The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

by Timothy Williams

  “You know, madame le juge, that I see more in a woman than her body.”

  “Precisely what Olga the van lady said at the Pointe des Châteaux, I believe.”

  Before he could allow himself to be offended, Anne Marie continued in a hurry, “Her breasts are firm but they’re also large. Now look at her hips. What do you notice?”

  He took the photograph and held at the end of his outstretched arm. “Boyish.”

  “Big breasts and narrow hips. Don’t you understand, Monsieur Trousseau? A girl with that kind of anatomy—she’d never think of buying a bikini off the peg. And most certainly never in a supermarket; the bottom would be too big—or the top too small.”

  73

  Passport

  There was a knock at the door and a pretty girl came into the office. She wore the laboratory coat of a pharmacist, flat shoes, and surprisingly, stockings. She addressed Trousseau. “Are you le juge Laveaud?” She had jet-black hair that was short, straightened and brushed back.

  “I am,” Anne Marie said.

  The girl turned and smiled sheepishly. “Your friend sends you these prescriptions.” She held out a thick manila envelope that Anne Marie took. “He asks you to phone him as soon as you can.”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle.”

  The girl walked out of the office, leaving a faint odor of castor hair oil and formaldehyde that was then lost to the stronger smell of mackerel and peppers.

  Anne Marie opened the envelope.

  THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE LOOKING FOR? The note, pinned to a wad of grey photocopies, was not signed.

  “Good news, madame le juge?”

  There were no prescriptions.

  Her finger ran down the pages. The date was at the top of each page, next to the heading LABORATOIRES ESPIÈGLE.

  “Good news, madame le juge?” Trousseau asked and again Anne Marie ignored him.

  It was on the third page, dated July 1988, that Anne Marie found what she was looking for. The typed entry had been encircled by a ring of yellow marker on the photocopy, with an arrow in the margin.

  “You’re an angel, Luc,” Anne Marie said under her breath and slapped the desktop.

  Trousseau looked at her in surprise.

  Anne Marie winked at him and picked up the phone. She dialed the number from memory and, after a few moments’ wait, said to Trousseau, who was now concentrating as he slowly typed at the Japy, “Monday morning and in the People’s Republic of the Tourist Office, it’s an English weekend—they still haven’t come in for work.”

  Trousseau ignored her.

  Somebody lifted the receiver.

  “I should like to speak with Monsieur Eric André.”

  “Monsieur André is in a meeting.”

  “Then you’d better call him.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “I’m calling you from the palais de justice. I am le juge Laveaud. Kindly bring Monsieur André to the phone immediately.”

  There was a clunking noise as the telephone was set down and then Anne Marie heard the sound of the woman’s high heels. Thin legs, high heels and fair skin—Anne Marie intuitively knew the type of girl Eric André would employ as a receptionist.

  “Is that you, Anne Marie? You’re calling at a very inconvenient time. I’ve got a couple of mayors here with me—”

  “You told me you were going to New York at the end of the week for a conference.”

  “So what?”

  “Might be a good idea, Eric, if you sent someone else in your place.”

  “What are you talking about, Anne Marie?”

  “I don’t suppose you went to see Lucette Salondy.”

  “I’ve got better things to do than to traipse off to the hospital just to see an overweight sister-in-law. Now, Anne Marie—”

  “You’ve got time to take another sister-in-law out to the restaurant? Or perhaps I’m not overweight?”

  “I’m very busy this morning, Anne Marie,” he said tersely. “You’re playing games.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave the département. Not for now.”

  “A threat, Anne Marie?”

  “I don’t need to make threats.”

  “You’re withdrawing my passport? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’m your brother-in-law.” Worry was sapping the self-assurance. “You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

  “Precisely because you’re my ex-brother-in-law I’m contacting you, Eric. I’m trying to save you embarrassment. You’re in a delicate situation.”

  “You’re threatening me?”

  “For your own sake, it’s best you don’t leave Guadeloupe. I’m not asking you to hand in your passport—not yet.”

