Mum didn’t insist. The shrewd eyes were weighing him up. ‘This thief, or vandal, who broke in – the judge seems confident of your laying hands upon him. I’m bound to say the hope seems extravagant.’
‘The likelihood is that there have been, or will be, similar offences. We are examining the matter. The district is large. It may take some time.’
No chin, but a multiplicity of firm folds in flesh. A movement in these left him with small doubt of her opinion about this remark. But she was prudent and experienced. She did not know him, and he might not be such a fool as he looked.
‘I’m not disputing your competence, young man.’
A lot of police work is like this. Some witnesses just tell lies. The bourgeoisie is more complicated. In the long run, money is what worries them, even more than what people will think. Mum seemed able in business matters. What was a cop after all? Just another tiresome functionary in the administration.
But what was Mum after? Just making sure that she knew all the ways he might choose to be an annoyance? Or was she screening something?
She cocked an eye at the daughter, who had sidled in again without being noticed, so as not to miss anything, and was sitting now plump and pussified in the corner on a pouffe, with wide kitten’s eyes and a saucer of cream she felt too languid to sip at just now: it will still be there by and by. Nobody is going to take it away. They had better not try, either.
‘Janet, it seems to me that you might offer a glass of port to the Inspector.’ The kitten uncurled.
‘Does that mean you’d like one?’ Silky oblique insolence not aimed anywhere; left drifting like thistledown to stick to someone’s coat.
‘No, child.’ As expertly ambiguous; anything from ‘you know it doesn’t agree with me at this time of day’ to a phrase enjoyed by Vera – ‘not that champagne, dear; it’s what we keep for the police.’
The ball was in his court. The stout lady, not really stout; more well and expensively corseted, was studying him with pursed mouth.
‘The hypothetical marauder,’ he said pleasantly, ‘doesn’t seem to me to give the whole of the picture, necessarily.’
‘Very well, Monsieur…?’
‘Castang.’
‘You have formed other conclusions. May we hear them?’ Patient, courteous.
He got his port, put it on the extreme edge of a small table, where ten to one he’d knock it over and have to go on his knees mopping with a hanky. Not taking any bets he put it in the middle, got the drift of a half-suppressed smile from the daughter.
‘I don’t have any conclusions, Madame; that is the judge’s role.’
Mum gave a short male laugh.
‘Judges! If they ever knew anything there’d be no need for the police.’
‘Quite so, Madame, but if I said that I’d be out of a job.’
‘You and I will get along. You don’t lack intelligence. Have you never thought of the magistracy yourself, as a career?’
Not bad and not very good either, like this port.
‘Contented enough as I am, Madame.’
‘Don’t sip it man; drink it. I’m not taking any, so that there’s no need to stand on ceremony. These children don’t drink. Perhaps it’s wise of them, but they miss some of the pleasures of existence. Give the Inspector some more, Janet.
‘Now, Monsieur Castang, in confidence and without prejudice, wouldn’t you agree that this examining magistrate is an ass?… Oh, I can see by the expression on your face,’ merrily.
‘I’m not making a foolish generalisation. I’ve known some able and intelligent judges, in Versailles and elsewhere. But these provincial corners… Now I’m not mistaken, you are from Paris, isn’t it so?’
Half true. He nodded.
‘Unmistakable; I’m myself. And just between us – really, Janet, haven’t you a biscuit or something? Anybody would think you’d been badly brought up – you know and I know that this judge is an ass. Oh, you needn’t bother to contradict just to keep yourself in countenance! He’d like to think of nothing but his marauder. It simplifies his existence. No little local difficulties then. In an election year, the good man knows he’d be ill-advised to permit any little scandals which might embarrass a government candidate. You’re aware of this. The same applies to you. You’re an intelligent person.’
So’re you, dear lady.
‘You won’t compromise yourself; sensible of you. I applaud that. No more need be said, but I reassure you; no need to act the gaping country cousin with me. I want one thing; to ensure that a stop is put to malicious gossip.
