The Three Evangelists

XXIV

NEVERTHELESS, WHEN VANDOOSLER CAME INTO HIS BEDROOM, WITH Leguennec at his heels at eight o’clock the next morning, Marc started up in panic.

‘I’m just off,’ Vandoosler said. ‘I have to go with Leguennec. Just do the same as yesterday, it’ll be fine.’

Vandoosler disappeared. Marc remained in bed, rubbing his eyes, with the feeling that he had narrowly escaped being charged with something. His godfather had not been asked to wake him in the morning. The old man was losing it. No, that wasn’t it. It must be that he was anxious to accompany Leguennec and was asking Marc to keep watch during his absence. The godfather obviously hadn’t told Leguennec all that he was up to. Marc got out of bed, took a shower and went down to the ground floor. Mathias, who had been up since some godforsaken hour, was already putting logs in the woodbox. He was the kind of guy who got up at dawn when nobody had asked him to. Marc, still feeling dazed, made himself some strong coffee.

‘Do you know why Leguennec came round?’ he asked.

‘Because we don’t have a phone,’ Mathias told him. ‘He has to come over if he wants to talk to your uncle.’

‘I see. But why so early? Did he say anything to you?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Mathias. ‘He looked like a Breton worrying about a gale warning, but I expect he often looks like that, even when there isn’t one. He just nodded to me and went straight upstairs. I think I heard him grumbling about houses with four floors and no phone. But that’s all.’

‘We’re going to have to wait,’ said Marc. ‘And I’m going to have to sit at the window again. It’s not a lot of fun. I’ve no idea what he’s hoping for. I just see men, women, umbrellas, the postman, our neighbour Georges and that’s about it.’

‘And Alexandra,’ said Mathias.

‘What do you think of her?’ said Marc hesitantly.

‘Adorable.’

Both satisfied and jealous, Marc put his coffee cup and a couple of pieces of bread on a tray, took it all upstairs and pulled up a high stool to the window. At least he wouldn’t have to stand up all day.

This morning it was not raining. It was a perfect June day. With luck, he was in time to see Lex take the little boy to school. Yes, just in time. She went past, looking a bit sleepy, holding Kyril by the hand: he seemed to be telling her all sorts of things. As before, she did not glance up at their house. And why should she, Marc asked himself once more. Anyway, it was better that way. If she had seen him perched on his stool, eating his breakfast, it would hardly have been to his advantage. Marc couldn’t see Relivaux’s car. He must have left very early. An honest fellow going to work, or a murderer? The godfather had said that the murderer in this case was a real killer. A killer like that would not be as colourless as Relivaux, and a lot more dangerous. The idea was much more scary. Marc didn’t think Pierre was made of that kind of stuff; he didn’t feel at all frightened of him. Mathias, now, he would make a perfect killer: tall, solid, unflappable, a man of the woods, with silent and sometimes weird ideas, a secret opera-goer-yes, Mathias would make a perfect suspect.

Time passed with thoughts like this, and it was suddenly half-past nine. Mathias came in to give him back his pen. Marc told him that he could imagine him as a killer and Mathias shrugged.

‘How’s the look-out going?’

‘Zero,’ said Marc. ‘The old man’s lost the plot and I’m going along with his crazy ideas. It must run in the family.’

‘If you’re going to stay there all day, I’ll bring you some lunch before I go off to the restaurant.’

Mathias closed the door quietly and Marc heard him go to his desk on the floor below. He shifted on the stool. He would have to bring a cushion in future. For a moment, he imagined himself imprisoned there for years, looking 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 Siméonidis’ 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 Finistère. 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 Siméonidis,’ 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 Siméonidis’ death?’ he asked. ‘You’re surely not… in the police?’

‘No, not at all. But she was our neighbour and we took a great interest in her. We are hoping for a result.’ Marc realised that he was speaking rather formally, and the way Mathias was looking confirmed it.

‘M. Dompierre is doing some looking too,’ he explained.

‘What for?’ asked Mathias.

Dompierre looked at Mathias, whose calm features and limpid blue eyes must have inspired confidence, since he took off his coat and settled more comfortably in his chair. When someone takes a decision, there’s a fraction of a second when their face tells you that they are going to. Marc was very good at spotting that fraction of a second, and thought it was easier than getting a pebble up onto the pavement. Dompierre had just made his decision.

‘You might be able to do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Can you let me know as soon as M. Relivaux gets home. Would that be a nuisance?’

‘No, by no means,’ Marc replied. ‘But what do you want with him? He claims to know nothing about his wife’s murder. The police are keeping an eye on him, but for the time being, there’s nothing serious against him. Do you know something we don’t?’

‘No, no. I was hoping that he knows something. Whether his wife had received any visits, that kind of thing.’

