Murder on the Ile Sordou (27 page)

Verlaque quickly took the tea towel off the back of
le général
's chair and wiped the glasses before their host had a chance to pour.

“Prosper's housekeeper is on leave,”
le général
said, winking.

Prosper poured Marine and Verlaque each a full tumbler of pale rosé. “Thank you, Prosper,” Verlaque said, taking the still-smudgy glass in his hands and smiling at Marine. “Did you know any of the kids from Marseille when you were growing up here on Sordou?” he asked.

Prosper stared at Verlaque.

“I'm sorry if it's a tricky question,” Verlaque said, rolling his eyes. “A simple yes or no will do.”

“I didn't know any of them,” Prosper said, taking a gulp of his rosé.

“So they were around?” Verlaque asked.

“Who?”

“The kids from Marseille,” Marine said. “Alain Denis?”

Prosper shrugged. “They didn't have anything to do with me.” He looked away, and then added, “You're like that pretty woman from Paris, asking questions . . .”

“Who's that?” Marine asked, leaning forward.

“A civil servant who was researching the islands,”
le général
answered for his friend. “Prosper just wants to be left in peace. Isn't that right, my friend?”

Prosper lifted his glass and toasted
le général
. He then set his glass down and tugged at the sleeves of
le général
's jacket. “I think this is a perfect fit,” he said.

Antoine's Feast

M
arine and Verlaque got into Général Le Favre's boat, Verlaque taking the steering wheel.

“I don't see why you insist on driving,” Le Favre said, falling into Prosper as they got into the boat.

“I'm thrilled by the opportunity,” Verlaque said. “I haven't driven a boat in ages.”

“Where did you grow up?”
le général
asked, hiccuping.

“Paris, but also Normandy,” Verlaque answered. “Where there are real waves.”

Prosper laughed and hit his knee.

“I don't like the look of that sky,”
le général
said.

“It never storms in July in Provence,” Verlaque said.

“The sea was pretty rough on Monday,” Marine said, leaning back on the boat's wooden bench and holding on to the boat's sides.

“True,” Verlaque said, pulling the boat away from the dock and taking a quick look at the sky, which was blue above them, but black over Marseille. He wished he could telephone ahead to the hotel and warn the Le Bons that there would be two extra guests for dinner.

“I should head back,” Le Favre mumbled, also looking toward Marseille.

“Prosper,” Verlaque shouted over the sound of the engine and waves hitting the small boat. Marine and the gerenal were talking, and so he had Prosper's full attention. “Who do you think killed Alain Denis?”

Prosper Buffa lifted his head back and laughed. “Not the boy.”

“Well,” Verlaque pressed on. “Who? And why?”

Prosper shook his head back and forth. “It was so long ago,” he began.

“What happened?” Verlaque shouted.

“I wasn't there, you busybody!”

“Here we are!”
le général
shouted, tapping Verlaque on the back. “Be careful pulling her up to the dock.”

Hugo Sammut was standing at the dock when they arrived. Verlaque steered the boat in while
le général
threw Sammut a rope. Sammut quickly tied it around a post, and he reached his hand out to Marine. “It's gonna blow!” he said. “Did you look at that sky?”

“Like Normandy,” Prosper said, smiling, to Verlaque.

“They've all been waiting for you,” Sammut said, holding out his hand.

“Thanks, Hugo,” Verlaque said, grabbing his hand and jumping out.

“Thanks, Hugo,” Prosper mimicked.

“Nice jacket, Prosper,” Sammut said.

Le général
rubbed his arms, suddenly realizing where his jacket was.

“What have you guys been doing?” Sammut asked, seeing the red faces of Prosper and Le Favre, and the bright shining eyes of Marine and Verlaque.

“Having a little aperitif,” Verlaque repeated. “And the gentlemen will be staying for dinner. I have to run up and tell Émile and the Le Bons.”

Sammut said, “You need to call your commissioner. He's been trying to get ahold of you.”

“I have to get back to my
cabanon
,”
le général
said, looking at the sky.

“Not tonight, you aren't,” Sammut said.

“We'll arrange for you to stay here,” Verlaque said. He hoped that the Le Bons could set up the extra room, now that Paulik had gone. He had no idea where Prosper would be able to sleep if he couldn't walk back to the lighthouse.

