Skeleton Dance

'However impractical,” Joly concluded, scolding himself before the words were out of his mouth. He wasn't starting out on the right foot, and if he kept it up, he would shortly have a roomful of enemies.

In general, Inspector Joly had never been much taken with scientists. Most of them, he believed, could be accurately grouped into three classifications: superior and disparaging, like Grize; pompous and self-inflated, like Montfort; and (the largest class by far) well-meaning but muddle-headed, like Beaupierre. There were exceptions of course—Gideon, for example, at least most of the time—but not many in his experience.

He sat eyeing them with his hands folded for a few moments more before speaking again. “I am Inspector Joly. The officer seated behind you is Sergeant Peyrol, who will take notes. Later, I shall be interviewing each of you individually, so be good enough to keep yourselves available.'

He stopped, anticipating objection, but they had suddenly become as docile as lambs, hanging on his next words. They sensed by now that something important was up and they were off-balance. Joly began feeling a little more benevolent. “I hope this will not inconvenience you,” he offered by way of a small olive branch. “I shall try to disturb your daily activities as little as possible.

'Exactly what is this about, Inspector?” demanded Montfort, but now his tone was merely grumpy, not openly rude; presumably a matter more of constitution than intention. “Does it relate to Jean Bousquet?'

'It very well may,” said Joly. “Dr. Oliver has now completed his analysis of the bones from the abri and reached his conclusions. I'm sorry to inform you that they are the remains of Dr. Carpenter.'

It was as if someone had seized one end of the carpet on which their chairs rested and given it a snap. Everyone started. There were ejaculations of surprise, snorts of disbelief, gasps of incredulity; in Beaupierre's case, all of them from the same mouth.

'That can't be!” Audrey Godwin-Pope exclaimed. “His plane . . . he died in a plane crash . . . everybody knows that.'

'Yes, yes,” others cried, “that's true.'

'Not so,” said Joly.

'How horrible!” Beaupierre said into the abrupt silence, staring first at Joly, then around the circle of his colleagues, and then, every bit as fixedly, at empty air. “How horrible! I—'

His lips had gone dead white; he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. Joly, afraid he might be on the verge of a stroke, rose. “Monsieur—'

But Montfort cut in. “Jacques, get hold of yourself, for God's sake,” he muttered, although he too looked a little gray.

To Joly's surprise it did the trick. Beaupierre nodded, drew in a long, shuddering breath through his mouth, and quieted down, one hand lifted to his closed eyes. The others began to talk excitedly among themselves, so that Joly had to rap on the desk for quiet.

'That is all I wish to say at this point. You are welcome to return to your offices for the present. Sergeant Peyrol will inform you when I wish to see you. We will—'

'Bousquet, it must have been Bousquet,” Prudence McGinnis said to no one in particular. “Jean hated him.'

'Which of us didn't he hate?” asked Montfort. “He might have murdered all of us in our beds.'

'He didn't hate me,” Grize said. “I had nothing against him, and he had nothing —'

But Joly didn't want a discussion of the subject at this time. “We will start in three-quarters of an hour, at ten- thirty,” he resumed firmly. “I hope we can be finished by mid-afternoon. I think it would be best to begin with the director. Professor Beaupierre, is that acceptable to you?'

'What?” Blinking, Beaupierre floated back into this world. “Yes, of course—well, I . . . that is . . . yes, all right.'

'Very good, ten-thirty, then. Madame, gentlemen, thank you.'

They were slow in getting up—Joly could almost hear the gears spinning and grinding in their heads—and Prudence McGinnis paused at his desk on her way out.

'It was Bousquet, wasn't it?'

'We'll talk about it later, madame,” replied Joly.

She stood her ground. “Well, who else could it have been?'

'Later, madame.'

* * * *

The interval before his first interview was put to good use. Sergeant Peyrol, having heard at length about his superior's wretched breakfast, went out and returned with two excellent croissants, a passable brioche, and a double cafe noir from the Cafe de la Mairie across the street, so that by ten minutes after ten Joly was once again feeling human.

'Thank you, Peyrol,” he said, concluding his meal. He wrapped the remains in the newspaper on which he'd eaten so as not to sully Marielle's gorgeous desk and placed all in a wastepaper basket. The excellent Peyrol—not the most quick-witted sergeant he'd ever had, but an honest fellow—had even brought him a foil-wrapped towelette to wipe his hands and lips, which he did with satisfaction.

'Now then, Peyrol: what did you think of our cast of characters? Do you have any observations?” When he could, Joly liked to tutor his subordinates, generally employing the methods of Aristotle.

'Well, I know who didn't do it,” Peyrol said. “The director, Beaupierre. He was shocked, all right. I thought he was going to drop dead in front of us.'

'Shocked, yes,” Joly said, “but at what?'