  “Anne Marie, you’re not acting rationally.”

  “You knew Rodolphe Dugain was suffering from a viral infection, didn’t you, Eric?” She ran her finger down the photocopied sheet that lay on her desk. “Ever since the month of July, 1988. You knew it was a secret he had to keep quiet at all costs.”

  There was no answer, just the click as her ex-brother-in-law hung up.

  74

  Gambetta

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Lafitte came into the small room. He was out of breath and he looked tired, as if he had not slept. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “Have you located the boyfriend?”

  There was no reaction on his sallow face.

  “The dead girl’s boyfriend—I asked you to bring him in.”

  “His name is Olivier Rullé and he works in a bank.” Lafitte took the chair opposite Anne Marie. “He wondered whether it would be possible for you to go over to his office at the Crédit des Outremers.”

  “Crédit des Outremers? Then he knows Richard Ferly?”

  “Possibly, madame le juge. I’m not sure they work in the same branch. I managed to get hold of him only a few minutes ago, and he’d like you to see him in the rue Gambetta—if you don’t mind. Otherwise,” Lafitte went on, “to ring him on this number and he’ll come over.” He added lamely, “He works on the computers.”

  She took the number. “A West Indian?”

  “I don’t know where he’s from—I’ve only spoken to him on the phone. He doesn’t speak with a local accent.” Lafitte propped his elbow on the edge of the desk. “I’ve got some very good news.”

  “That’ll make a change.” From behind the typewriter, she heard Trousseau’s soft laughter but she chose not to look at him. He was still sulking.

  Lafitte held up two fingers. “Two bits of news.”

  She made a gesture for him to continue.

  “Lecurieux phoned.”

  “From Basse-Terre?”

  “Geneviève Lecurieux’s been in Mauritius for the last few days and that’s why she didn’t contact us any earlier. She’s only just got back to Saint-Denis in Réunion. Eight hours between here and there—she contacted the SRPJ at four o’clock this morning.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Say?” A slight movement of the shoulders. “Nothing that I’m aware of. Baptiste was on phone duty—he took her number. She can be contacted at the Novotel until tomorrow—tonight in Guadeloupe time—when she flies to Paris.”

  “No mention of the Vaton girl?”

  Lafitte grinned with satisfaction. “They’ve found her.”

  “Who?”

  “Evelyne Vaton, madame le juge.”

  “Who’s found Evelyne Vaton, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  “Carte Bleue have found the girl. The credit card people’ve found Evelyne Vaton.”

  Anne Marie took a deep breath. “How on earth did Carte Bleue find her?”

  “Evelyne Vaton phoned in yesterday to say her Visa card’d been stolen.”

  “Evelyne Vaton?”

  Lafitte nodded. “She’s in Paris and she phoned to report her credit card was missing.”

  Anne Marie looked at her watch, then looked at the Air France calendar that sat
on her desk. She laughed with incredulity, raising her glance to Lafitte. “I find that very hard to believe, Monsieur Lafitte. You’re telling me Evelyne Vaton’s Visa card was stolen, she’s alive in Paris and it’s only now she discovers she’s lost it?”

  Lafitte ran his fingers though the short hair. “That’s why I’m late, madame le juge. I was phoning through to their twenty-four-hour service. It’s not far from the airport at Roissy. Evelyne Vaton’s indeed alive and well and living in Paris. Visa card and driving license and most probably her identity card were stolen—were being used here in Guadeloupe.”

  “It’s only now she realizes it?” Again the snort of incredulity. “What did Carte Bleue say?”

  “It might be wiser if you phoned yourself, madame le juge.”

  “Wiser in what way, Monsieur Lafitte? I’ll have the damn woman arrested, you mean.”

  “What for?”

  “Answer my question, Monsieur Lafitte. You’ve done useful work—now kindly tell me what Carte Bleue said.”

  “Evelyne Vaton lives in Paris in the twentieth arrondissement.”

  “Twentieth?”

  “She changed apartments fairly recently.”