‘Poor Sabine! She had a mind, as a young woman, I’m told. I don’t move in these artistic circles, and have small taste for such things, but I am assured she possessed talent.’
Who had assured her? Sounded like Barde talking.
‘In Paris she might have made something of it. A name for herself… But out of timidity or provinciality she chose to marry a mediocre little man and spend her days in this dusty little corner. It was inevitable that she fell into the kind of company one finds in these places. A dowager or two with an interest in clerical matters, fingers in convents, meddling with the episcopate, a local canon – generally gaga – in their pocket. Some of these people, I repeat it, are harmful. They succeeded in poisoning poor Sabine’s mind against her son, and against my daughter. You follow me, Monsieur Castang?’
‘You’d make a good lawyer.’
Not altogether pleased by that, but she was thoroughly animated by now. A faint dusky flush appeared.
‘Lawyers! I don’t know a great deal about law, but I have experience in protecting my interests. I’ve employed lawyers upon occasion. They are sufficiently skilled at justifying their expense for one to be confident they can justify anything. But we need no lawyers here.’
He was beginning to have enough of Mum, but if she thought he was wax in her hands, so much the better. He finished the port; asked permission to light a cigarette. Graciously granted, and he was starting to need it.
The door opened and Gérard came in. Strong-minded old biddy: it had evidently been laid down that she would handle the police and the judge, because he said nothing, gave Castang a sour nod, went over to a drawer and hunted through a tangle of bits of string and electric flex, found a bit of wire for whatever he wanted and went off again without a word. It irritated Mum.
‘Monsieur Castang, I don’t wish to be indiscreet, but experience teaches me that where property is concerned it is unwise to leave loose ends.’
He quite agreed.
‘This house next door – white elephant in my opinion, but classified, I understand: cultural-affairs people forbid knocking it down. Folklore, but even in disrepair the house has value. More important still is that large garden. I’m told that Sabine, poor soul, had been approached with a view to inducing her to part with some of this land – I daresay you’ve heard something about this?’
‘The matter had been discussed, I believe.’
‘My understanding from the local notary is that no contract was entered into.’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ It looked as though Thonon had had a shot at ‘the children’ and been snubbed for his pains.
‘I’ve taken pains to make sure that there is no dispute about this property. I’m glad to say that Sabine saw to it, at least, that the children’s inheritance should be unquestioned. I mention it only because it would seem that malicious tongues have been at work, trying to raise doubts about her intentions.’
‘I know of no obstacle.’
‘Good. The judge seems to be shilly-shallying. I’ve spoken to him; I may go to see him.’
There weren’t many people she hadn’t spoken to. She’d been pretty energetic. He’d done nothing. Gossiping with the neighbours, stuffing himself with food and drink, having dirty daydreams about Martine. While she’d been a proper detective. He’d better turn all his operations over to Mum.
‘I’m labouring the point, perhaps,’ she said, nothing if
not thorough. ‘This house is in poor condition and needs care; there are leaks in the roof to mention no worse. Now it appears you have forbidden the children access to it.’
‘Purely a formality.’
‘Oh yes, due process. We can temper that with a little common sense, surely. I take advantage of an informal conversation to ask you to have this ban lifted. You have surely no further technical tests or whatnot to make, and that door and shutter need mending.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Madame,’ with warm enthusiasm. ‘Not my decision, properly speaking – a civil matter. Monsieur le Commissaire – I’ll tell you what; I’ll have a word with him, shall I, and I’m sure he’ll see your point. Leave it to me.’
Mum had her mouth pursed up, suspicious of too much sunny co-operation, but she couldn’t well complain of it. He got up hastily to go, getting a lifeless hand to shake – bit grudgingly.
‘You’ll be staying some days, I imagine?’ he asked.
‘I may, Inspector; I may.’
The kitten stretched on its cushion and blinked torpidly. He thought there might be sparks flying off the fur shortly. Would ‘the children’ be altogether happy with the masterful way Mum handled the fuzz?
