Skeleton Dance

Acheulian cordiform hand-axe of the Early Paleolithic variety—'

'Middle Paleolithic.'

'—but murdered he would have been. Besides, if he was killed to keep him from making his ‘dreadful confession,’ then why not hold me responsible too? If I hadn't permitted him to put off the time of his interrogation, he might never have called you at all, or gone to La Quinze. And yet I assure you I do not hold myself responsible.'

Gideon puffed out his cheeks and blew out a stream of air. “Yes, okay, you're both right,” he said, beginning to come around—in his head if not in his gut. “I guess I'm not making much sense.'

'Thank you, Lucien,” said Julie, raising her glass to him.

'Now then,” Joly said, setting down his kir after another grateful sip, “to other matters. You remember the ring?” He turned civilly to Julie. “Perhaps Gideon hasn't yet mentioned this?'

'The opal ring? No, he told me about it. You found it near Jacques’ body at the Musee Thibault.'

'Exactly. And this ring preyed upon my mind. I felt sure I had come across some reference to a similar ring not long before. And at last, at long last, it came to me. Now listen to this.” He took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and set his reading glasses on his nose. “I translate,” he said with a polite nod to Julie. It took him a moment to find his place. “Here we are. ‘ . . . brown eyes, brown hair. When last seen, was wearing— ‘ No, never mind that . . . ah, here, here. Now listen to this. ‘He also wore . . .'” Joly looked up to make sure he had the full attention of his audience and went on, emphasizing every syllable. “'. . . also wore on the little finger of his right hand an embossed, heavy gold ring with a stone of opal or sapphire with a horse's or dog's head embedded in it.” He whipped off the wire frame glasses, put them in their hard black case, and clicked it closed.

'But what are you reading from?” said Gideon after a moment's startled silence. “Who's it talking about?'

'This,” Joly said triumphantly, “is the report on Jean Bousquet that was filed at the time of his disappearance, presumably with the cameo brooch of Madame Renouard's grandmother.'

'Bousquet!” the other two exclaimed.

'None other,” said Joly, sitting back and radiating satisfaction. “Apparently he has found reason to revisit the Perigord after all.'

'And you think he's the one who killed Jacques?” Julie asked.

'It's hard to imagine another explanation. Rings do not generally fall off fingers on their own.'

'Bousquet,” Gideon said again, mostly to himself. It was amazing how the name of this drifter who had spent only three months in Les Eyzies and hadn't been heard of for the last three years kept cropping up. First it was Bousquet who'd been murdered and buried in the abri, possibly by Ely. Then that was switched: it was Bousquet who had murdered Ely. Now it was Bousquet who had killed Jacques. Well, this time at least, they might have it right. The ring was hard to argue with; it was something you could hold in your hand, something tangible, not just another airy conjecture based on a rickety structure of hypothetical premises.

'Gideon,” Julie said excitedly, “do you suppose that man in St.-Cyprien, the one who hit you with that fibula —'

'Femur, not fibula. I wish he'd hit me with a fibula.'

'All right, femur—could that have been Bousquet too?'

'I don't know, it never occurred to me. You know, you might be right.'

'He had such a ring?” Joly asked.

'If he did I didn't see it. But he did have brown eyes and brown hair.'

Joly smiled. “So does everyone else in France. In any case, with Marielle's assistance we have mounted a search for him. There is unfortunately no photograph of him available, and the physical description tells us little, but many people in Les Eyzies have reason to remember him, including some on Marielle's staff. If he's still in the area, I should be surprised if we fail to find him. Of course, having achieved his end, he may already have left again.'

'But what end?” Julie asked. Why would he want to come back and kill Jacques?'

'Ah, yes, as to that—'

'Inspector? They . . . they told me I might find you here.” It was Audrey, strangely unsure of herself. “Is it true that Jacques has been . . . that Jacques is dead?'

Joly rose. “Yes, madame, I'm sorry.” He placed a hand on her elbow. “Will you sit down?'

She appeared not to hear him. “There are . . . there are some things I should tell you that may be relevant . . .” She looked indecisively at Gideon and Julie.

'It's all right, madame,” Joly said, “you can speak. But if you prefer, we can go—'

'No, what does it matter?” She nodded vaguely in their direction—almost like Beaupierre himself, as if, since she was going to be his replacement as director she intended to replace him in manner as well—and took the chair Joly was holding out for her.

In Gideon's mind, Audrey Godwin-Pope had always served as a model of calm, invincible self-certainty, and it was shocking to see her so rattled. Her thin, old-lady's cardigan sweater had been misbuttoned. Her chignon, always before a neat, businesslike bun, had loosened so that straggling gray tendrils floated free at the nape of her neck. And to make the picture complete, somewhere along the way she'd broken the nosepiece of her tortoise-shell glasses, inexpertly sticking them back together with a twist of Scotch tape. It was as if she'd changed overnight from the rock-solid Audrey he knew to somebody's hunch-shouldered, slightly dotty old hermit-aunt who lived in the attic bedroom.

'Audrey, would you like something to drink?” he asked softly.

'What? Yes, all right, whatever you're having. No, a vodka. With ice.” But she'd never taken her eyes from Joly, and it was to him she spoke: “Inspector, I haven't told you before—I should have told you this morning . . .'