suffering some anticipated catastrophe that Rimbaud was incompetent to grasp.
“Here I am”, he said simply, “looking forward to another of your outstanding meals.”
“Relax and serve us both a sherry while I finish this”, she laughed. “I hope for two things: that you have arrived with a great appetite, but also that you have fresh information about the intriguing locked-room murder.”
Rimbaud obeyed and served them both a generous portion from the sherry bottle that his aunt had pointed out standing in a corner.
“Well, to be frank, I think I have cracked the case –”
“What! So fast?”
“I went to interview Michel Lafarge at his office in Bordeaux. He’s close with his father-in-law – at least in business matters. That’s how I could determine why Patrice Lafarge was murdered.”
“Look, here are the mussels, let’s sit down, and after you have approved of them you shall tell me all about it.”
Both seated at the kitchen table, Rimbaud savoured the mussels as he removed them from the shells. He looked with admiration at his aunt.
“Aah, this subtle touch of spices that you add”, Rimbaud sighed as he devoured the mussels. “I don’t know how you do it, but you always hit the right note when you invite me. What a pleasure! Incomparable!”
“As always, I’m delighted that you express such preference for my cooking, my dear Jean-Claude”, Emilie replied, contented, as she patted his hand. “It’s really not that hard if you only pay attention to what’s available depending on the season, along with some basic knowledge of plants for seasoning.”
“You try to make it sound as if it’s not a talent, but it is”, Rimbaud said as his aunt got up to serve them the coq au vin.
She put the large pot on the table and served them both.
“But, now, tell me what you’ve found out about Patrice Lafarge’s death.”
“As I began to tell you, I met with Michel Lafarge”, Rimbaud said. “I’m now convinced that he’s the culprit.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I know his motive for killing his father, and I also know how he did it.”
“Pray, tell me the details”, aunt Emilie urged him.
“It’s obvious that it must have been one of Patrice Lafarge’s children, gathered together that weekend, who killed him. For what it matters, I haven’t excluded the possibility that there was a joint decision to kill their father … they all had a substantial economic interest in seeing their father dead. However, my findings point to Michel as the culprit.”
“So it’s beyond doubt that one, or perhaps several of his children, killed their father for money?” Aunt Emilie asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Yes, I think that’s a fair assessment”, Rimbaud replied after relishing the delicious food with another sigh of culinary bliss.
“Just for the sake of argument”, his aunt challenged him, “instead of Michel, couldn’t it have been one of Patrice’s other children? Or maybe even someone who didn’t belong to the family?”
“I’ll address the last question first, if you don’t mind”, Rimbaud said and took a long sip of the excellent wine. “Aah! You certainly know how to treat a nephew, dear aunt! You see, I’ve conducted an exhaustive investigation whether any other person besides the family was in the vicinity of Clos Saint-Jacques the weekend of the murder. There are no witnesses to such effect; no strangers reported in the area; no movements, reports or indications otherwise demonstrating that an outsider may have had any interest in murdering Lafarge. Besides, this is a sophisticated approach to committing a crime. Patrice Lafarge rarely travelled, and he had little contact with people beyond Bercy. Why would a stranger come by and try to cover up the murder by starting a fire and in some mysterious way locking the door from the inside, to make it look like an accident? On what grounds? The only logical answer is that one of his children must have killed Lafarge.”
“And this investigation of yours –?”
“Is as solid as gold, I assure you.”
“And how did you deduce that, among the siblings, Michel is the murderer?”
“The attorney who conceived the new testament has confirmed that Lafarge wanted to create a trust fund. Lafarge signed the documents in his presence, but the nature of the will required the affidavit of a notary. He took the document home to Clos Saint-Jacques and called the notary in Annecy for an appointment. He got one, but not until after the fateful weekend. Since the testament hasn’t been found, we have to assume that it was consumed in the fire – from ill intent or otherwise. I have studied the text by consulting an unsigned copy kept at the attorney’s office."
"So, you're telling me that the testament that disappeared is the motive?" Aunt Emilie cut in.
"Absolutely. To me, there’s no doubt whatsoever that the main beneficiary of Lafarge’s property is Michel. With the assistance of his father-in-law, his intention is to develop Patrice Lafarge’s property into a large and lucrative vineyard. As things stand, with the disappearance of Lafarge’s most recent testament, the version that precedes it will now allow Lafarge’s children to inherit equal parts of the estate. Gaspard is not a very bright fellow. I’m sure his keenest desire is to remain on the estate, something I presume that will suit Michel fine. Constance and Henri are in dire need of cash to maintain their lifestyles. Michel’s father-in-law has the means and the contacts to come up with the money for buying out the other heirs. Rest assured: as soon as some acceptable time has lapsed, Michel will make them cash offers in exchange for the sole ownership of Clos Saint-Jacques.“
“You speculated earlier that he created the ruse of his father's accidental death by crawling out of the bedroom window after he had killed him and locked the door from the inside.”
