Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

  Alphonse finally managed to fit the key into the keyhole and staggered into the flat. Moments after his loud entrance the lights came on, and he found himself blinking at Constance’s knitted eyebrows and jutted chin. She stood silently with her arms crossed over the roomy morning gown, waiting for him to say something … something clever, no doubt, he thought, recalling that she once had told him that she liked it when people were clever. Then he remembered why he was furious – with her; the people he owed money; the managers who refused him a better pay; and the world in general.

  “Your cheque bounced!” he shouted. “I couldn’t pay my debts! You’re a bloody, miserable …”

  As a spoke, his words barely intelligible, he took three steps forward and aimed his fist against the side of her head. When Constance understood his intention, it barely gave her time to move, which took some of the force out of the punch. She fell to floor.

  “What are you trying to tell me, you monster?” she screamed at him.

  “The cheque bounced! The cheque bounced!” Alphonse shook his head in an attempt to clear it of the hashish fumes. “I went to the bank, and they said they wouldn’t pay me … there’s no money in your account!”

  Constance got up on her knees, and then slowly rose to a standing position.

  “It isn’t my bank account, you oaf, it was my father’s! Do you remember the policeman who came by earlier … Inspector Rimbaud from Bercy? No? Well, he informed me that he had closed down the account pending the investigation of my father’s death. That’s why you hit me, yes? Coward! Get out of my house at once! Now! Or I’ll start screaming rape and bloody murder until they come and put you away for life!”

  Humiliated by the small but strong-willed woman, Alphonse left the flat in confusion, stumbled down the stairs and inhaled the cold morning air on the street. So it was the policeman’s fault, he thought. Inspector Rimbaud, was it? From that place not far from Switzerland where Constance was born … Bercy. Well, he would teach him a lesson and collect his cheque in the same breath!

  Out of money and perceiving Gare de Lyon within walking distance from Constance’s flat, Alphonse crossed the capital freezing to his bones in the chilly morning air. An hour later Alphonse walked into the train station to buy a return ticket to Bercy with transfer in Lyon. Then he promptly fell asleep on a bench in a corner of the station after covering himself with warming newspapers that he found somebody had thrown on the floor.

  On a platform opposite the bench where Alphonse had decided to catch up with his sleep, Florian Vaugirard – a pickpocket by choice, who considered Gare de Lyon his exclusive turf – studied the snoring man. While stealthily shooting glances in all directions, he calmly walked up to the bench opening the daily paper he had previously bought. There was just enough space for him to sit down next to where Alphonse’s head rested. Waiting patiently while checking the surroundings, Florian kept his newspaper in such a way that it covered Alphonse’s face and the lower half of his own.

  When he was sure no one was observing him, Florian began searching his victim’s pockets. Some keys, a few coins, a worn wallet, some papers, a half-empty pack of Gauloises. Quickly, he moved the items to his own pockets, with the exception of the keys. There was no point in taking them, he knew from experience – on the average they presented more risk than it was worth taking.

  Fifteen minutes later, Florian examined his booty by a table in a worker’s café not far from the train station. Not much of a catch, really, he registered, disappointed. Then he found a folded piece of paper in one of the wallet’s compartments. As he opened it, he instantly felt rewarded for his morning’s work. A cheque made out to Alphonse Charrière, equalling half a year’s salary for a factory worker. Not bad at all, he thought with satisfaction.

  There was always a risk cashing a cheque, though, because it left a trace for the police to pursue. Fortunately for Florian, he was able to get round this obstacle. An old chum of his worked in a bank. The chum in question was willing to neglect the security procedure to ascertain the identity of a client, as long as he received a fair cut of the loot.

  Chapter XXVII

  Mushroom soup and suckling pig

  THE MENU

  Aperitif: Pastis Ricard

  *

  Mushroom and cheese soup in hollowed-out bread tureen

  Stuffed suckling pig roasted over slow fire

  Red wine: 1927 Nepente Oliena

  *

  Roquefort cheese

  Madeira dessert wine: 1919 d’Oliveira, Colheita Terrantez

  “I now feel inclined to think Henri is the culprit”, Rimbaud voiced as he sat down at his aunt’s kitchen table.

