Murder on the Ile Sordou (14 page)

“Yes,” Viale replied, sipping his champagne. “I knew that there was a former lighthouse keeper on the island, but had never seen him before. And what a name! Prosper! As if!”

“Oh, I don't know,” Marine said. “Without wanting to sound corny, maybe M. Buffa
is
prosperous, in a nonmonetary way.”

“You're right, Marine,” Sylvie said. “You do sound corny.”

The group laughed again. “Imagine,” Verlaque said. “Vincent van Gogh really did look like that. And nobody spoke to him . . . or very few people. The poor soul. I think of that every time I go to Arles . . . expecting him to appear from around a corner, muttering to himself.”

“And to think that he only sold one painting, to Theo, his brother,” Sylvie added. She looked down into her champagne glass and reflected on her successful career as an art photographer. Thanks to her representative galleries in Berlin and London she made enough money to have paid for her apartment in Aix and secure her daughter Charlotte's future.

“Surely you don't mean we should befriend our island recluse?” Clément asked, laughing nervously.

“Brice obviously did,” Marine said. She picked up the bottle and refilled everyone's glasses. “To recluses, and eccentrics, everywhere,” she said, lifting her glass in the air.

A Champion Swimmer

A
seagull's scream pierced the morning clear sky, waking Verlaque and Bonnet up at 9:10 a.m. Verlaque moaned. “
Oiseau de merde
,” he said. “What is the seagull's purpose on earth?” He sighed and rolled over.

“Antoine, it's after nine a.m.!” Marine said, looking at her watch and then putting it back on the nightstand. She hugged Verlaque and then got out of bed, putting on the housecoat supplied by the hotel. “We'll be the last ones downstairs for breakfast.”

“All right, all right,” Verlaque said. “I hate breakfast, anyway.” He threw back the linen sheet and then quickly put it back in place, forgetting that he was naked. “You naughty girl,” he said, looking at Marine, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

“Great night last night,” she said, smiling. “Thank you.”

“Thank you too,” he said, once again throwing back the sheet and this time getting out of bed.

Marine walked over and hugged him. “I love your smell,” she said.

Verlaque buried his head in her curly auburn hair and was about to kiss her when another call rang out. “That was a woman, not a seagull,” Marine said, pulling away from the judge and looking toward the terrace.

“Someone doesn't like the coffee here?” Verlaque said.

Marine opened the French doors and stood outside, leaning against the balcony's railing. She couldn't see anything, but she could hear the banging of doors and rushing footsteps.

The scream now sounded like sobbing, and loud voices wafted up to their room, coming from the hotel's terrace. “Let's go,” Verlaque said, opening a drawer, pulling out the first clothes within reach, and quickly getting dressed.

Marine did the same, throwing on a beach dress over her head, and jumping into a pair of clean underwear. “We smell like sex, I'm sure,” she said. “We'll have to shower later.”

“Either no one will smell it,” Verlaque said, opening the room's door and letting Marine pass through, “or everyone will.”

Coming down the hall was Eric Monnier, holding his black notebook in his hand. “Did you hear those screams?” he asked.

“Yes,” Verlaque said.

“They were coming from outside,” Marine added.

“It doesn't sound good,” Monnier said. “Stupidly obvious thing to say. Sorry.”

On the stairway down to the lobby they ran into Clément Viale, who was still in the process of buttoning up his shirt. “Horrible sounds!” he said. “What's going on?”

The lobby was deserted, and through the dining room they could see that the Jacky Bar was as well. The glass doors leading to the terrace had been propped wide open, and the foursome made their out.

“What on earth?” Verlaque asked. He did a quick take, and it seemed that almost the entire staff, and guests, were present, standing or sitting on the terrace. The tables had been set for breakfast and were strewn with croissant crumbs and spots of jam and unfinished cups of coffee.

Marie-Thérèse was sitting in a chair, sobbing. Émile Villey was kneeling before her, quietly speaking. An older woman, wearing a crisply ironed old-fashioned maid's uniform, and whom Marine had said hello to in the halls, was sitting beside Marie-Thérèse, with her arm around the girl.

Max Le Bon, along with Hugo Sammut and Serge Canzano, was standing off to the side. Max quickly walked over to Verlaque and said, “Marie-Thérèse has just had the fright of her life, I'm afraid.”

“What happened? Verlaque asked.

