Dog Will Have His Day (22 page)

but nobody’s letting on.

What are you waiting for

wasting your time

missing the 7?

‘Where did this poem come from?’ asked Guerrec.

‘From my pocket.’

‘Go on.’

‘I can’t tell you any more. Someone must have slipped it into my jacket just now at the cafe. It wasn’t there when I went into the bar at three o’clock.’

‘And where was your jacket?’

‘Near the billiard table, hanging on a chair to dry.’

‘And this paper was crumpled up?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s all that about missing the 7?’

‘It’s a billiard ball, number 7. I tried to pot it three times towards the end of the game, without succeeding.’

‘It’s not very well written.’

‘But clear enough.’

‘A couple,’ Guerrec muttered. ‘If there was some clandestine couple that night in the cabin, Marie might have surprised them, and one of them might have killed her. It’s possible, we already had a case like that in Lorient, four years ago, recent as that. But . . . why this anonymous note? And why doesn’t the writer name the couple? Why send it to you? And why in the cafe? Why this business with the 7 ball? What’s that all about?’

‘A dog in a game of skittles,’ said Louis softly.

‘A whole lot of pointless questions,’ said Guerrec as if talking to himself, and shrugging his shoulders. ‘This takes us into the twisted world of anonymous letter writers, their weird motives, their roundabout methods, against all logic . . . Greed, cowardice, violence, weakness. Same thing, six years ago in Pont-L’Abbé, recent as that. Still, the tip-off could be about something real.’

‘The Vauban Cove cabin would be well chosen for an assignation. It’s got a roof, it’s remote, the risk of being seen is minimal.’

‘Even if you knew that Marie Lacasta regularly went gathering shellfish in the bay?’

‘She would surely have been unlikely to go into the cabin, because of its reputation. Those old stone huts, people only use them to take a leak or to meet someone secretly, everyone knows that. They were doing it four thousand years ago, recent as that, everywhere in the world. But perhaps, that Thursday, Marie, for once, took a look inside. And then one thing led to another.’

‘But what about whoever wrote this note? He was there too?’

‘That would make a lot of people on a murder scene the same evening. I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence. But he might know that a couple met regularly in the cabin. When he heard about the murder, he might have put two and two together, and suggested it to us. He’s not speaking openly, because he’s frightened. You saw what it said: “nobody’s letting on”. Either the writer is exaggerating, or one of the couple is dangerous, or possibly just an influential person you wouldn’t want to cross. So nobody does let on.’

‘Why was it sent to
you
?’

‘My jacket was accessible and it was a good way to reach you.’

‘A couple,’ Guerrec murmured again. ‘A couple. What kind of tip-off is that? The world’s full of them. Setting a watch on the cabin wouldn’t work, they won’t go back there. Questioning people won’t get us anywhere, just spread panic and we’d learn nothing. What we need is the writer of the note. Fingerprints . . .?’

‘He wouldn’t have risked leaving any. That’s why he, or she, screwed up the paper.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘You couldn’t keep gloves on in the cafe without people noticing. To slip the paper into my jacket, the simplest thing was to screw it into a ball, and hold it in a handkerchief or a closed fist and let it drop into the pocket. It’s very small. You could easily hold it in your hand, just letting your arm swing casually.’

‘He saw you losing on the 7, so he must have gone out after that. When was that?’

‘Right at the end of my game with Sevran, before five o’clock.’

‘Then he comes back in, the note already typed, swinging his arm casually. Who did you see coming and going then?’

‘I can’t possibly give you a rundown of all their coming and going. I was concentrating on my game with Lefloch, and I don’t know many of the locals yet. There were plenty of people in the bar and around the billiard table. They were waiting for you to appear. People went out, hung about, came back.’

‘What about the typewriter, could we trace it through that?’

‘Well, you’ve got a specialist on the spot, might as well use him.’

SEVRAN HAD STARED
hard for several minutes at the note which the inspector had unfolded in front of him, using tweezers. Looking puzzled, and concentrating, it was as if he were trying to identify someone’s face in a photograph.

‘Yes, I do know this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This is a slow, soft, smooth action. And if I’m not much mistaken, the machine is one of mine. Come along.’