NINETEEN
Peyrefitte, still up to his neck in the four brothers, was cross at being led up the garden path. When, early that morning, Castang had grunted that all this was a feather in the cap of the constabulary, but nothing to do with Sabine, he’d been unwilling to admit it. Now he did admit it, and was angry with the judge, who’d let himself get persuaded by wishful thinking and an anonymous denunciation. He’d said as much – more tactfully – to the magistrate, who wasn’t having that, naturally.
‘Very well, Commissaire, you will direct your enquiries towards finding out, won’t you. Who is sending phoney denunciations? Some disgruntled accomplice, no doubt.’
Renewed police work on these-damned-Spaniards was beginning to point to a butcher, a shady person, suspected of having trafficked in carcasses that had been condemned by the Health Department. Another fellow who had too many gold coins. Wouldn’t be sorry to pin something on that whore, said Monsieur Peyrefitte, if it can be managed.
‘Your phone been ringing?’ asked Castang.
‘Who, the judge?’
‘Madame Wilhems.’
‘Oh, the Granny down from Paris, I’ve heard about her. No, thank God.’
‘Doesn’t want to appear too eager. Agitated about her rights. Wants to clean up that shutter and door; says the house is wide open. Wanted me to change all that. I said I’d love to, naturally, but that it was your decision.’
‘Why, when it’s the judge’s ruling, anyhow?’
‘Judge wished her on me, and a damned tiresome morning she’s given me. I wish her on you, but warn you first.’
‘I’ll send her back to the bloody judge.’
‘Of course, but stall her a bit. An old cow: I don’t want her upsetting him. If she blows in, perhaps you’d say you’d be delighted, of course, but it just needs his assent and you’ll be seeing him by and by.’
‘All right. Why so much fuss?’
‘I’ve really no idea. I don’t see that there can be anything odd about that shutter.’
‘You’re not thinking there was some kind of fiddle?’
‘No evidence whatever. Probably just a question of property at stake. Isn’t it always? She’s bothered too about the house agent. I’ve seen Thonon, by the way. His story’s reasonable enough. Didn’t want to come out with having been there that night because he’s still got hopes of swinging a property deal.’
‘So you don’t think it was him?’
‘Of course not, unless the judge starts getting ideas.’
‘Is there anything queer, about the property?’
‘I don’t suppose so. Sheer coincidence, and of course when money’s involved they all start prevaricating… All terrified that something might interfere with their making a profit, and all cursing Sabine for getting herself killed. Nothing fishy about Thonon in your eyes, is there?’
‘More honest than most, I’d have thought.’
‘I had dinner last night in a place called the Bay Tree.’
‘Place has been a brothel since Vauban’s day.’
‘I’m all for ancient traditions, too.’
‘See no reason why it shouldn’t stay that way,’ said Peyrefitte comfortably. ‘That young woman is sensible about it.’
‘I ran into Thonon’s daughter there. Student in Paris, as I gather. Friendly with the woman Sophie.’
‘No drugs or stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking. Sophie’s no fool; she’d tell me… I have her in to see me now and again. Thonon’s okay as far as we’re concerned. So far, that is. Never can tell, much, with these property dealers but hell, infringement of building legislation… one has more to worry about. I’m going to light a fire under this butcher,’ contentedly.
A small town, where everybody gossiped. A place where nothing ever happened, where the scandal of the year was the mayor’s trafficking in influence to get his parking-lot built! Where anonymous denunciations flew, where nobody could really live in peace. Poor old Barde couldn’t even enjoy his maids in peace, an estate agent had to slip about furtively at night, and even Sabine, quiet, respectable widow of a cultural-affairs civil servant, spun strange webs and dark suspicions. Nothing happened but it could be blamed on the brothers. And Sabine had been frightened, frightened enough to come all the way to the city and tell the Police Judiciaire about her worries, frowning nervously and polishing her glasses. And then she had been found dead. Violence. And violence belonged to the youth, to bored frustrated boys hanging about with nothing to do but go to a sex film, like Lucciani, or go fishing, like Gérard. While the elderly amused themselves with bridge parties. Or emotional religious outbursts. The only person he’d met so far who seemed to lead a normal existence was Sophie, who ran a little café-restaurant, with a little bit of quiet provincial prostitution on the side.