“It's Alain Denis,” Max said, whispering. “Marie-Thérèse went for a walk this morning, along the cliffs on the south side of the island, and found him . . . his body, I mean . . .”

“What?” Verlaque hissed. “Dead?”

Max nodded, and looked in the direction of Marie-Thérèse.

“What exactly happened?” Verlaque asked.

“We don't know,” Le Bon answered. “Cat-Cat and Niki have gone to tell Mme Denis, who's still in her room.”

“And Brice?” Verlaque asked.

“Fishing,” Max replied. “With M. Hobbs. On the other side of the island.”

Hugo Sammut came over and said good morning to Verlaque and Marine. “I heard Marie-Thérèse screaming from my cabin. We should go,” he said. “To . . . the body.”

“Of course,” Verlaque answered. Eric Monnier and Clément Viale came and offered their help. “Thank you,” Verlaque said. “We may as well all go, since we don't know what we're going to see when we get there. What did Marie-Thérèse say, exactly?”

“I couldn't make heads or tails out of it,” Max replied. “She can't stop crying. I only know that he's on the south shore . . . where the steep cliffs are, on a small beach . . . dead. Mme Poux,” he continued, looking over in the direction of Marie-Thérèse. “Could you please . . .”

“Certainly,” Mme Poux said. “We'll take care of her.”

“I'll stay here too,” Serge Canzano said. “I'll clear up the breakfast terrace.”

“Come, Marie-Thérèse,” Émile said, gently lifting the girl out of the chair with Mme Poux's help. “Let's get you into a comfortable armchair with a cup of tea.” Émile nodded in the direction of the judge.

“Very well,” Verlaque said. “Let's go, then.”

•   •   •

As they walked, Marine thought to herself that if anyone had been watching their group they would have looked very odd as they walked in single file, even though the cliff path was at times wide enough for two or even three people. Hugo Sammut was in the lead, being the most familiar with the walk, with Max behind him, then Verlaque, Marine, Clément Viale, and finally—coughing as he stumbled along the path—Eric Monnier.

Hugo stopped after they had been walking for fifteen minutes and turned around to speak. “In just a few minutes, we'll veer left and descend, on a rough, steep path, toward the south shore and a little cove. I'm fairly certain that's where Marie-Thérèse was. There's a small stone beach there, and some flat rocks that are nice for sitting on. I go there often myself. Oh, Mme Hobbs . . .”

The group turned around to see Shirley Hobbs walking quickly toward them. “I heard the commotion on the terrace,” she said. “The bartender told me what happened; his English is quite good!”

“Yes, Mrs. Hobbs,” Verlaque replied in English. He didn't like the excitement in her voice. “But this is really not—”

Mrs. Hobbs waved her hand in the air. “I insist on coming,” she said. “I'm a trained nurse. That young waitress was in hysterics. . . . I heard her wailing. . . . Perhaps the actor's not dead and needs medical attention?”

“Very well,” Verlaque said. “
Elle est infirmière
,” he told the rest of the group.

“A nurse could be useful,” Hugo said.

They continued walking and Marine took the opportunity to speak to Verlaque while the path was still wide enough. “Someone will have to go and find Bill and Brice,” she whispered.

“I know,” Verlaque said. “But since they left so early this morning, I think they'll be back at the hotel at the same time we will . . . around noon. Where is Sylvie?”

“She could sleep through an earthquake,” Marine said. “In fact, she once did, when she was in China for a photo conference.”

“My question is,” Verlaque whispered, “what was Marie-Thérèse doing down here in the early morning?”

The walk down the path, although steep, took less than five minutes. The stone beach that Hugo had told them about was tiny—about twenty feet across—and to the right and left of it were limestone rocks jutting out into the sea. And there in the middle of the beach was Alain Denis, lying facedown, wearing his usual bright-pink linen shirt and white linen shorts. The group instinctively rushed toward the body, stopping short about a yard away, for the gray and white stones surrounding the body were stained dark red. Hugo leaned down on one knee, as did Verlaque.

Eric Monnier stood beside Marine and said, under his breath, “Dogs the world over will be in mourning.” He walked around the body and looked out at the sea, his hands held behind his back.

Marine ignored the teacher's comment and squatted down as well, looking at the actor.

“What a mess,” Shirley Hobbs said.

