Skeleton Dance

Gideon had started to nod peacefully off over Psalmanzar for the third time when Monsieur Leyssales knocked discreetly on the wall beside the open door. There was a telephone call for the professor. If he liked he could take it on the desk telephone in the lobby.

'Gideon, we have Bousquet,” were Joly's first words.

'Congratulations, Lucien. When did you find him? Where?'

'This morning, on the riverbank a few miles below Les Eyzies, where he'd been for the last several days.'

In Gideon's drowsy state of mind it took a few seconds to penetrate. “He's dead?'

'A suicide, it seems.'

'It seems?'

'A figure of speech. There's not much doubt. He shot himself—with the same rifle that killed Carpenter.'

'The same rifle that—why would he—what would he—'

'I have no idea.'

'Where was the gun, Lucien?'

'Where you'd expect. Underneath the body. He had collapsed forward onto it.'

'His fingerprints were on it?'

'They were. Faint, smudged . . . but ultimately identifiable.'

'Huh. So you think . . . what? That he killed Jacques and then he went out and killed himself?'

'I should be surprised if it were the other way around,” said Joly dryly. “And apparently a single day elapsed between the two. Roussillot, after endless equivocation, has finally concluded that he's been dead about two days. Beaupierre was killed three days ago, as you know. Are you there?” he asked when there was no response from Gideon.

'Lucien, I have to tell you, I have a funny feeling about all this. Why would Bousquet kill himself?'

'Remorse?'

'You're not serious.'

'I'm simply—Gideon, if you're free, why don't you come to the morgue here in Perigueux? It would be easier to talk. And Roussillot especially asked me to say he would be happy to delay the autopsy until you arrived.'

'Please, not on my account. I'm not that keen on autopsies. I like my corpses ten thousand years old. Not,” he added, “that I don't appreciate the gesture.'

'He'll be disappointed. He was hoping you'd be there.'

'What for? He's the pathologist, not me.'

'I think he wants to show off a little for you. He doesn't often get so distinguished an audience, you know.'

'I'm flattered, but—'

'And the truth is, I would be more comfortable as well. Not that Roussillot isn't perfectly competent, of course, but all the same . . . well, you know how it is, and inasmuch as you're here in any event—'

'Okay, sure. I doubt if I'll be any help, but tell me how to get there.'

He used the pen chained to the reception desk to jot down the instructions. “Thanks, I'll see you in a little while. Oh, and please—will you tell Roussillot to feel perfectly free to get started without me? In fact, encourage him to.” Watching that first big “Y” incision—clavicles to pubis—was something he could easily live without.

'Who was it?” Julie asked, looking up a moment later. “Anything important?'

'Joly,” Gideon said. “They found Bousquet. He killed himself, apparently right after murdering Jacques. He used the same rifle that killed Ely.'

'Really!” She put down her pen. “So that's that,” she said thoughtfully after a few moments. “All the loose ends have been tied up.'

'Yeah. That's what's bothering me about it.'

Julie looked at him with her head cocked. “Why should tying up the loose ends bother you?'

'Because every loose end is tied up. Every question is answered. Who faked the Tayac find? Jacques. Who murdered Ely? Jacques and Bousquet together. Who murdered Jacques? Bousquet. Who killed Bousquet? Bousquet killed himself. End of story, case closed. No more questions to ask, and nobody to ask them of if we did have them.'

'But it happens that way sometimes, doesn't it? Murderers do kill themselves. I still don't see the problem.'

'Look, Julie, one of the things I've learned about people murdering each other is that it's never neat, it's never cut-and-dried. It's always messy, there are always loose ends, ambiguities, things that don't add up. But this package is too . . . too tidy, that's all.'

'Gideon, didn't you tell me the other day that I was getting too melodramatic? Well, to tell you the truth —'

'All right, think about the air rifle for a minute. Why would Bousquet have hung on to it for three years? Did he take it with him to Corsica? And especially—why would he bring it back here?'

'Well, presumably he did show up with murder on his mind.'