  “And what makes you suspect this, Jean-Claude?” Aunt Emilie asked.

  “He’s a shifty person. I’m certain he was lying about several things when I interviewed him. He also keeps some questionable company.”

  “Please be more specific, and prepare us each a glass of this new thing they call pastis while you’re at it.” Aunt Emilie suddenly looked worried. “Dear me, it does take forever for the piglet to roast over the fire. It’s going to be another hour before it’s ready, I’m afraid.” She gave the spit with the suckling pig a quarter of a turn.

  “It’ll be worth waiting for, I’m sure.”

  “Tell me, what makes you think Henri could be his father’s murderer?” Aunt Emilie asked as she opened the oven and brought out two round pieces of crispy bread, each as large as a football. She cut the top off of both to allow them to cool faster.

  “He denied staying behind and claimed that he ran out together with Michel and Constance to smash the window. Either he lied or the others are making false statements. He’s also broke and has plenty of debts, according to an investigation I’ve asked a colleague of mine in Lyon to make. It’s quite apparent that he’s a man with weak character, yet he gives off the impression of being sly and calculating. It’s also obvious that he’s involved in some love triangle drama with these two other men who were present when I interviewed him. There was plenty of jealousy floating in the air, I can tell you. For the last decade Henri has lived with a certain Rolf Ravenegger in a house where they run a business on the ground floor. However, the sole owner to both the house and the business is Ravenegger. I suspect that Henri is eager to switch partners favouring a younger man, a certain Claude Bertrand with whom he spent two nights at the inn right after his father’s murder. His problem is that he doesn’t have any money of his own.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jean-Claude”, Aunt Emilie reproached him as she emptied the last of her pastis. “Getting some facts wrong, besides being poor and homosexual, doesn’t make a man a murderer.”

  She got up to stir the soup on the stove.

  “I think the cheese and mushroom soup is ready now. Won’t you please serve the red wine from the decanter? It’s a very interesting wine made in a small region of Sardinia, called Oliena. It was a gift from a dear friend of mine.”

  Aunt Emilie carved out the soft core before she served the soup in the two tureens of bread. As he tasted the smoking soup, Rimbaud muttered appreciatively.

  “This time I think you have really surpassed yourself.”

  “Thank you, dear. I collected and desiccated the mushrooms last autumn. There are five different kinds, if you didn’t notice.”

  “I do notice.”

  “Getting back to Patrice Lafarge’s murder, let me tell you that I’ve done some research myself.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I went to the hardware shop yesterday to chat with Monsieur Ricard. He’s an old friend of mine. It turns out that shortly before the family gathering, Gaspard went to see him about a lock with a key missing. Could it be the same lock as the bedroom? If it was, maybe the key never went missing, that he only pretended it had and he made a duplicate that enabled him to open the door? Don’t you think that’s worth investigating?”

  “Mmm … all this conflicting information is unsettling”, Rimbaud said thoug
htfully, smacking his lips to show his aunt that he had truly enjoyed the soup. “It’s beginning to look more and more like a conspiracy.”

  “Don’t make any hasty conclusions, Jean-Claude.” Aunt Emilie got up to give the piglet on the spit another quarter turn. “It looks like it’s going to be ready soon. Afterwards we’ll have Italian Roquefort cheese with a glass of Alsace ice wine. What do you think?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Aunt Emilie. When I’m tasting the exquisite results of your cooking skills, I find myself unable to think with a clear mind.”

  Chapter XXVIII

  Inspector Rimbaud’s interview with Gaspard in Bercy

  The following morning, Rimbaud rode his bicycle to the little cottage where Gaspard lived. Next to the cottage were two sheds: one for his tools, and one where he worked as a smith. The yard in front of the two constructions were cluttered with pieces of metal and half-finished wrought-iron works.