The two men followed him into a large room upstairs in the main house, full of typewriters: ranged around on tables and shelves were as many as two hundred black machines of unusual shapes. Sevran made his way unhesitatingly between the tables, and sat down in front of a black-and-gold typewriter with a dial.

‘Put these on,’ said Guerrec, passing him some gloves, ‘and type gently.’

Sevran nodded, pulled on the gloves and put a sheet of paper into the carriage.

‘This is the Geniatus 1920,’ he said. ‘What is the wording I should type?’

‘
There was a couple
, new line,
in the Vauban cabin
, new line,
but nobody’s letting on
,’ Guerrec recited. Sevran typed a few words, took out the sheet and examined it.

‘No,’ he said, pulling a face, ‘it’s almost the same, but not quite.’

He stood up quickly, annoyed that his expertise had failed him, went round the tables and sat down at a small oblong machine whose function was hard to guess from its shape.

Sevran typed the first words of the message again, but not on a keyboard: this time a wheel turned until the right letter printed. He did not need to look at the metal disc, since he knew the order of letters by heart. He took the paper out and smiled.

‘This is it. It must be from the Virotyp 1914. Show me the original again, inspector.’

The engineer compared the two pieces of paper.

‘Yes, it’s the Virotyp, no question. Do you see?’

‘Yes,’ said Guerrec. ‘Can you type the whole thing, so we can check it in the lab?’

While Sevran was once more working the Virotyp disc, Guerrec was looking around the room. The table on which the Virotyp sat was near the door, but screened from the windows. Sevran brought him the second version.

‘This time,’ Guerrec said to him, ‘can you put your fingerprints on it. Please don’t take offence.’

‘Well, I do take offence,’ said Sevran, ‘seeing that it’s my house, and my machine, and I must be in the front line of suspects.’

He took off the gloves and held the paper in both hands, pressing his fingers down on it, before giving it back to the inspector.

‘Kehlweiler, stay here, I’m calling my colleague to check the prints.’

Sevran stayed with Louis, his expression both anxious and intrigued.

‘Is it easy for anyone to get in here?’ Louis asked.

‘In the daytime, yes, over the garden wall for instance. At night, or when we’re not here, we put the alarm on. But this afternoon, after I’d buried Ringo, I took Lina to the cafe to distract her, and I forgot to switch it on, I had other things on my mind. In fact we often forget.’

‘Aren’t you worried about your machines?’

Sevran shrugged.

‘You can’t really sell them unless you know what you’re doing. You have to find the right buyers, collectors, networks, addresses.’

‘How much are they worth?’

‘Depends on the model, how rare it is, its condition. This one, for instance, is worth five hundred francs, but that one over there might fetch twenty-five thousand. Who would know? Who would be able to choose the right one? There are some that look like nothing special and are very sought-after. The one in the back, with the lever inverted, see that? The very first Remington, 1874, and unique today, because the lever was badly engineered. Remington recalled them soon after bringing them out, and they reversed the lever, free of charge, for all their customers. But someone had brought that one over from America to France and Remington didn’t chase after him to change the lever. So my machine must be unique. But who would ever know that? A collector, yes, but he’d have to be a real expert. And there aren’t many of us, nobody would dare steal it from me, word would get out, and you’d lose your reputation, it would be professional suicide. So, you see, I don’t run much of a risk. And I’ve fixed each machine to the base with metal feet. You’d need time and tools to unscrew them. Apart from the cellar, where the door was forced the other day, I’ve never had any trouble, and even then they didn’t take anything.’

Guerrec came in with his colleague and pointed out to him the Virotyp, the door and the windows.

Then he thanked the engineer briefly, before leaving.

‘I don’t think we’ll find any prints on the machine except Sevran’s,’ said Guerrec, as they went back towards the town hall. ‘Yes, anyone could have typed the note, but Sevran’s awkwardly placed all the same. Still, I don’t see why he would be interested in secret couples. Nor do I see what motive he could possibly have to type the note on one of his own machines.’

‘He can’t have. Sevran can’t have typed it, he didn’t leave the cafe while I was playing Lefloch, he was still there when I went to the town hall with you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘Who else stayed there?’

