The Three Evangelists

‘That should please you,’ said Mathias. ‘War wound.’

‘Ha ha, very funny,’ said Lucien. ‘These langoustines are excellent, Marc. You must have chosen a good fish shop. Next time take a salmon.’

‘What did your veteran have to say?’ asked Mathias

‘He was great. I’ve got a date to see him, week Wednesday. But I can’t remember much else about the evening.’

‘Shut up,’ said Marc, ‘I’m listening to the news.’

‘Why, what do you expect to hear?’

‘About the storm in Brittany. I want to hear what’s become of it.’

Marc was fascinated by storms, though he knew that was not very original. At least it gave him something in common with Alexandra. That was better than nothing. She had said she liked the wind. He put on the table his little transistor radio, covered with spots of white paint.

‘When we’re grown up, we’ll get a TV set,’ said Lucien.

‘Oh, can’t you shut up!’

Marc turned up the volume. Lucien was making an appalling din with his langoustine shells.

The morning news bulletin was being read. The French Prime Minister was meeting the German Chancellor. The Bourse was in a gloomy mood. The storms over Brittany were abating and moving towards Paris, but in less severe form. What a pity, Marc thought. Agence France Presse reported the discovery of the body of a man, in the car park of his hotel in Paris. The murdered man was named as Christophe Dompierre, aged forty-three, unmarried, no family, a delegate to the European conference. Was this a political crime? No other details had been released to the press.

Marc grabbed the radio and stared wild-eyed at Mathias.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Lucien.

‘Did you hear, it’s the man who was here yesterday!’ Marc shouted. ‘Political crime? No way!’

‘You didn’t tell me his name,’ said Lucien.

Marc was running upstairs four steps at a time. Vandoosler, who had been up some time, was standing at his table reading.

‘Someone’s killed Dompierre!’ Marc said, panting.

Vandoosler turned round slowly. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘I don’t know any more than that,’ cried Marc, still out of breath. ‘It was on the radio. He’s been killed, that’s all they said. Murdered! They found him in the hotel car park.’

‘Oh! the damn fool!’ said Vandoosler, banging his fist on the table. ‘That’s what you get if you try to be the lone ranger. Somebody caught up with the poor fellow. Oh, the damn fool!’

Marc was shaking his head in sorrow. He felt his hands trembling.

‘Maybe he was stupid,’ he said. ‘But he was on to something, we can be sure of that now. You’ll have to tell your Leguennec, because the police will never make the link with Sophia Simeonidis if we don’t tell them. They’ll go looking for some motive in Geneva or whatever.’

‘Yes, better tell Leguennec. And we’ll get a real bollocking from him, for not having told him yesterday. He’ll say that might have avoided this murder, and he could be right.’

Marc groaned. ‘But we promised Dompierre not to tell a soul. What else could we have done?’

‘I know, I know,’ said Vandoosler. ‘So let’s get our story straight. You didn’t go chasing after Dompierre, he came knocking at your door, because you were Relivaux’s neighbour. And the only people who knew about his visit were you three. I didn’t know anything about it, you didn’t tell me. It was only this morning you told me all this. OK?’

Oh great!’ cried Marc. ‘You just run along and tell him that. We three will be in the shit and have to be questioned by Leguennec and you’ll be in the clear!’

‘Come on, young Vandoosler, use your head! As if I care whether I’m in the clear or not. Getting told off by Leguennec leaves me completely cold. All that matters is if he goes on keeping me in his confidence, d’you understand? That’s the only way we’ll get the information we need.’

Marc nodded. Yes, he did understand. He had a lump in his throat though. ‘It leaves me completely cold.’ That expression reminded him of something. Yes. Last night, when they were bringing Lucien indoors, Mathias had felt warm, yet he, Marc, with his pyjamas and a sweater, had felt cold. The hunter-gatherer was really extraordinary. But what did that matter now? First Sophia, and now Dompierre had been killed. Who else had Dompierre given his hotel address to? To everyone. To the people in Dourdan, and perhaps other people, and in any case, he might have been followed. Should they tell Leguennec everything. But what about Lucien? Lucien who had been out late last night?

‘I’m off,’ said Vandoosler. ‘I’ll tell Leguennec and we’ll certainly go to the crime scene. I’ll stick close to him and report back what they know afterwards. Pull yourself together, Marc. Was it you making all that racket last night?’

‘Yes. Lucien had lost his lead soldier keyring in the street.’

XXVIII

LEGUENNEC WAS DRIVING AT TOP SPEED, ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS, WITH Vandoosler at his side, and his siren sounding so as to be able to shoot red lights and make plain his anger.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Vandoosler was saying. ‘My nephew didn’t realise Dompierre’s visit might be important, and he didn’t bother to tell me about it.’

‘Is your nephew a half-wit or what?’

Vandoosler stiffened. He could argue with Marc for hours himself, but he didn’t like other people speaking ill of him.

‘Can’t you switch off that racket?’ he asked. ‘I can’t hear a thing with that blasted noise. Dompierre’s dead now, five minutes isn’t going to make any difference.’

Without speaking, Leguennec turned off the siren.

‘Anyway, he isn’t a half-wit,’ said Vandoosler crossly. ‘And if if you were as good at detecting as he is at medieval history, you’d have been promoted out of this district. So listen. Marc did mean to tell you about this yesterday. But he’s looking for a job and he had some important interviews. In fact, you’re lucky he did open the door to this peculiar character with his odd story, otherwise the police would be looking in Geneva for clues. And the link with this case would never have come out. You ought to be grateful to him. OK, Dompierre got himself killed. But Marc wouldn’t have been able to tell you any more about him yesterday than I’ve told you today, and you certainly wouldn’t have put Dompierre under police protection, would you? So nothing would have changed. Slow down! We’re there.’

‘When we see the inspecteur of the 19th arrondissement’, said Leguennec grumpily, but less angrily, ‘you’re one of my colleagues, OK? And you leave things to me? Understood?’

Leguennec flashed his police card to get through the barrier set up across the entrance to the hotel car park, which was simply a dingy little inner courtyard reserved for the hotel’s customers. Vernant, the inspecteur from the local station had been told Leguennec was on his way. He was not unhappy to hand the case over, because it was looking decidedly difficult. No woman, inheritance, or political scandal, seemed to be involved. Nothing to go on. Leguennec shook hands, introduced his colleague inaudibly and listened to what Vernant, a young man with fair hair, had so far picked up.

‘The owner of the Danube called us this morning just before eight. He found the body when he was bringing in the dustbins from the street. It gave him a horrible shock and he’s still getting over it. Dompierre had been in the hotel for two nights and had come from Geneva.’

‘By way of Dourdan,’ Leguennec interrupted. ‘OK, go on.’

‘He hadn’t taken any phone calls or had any mail, except a letter without a stamp put through the hotel letterbox yesterday afternoon. The boss picked it up at five o’clock and put it in Dompierre’s pigeonhole, room 32. Needless to say, we haven’t found the letter on him, or in his room. It’s pretty obvious that this was the message