Verlaque smiled slightly; he would have used the word “kerfuffle”; it had been one of his English grandmother's favorite expressions. Mrs. Hobbs started to kneel down and Verlaque put out his thick hand, as if to protect her, but the American took his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “I was a nurse during the Vietnam War,” she said matter-of-factly. “I've seen much worse.” Marine and the others, understanding the word “Vietnam,” slightly bowed and nodded, showing their respect.

Shirley Hobbs looked down at Denis and said, “He's been shot in the head.” She pointed to the right-hand side of the actor's head. “Small gun, I'd say,” she continued. “Close range. But I'll take his pulse all the same.” She lifted the actor's arm and put her hand on his wrist. “Cold,” she said. “And no pulse. I'd say he was here all night.”

Verlaque translated for the group, but left out Mrs. Hobbs's guesswork about the kind of gun and distance of shot.

“The shot,” Marine said. “Last night . . .”

“Prosper told me he wasn't shooting last night,” Max said. “I didn't believe him.”

“The autopsy will tell us more,” Verlaque said, his mind racing. He looked around and saw that Hugo was slowly walking around the body, looking down at the stones. “Anything, Hugo?”

“Nada,” Hugo said. “No gun, and no footprints, not even his . . . but there are so many stones . . .”

“The gun wouldn't be here, would it?” Max Le Bon asked.

“It would if it was suicide,” Marine said.

“Oh,” Le Bon said, looking down at the body. “That didn't occur to me.”

Verlaque asked, “Hugo, did Propser ever tell you about Alain Denis being here in the old days?”

Hugo shrugged. “He mumbled something about Denis being here, yeah,” he replied. “But was typically vague, and when I pressed him, he shut up.”

“Was it in the sixties?” Verlaque asked.

“I had the impression it was before that,” Le Bon replied. “Before Denis was known.”

“I got the same impression,” Hugo added.

“I'll talk to Prosper later,” Verlaque said. He made a note to call Paulik and have him find out more about Prosper Buffa.

“Do we just leave him like this?” Clément Viale asked, frowning, looking at the body.

“I'm afraid so,” Verlaque said. “But we can cover his body.”

“When we go back up to the hotel,” Hugo said, “I'll ask Mme Poux for an old sheet.”

“Thank you, Hugo,” Max said. “And I assume I'll be the one to telephone the police.”

“If you wouldn't mind,” Verlaque said. “And if someone could be at the dock to greet them when they arrive. . . . They'll need to be brought down here by the path.” Using his handkerchief as a glove, Verlaque reached into Alain Denis's shorts pockets, trying not to disturb the body. He pulled out the hotel room key out of the right-hand pocket. There was nothing in the left.

“What in the world was he doing on this secluded beach?” Mrs. Hobbs asked. “He must have been lured out here, by his murderer.”

Verlaque nodded and was thankful that Mrs. Hobbs was speaking in English.

“We'll go back up now,” Max said. “You're staying here with the body, I assume.”

“Yes,” Verlaque answered.

“I am too,” Marine added.

“Then I'll have someone bring you down your breakfast,” Max said.

“That won't be necessary,” Mme Poux said. She had just arrived and was carrying a small basket.

“How did you know where we'd be?” Max asked.

“Marie-Thérèse is now able to speak calmly,” she answered. “And in full sentences. Émile is with her, so Serge made a thermos of tea and Émile has wrapped up some scones.”

“That was very thoughtful,” Verlaque said. “I'm going to stay here, with Mlle Bonnet.”

“Serge has hot drinks for the rest of you, in the Jacky Bar,” Mme Poux said.

“Well,” Eric Monnier said, turning toward the path. “I'll be off.”

“He's added a fortifier,” she added. “In yours too, Judge Verlaque.”

“Much obliged,” Verlaque said, taking the basket.

“Mme Poux,” Max Le Bon asked. “Do you know how Mme Denis is doing?”

Yolaine Poux blinked and nodded. “She's very upset,” she said. “Your wife, M. Viale, is with her, and has given her a sleeping pill.”

“Delphine has lots of those,” Clément said dryly.

“I assume he's dead?” she asked, looking down at the body.

“Yes. He was shot,” Verlaque said. “Probably last night.”

She looked up at the others, and Marine noticed that the housekeeper's eyes were watery. But it could have been the sea air and breeze, Marine realized. Mme Poux lifted a white sheet out of a cloth shoulder bag she had been carrying. “I thought we might be needing one of these,” she said, and she bent over and with Verlaque's help placed it gently over Alain Denis.