John Lescroart - Son of Holmes

“All that was fine. If you know Renee, you’d know crying is no special event. But some plainclothes flic at the funeral thought it was strange that one of the ‘suspect’s’ wives should even bother coming, much less be in tears, so he thought we might know something and followed us home.” He sat down again. “You know me, Jules. I get nervous easily and, when he came around, I got rattled. And with Renee crying all over, I just walked out. I know, I know, a mistake. I snuck out, really. I’m a fool.

“So then he started in on Renee. What were my feelings about Marcel? How well had she known him? You know how insinuating they can be, and he was, but she’d only met Marcel maybe twice, so what could she say? Finally, he asks if he can look around the house, and she says we have nothing to hide, so he goes poking into everything and finds the supplies for Robert—you know my second son? Anyway, he finds Robert’s supplies for taking photographs, which is his hobby, and right there in a drawer is plenty of cyanide to kill Marcel and a hundred other people, so he says, ‘Uh-huh, interesting,’ and leaves. So when I got home at about six o’clock, there’s no dinner and the house is dark, and she’s left a note that says she’s gone to stay with her mother and taken the kids, and I can come get her later.

“Not wanting to wait for her to come back, I decided to go over there and find out what happened, and who do I run into on the street but this same flic , come to ask Renee some more questions. He looks at me for a minute and then says, ‘You’re not a French citizen, are you?’ ”

He paused for a moment. “I’d like a drink.” He rose and got two glasses, filling one nearly to the top with pastis. In the other glass, he put a standard shot and added water. He grinned nervously, handing me the second glass. “Straight, it’s just like ouzo. Makes me feel at home.” He pulled again and again at his mustache, taking slow little sips of the drink. Every few seconds, he scratched at his head. “ Merde! Where was I?”

“Are you a French citizen?”

“That’s right, French citizen. Well, I told him that my papers were in order, that he could see for himself if he came back to the house, but he just started asking more questions about everybody. You, Georges, Paul, even Tania. Wanted to know if I knew where that fellow Lupa lived. I told him I didn’t know anything, I didn’t know Lupa, I hardly had known Marcel. Then he started going on again about how well had Renee and Marcel known each other, and it got fairly heated. He said he was going to check all the other houses—Tania’s, yours, Paul’s—and then get back to me, so I’d better find my wife and be available.”

“What did you do after that?”

He was loosening up, as he always did when he drank. “Well, I went to get Renee. Then we all came home and tried to sleep. Goddamn it, Jules, can’t a woman even cry at a funeral?”

He put his hand down, looking on the verge of tears. I put my hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Take it easy, Henri. It’s just the way of investigators. They bother you, they try to find breaks in stories. Don’t worry.”

But I was worried. Cyanide was not so common a poison that anyone else would likely have it.

“Where did you go yesterday afternoon,” I asked, “when you went wandering around?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just around. You know, when I’m upset, I walk.” As if to prove his point, he got up and started pacing again. I didn’t want to press it, so I changed the subject.

“I’d like to have everybody meet again next Wednesday. That’s the real reason I had for coming up. Do you think you can make it?”

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “At your house?”

“Probably not. I’ll send you a note. I thought it would be good for us all to try and . . . well, you know.”

He nodded. “Will Lupa be there?”

“Yes. Do you suspect him?”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. How well did he know Marcel?”

I laughed. “You thinking of joining the police force?”

He smiled weakly. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it’s just that you get to suspecting everyone. But how well do you know him?”

“Fairly well.”

“All right. Renee!” he yelled suddenly. “The onions are burning.”

His wife came back into the room, apologetic. It was the first time I’d seen her without tears in her eyes. She was attractive in a tough sort of way—the kind of woman I’d expect Henri to be with—short, dark, buxom, subservient. She stood silently by the stove, stirring with a practiced rhythm.

“It might do you good to go down to the store,” I suggested. “Take your mind off things.”

I hadn’t touched my drink. I offered it to him. He drank it off in a gulp.

“Let’s go,” he said.

On the staircase, we stopped again.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “no one came by to see either Tania or myself last night. Maybe you’ll have no more trouble with him.”

That seemed to make him nervous all over again. “He said he’d be back here this morning.”

“Well, morning’s nearly gone,” I said. “What time did you run into him last night?”

“Early. Seven or half past.”

“What time did you get back with your wife?”

“A few hours after that,” he said. “I walked around for a while, just thinking.”

We entered the shop and he called out immediately to his son. “Henri, get those crates in line! And hang that new garlic!” He turned quickly to me. “Good-bye, Jules, and thank you. I’ll let you know about next week.” Then another customer entered, and Henri brushed his hands against his apron and greeted him, as though he didn’t have a worry in the world.

