by Mark Hebden
‘What tools would those be?’
‘Chisel. Trowel. That sort of thing.’
‘So the three of you played cards with the old man?’
‘Yes. After the kitchen staff and the daily workers go home, we’re the only ones here. We don’t do a night duty. Because we don’t take in sick people. Just old people and people needing a rest. We demand a medical certificate to indicate they won’t go on the rampage or anything like that. They’re mostly people who want peace and quiet and we make it clear we can’t accept responsibility for anyone who’s sick. If they become ill, they have to go to hospital.’
Pel frowned. Something was at the back of his mind that he felt he ought to have clear but he wasn’t certain what it was. ‘Are you a qualified nurse?’ he asked.
‘Yes. So is my husband. But we haven’t the facilities here to look after the chronically sick and, with old people, it’s usually chronic. Obviously we treat minor ailments. But that’s all.’
‘How did this Monsieur Dupont come to disappear?’
Madame Sully looked at her husband. ‘He must have been confused and just walked out. He got confused at times. Old, you see.’
‘Was he ever difficult?’
The Sullys exchanged glances. ‘Yes,’ Madame said. ‘The night he disappeared he knocked over a tray of glasses and a bottle of red wine. We’ll have to get the carpet changed.’
‘When Monsieur Dupont was found, it was discovered he’d been drinking whisky. Did he drink it here?’
She shrugged. ‘He liked a drink and he had his own bottle.’ She indicated an almost full litre bottle of Johnny Walker on a side table, with glasses, a water jug and a decanter of sherry. ‘That’s it. So he might have. He might have had another in his room, though I’ve never seen one. But on the whole he didn’t drink much. Except occasionally when he took too much. Then he drank a lot. We had to put him to bed from time to time.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘The night he disappeared. He just went. We played cards. My husband and I had dined out. My son did the sitting in. We always have someone on duty in case of emergency and always leave a telephone number where we can be contacted. When we got back he said he’d like a game of cards. So we played.’
‘For money?’
‘Of course. But for small stakes.’
‘Who won?’
‘He did. He usually did. He was good at cards. But the stakes were so small it didn’t matter, and he always left a good present for us all when he went home, so it made no difference really.’
‘So you played cards and he went to bed?’
‘He’d got ready to go to bed and watch television in his room but then he said we’d play cards.’
‘So you did?’
‘We played bridge.’
Madame Sully’s husband interrupted. ‘But Dallas was on. They say you can get Dallas in Russia now. We thought we’d watch it.’
‘That’s right,’ Madame Sully agreed. ‘We wanted to watch it, so we decided to stop the game for an hour. I decided to go and find some food for us all and Bernard decided to do his rounds. It’s his job to check the boiler and lock all downstairs windows and doors.’
‘Against burglars?’
‘Against the residents. Sometimes they get out and just wander off. Some are a little confused. When I came back with the tray Monsieur Dupont had gone.’
‘How?’
‘Well, we were playing in the small salon and that has french windows. But they were secured from the inside still, so he couldn’t have gone that way. We decided he’d suddenly felt tired – he sometimes did – and had gone to bed. We ate the food and then I went round to check the rooms of all the residents, as I always do, and that’s when we discovered he’d gone. He must have slipped out through the hall before Bernard locked the front door.’
‘Could he have gone out and then not been able to get back in?’
‘There’s a bell. And a knocker and that would wake the dead.’
‘So what took him to the motorway?’
The Sullys looked at each other and shrugged.
Pel shifted his position. ‘I’d like to speak to your son,’ he said. ‘May we have him in, please?’
The youth appeared, staring about him with the painful intensity of someone whose brain didn’t function as swiftly as normal. He seemed as bewildered as his parents.
‘He must have been a bit nippy,’ he said slowly. ‘I locked the front door about ten minutes after we stopped playing cards. He couldn’t have wasted much time.’
‘Perhaps he went out for some fresh air,’ Sully said. ‘And he went further than he thought.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Some of the dirty socks we have do funny things,’ the boy said.
Pel didn’t miss the sharp angry glance he received from his mother.
‘Dirty socks?’ he asked mildly.
‘It’s Bernard’s name for the old people,’ Madame Sully said quickly. ‘It’s a slang expression the young use. They call old people geriatrics, wrinklies or dirty socks. I forbid its use here. But it slips out occasionally. You must forgive my son. He had a bad illness as a child.’
Pel gestured dismissively. ‘You keep records of all residents, of course?’
‘Of course.’
But the records weren’t very helpful and, indeed, didn’t seem very extensive.
‘We don’t need much beyond their age and address,’ Madame Sully explained. ‘Perhaps his name’s not Dupont.’
‘In fact it is. Do you check?’
‘Not really. Why should we? Just age and address. We ask for payment ahead, you see. Madame Weill insists on that. We also find out what medicaments they need, but, as I say, this isn’t a hospital. It’s really just a rest home for old people. We had one old man who was here three years.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died.’
‘In hospital?’
‘No. Here. There was no point in sending him to hospital. He was just old and worn out. It was quick.’
Pel often considered he was worn out, with rusty joints and clogged up veins and things.
