Trousseau said, “I didn’t see Bouton. Richard’s been sleeping ever since he got to the hospital.” He tapped the side of his head. “Something about his synapses, according to the doctor.”
“You told me it was blacks who were prone to schizophrenia.” She ran her finger along her upper lip. “Richard would appear to belong to your race, Monsieur Trousseau.”
The features hardened. “I fail to understand the implication, madame le juge.”
She glanced at her Kelton watch. “We’ve got an hour to eat.” She pulled the hard, wooden chair from under the table and sat down. “After seeing Richard, I can go home.”
“Schizophrenia’s more common among people of African origin than among other racial groups. You seem convinced I’m a racist but unlike many white people, madame le juge, I have no time for the theories of racial superiority.”
“Of course not, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“No race has the monopoly of any one disease. Just as no one race has the monopoly of intelligence. Or of the truth although there are people who believe they are the elect of God.”
“On Saturdays, my son goes windsurfing with his friends. Perhaps I’ll get time to drive down to the beach—Fabrice’d like that. Perhaps even, if you’re free this afternoon, you’d like to drive me.”
“The elect of God respect the Sabbath.”
“Could you drive me?”
“Down to the beach, Madame Laveaud?” Trousseau was about to say something. Instead he adjusted his tie. “It’d be a pleasure.”
“You’re very good to me.”
“The beach?” Trousseau raised his eyebrow. “The case is solved?”
“Desterres was lying. He knew the dead girl.”
“You now know who she is?”
“One of the girls employed in Abymes by Dugain. Through her boyfriend she took Dugain to the work inspectorate because he wasn’t paying national insurance.”
“There’s a connection between the two deaths?”
“Two deaths?”
“Dugain’s suicide and the murder at the Pointe des Châteaux?”
They were served by a plump girl in a yellow dress. She took a ballpoint pen from where it had been set, aerial-like, in her chignon, and wrote down their order on a note pad. She knew Trousseau and there was banter between them in Creole. She was young enough to be his daughter.
Anne Marie ordered a planteur. She felt she deserved something strong but then as she let the liquid linger in her mouth, the tang of rum reminded her of Lafitte and she was very glad that she was with Trousseau. Lafitte with his nicotine-stained fingers and his cynicism. Lafitte, the European growing old in the tropics.
Dear, irascible Trousseau.
Perhaps he read her thoughts. Trousseau gave her a bright smile as he drank the soursop juice. They sat in a breeze at a table on the edge of the sidewalk, looking from time to time at the steady flow of shoppers, heading home, weighed down with plastic bags. Mainly women with little children in tow. Children from the countryside, the girls with beads in their plaits, the little boys overdressed for the hot streets of Pointe-à-Pitre.
On the other side of the boulevard rose the city hall, its concrete architecture now pleasantly weathered by age. It stood before an open plaza and beds of flowers in a concrete base. The mayor had conducted a couple of weddings during the course of the morning and the last lingering guests stood, laughed and had themselves photographed in their white dresses and their silk suits. Like petals, pink confetti was strewn everywhere, shifting with the trade breezes, crossing the busy boulevard and even entering the small restaurant.
For hors d’oeuvre they ate spiced blood pudding garnished with tomatoes and garlic salad that the serving girl placed on the table—madras tablecloth, which was protected beneath a sheet of plastic—with a disparaging but amused remark for Trousseau that Anne Marie failed to understand.
“The case is solved?”
“Which case, Monsieur Trousseau?”
“You know the murderer of the girl?”
“The procureur’s decided the Dominican was the rapist—because along with guns and drugs, the gendarmerie found women’s clothing in his shack in Boissard.” She shook her head. “He’d been sentenced for rape in Dominica—rape of American tourists.”
“Perhaps he did rape her.”
Again the click of the tongue—a West Indian habit she had picked up and could not put down. “Monsieur Trousseau, the bruising was after death and the girl wasn’t murdered on the beach. The body was brought down to the beach in the last stages of rigor mortis.”
“What makes you say that?”
“In three days the dogs would have started ripping the body to pieces.” Anne Marie sliced the blood pudding. “The fishermen would have noticed something.”
“That doesn’t mean the girl wasn’t raped.”
“We now know who the dead girl is.”
“That’s why you sent me away?” He sounded hurt.
“The girl wanted to be alone with me. It wasn’t anything personal. The presence of a man would’ve made things more difficult.”
“Most women find my company reassuring.”
“There are certain things …”
“I should like to remind you my wife’s a white woman like yourself. I’m not one of these macho men who consider women as mere objects.”
“Monsieur Trousseau, in our years of collaboration, I’ve had ample time to appreciate your innumerable qualities.”
He did not repress a smile of satisfaction. “The dead girl had nothing to do with Evelyne Vaton?”
Anne Marie looked across the road, at the plaza between the town hall and the Centre des Arts. The last guests had disappeared. The photographer was packing his cameras into a satchel. He had parked his station wagon on the sidewalk.
It was some time before Trousseau finally asked, “Well? The connection between Evelyne Vaton and this girl.”
