Old Bones

Gideon used the telephone in the study to contact the inspector, reaching him at home. Joly listened without interruption to his account of the altered tide tables. He was impressed enough to dispense with his usual mordant observations on Gideon's continuing contributions to the case, but not so much that he admitted to having been wrong about “Guillaume's” murder.

'I thought I asked you to exercise reasonable prudence,” was his comment. “I should have thought that would include keeping your distance from Rochebonne.'

'I did, Lucien, but, uh, events intervened.'

'I'm not sure I like the sound of that. Are there any other developments you should be telling me about?'

'Nothing important.” It seemed a poor time to mention that the four of them had almost staged their own recreation of the drowning in the bay.

'Well,” Joly said, “I think it would be best if I came there, and you might as well wait for me now, if you don't mind. Is John there? Stay close to him. I don't want anything happening to you.'

'Right, right,” Gideon grumbled.

'And keep the falsified schedules for me. Better yet, give them to John to keep.'

'Lucien, it might surprise you, but I'm perfectly capable—'

'And do try not to handle them. There may very well be fingerprints.'

'Oh,” Gideon said. “Sure.” He looked down at the two schedules spread flat on the desk by the pressure of all five fingers of his left hand. “Glad you mentioned it.'

While he was putting the other schedules back into the cabinet, Mathilde loomed in the doorway, dowdily imposing in navy blue sweater, pearls, and dark, boxy, pleated skirt.

'Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Oliver?'

'Oh... uh, no,” Gideon said, caught with his hands in the till, so to speak. He closed the file drawer sheepishly. “I was just, uh...'

'Yes,” she said frostily. “I understand you were kind enough to drive Raymond back. You'll stay for dinner, I hope? You too, Mr. Lau?'

'Well—'

'Great,” John said from his innocent perch on the corner of the desk. “We'd love it.'

She looked frigidly at the friendly purple snails smiling from their breasts, at the giant green slipper-shoes on their feet. “You wouldn't happen to have any...ah, less fantasque clothing with you, I suppose? Well, no matter. Please join us upstairs for aperitifs when you've finished here—” She smiled thinly. “— with whatever you're doing.'

'Whew,” John said when she'd left. “I bet it feels like hell to get caught snooping around somebody's house without permission.'

'It does,” Gideon said. “Sometimes I wonder how I let myself—” An echo from their earlier conversation drifted unexpectedly through his mind. “John, what you said before about wondering who you were sometimes—” He clapped his hands together. “It's a long shot, but, my God, why didn't I think of it before?'

'I can't imagine,” John said blandly.

'Shut the door, will you? We need to make another call.'

* * * *

'DR. Loti, do you remember telling me that when Guillaume du Rocher was found in the rubble in St. Malo he was hallucinating?'

'Yes, certainly.” The doctor had been roused from his evening meal; he was still chewing.

'And that he didn't know who he was?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Well, can you remember whether he had simple amnesia, so that he had no idea who he was? Or did he imagine he was somebody else?'

'Oh,” Dr. Loti said, “I remember very well.'

'And?'

'He imagined he was someone else. He claimed it for two days.” Continuing to display an unexpected flair for suspense, Dr. Loti continued his leisurely mastication.

'And that was...?'

'He believed he was his cousin Alain.'

Bingo. A whole set of puzzle pieces clattered into place.

'Perhaps you've heard of him?” Dr. Loti prompted, possibly disappointed in the lack of an overt response.

'I sure have,” Gideon breathed. To John he made a raised-fist gesture of success that elicited a mystified frown.

'It was quite a strong delusion,” Dr. Loti continued and chuckled at the memory. “He very nearly had me convinced, even though I knew full well that poor Alain du Rocher had been executed by the Germans some years before. And then one morning, suddenly, his memory returned. He was himself, Guillaume du Rocher, just like that.'

Just like that. Alain du Rocher, Resistance hero of beloved memory, mourned as dead at the hands of the SS these forty-five years. Only now—just like that—it seemed he had been alive the whole time, until a week ago,