“Yes, and then he went through the act of breaking the window, helping his sister inside before shutting it through the broken glass. Then, yesterday I discovered something else.”
“What did you find out?”
“Michel went to the spa hotel in Aix-les-Bains, where he registered under a false name. With him was a young woman. They spent three nights there. He had assured me he urgently had to get back to Bordeaux on some business.”
“So he’s having an affair that he doesn’t want the whole world to know about.”
Aunt Emilie kept thinking for a good while. Rimbaud took advantage of the pause in their conversation to get another serving of coq au vin.
“Jean-Claude, I’m not convinced that this case of yours is as simple as you now present it. In my opinion, there are quite a few things that need to be verified. To begin with, I think it would be wise to contact the bank here in Bercy to see if there have been any unusual activities on Patrice Lafarge’s account.”
“To do so I must get Judge Montrouge to sign an order,” Rimbaud thought out loud.
“I’m sure you’ll have no difficulty getting one – we’re talking of nothing less than murder. I also suggest that you go to Paris next, to interview Constance.”
“Paris?” Rimbaud closed one eye and inclined his head to the right as if that made him improve his understanding. “I haven’t been to Paris in twenty-two years, and as far as I recall, the last time I went there I didn’t like it a bit. Too noisy, too much traffic, rude people –”
“Well, you’d better get adjusted to the idea, because you need to interview her. Here’s why …”
Chapter XXIII
Inspector Rimbaud travels to Paris
Inspector Rimbaud arrived at Gare de Lyon after a six-hour journey by train. As he disembarked, he politely refused the services of the porters chasing customers on the platform. Carrying his light suitcase, he entered the station’s enormous structure. He looked around overwhelmed, then hurried across the hall into a free cab waiting outside.
“Take me to Rue Granville number thirty-two”, he told the cab driver. “It’s in Pigalle.”
“I know where it is”, the grumpy driver growled. “No country bumpkin needs to tell me where to find addresses in Paris. I’ve been driving people around this city for thirty-two years and pride myself on knowing it like the back of my hand.”
“Sorry”, Rimbaud offered meekly.
Thirty-five minutes later they arrived at the address. The cab driver snorted his disdain when Rimbaud paid him the exact amount shown on the meter. Rimbaud got out and looked up at the building. According to his information, Constance Lafarge lived on the fifth floor. He looked at his watch, which indicated a quarter past one, before entering the building.
There was no elevator, so with a sigh he lugged
his overnight bag up the dingy stairwell. Slightly out of breath he reached the fifth floor, where he studied the four doors until he found the nameplate announcing "Lafarge". He rang the doorbell twice.
It took some time before the door was opened. He recognised a sleepy-eyed Constance dressed in a fluffy morning gown a size too big for her. On her feet she wore large woollen slippers. Her hair was a mess, and she still had yesterday’s makeup on.
“Inspector Rimbaud”, she yawned. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I tried to phone you, but apparently your number is disconnected.”
“Yes, it’s been out of order for a couple of days.” She didn't tell him that Alphonse had spent the money she had put aside for the bill.
“May I come in? I have a few details to go over with you concerning your father’s death.”
Constance hesitated, then reluctantly stepped aside to allow him to enter.
“Constance, who is it?” a man’s voice shouted from what Rimbaud assumed was the bedroom. Constance looked embarrassed.
“It’s the police visiting, Alphonse. I think you’d better get dressed and be on your way.”
She led Rimbaud into the small sitting room full of green plants thriving in the pleasant sunlight coming through the large windows. Two canaries in a wooden cage chirped noisily. Constance wrapped her morning gown tighter around her slender body and offered him to take a seat opposite her by a coffee table.
“So, what is it that you’d like to ask me, Inspector?”
“Since your telephone isn’t working, I can only assume that the latest news concerning your father’s death still hasn’t reached you”, Rimbaud began.
“What exactly do you mean?” Rimbaud noticed the alarm in her voice.
“Honey, see you at the play tonight”, Alphonse called out while briefly showing his face in the door opening. “I’ll get some breakfast and then I’ll come back for a shower –”
“Yes. Yes, Alphonse, I’ll see you later.” She sounds irritated over her lover’s indiscretion, Rimbaud noted. After Alphonse slammed the door shut, there was a moment of silence.