  Anne Marie sat back in her chair. There was an awkward silence. Trousseau pretended not to be following the conversation, but his two-fingered typing had ceased. He did not look up from the keyboard.

  When Anne Marie spoke, she was repressing anger. “You mean to say the police in Paris didn’t check? They didn’t go to Vaton’s home? Despite the search request you sent out?”

  Lafitte took a Bastos from his shirt pocket.

  “Don’t smoke in this office and please explain to me why your SRPJ colleagues in Paris didn’t go looking for this Vaton woman at her home address. Isn’t that precisely what I asked them to do?”

  Lafitte took an embarrassed, deep breath. “When the mother came out, we thought it was Evelyne Vaton who’d been murdered.”

  “And since then, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  He was looking at the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “You must know.” Anne Marie could hear the hectoring tone in her voice, the same tone her father used when she came home from school with poor marks in mathematics. “You must know, Monsieur Lafitte. I put you in charge of the police judiciaire enquiry at this end.”

  A long, difficult silence in the small office. The trade winds played at the curtain and from beyond came the sounds of Monday morning on the Place de la Victoire.

  “You really must know, Monsieur Lafitte, because if you don’t know, who does?”

  Lafitte spoke with his head to one side. “Evelyne Vaton told the people at the Carte Bleue one of her handbags’d been stolen—and that she hadn’t noticed it.”

  “Evelyne Vaton, living in Paris, hadn’t noticed her credit card had been stolen? You don’t find that difficult to swallow, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  He did not speak.

  “Evelyne Vaton was booked on the Air France flight for the fifth of May—and the ticket must’ve been bought several days earlier.” Anne Marie tapped the calendar. “Today’s the twenty-second. Nearly a month—and she doesn’t miss her credit card?”

  “A lot of people have credit cards but don’t use them, madame le juge.”

  “And her driving license?”

  “When did you last look at yours?” Wounded pride in his voice. He had started to stammer. “You know how women can change handbags.”

  “Still the misogynist, I see.” Anne Marie clicked her tongue in irritation—just like Létitia. “You know what this means, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  Their eyes met.

  “It means lots of things—and I don’t think I like all the implications.” She caught her breath. “I’ll have to make a report.”

  “Because of Madame Vaton—”

  Anne Marie cut him short. “Madame Vaton knew her daughter was alive. She came out to the Caribbean on false pretenses and on a free ticket. We needed somebody—a relative—to identify the corpse.” She looked at the police officer. “Madame Vaton knew her daughter was alive.”

  “Do excuse me, madame le juge, if I interrupt.” It was Trousseau who spoke. “Madame Vaton is supposed to be returning on this evening’s flight, madame le juge.”

  Anne Marie turned to look at him. There was a sense of cold anger in the pit of her belly. “Well?”

  “Madame Vaton’s asked for permission to stay on in Guadeloupe. She’s moved out of the hotel and has gone into a guest house in Gosier.”

  “A free holiday in the Caribbean at the expense of the Ministry of the Interior? Weren’t you telling me she was a good woman, Trousseau?”

  “Even a humble greffier is entitled to his opinion.” There was no humility in his voice.

  “A good, Christian woman?”

  “My opinion, madame le juge. If I’m wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “A selfish, frigid monster and I couldn’t understand why she appeared so unaffected by her daughter’s death. The cow, the scheming cow—she knew her Evelyne was alive.”

  Trousseau chose to remain quiet.

  “I’ll have her arrested,” Anne Marie said while her fingers ran through the Air France calendar.

  “Madame Vaton?” Lafitte shook his head. “You’ve got no proof she was aware of her daughter’s whereabouts, madame le juge.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Madame Vaton. She can rot, Monsieur Lafitte. She can rot.” An icy smile came to her lips. “With her religion and her hypocrisy and her Savior, she can rot.”

  Trousseau straightened his worn tie.

  “I want Evelyne Vaton to be brought in on the first plane—and I need to know whether the Lecurieux woman is involved as well.”