  Rimbaud parked his bicycle by leaning it against the wall of the cottage. When he got close enough to the sheds, Gaspard stopped pounding on a piece of iron and looked up. He blinked as he recognised the inspector.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked as he put down the tools he held.

  Gaspard is a large, muscular man who would have no problem holding down his father while suffocating him, Rimbaud speculated silently.

  “I’m here for the continued investigation into your father’s death, Monsieur Gaspard”, he replied, “As you are aware by now, the coroner has determined he was assassinated. The fire that followed was merely an attempt to cover the murderer’s tracks.”

  Gaspard looked bewildered over Rimbaud’s statement. Rimbaud had to remind himself that Gaspard wasn’t as bright as his half brothers and sister.

  “You recently went to see Monsieur Ricard at the hardware shop.” The inspector now spoke more slowly. “You showed him a lock and told him the key had gone missing. Then you asked Monsieur Ricard to make a new one.”

  “Well, yes, my father wanted me get a key for the lock … the key, he said, had gone missing years ago.”

  “I see. This implies that for years your father wasn’t used to locking his bedroom door, yes?”

  “I suppose he wasn't”, Gaspard replied and removed his cap to scratch his head.

  “So, under your father’s instructions, you removed the lock located in his bedroom door and went to Monsieur Ricard’s hardware shop?”

  “Yes, that’s what I did.”

  “And how many keys did you ask him to make?”

  Gaspard suddenly looked suspiciously at the inspector. “Why the question? I asked him to make one key, and I gave it to my father. Why don’t you ask Monsieur Ricard?”

  Rimbaud looked around the place and suddenly had the insight that Gaspard had both the skill and the equipment to make a copy of the key before handing over the one Monsieur Ricard had made to his father.

  “Tell me about the night of the fire”, he finally asked, changing tack.

  “It was early in the morning”, Gaspard said, his eyes becoming dreamy as he recalled the moment. “I heard shouts from the main house. I put on some clothes and ran fast to get there. There was smoke everywhere. My sister and brothers had broken a window to get inside my father’s bedroom. I got there just in time to see Constance open his bedroom door. There was a lot of smoke.”

  He looked accusingly at the police inspector.

  “All of this I’ve told you before. Nothing has changed.”

  “Of course, but for the sake of the investigation that I’m conducting, I’m here to hear your version of the events once again. I’d appreciate if you could give me more details this time.”

  “More details about what?”

  “Last time you told me you put your father to bed, well before midnight. All of you had enjoyed a long, sumptuous birthday meal, which he topped off with a couple of Armagnac too many.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you help him to his bed chamber?”

  “I don’t know … maybe around eleven.”

  “The coroner considers that his death occurred some time around midnight, plus or minus one hour.”

  Gaspard looked vexed.

  “He was alive when I placed him on the bed.”

  “He was found the next morning with his feet on the pillow meant for his head. Is that how you left him?”

  “Yes … yes. My father was a heavy man, and I’d had a few glasses myself. He dropped down on the bed, and his feet happened to be on the pillow and his head near to the fireplace. I didn’t bother swinging him around.”

  “Was there a fire in the fireplace, then?”

  Again Gaspard looked bewildered.

  “No there wasn’t, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t recall?”

  “No, I’m sure. There was no fire in the fireplace. He must have sobered up and lit it himself, later on.”

  “Or perhaps the murderer lit it?”

  “Or more likely Justine, because she was always in charge of things like these. Ask her.”

  “I will. Now, you should be aware that the police have to consider that someone present on the day of your father’s birthday killed him afterwards. You, like the others, are suspects. Do you understand this? You’re a suspect to murder.”

  Gaspard looked angrily at the inspector and closed his hands into fists.

  “I didn’t kill him! How could I? He was my father!”

  “Thank you for your time, Monsieur Gaspard”, Rimbaud said and slammed shut his notebook.