“Agnès Loisel.” Anne Marie felt strangely relaxed. Her cold had disappeared and she could sense she would soon be free of the Pointe des Châteaux murder. She could take time off, perhaps even leave Guadeloupe for a month. Travel with the children, visit her sister in Lannion, get away from the tropical heat. “I’ll need to talk to this Richard in the hospital.”
“There’s a connection?”
“Afterwards I’ll look in on Lucette.”
“The black girl was able to identify the dead woman, madame le juge?”
“Marie Pierre recognized her photo in the France Antilles. No doubt she already had her suspicions before she came to see me.” Anne Marie added, “They used to be very good friends at the time they were working for Monsieur Dugain.”
“She knows why Agnès Loisel was murdered?”
“No.”
“D’you have any idea?”
“Agnès Loisel enjoyed the company of women as much as she enjoyed the company of men.”
His open jaw revealed a tongue covered with blood pudding and sweet corn. “That pretty girl, that Marie Pierre—you’re telling me that she and this Agnès …”
“I’m not telling you anything.”
Trousseau ran a finger along his lip. “A lesbian?”
“Lesbians tend not to be murderers—or at least, it’s not the sort of thing I’ve experience of.”
“Hence the lack of signs of rape, madame le juge. Not so easy for one lesbian to rape another.”
Almost against her will, Anne Marie laughed. “That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Anne Marie held up three fingers. “I now know Desterres’s been lying since he first came to see me. Contrary to what he claimed, he must’ve known Agnès because he’d met her when he went looking for Marie Pierre who was living with Agnès Loisel. Desterres was lying and that’s why I need to see Richard.”
“Doubt if you’ll get much out of Richard.”
“Richard was with the girl when she met up with Desterres. Perhaps Desterres and Loise
l were working together at something. Perhaps they were putting on an act for Richard.”
“What on earth for?”
“Quite possibly Desterres and Agnès were pretending not to know each other.”
“Eat your food before it gets cold. More water?” Trousseau filled the glasses with sparkling Matouba water.
Anne Marie held up two fingers. “The second problem’s the camera.”
“What camera?”
“Desterres gave me the Polaroid. Why would a bona fide tourist carry a Polaroid?”
“To take photographs.” Trousseau said, “In my humble opinion.”
“A Polaroid’s not the sort of thing I’d take on holiday. Many years ago I had one—clumsy and expensive and the quality of the pictures could never do justice the vivid greens and turquoises of the Caribbean. The only advantage is you get the photographs straight away.”
“Perhaps that’s what this Agnès wanted.”
“Most tourists don’t want to be lumbered with big cameras. Photos are something you look forward to, once you’ve returned to the grey skies of Paris. Tourists tend to have small Japanese compacts.”
“And the third thing?”
“The bikini.” Anne Marie held up her index finger.
“What about it, madame le juge?”
“You yourself said it might have been left to decoy us. Think for a minute, Monsieur Trousseau. You’re a man who understands women.”
“It is not I who says so.”
“What’s the major trait of West Indian women?”
“You mean their coquetry?”
“Precisely.” Anne Marie smiled. “In the last ten years, who’s the West Indian girl who wears a bikini?”
“They all do.”
“Not as close to the weaker sex as I believed.”
“All women wear bikinis.”
“Like Brigitte Bardot?”
“Precisely.”
“You should go to the beach more often, Monsieur Trousseau. West Indian women prefer one-piece suits.”
“I am more interested in a woman’s mind than in her body.” Trousseau added, after a brief silence, “Vaton was a Négropolitaine. She wanted an even tan, perhaps.”
“Suntan or otherwise, it is something we must look into—perhaps compare the number of bikinis with swimsuits in the postal catalogs. That should give us an idea.”
“You don’t go along with the gendarmes’ theory?”
“Either way, I’ll need to see the bikini—both parts. For the moment that’s all we’ve got on Agnès Loisel.” She set down knife and fork on the plate. “You know, the Americans have psychological profilers.”
Trousseau was not looking at her.
“They have professional psychologists and sociologists who move in on the crime scene and who try to work out the identity of the murderer by studying the methods he uses. Instead, in the French system, it’s the juge d’instruction who must leaf through the postal catalogs.”
“You don’t think it was the Dominican who murdered Agnès Loisel?”
“What do you think, monsieur le greffier?” Anne Marie asked and was about to raise her glass of mineral water when a shadow was cast across the table. She looked up.
59
Downtown
“How’s my sister-in-law?”
“I used to be your wife’s sister-in-law. But that was before the divorce, Eric. My husband and I divorced many years ago.”
Eric André stepped through the open bay window and into the restaurant. As he bent over to kiss Anne Marie on either cheek, she could recognize his after-shave. In his hand, he held a plastic bag that advertised Lacoste sportswear. He was immaculate in an oxford shirt, black trousers and casual leather shoes. “You’ll always be my sister-in-law.”
“That’s what worries me, Eric. You know Monsieur Trousseau, my greffier?”
He appeared unaware of her sarcasm as he shook hands with Trousseau, who was eating lentils and salted cod. “André, director of the Tourism Office,” Eric presented himself.
“A pleasure,” Trousseau nodded, scarcely looking up from his plate.