Had it really been no more than some wandering juvenile delinquent in search of excitement? Perfectly possible. Stay content with that, Castang told himself. The more you go poking at gossip and rumour the less you’ll find out.
But you’d like to do something with your first independent homicide investigation. Find a dramatic development.
There’d never be anything of the sort. Nothing would ever happen, here.
But he had a little time. The judicial authorities were in a good mood: they would be pleasurably busy with the brothers for the next forty-eight hours. Like the youth, they wanted a little excitement, something exotic. Basque villains provided it. He himself would just like to poke a bit further. This snug little town, tight and secure in its fortifications, prosperous and bland with its modern suburbs and industrial development, microcosm of provincial existence in today’s Europe, bored him stiff, but Sabine didn’t.
He wanted to find out more about Sabine, to get to know her, to understand her. She was the most interesting of all these people. But she was dead.
TWENTY
Mademoiselle Aubrienne, the noted sculptress, proved difficult to find. This was explained after diligent enquiry, when she turned out to be neither Aubrienne, nor a sculptress.
‘O’Brien, my dear man. Irish – no you obviously don’t know how much this benighted continent owes to poor old Ireland. Never had the curiosity to read history.’
‘Nobody’s telling me I lack curiosity,’ said Castang. ‘Takes different directions, that’s all.’
‘I forgive you. I’m so used to being Aubrienne I no longer notice, but I refuse to apologise for French incapacity. O’Briens were kings before police forces were invented, and it’s not a sign of progress.’
A fierce little thing, sprightly and talkative. Intelligent, even if dotty. Castang would take the one with the other.
A tiny woman with a dried-up, Indian face, grey hair in an untidy bun, bifocal glasses giving her a peering look, a combati
ve manner. One of those persons, often charming, to whom a day without a row, it doesn’t matter much with whom, is a day without salt.
Drinking tea, strong and black-looking, from a round brown teapot with a crocheted cosy. She lived in a little cottage with polychrome painted furniture: birds and flowers in primitive motifs flitted over the panels. Vera would have felt at home: a Czech look. The walls were a jumble-sale of watercolours, cut-out silhouettes, collages of feathers. Real birds, in cages, occupied whatever space there was over.
Miss O’Brien was not in a cage, but a rocking-chair. She pulled a portfolio off another chair, for him to sit on. Instead of a shawl with bobbles, like the tea cosy, she was wearing a workman’s dungaree overall, on top of a scarlet sweater.
He looked for signs of sculptor’s clay or stuff. There wasn’t any.
‘What’re you gazing about for?’
‘Oh, busts and things.’
‘Oh dear; the police… Know anything about art?’
‘No.’
‘So much the better, and no need of that “I’m afraid” tone. And d’you want to know anything?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘God and His Saints be praised. Not a namby-pamby. So I don’t have to explain about art. Gloria laus et honor, as we sang before we lapsed into heresy.’
Ah. One of the religious maniacs Mum had complained of: good.
‘I’m not a sculptor. Work in stained glass. Difficult technique. I’ve not the remotest intention of trying to explain, so don’t bother thinking of intelligent questions to show how cultivated you are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Be grateful. The French insist on being cultivated, and on everyone knowing it. Spiritual pride.’
It wasn’t a blow: he got the same from Vera.
‘It’s that infernal being in the right all the time that’s maddening about them.’
‘Do you think I could have some tea?’ he asked humbly.
‘You may indeed. Irish tea, though, not tisane. Probably lay you on your back. So you’re Police Judiciaire, oh oh. And you want information, oh oh.’
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