  “You’re going to arrest Evelyne Vaton, madame le juge?”

  Anne Marie grinned tightly. “Why not?”

  “Evelyne Vaton wasn’t in Guadeloupe. Evelyne Vaton never came out here and so she can’t be guilty of Loisel’s death.”

  Anne Marie said, “I never mentioned murder.”

  “Then on what grounds, madame le juge?”

  “Fraud and attempted fraud,” Anne Marie replied. Seeing the puzzled look on both men, she burst out laughing. “And, Monsieur Lafitte …”

  “Madame le juge?”

  “I want Desterres—now. With or without his lawyer, with or without handcuffs.”

  75

  Half a Dozen

  He wore a bow tie and had an infectious laugh.

  Olivier Rullé stood up and pushed the sunglasses up on to his forehead. He shook hands with Anne Marie and Trousseau, then invited them to sit down on the anthracite settee.

  “Something to drink, perhaps?” Before they could answer, he gestured toward the computer. “Sorry to ask you to come here but we’re very busy. I’m the only person in the house who knows the intricacies of the program.”

  “You are an accountant?”

  “For my sins.”

  “You know why we’re here?”

  “Something to drink?” There was a small refrigerator recessed into the wall, beneath an old engraving of Pointe-à-Pitre. He opened the door and took out a bottle of Contrexéville. The outside of the plastic bottle was misted.

  “My greffier and I have just had coffee.”

  Olivier Rullé nodded and poured himself a glass of water that he drank thirstily before returning to his desk. He typed something onto the keyboard and the computer went blank.

  “You know Agnès Loisel’s dead, Monsieur Rullé?”

  “I do now.” He smiled but there was whiteness at the corner of his lips.

  “When did you find out?”

  “I thought Agnès was in France. She came to see me a couple of months ago and asked me to lend her the money for the air fare.”

  “One way?”

  “I didn’t ask.” He shrugged. “Like everybody else in this island, I get to see France Antilles and I watch the RFO news in the evening—the job demands it of me. Like everybody else,
I read about the killing at the Pointe des Châteaux, but I never for a moment associated it with Agnès. As far as I was concerned she was in France.”

  “Then how did you find out?”

  “From Marie Pierre.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “A friend of Agnès’s.” He caught his breath. “Mêm bitin, mêm bagaï.”

  “You speak Creole, Monsieur Rullé?”

  He smiled. “My grandmother’s brother was President of Haiti—many, many years ago. My mother’s from Lyon, but I grew up here.”

  “Mêm bitin, mêm bagaï,” Anne Marie repeated. “Marie Pierre and Agnès Loisel are the same sort of people? ‘The same booty, the same baggage?’ ”

  There was a long silence while Rullé looked at her. Anne Marie was sitting on the low settee, her bag at her feet, her notepad open on her lap. Trousseau was also taking notes.

  “Off the record, madame le juge.”

  “What?”

  “I’d rather what I said was off the record.” His glance went from Anne Marie to Trousseau and back to Anne Marie. “Later, if you wish, I can make a statement.” He grinned. “Unless, of course, you’re intending to arrest me.”

  “Did you murder Agnès Loisel?”

  “It’d be difficult to pin her murder on me, since I was in Martinique until last Tuesday—working on the head office computer.”

  “Any idea of who murdered her?”

  There was sadness in his smile. “There was a time when I was fond of Agnès. A year ago, I’d have married her with my eyes shut. I proposed marriage, you know.”

  “And?” Anne Marie slipped the pen into her bag.

  “Agnès’s a hard person. Hard on other people, but above all, hard on herself.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I went out with her for over six months. The kind of girl I find attractive, and although I know quite a lot of women, Agnès was different. Probably all in my head, I know. I’d have married her and if she’d’ve accepted, I’d have thought myself lucky. Wife, children, family—the full catastrophe and I’d’ve been overjoyed.”

  “Why did she turn you down?”

  “She’ll never live with anyone—not with me nor with anybody else—because Agnès Loisel’s trying to run away from herself.”