“I’m sure we’ve met before.” Eric looked at the Indian. “Statistically, everybody has met everybody in this island. With the population at a third of a million and only two decent streets in which to shop, we must ultimately end up bumping into each other. What the guide books call Pointe-à-Pitre intra muros.” Without being invited, he pulled back a varnished chair and sat down at the wooden table beside Trousseau. He looked about with satisfaction at the wood paneling of the open dining room, the scraggly potted plants, the advertisements for beer and Capès Dolé mineral waters. “I hear this’s a good little restaurant. I have friends at the Social Security who have lunch here regularly. Cheap and good. Was thinking of having it put onto one of the gastronomic lists.”
Anne Marie said, “Not the best food in the world.”
“Then I can put it on one of the tourist lists.” His boyish smile was strangely at odds with the deep voice. “My friends at the Social Security won’t be too pleased to have tourists trekking in here. People on this island want the tourists’ money—but not the tourists.”
“I thought you were thinking of leaving the tourist industry, Eric. What with a hurricane and people getting killed on the beaches of our archipelago.”
He looked at Anne Marie for a moment before giving a wide smile. “Best to keep several strings to your bow.”
“And politics?”
Eric André made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Certain things it’s best to be discreet about. I’ve told you that before.”
“Something to drink, Eric?”
“They do coffee?” He looked at his flat, gold watch. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Why did you want to see me, Eric?”
He smiled. “I didn’t even know you were here.”
“I was with Lucette Salondy last night. There’s nothing to worry about—just that she’s diabetic and overweight.” The server had brought Anne Marie a plate of conch. Eric André ordered a coffee and Anne Marie started to eat.
“You’re working today?”
“Lucette’s a relative of yours, too, Eric.”
“Only by marriage.”
“Like you and me. I’m sure Lucette Salondy’d appreciate a visit.”
Eric said nothing. Beside him, Trousseau ate noisily, sucking at the fish bones caught between his teeth.
“Getting anywhere, Anne Marie, with the murder of the Pointe des Châteaux?”
“There is reason to believe the rasta who died raped and killed the woman.”
It was Trousseau who spoke. “You were saying there was a connection between the dead girl and Monsieur Dugain, madame le juge?”
Trousseau was the soul of discretion and he knew the paramount importance of secrecy when the juge d’instruction was preparing a case.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“Not very tender. Yet it’s the specialty of the house.” Trousseau did not look at her. With his fork in his fist, he pulled at the salted fish. “You think there’s a connection, madame le juge?”
“Not the sort of thing I care to talk about, Monsieur Trousseau. There are certain things—”
“You know that Dugain was favorable to the Ilet Noir project?”
“What Ilet Noir project?” Anne Marie asked coldly.
“A couple of years ago there was a lot of talk about a refinery. Texaco or one of those American companies wanted to set up a refinery here, on the grounds it’d be cheaper to ship in crude oil from Venezuela than buying it already refined. But the idea of a refinery at Port Louis was not popular. You can understand—a threat to the tourist industry in an island where the future lies in tourism.” He raised his eyes, lowered his fork onto the plate and ran the paper napkin along the thin line of his moustache. “Your brother-in-law would know more about it than me.” He shrugged with humility. “I’m just an ignorant greffier.”
�
��Not necessarily a bad idea,” Eric André said. “I personally think it’s a good idea. It’d bring down the energy cost in the island. After all, we have to import all our energy.”
“I haven’t got any energy left—not with this conch.”
Eric André looked at her and gave a perfunctory smile. His glance went from her back to Trousseau. “I must be along.”
“And your coffee?”
“You drink it, Anne Marie.”
“You knew Dugain was involved in the Ilet Noir project, Eric?”
It was Trousseau who spoke. “He wasn’t involved, madame le juge. At least not in the sense that he supported it.”
She frowned.
Trousseau looked up at Eric, who was now standing. “Has there been a decision yet?”
Eric André observed an embarrassed silence.
“A bit of an outcry at the time, as I remember, Madame Laveaud. You don’t remember?”
“Must’ve been when I was in France.”
“Dugain was never more than a whore. He saw the way the wind was blowing, he saw people’d be hostile to a refinery off one of the prettiest beaches.” Trousseau turned back to Eric André. “There should be a vote quite soon at the local assembly and I doubt if the refinery’ll go through. Thank goodness. Another one of those projects where the békés see their interest—and couldn’t give a damn about the island.”
Eric André said lamely, “It’d bring down the petrol prices, which would bring down costs in general.” He placed a hand on Trousseau’s shoulder. “Prices are our number one obstacle in the tourist industry. We can get the tourists in from Europe or North America because the airfares are cheap but where we lose out is on the high cost of living. Everything here’s some fifty percent over the French price.” He again glanced at the flat wristwatch. “I must be off.” He placed a ten-franc coin on the table.
“And what do I tell Lucette Salondy?”
“Tell her I’ll be along. It’s just that I’m very busy at the moment.”
“Politics, Eric?”
Eric André did not reply. He had already melted into the crowd hurrying along the boulevard sidewalk.
The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Page 21