‘When will the Matron be back?’
Madame Sully shrugged. ‘I can’t tell you. She said she was going to visit her daughter in Toulouse. She said she might make a good holiday of it.’
‘Have you informed her?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t. She didn’t leave an address.’
‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’
‘Not with Madame Weill. She’s getting on a bit, too, these days.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the Matron. I was thinking of you. I’d have thought you’d have insisted on a telephone number at least.’
Madame Sully shrugged. ‘Perhaps I should have. But why? Her daughter’s changed her address recently and Madame Weill’s been away for long periods before. I’ve often run the place on my own.’
‘Did she know Monsieur Dupont at all?’
‘No better than the rest of us. Perhaps not as well. She doesn’t have a lot to do with things these days.’
‘Do you have drugs here?’
‘Just the ones we need. Laxatives. Diarrhoea tablets. Tablets for rheumatism. Pain-killers. Anti-inflammatory pills. That sort of thing. Nothing very powerful. Madame Weill orders them.’
Pel nodded. ‘We’d better talk to some of the other residents. But first perhaps we’d better see Monsieur Dupont’s room.’
The room appeared to be like all the others in the hospice, comfortable but not luxurious. There were a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a wash-basin, a bed and an armchair facing a small television set.
‘They’re all the same,’ Madame Sully said. ‘They differ in size, of course, and the people who stay longer have the bigger rooms.’
Pel began to go through the drawers. ‘Three sets of underwear’ he noted aloud. ‘I wonder why he wasn’t wearing any when he was found. And why no socks?’ He looked up. ‘Th
ere’s only one pair of pyjamas here.’
‘Some people manage with one.’
‘How long had he booked in for?’
‘Six weeks.’
‘With one pair of pyjamas? And these haven’t been used. What happened to the ones he wore the night he disappeared?’
Madame Sully looked puzzled. ‘I’ve not seen them. I thought he must be still wearing them – under his clothes or something. It was a cold night and a suit had gone.’
Pel frowned and rubbed his nose. ‘What do the people do here with their time in the evenings?’
‘They can stay in their rooms or come downstairs. Just as they wish. Monsieur Dupont liked company and came down. Most prefer to watch television. But it varies. If there are one or two who prefer to come down, then sometimes it’s quite lively. If they’re mostly television watchers, they stay in their rooms because they all have their own preferences about programmes. Then it’s quiet downstairs.’
There were several old ladies and one old man sitting in the communal sitting-room. They all looked decrepit and it worried Pel that this was how he was due to end up. But they all seemed comfortable and none of them could add anything to the mystery of Dupont’s disappearance.
‘He liked a joke,’ one of the old women said.
‘He used to talk of going for a swim in the river,’ another said. ‘Joking, of course. Have you dragged it?’
‘There’s no need, madame,’ Pel explained. ‘He’s already been found.’
‘In the river?’ she asked. ‘Floating, I expect. They get caught in the reeds. I had a brother who drowned himself. But that was in a dam near Clermont Ferrand. He was a solicitor. They said he’d helped himself to clients’ money. I expect he had. I didn’t like him much.’
Twelve
The following day brought a new angle they hadn’t expected. Enquiries revealed that Achille-Jean Quelereil-Dupont had been seen in the village of Lugny – alone, and not accompanied by anyone from the hospice, apparently on the look-out for something. He was known there simply as Dupont, the name he used at the hospice.
Enquiries at the hospice revealed that Dupont had indeed made a habit of going to the village from time to time.
‘Well, he was quite entitled to go where he pleased,’ Madame Sully said. ‘He was only here to sleep and eat and, if he wished it, to rest. Some of our inmates never move out of the place. Others go for walks, for drinks. One or two take taxis in the evening and go to the cinema. They can do as they please.’
The local police hadn’t noticed the old man wandering about the village but an old man answering to his description had been seen disappearing into the Bar du Moulin, a dark uninviting little place that seemed full of old men playing cards and dominoes. Outside, on the dusty verge of the road, more old men were playing boules between the parked cars. Among them they noticed an expensive-looking Datsun.
The owner of the bar managed to identify Dupont. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘He came in here. An old type who walked badly. He seemed to enjoy it and came again and again.’
‘When did he first appear?’
‘A year ago? About that. Then he vanished. Then he turned up again. He was usually around for about a fortnight, then he disappeared. But he kept reappearing and, because he seemed to have money, I decided he came from Dijon or Lyons or Paris and had a week-end house here somewhere. He was old enough to be retired so it was possible. He played cards with that lot over there.’
‘That lot over there’ knew him, but only as Jean Dupont. They were all over seventy and preoccupied with their cards, so that Darcy was forced to threaten to bundle the lot of them into the police van and take them down into the city to question them. That stopped them dead and they put down their cards and began to listen.
They gave their names unwillingly, as if they were afraid of being arrested. Cardier, Jean-Philippe. Espagne, Georges. Siméon, Adenne.
There weren’t many in the bar and Darcy eyed them speculatively.
‘Whose is the car outside?’ he asked.
‘Which one?’
‘The expensive one.’