  Chapter XXIX

  Snails in garlic butter, and hare with chanterelle and saffron sauce

  THE MENU

  Aperitif: Dry Martini

  *

  Snails in garlic butter

  Hare with chanterelle and saffron sauce

  Red wine: 1931 Domaine Lagneau, Côte de Brouilly, Beaujolais

  *

  Summer berries with ice cream

  Digestif: William pear liqueur

  “When you have finished the martini, Jean-Claude, please remove the snails from the oven. But don’t turn it off.”

  Rimbaud obeyed, and as soon as he opened the oven door, the kitchen filled with the aroma of garlic and butter. His mouth watered. Meanwhile, Aunt Emilie stirred the chanterelle sauce and added a few more pistils of saffron. She took the platter with the hare she had prepared earlier and placed it in the oven for the finishing touch.

  “It will be ready in twenty minutes”, she announced. “Serve us the Beaujolais, will you, Jean-Claude?”

  He obeyed, and they both sat down by the kitchen table that had a view of the little garden where Aunt Emilie grew her own spices.

  “I interviewed Monsieur Ricard about the key that Gaspard commissioned from him”, Rimbaud said after swallowing the first snail. “Gaspard ordered only one key, but in my mind, this doesn’t prove that he isn’t guilty. He’s a skilled enough smith. After receiving the new key fitting the lock, it can’t have been too difficult for him to make a duplicate on his own.”

  “As you see, more options are constantly emerging as to whom Patrice's killer could be,” Aunt Emilie deliberated. “What else did Gaspard tell you?”

  Rimbaud gave her an account of the interview, adding that Gaspard didn’t seem to be overly bright.

  Aunt Emilie got up, took the hare out of the oven and placed it on the table.

  “Don’t forget this sauce I’ve made to go with this course. The hare doesn’t taste the same without it.”

  “What makes you think I could forget it”, Rimbaud mumbled as his mouth watered.

  “Although it’s hard to imagine that someone not present that weekend may be guilty of the crime, you can’t be sure who the murderer is, Jean-Claude. I think you need to concentrate more in depth on the motives each one had, and also the possibility that it could have been a coordinated effort among some, or all, of Patrice’s children.”

  “I’ll do that, Aunt Emilie. Aah, this hare
is cooked to perfection, and the subtlety of your sauce does it the justice it deserves.”

  “Thank you, dear. For dessert, there’s ice cream I made this morning using the first berries of the season. I was thinking we could have it together with some Williams pear liqueur. By the way, there’s something else I’d like to ask you. Can you take me to Patrice Lafarge’s house, allowing me a quick look inside the bedroom? Am I right to assume you still keep it locked up?”

  “Of course. If it suits you, I can take you there tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter XXX

  Aunt Emilie’s visit to the murder scene

  With Rimbaud driving, Aunt Emilie’s battered motorcar came to a stop on Clos Saint-Jacques’s gravelled entranceway. Advised by the din caused by the geese, Justine appeared at the main entrance. After greeting one another and Rimbaud stating his official business, Justine asked them both to step inside the kitchen. There, they found Gaspard behind the sturdy oak table devouring onion soup out of a generous bowl. Another set of plates had been placed opposite him, and this is where Justine sat down after offering their visitors nothing more than the bench next to Gaspard.

  “I’ve come to inspect Monsieur Lafarge’s bedroom again”, Inspector Rimbaud began, “in a renewed attempt to get to the bottom of this tragic and puzzling event.”

  Neither Gaspard nor Justine replied, as they glared with hostility at their visitors. Gaspard noisily made a slurping sound every time he put the spoon to the mouth, which Aunt Emilie found most disagreeable. Justine ate her soup as if she was forced to do so.

  “It’s been weeks since the fire”, Justine finally said. “I need to clean out that room you have locked up.”

  “You’ll be able to”, Aunt Emilie responded, “after the final inspection.”

  Rimbaud looked surprised at his aunt, since it wasn’t for her to decide this. Nevertheless, his esteem for her was such that he preferred to keep his silence.

  Justine removed the dishes from the table and placed them in the sink.