“Should I bring my cooler up?”
le général
asked.

“No, you can leave it here,” Verlaque said, hiding his smile. “There's lots of very good wine in the restaurant. Tonight is my treat.”

Prosper rubbed his hands together.

Verlaque stayed and thanked Hugo while Marine, Prosper, and
le général
made their way up the steps to the hotel. “I want to thank you for staying on the island, even though you've been given your dismissal,” he said.

“You're welcome,” Sammut said, making sure that
le général
's boat was securely fastened down. “I really have no other place to go,” he added. “I'm too embarrassed to show up at my parent's small apartment in Cassis, although when this is all over I suppose I'll have to.”

“Would it help if I put in a good word for you, with the Le Bons?” Verlaque asked.

“That would be awesome,” Sammut replied. “Thank you. See you around.”

“Ciao,” Verlaque said, running to catch up with Marine.

Max Le Bon saw the foursome arriving and opened the front doors as the rain began to fall even harder. Max looked just as puzzled as Hugo had at the two new guests, and Verlaque pulled him aside and said, “I'd like to throw a party this evening. I'll pay for
le général
and Prosper's dinner.” He looked at them and added, “And their drinks.”

“A party?” Max asked.

“It's what we need,” Verlaque said, trying not to sound desperate. “Don't you see? It will loosen everyone up.”

“Well, I don't know . . .”

“What's going on, Max?” Cat-Cat Le Bon said as she walked toward the men.

“Judge Verlaque thinks we should have a party tonight,” Max began. “To . . .”

“Marvelous,” Cat-Cat said.

“Really?” her husband asked, looking at Prosper, who was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, reading
Le Monde
.

“Of course,” she replied. “We've all been cooped up here; the guests are unhappy and our staff are frazzled. And with this storm tonight . . .”

“Great,” Verlaque said. “The guys may not make it back, with the storm.”

Cat-Cat sighed. “I figured as much,” she said. “They may have to share the spare room, but we have a folding bed we can add. At least Prosper appears to have had a shower recently.”

“He dressed up for the occasion,” Verlaque said, smiling, and making a gesture with his fingers alluding to Prosper's pink bow tie.

“Oh, heavens!”

“Hugo met us at the dock,” Verlaque began.

Cat-Cat looked at Max. Max said, “I get your hint, judge. Actually I've been rethinking Hugo's position here,” he said. “I'm going to ask him if he'd like to stay on.”

“That sounds wise, considering how well he knows this place. I'll go and tell Émile about tonight's party,” Verlaque said as Niki Darcette came running in.

“Serge is closing all the shutters in the bar,” Niki said. “And I'll start here.” As if on cue the wind blew one of the shutters in the lobby closed. The hotel phone began to ring and Niki cursed, running behind the desk to answer it.

“I'll help with the shutters,” Max said. He walked over to the large French doors that led out to the terrace and opened them to close the shutters. The wind almost blew him off his feet, and rain came into the lobby, hitting the marble floor.

“Max!” Cat-Cat screeched.

“I'm trying to close the shutters as fast as I can!” Max hollered back.

Verlaque grinned, amused that the usually calm and professional Le Bons were now acting like a normal married couple. He was about to go off to find Émile in the kitchen when Niki reappeared. “Phone call for you,” she said. “You can take it in the office.”

“Thanks, Niki,” he answered. He left the lobby to the sound of people arguing and shutters slamming shut, walked into the office closing the door behind him, and sat down in a leather office chair, picking up the phone. “
Oui.
”

“
Salut
,” Bruno Paulik said. “I've been trying to get ahold of you. I have news,” he added. “Jules Schoelcher is up in Paris researching Sordou, but in the meantime I've been talking to the police in Cannes.”

“And?”

“Niki Darcette only gave us half her story,” Paulik continued. “They were caught on the night of the robbery around the corner from the jewelry store. But they weren't caught because of the robbery; one of Niki's accomplices—that guy Robert she told us about—called out for help, and an undercover policeman who was off duty came to his rescue.”

“What happened?” Verlaque asked, flipping through the piles of paper on Niki's desk.

“Robert had what he referred to as ‘made a pass' at Niki,” Paulik said. “She claimed it was attempted rape; she had a knife and had cut his cheek.”