Outside, it was bright and warm. Henri lived off the main route, so I had to walk a while to get to a thoroughfare where I could catch a hansom back to my house. I’d found his place stuffy with the smell of grease and onions, and the walking made me decide to stop for a beer. A boy went by with some late editions of the newspaper, and waiting for my beer to arrive, I idly read the news from the front. I leaned back and relaxed, reminding myself that Henri’s eldest son shared his name, and wondering if Henri would be persuaded to come next Wednesday. But where, it seemed, was a problem. Maybe Lupa would have a suggestion.

I turned the pages of the journal , coming eventually to local news. Then I froze, my beer halfway to my mouth. I put the beer down and looked at the small heading at the bottom of the page. The article read:

INVESTIGATOR KILLED

Police this morning discovered the body of special investigator J. Chatelet, 46, near the outskirts of Valence. The body lay just off the road, partially concealed in a clump of bushes. Chatelet had been with the police for ten years, the past five as an undercover (plainclothes) investigator. He appeared to have been strangled last night after having been attacked from behind. The body was still armed. He had been investigating the recent murder of Marcel Routier, a Valence salesman. He is survived by his wife, Paulette, and their three children.

I put down the paper and stared across the street, which shimmered in the heat. Folding the newspaper carefully, I put it under my arm, left some coins on the table and, standing up, flagged a carriage.

9

“ Of course I’ve read it,” Lupa said.“I saw it only a few minutes after you left. Naturally it’s interesting that he’d just been to see Pulis, but it proves nothing.”

I’d gone back to Lupa’s after I’d collected my thoughts. He was not at his table on the street, so I passed down under Charles’s gaze to the kitchen and on back. He was not in his apartments either, so I walked into the office, took a candle, and entered the tunnel. At the other end, the lights were on and especially brilliant after the darkness.

Lupa was leaning over, staring intently at some blooming flowers, seemingly lost to any intrigue that might be encircling him. We greeted each other, and then he said something about the peace of working with flora. I had no reply. Rather, I asked him if he’d read about Chatelet’s death.

“One thing it proves is that Tania is out of it,” I said.

He stopped fooling with the plants and straightened up, sighing. “My dear Jules, I realize how much of a burden this must be for you to bear, but it proves nothing of the sort. Didn’t you tell me you got home long after dark last night?”

“Yes.”

“It became dark some time after seven last night. The sun set at six fifty-two. The ride from St. Etienne takes over an hour, and it was dark when you left, meaning that it must have been after eight when you got to Madame Chessal’s home. Chatelet left Pulis at around seven. Unfortunately, that left ample time for Madame Chessal to go do nearly any mischief she had to. I admit it isn’t the most likely explanation, but it is possible.”

“But the man was strangled.”

“Yes, that’s the official explanation, pending an autopsy. Even so, one shouldn’t underestimate the strength of women. It’s true that they often appear helpless and weak, but that’s often our perception either because that’s what we expect to see, or because that’s what they allow us to see. I read recently where a mother lifted a carriage that had driven over the legs of her son, a carriage I’m sure neither you nor I could have lifted. Nor at any other time might she have been able to lift it, for that matter. Stress does strange things to people, as it’s doing now to you. Sit down, would you?”

I complied.

“You’re overwrought. Collect yourself or you’ll be worthless to both of us. Now, look around you. Breathe deeply. There is always beauty and it is always a comfort.”

He was right. In a few moments, I felt calm and competent to think again. In the meantime, he didn’t bother me but kept busy with the plants. Finally, he walked back to me.

“Well,” he asked, “is it Pulis?”

I told him what I thought—that I wasn’t sure, that my biggest problem was motive. Henri couldn’t very well have been a spy for several years, since he’d been here in Valence with his growing family and business. Lupa seemed to agree, though he said nothing. When I finished reporting, he suggested I walk through the plant room with him before returning through the tunnel.

“You know that cyanide is also used to smelt gold or silver from ore. It’s such a convenient poison because it’s so easily attainable legally. Any photographer would have it, as would any geologist.” He shrugged. “No, come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ll go in to see Anna today. I’ll let her stew a bit over this morning’s display. Come, there’s work to do.”

We went together back to the tunnel. I noticed him reach up just inside the door of the plant room and throw a switch.

“We can go back through now. I’ve turned off the alarm.” I hadn’t noticed that switch in my earlier passages—another indication of my decreasing powers.

Back in his office, he sat behind his desk after getting out three bottles of beer, two for himself and one for me.

After a great gulp of beer, he spoke. “I’ve decided it might be wise to have everyone meet here next Wednesday. Naturally, they’ll be brooding about recent events, and they may resent me, but I think we can come up with something to make this place acceptable. What do you say?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully. “Some of them may not come.”

“If we can think of some way to get them all here, what would you say?”