“Marie Sauzelle, seventy-six years old, sister of André Sauzelle, sixty-eight. Both originally from Creuse. Marsac, to be precise. I’m from Creuse too—Dun-le-Palestel,” he added, his face brightening for a brief moment. “Brother still lives there. Marie was married, but not for long: her husband died in Hanoi during the Indochina War. No children. She was formerly a primary school teacher.”
He fell silent and seemed to be thinking hard as he glanced around the room. One detail was bothering him.
“A burglar who strangles someone . . . that’s rare.”
“He was trying to shut her up, no weapon available . . . The thing I find more out of the ordinary is that he took the time to sit her down again,” Capestan replied, gathering up a trinket that had miraculously survived and replacing it on a shelf.
Sitting the victim down again was an unnecessary precaution that gave the burglar away as an amateur. He was frightened and strangled her in panic, then immediately registered what he had done. Overwhelmed with remorse, he sought to make amends, like a child clumsily gluing a vase back together after smashing it with a football.
Torrez was now inspecting the entrance, hands on hips.
“The lock’s been replaced, but the dead bolt is the same as before. And it’s intact. That means it can’t have been closed when the burglar forced the lock.”
“Yes, otherwise he would have had to kick it down, more or less.”
Just as she was about to pick up a CD of tango music from the rack, Capestan froze: she was thinking back to the police report.
“The dead bolt wasn’t closed, but the shutters were. That’s strange. Normally you’d close the shutters and double-lock at the same time, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, definitely.”
Torrez was fretting about something. He let out a sigh before continuing:
“On the other hand, old people can forget stuff. Last Sunday, my mother came over and she was still holding a little garbage bag. She’d caught the métro, bought some chocolate éclairs, punched in our door code, and taken the elevator without once thinking to throw it away. It was like she was hoarding. Although I’m not complaining about the éclairs she brought—nice ones, and plenty of them, too. When it comes to remembering where the pâtisserie is, everything’s still working fine.”
Capestan could not help smiling at the lieutenant as he voiced his concerns about his mother: what a good son. But he was undoubtedly right. A memory lapse was possible. Maybe the same was true of the muted television she had found so intriguing. Burglars do not come bursting in at prime time—far too risky. No, they come during the small hours, around three in the morning, when the old ladies have switched off their TVs. Capestan’s initial thought about that “mute” symbol had been that something was awry, but maybe the explanation was much simpler: Marie Sauzelle had just gone up to bed and forgotten to turn off the TV.
The body had been found on the sofa, a chunky, rustic three-seater with a varnished wood frame. Capestan moved toward it. A piece of fabric from the back had been removed for analysis. The armrests and cushions were still intact, and on them the commissaire noticed an embellishment that she would have recognized anywhere: cat hair. The beige floral velvet was covered with the gray and white strands that indicate feline domination.
She instinctively gathered a few specimens and rolled them up in her palm.
She did not remember reading a thing about any animals in the police report. What had become of this cat?
Capestan went into the kitchen. Not a single bowl on the tiled floor. If the cat had indeed fled through the burglar’s legs, its bowls would still be in place. It did not make sense.
She headed back to the living room to explain the issue to Torrez, who offered his conclusion very matter-of-factly:
“It died before the burglary. Maybe even a long time before: cat hair takes ages to deteriorate. Same with rabbits. It never ever goes away.”
Torrez paused for a moment as he in turn observed the sofa.
“You know what,” he said enthusiastically. “My son has a rabbit. He named it Casillas, like the Spanish goalkeeper. Only our Casillas is constantly leaving his area. Basically, the rabbit goes around eating all our electric cables. One day he’s going to get one hell of a shock.”
Capestan looked at Torrez as he shook his head. For a man with a reputation as a lone ranger—silence, curses, and all that jazz—he was turning out to be astonishingly talkative now that he was up and running. Torrez blushed suddenly. He had gone too far, become too familiar, been too remiss about who he was. Capestan could see his self-awareness gradually creeping back: harsh frown, lowered chin, tight lips. He returned to being the thickset, hirsute, brooding man with his hackles up. This black-haired cinder block was beset by dark clouds. To avoid embarrassing him any further, Capestan headed up the stairs at the end of the hallway.
On the upper floor, a dark, narrow corridor led to the bedroom, where a ray of sunlight shone through a cloud of dust. The musty smell caught in Capestan’s throat.
The large room was covered in mauve wallpaper and was furnished with a sleigh bed and matching bedside table, all of which was dominated by a crucifix. A shelf on the wall displayed an ancient collection of Asterix books—first editions, Capestan noticed, pulling one down. The parquet floor was slippery with dust, but little by little the commissaire got used to the odor and slowly released her breath. On top of the chest of drawers, a little figurine of an Ancient Egyptian goddess stood next to a jewelry tree laden with bracelets. Capestan opened the lace curtains. The window looked out onto the back garden, which was also completely