‘His wife, I think, though I couldn’t see her when she was at the bar, Lefloch, Antoinette, Blanchet . . .’

‘This business about the 7 ball bothers me. It seems pointless, gratuitous, meaningless, but it must mean something.’

‘Whoever passed me the note didn’t want to be identified. By mentioning the ball, he’s making us think he was among the thirty or so people in the cafe when I was playing Sevran. Right? And what if he wasn’t?’

‘How else could he know about the 7?’

‘By looking through the window. He waits, he listens, he finds the first significant detail which would place him as present inside the cafe. Nobody would be able to see him from inside, it was getting dark and pouring with rain, but he’d be able to see in.’

‘Yes, I suppose he, or she, might either have been inside until you played the 7 ball, or outside. But it doesn’t help us much. It’s taking a lot of trouble not to be identified.’

‘Either he’s scared stiff of the murderer, or it’s him.’

‘Him? What do you mean?’

‘He’s the murderer. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer identified a scapegoat. We need to watch it, Guerrec, maybe we’re being sent off on a false trail. Somewhere round here there’s a truly evil person, that’s the way I see it.’

Guerrec contorted his thin face.

‘You twist things, Kehlweiler. Anyone can see you’re not used to anonymous letters. They’re common, terribly common. We had a case in Pont-L’Abbé six years ago, recent as that. It isn’t murderers who write them, it’s cowards, sneaks, beneath contempt.’

‘So a murderer who premeditates his act and bashes an old woman over the head isn’t beneath contempt?’

‘Yes, but that’s someone contemptible who acts. The writers of anonymous letters are passive, people who haven’t been able to make any impression on others. There’s a gulf between those worlds. It can’t be the same person, it just doesn’t fit.’

‘Have it your own way. Keep me briefed about the prints, the alibis and Spain. If that’s allowed, and if you’re willing to accept my help.’

‘I tend to work on my own, Kehlweiler.’

‘In that case, our paths may cross.’

‘It’s quite true that you prompted this whole investigation, but you don’t have the right to join in. I’m sorry to remind you, but you’re just a man among others now, on the same footing as everyone else.’

‘I hear you, I can live with that.’

Louis returned to the hotel at seven, but did not find Marc there. He lay down on his bed, phone in hand. He called the number of the police station in the 15th arrondissement, the one covering the rue de l’Abbé Groult. At this time, Nathan would still be at his desk.

‘Nathan? This is Ludwig. Nice to talk to you.’

‘It’s the German, is it? How are you doing? Retired now?’

‘I’m swanning around in Brittany.’

‘Anything to do down there?’

‘Lots of fish of course. But an old fish too. Marcel Thomas, rue de l’Abbé Groult, fell from a first-floor balcony, twelve years ago, can you give me any details?’

‘Hold on, I’ll have a look for the file.’

Nathan returned ten minutes later.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The guy fell, recorded as an accident.’

‘Yes, I know, but the details?’

Louis could hear Nathan leafing through papers.

‘Nothing special. It was the night of 12 October. The Thomas couple had had friends to supper, Lionel Sevran and Diego Lacasta Rivas, who left at 10 p.m. to go back to their hotel. The couple were in the flat with their two children, and Marie Berton, the nanny. Nobody came in after ten, the neighbours confirm that. The accident happened around midnight. Let’s see, questions, colleagues, neighbours, I’ll jump all that. The wife was questioned for several days. She was in bed, reading, nobody was able to find any evidence against her, or against Marie Berton who was also in bed. Neither one could have gone out without the other hearing. They were each in their bedroom until they heard the husband scream. Either the two women are backing each other up, or they were telling the truth. Lionel Sevran was also questioned, he was asleep in his hotel, and same goes for Diego Lacasta, he talked non-stop, there are pages of it. Wait, I’m skimming. Lacasta got very worked up, defended the two women with all his might. Then there was a reconstruction a week later. Wait. The inspector notes that everyone maintained their statements, the wife was in tears, so was the nanny, Sevran was very upset, and Lacasta said virtually nothing.’

‘I thought you said he talked non-stop?’