The Three Evangelists

out of the window, sitting in a specially comfortable armchair for a pointless vigil, with Mathias his only visitor, bringing him food on a tray. Relivaux’s cleaning lady arrived at ten o’clock, letting herself in with her own keys. Marc picked up the thread of his convoluted thoughts. Kyril had olive skin, curly hair and round limbs. Perhaps the boy’s father was fat and ugly, why not? Dammit. Why did he keep thinking about him? He shook his head and looked out again at the Western Front. The little beech tree looked rather healthy. It seemed glad it was June at last. Marc somehow could not manage to put the tree out of his thoughts, but he seemed to be the only one to feel concerned. Still, he had seen Mathias stop at the Relivaux gate the other day and glance in. It had looked as if he was observing the tree. Or rather the foot of the tree. Why was Mathias so secretive about everything he did? Mathias knew masses of obscure stuff about Sophia’s career. He already knew who she was, when she had come round that first time. He knew a lot of things and he never talked about them. Marc promised himself that when Vandoosler let him leave his post, he would go and take a look at the tree. As Sophia had done.

He saw another woman go past the house. He noted: ‘10.20 a.m. A lady went past looking busy with her shopping basket.’ He had decided to note everything down, so as not to get too bored. He looked down at the paper and added: ‘in fact it wasn’t a basket, it was a string bag.’ A string bag: what an old-fashioned sort of thing that was, something you saw in the country, or being carried by old ladies. When did people first start carrying string bags? The idea of looking that up cheered him a bit. Five minutes later, he was writing again: ‘10.25: a thin man is ringing Relivaux’s doorbell.’ Marc started. Yes, it was true: a skinny-looking man was ringing the bell at the Relivaux house, and it was not the postman or the meter reader or anyone local.

He got up, opened the window and leaned out. That was a lot of effort for a small reward. But Vandoosler was attaching such importance to this surveillance job. Marc felt that he had gradually become persuaded in spite of himself of the significance of his mission, and was starting to take every little thing for a key event. So he had pinched a pair of opera glasses from Mathias’ room-evidence that Mathias must have been serious about opera. He focused the little glasses and took a good look. Yes, a man. Tall, thin, balding, with a teacher’s briefcase, a respectable, light-coloured coat. The cleaning lady opened the door and from her gestures, Marc understood that she was saying Monsieur was not at home, that the visitor would have to come back some other time. The thin man seemed to be insisting. The cleaning lady repeated her negative gestures, and accepted a card which the man had taken from his pocket and on which he had scribbled something. She shut the door. Right. A visitor for Pierre Relivaux. Should he go and see the cleaner? Ask to see the card? Marc wrote a few notes on his piece of paper. When he looked up again, he saw that the man had not gone away. He was standing by the gate looking undecided, disappointed, and as if he was trying to make up his mind. What if he had been asking for Sophia? In the end, he went off, swinging his briefcase. Marc leapt up, rushed downstairs and ran into the street, catching the man up in a few minutes. Since he had spent so long at his window, he was not going to let the first likely customer escape, even if it led nowhere.

‘I’m a neighbour,’ Marc said. ‘I saw you ring the bell. Can I help?’

Out of breath from running, Marc was still clutching his pen. The man looked at him with some interest and even, Marc sensed, hope.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see Pierre Relivaux, but he wasn’t there.’

‘Try again this evening,’ Marc said. ‘He’ll be back at about six or seven.’

‘Apparently not. His cleaner said he was away for a few days and she didn’t know where he was going, or when he’d be back. Maybe Friday, maybe Saturday. She couldn’t say for sure. It’s very inconvenient, because I’ve travelled from Geneva.’

‘If you like,’ said Marc, who was anxious not to let his first minor incident fizzle out, ‘I could try to ask around. I’m sure I could find out where he’s gone.’

The man hesitated. He looked as if he was wondering why Marc was so concerned with his affairs.