Verlaque said, “That's why she got six years.”

“Yeah, I'm told her lawyer was sharp and had dug up all sorts of dirt on the guy. Otherwise she would have done more time. The undercover policeman reported that she screamed that Robert had it coming to him, and she would have kept going had he not showed up. The cop told the judge that it took all his might and five years of martial arts training to hold her down until reinforcements came.”

Verlaque held a piece of paper in his hand and as he looked at it said, “A good-looking woman could have enticed Denis down to the cove.”

“Yep.”

“And Niki is about the only woman here who could have done that,” Verlaque continued. “Marine and Sylvie are out of the picture; Mme Poux too old; Marie-Thérèse too young; Cat-Cat Le Bon and Shirley Hobbs not at all his type; and Delphine Viale too prudish looking.”

“Emmanuelle Denis would have had to make up some outrageous excuse to get him down there,” Paulik added. “And since they no longer sleep together, she couldn't have used her sexual powers to tempt him. But Mme Poux . . . I think that she could have got him down there to meet her. When he found out who she was, that they once were sweethearts, he might have even wanted to rekindle their old love, for whatever reasons. Guilt?”

“I hardly doubt guilt,” Verlaque said, “but curiosity I'd go with. Thanks for this, Bruno. You'll call me when Schoelcher gets back from Paris?”

“Yes,” Paulik said. “Wait a minute; hold on.” Verlaque could hear the commissioner speaking to someone else. “Flamant wants to speak to you,” Paulik said.

“
Bonsoir, Juge Verlaque,
” Alain Flamant said, after taking the phone from Paulik. “We've been researching Denis's films and have come across something really interesting,” he said.

“Go on,” Verlaque said.

“Alain Denis and the director Jean-Louis Navarre hated each other. Openly.”

“The Inspector Pernety director?”

“Yes.” Flamant told the judge about the threats, the affair with Navarre's wife, and the fistfight on set. “But it seems that a lot of people who worked with Denis hated him,” Flamant continued. “So I was getting discouraged, until our junior officer Sophie Goulin came across a photo in the archives of
Télérama
.”

“I'm all ears.”

“It was a fund-raiser for disenfranchised youth in Paris,” Flamant said. “And Navarre was among the celebrities raising money for the cause.”

“How were they doing it?” Verlaque asked.

“Swimming,” Flamant said.

Verlaque sat down. Flamant continued, “It says in the photo's caption that Navarre swims every day. He even swam the English Channel a few years back. We have a call into Navarre's home and his office, but no one's answering. Hopefully we'll have better luck tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks for this, Alain,” Verlaque said. “And pass my thanks onto Mlle Goulin.”

Paulik came back on the phone. “We'll phone you ASAP tomorrow morning,” he said. “I sure wish you had a cell phone that worked over there.”

“Me too.”

“And Léa says to tell you that the grapes are bigger than they were last week; they're no longer pearls, but marbles.”

Verlaque laughed. “I can't wait to see them.” He hung up and looked at the piece of paper; Niki Darcette had been making rough notes for a press release announcing Sordou as an oasis, the island once a vacation spot for Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Marcello Mastroianni, and the late Alain Denis.

Verlaque folded the paper and put it in his pocket; was Niki Darcette's rage reason enough for murder? He thought not; she might have attacked a thug from Cannes—someone she knew well—but Verlaque couldn't see Alain Denis's tawdry harassment as something that would cause her to shoot him. Emmanuelle Denis, and Brice, were the only people on Sordou who knew Denis well enough to hate him, as his murderer obviously had. Mme Denis had no alibi, and Brice's alibi was very shaky. Paulik had suggested that Prosper could have taken a nap at any point during their day together on Monday, giving Brice ample time to run down to the cove.

But now they had someone who openly hated Denis and was a strong swimmer.
Why would anyone ever swim the channel?
thought Verlaque. Madness. He didn't even like going under it on the Eurostar from Paris to London. He thought about swimmers as he left the office, carefully closing the door behind him. Was swimming the common thread? Is that why the murderer chose an island to carry out the deed? He thought of Mme Poux; had an old rage resurfaced when she saw her old—as Bruno had called him—sweetheart? Or had Jean-Louis Navarre somehow swum here, hid out, and then swum back to some boat anchored offshore? But why wait all these years?