The landlord nodded at Siméon.
‘Go in for expensive cars?’ Darcy asked.
Siméon glared at him. ‘I like cars.’
‘Got an expensive house as well?’
‘It’s not bad,’ the proprietor observed.
Siméon swung round. ‘People who run bars should mind their own damn’ business,’ he snapped. ‘The things they should never talk about are politics, religion and the affairs of their customers.’
Darcy looked round him at the shabby bar, the adverts for drink on the walls, the photograph of the local football team, the cups they’d won, the two or three tables with checked cloths where it was possible to have a meal. It wasn’t the sort of place he’d have expected a man with Dupont’s background to have sought out.
‘Why did he come in here?’ he asked.
‘Why do people usually come in a bar?’ the proprietor asked. ‘He came in for a drink.’
‘He made up a four at cards,’ Siméon said.
‘When he wasn’t busy,’ Cardier added.
‘Busy doing what?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. But I reckon he was up to something. He always seemed different. As if he’d been someone and come down in the world. He liked to boast about money.’
Espagne gave a little cackle. ‘And women,’ he said.
Pel looked up quickly. ‘What women?’
‘All men have women. They go together.’
‘Names?’
They pretended they didn’t understand, then Siméon grinned. ‘Well, where do men go when they want a bit of fun and games?’ he asked.
‘Inform me,’ Pel said.
‘Well, there are one or two about.’
‘In the village?’
‘The women don’t like it. They don’t talk to them.’
‘But the men do?’
‘Everybody knows about them.’
‘All except me,’ Pel snapped. ‘So let’s have some names.’
He got them in the end. ‘Madeleine Bas Jaunes,’ Siméon said.
‘Madeleine Yellow Stockings?’
‘She wears them. Her real name’s Madeleine Reine. There’s also Isolde Dusoin.’
‘What’s her nickname?’
‘The Brown Hen.’
‘Why?’
‘She looks like one.’
‘There used to be three of them,’ Siméon said. ‘But Miranda Moriou went to Grenoble. Said she could do better there.’
‘So we’re left with Madeleine Reine and Isolde Dusoin,’ Darcy said. ‘Tarts, are they?’
The old men cackled and grinned.
‘Did you visit them?’
They looked indignant but he knew they’d paid their visits in their time.
‘And Dupont visited them, too?’
‘Only one.’
‘Which one?’
‘Bas Jaunes.’
They gave directions. Madeleine Bas Jaunes lived on the outskirts of the village in a small bungalow surrounded by high hedges. It looked a discreet sort of place, a place she had obviously chosen to be away from the prying eyes of the village matrons.
They studied it from the car. ‘Well,’ Pel said. ‘Let’s go and get it over with.’
Madeleine Bas Jaunes was in her forties but she was well preserved, plump, over-made-up, with orange hair that had come from a bottle. She was different from the women of the streets in the city. There was no attempt at sophistication beyond the crude make-up, the ghastly yellow legs and a skirt that was far too tight across her behind. She was broad in the beam and they found her at the back of her bungalow feeding a few scrawny hens with a pernod in her hand. Her heels were so high she walked with her toes turned in like a pouter pigeon.
She eyed them with interest as though she considered them new clients. ‘Well?’ she asked.
Darcy didn’t explain; he just showed his identity card
with its red, white and blue stripe.
‘Police?’ she said. ‘I’ve done nothing.’
‘Nobody’s saying you have. We’re not interested. We want to know if you know a man called Achille-Jean Quelereil-Dupont.’
‘Who?’
Pel repeated the name. She still looked blank.
‘How about Jean Dupont?’
‘Oh, him!’
‘You know him?’
‘Of course. Is that his name? Achille-Jean – whatever it was.’
‘It was his name.’
‘Well, I thought he must be somebody more than just Jean Dupont. He had a way with him. As if he’d been someone once.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘How well do you think? He came here often.’
‘How far did it go?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘You say you were friendly with him.’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘How far did the friendship go. As far as bed?’
‘Of course.’
‘At seventy-eight?’
‘Was he that old?’ She shrugged. ‘Well, some men stay virile. He went to health classes.’
‘Not for exercise.’
‘Why do you want to know all this? I’ve done nothing. If one of those dirty old bastards in the bar says I have, you ought to ask them about themselves. They talk a lot, but they’re no innocents. I’ve known them a long time. They were after me when I was only fifteen, and they’ve been after me ever since.’
‘Do their wives know?’
‘I expect so but they’ve got no proof. The old bastards were always cunning. I expect they learned it from Siméon.’
‘Why Siméon?’
‘Well, he’s been in prison, hasn’t he?’
‘Has he? What for?’
‘Robbery with violence, they say.’ Madeleine Bas Jaunes shook her head. ‘Mind, it was a long time ago now, but people don’t change, do they? They just get more so.’
‘And the others?’
‘Espagne was once up for fraud. Fiddled the books at that forge he ran.’
‘And Cardier? Don’t tell us he’s done time, too.’
‘No. He just got a fat lip from Auguste Assas at the Hentelet Farm for pinching one of his lambs.’