‘Have you got a phonecard?’ Marc asked.

The man nodded and followed him, without making any serious objection, towards the phone box on the corner.

‘We don’t have a phone,’ Marc explained.

‘Ah,’ said the man.

Keeping an eye on his companion, Marc asked directory enquiries for the number of the police station in the 13th arrondissement. It was a piece of luck that he had brought his pen. He wrote the number on his hand and called Leguennec.

‘Can I please speak to Commissaire Vandoosler, he’s my uncle, it’s urgent.’

Marc thought that the word ‘urgent’ was a key word that worked like magic if you wanted the police to help you. A few minutes later, Vandoosler was on the line.

‘What’s going on? Have you discovered something?’

Marc realised at that moment that he had discovered nothing at all.

‘No, I don’t think so. But ask your Breton policeman where Relivaux has gone, and how long he’ll be away. He must have had to inform the police that he was leaving.’

Marc waited a few moments. He had left the door of the phone box open so that the man could hear what he was saying, and he wasn’t looking surprised. So he knew about Sophia Simeonidis’ death.

‘Still there?’ said Vandoosler. ‘He went on official business to Toulon this morning. We checked with his ministry, it’s genuine. It’s not clear when he’ll be back, it depends on how his negotiations there go. He could be back tomorrow, or it could be Monday. The police can contact him if necessary, via the ministry, but you can’t.’

‘Thanks,’ said Marc. ‘What about you?’

‘They’re working on the father of Relivaux’s lady friend, you remember, Elizabeth? Her father has been in jail for ten years for multiple stabbing of the supposed lover of his wife. Leguennec is wondering if violence runs in the family. He’s called Elizabeth in, and is questioning her now to see whether she takes after her father or her mother.’

‘Perfect,’ said Marc. ‘Tell your Breton friend that there’s a gale warning for Finistere. That’ll distract him if he likes storms.’

‘He knows already. He said “All the boats in harbour are tied up. But they’re waiting for another eighteen that are still at sea”’.

‘Right,’ said Marc. ‘See you later.’

He hung up and returned to the thin man. ‘I’ve found out where he is. Come with me.’

Marc was determined to get the man into the house, and find out what he wanted with Pierre Relivaux. It was probably something to do with his work, but you never knew. For Marc, Geneva conjured up images of boring administration.

The man followed him, still with a slightly hopeful expression, which Marc found intriguing. He sat him down in the refectory and after fetching some cups and putting the coffee on, took the sweeping brush and knocked hard on the ceiling. Since they had started using this way of calling Mathias, they were careful always to bang on the same place so as not to make marks all over the ceiling. The broom left little dents in the plaster and Lucien said they ought to tie a rag on top of it with string, which they still had not done.

While he was doing this, the man had put his briefcase on a chair and was looking at the five-franc coin nailed to the post. It was probably because of the coin that Marc broached the subject straightaway.

‘We’re looking for whoever murdered Sophia Simeonidis,’ he said, as if that explained the coin.

‘So am I,’ said the man.

Marc poured out the coffee and they sat down together. So he did know, and he was looking too. He didn’t look upset, so Sophia could not have been a close friend. There must be some other reason. Mathias came in and sat down on the bench, with a nod.

‘Mathias Delamarre,’ Marc introduced him. ‘And I am Marc Vandoosler.’

The man was obliged to follow suit. ‘My name is Christophe Dompierre. I live in Geneva.’

And he offered them a card.

‘It was good of you to find out about Relivaux for me,’ Dompierre went on. ‘So when will he be back?’

‘He’s in Toulon, but the ministry can’t say for certain when he will be home. Some time between tomorrow and Monday. It depends on the job. And we can’t reach him.’

The man shook his head, and bit his lip. ‘That’s a nuisance,’ he said. ‘And you’re enquiring into Madame Simeonidis’ death?’ he asked. ‘You’re surely not… in the police?’