‘I don’t quite follow,’ said Marc.

‘That’s because I’m still in the dark myself. I just don’t know. And it’s been that way for fifteen years. The death of Madame Siméonidis has given me some hope I might find what I’m looking for. Something the police didn’t want to know about at the time.’

‘At the time of what?’

Dompierre shifted on his chair. ‘I can’t tell you that yet,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure of anything. I don’t want to make a mistake, because it would have grave consequences. And I really don’t want the police interfering, is that understood? Absolutely no police. If I find what I’m after, the missing link, I’ll go to them myself. Or rather, I’ll write to them. I don’t want to see them. They caused enough havoc for me and for my mother, fifteen years ago. They wouldn’t listen to us when it all started. It’s true that we had very little to go on. Just a desperate little sliver of belief, a feeling. That doesn’t mean much to the police.’ Dompierre gestured in the air. ‘You probably think I’m being emotional,’ he said, ‘and in any case I’m talking about things that don’t concern you. But I still cling to this desperate belief, and so did my mother, who is dead now. That’s two of us who believed it. And I just don’t want to let some dumb policeman come along and dismiss it out of hand. Not again.’

He stopped speaking and looked at them both in turn.

‘You seem to be alright,’ he said after examining them carefully. ‘You don’t look as if you would dismiss it out of hand. But I would still rather wait a bit before I ask you to help me. I went to see Madame Siméonidis’ father at the weekend, in Dourdan. He showed me all his personal archives, and I think I might have found one or two little pointers. I left him my contact number in case he finds any more documents, but he didn’t seem to be listening at all. He is absolutely devastated. And the killer is still at large. I’m looking for a name. Tell me, have you been her neighbours for long?’

‘Only since March 20,’ said Marc.

‘Oh, that’s not long. She won’t have confided in you. She went missing about May 20, didn’t she? Did anyone come to see her before that? Somebody unexpected? I don’t mean an old friend or acquaintance. No, someone she thought she would never see again, or even someone she didn’t know at all?’

Marc and Mathias shook their heads. They had not known Sophia for very long, but perhaps one could ask the other neighbours.

‘Well, someone very unexpected did come to see her,’ said Marc, frowning. ‘Not someone, exactly, something‘

Dompierre lit a cigarette and Mathias noticed that his thin hands were trembling. Mathias had decided he would like this man. He was too thin, and far from handsome, but he was principled, he was following his hunch, his own private conviction. That was how Mathias was, when Marc teased him about hunting the bisons. This fragile-looking man would not abandon his bow and arrow, that was certain.

‘It was a tree, actually,’ said Marc. ‘A beech sapling. I don’t know if that would mean anything to you, because I don’t know what it is you’re looking for. But I keep thinking about that tree, although everyone else has stopped caring. Shall I tell you about it?’

Dompierre nodded as Mathias brought him an ashtray. He listened to the story attentively.

‘Yes. Well,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting that. And right now, I can’t see what it has to do with anything.’

‘Neither can I,’ said Marc. ‘I suppose it doesn’t mean anything. And yet I keep thinking about it. All the time. I don’t know why.’

‘I’ll think about it too,’ said Dompierre. ‘Can you let me know please, when Relivaux reappears. He may have been visited by this person without realising how important it was. I’ll leave you my address. I’m staying at a little hotel in the 19th arrondissement, Hôtel du Danube, rue de la Prévoyance. I used to live near there as a child. Don’t hesitate to call me, even at night, because I could be recalled to Geneva at any minute. I’m here on official European business. I’ll give you the hotel address and phone number. I’m in room 32.’

Marc gave him back his card and Dompierre wrote his address. Marc got up and slipped the card under the five-franc piece on the fireplace. Dompierre watched him. For the first time, he smiled and for a moment looked almost charming.

‘This is the Pequod, is it?’

‘No,’ said Marc, smiling in turn. ‘It’s a research deck. We do research on all periods, all mankind, all continents. From 500,000 BC to 1918. From Africa to Asia and from Europe to the Antarctic.’

‘“And hence”’,’ Dompierre said, quoting, ‘“not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate feeding grounds could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing the widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his art, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be wholly without prospect of a meeting.”’

‘Do you know Moby Dick by heart?’ asked Marc, greatly impressed.

‘No. Just that sentence, because I have often had occasion to use it.’

Dompierre shook hands with them warmly. He looked back once more at his card, wedged on the fireplace, as if checking that he had forgotten nothing, picked up his briefcase and left. Each standing at a window, Marc and Mathias watched him walk away towards the gate.

‘Intriguing,’ said Marc.

‘Very,’ said Mathias.

Once one was standing in one of the big window bays, it was difficult to move away. The June sunshine lay serenely over the untended garden. The grass was growing at top speed. Marc and Mathias stayed looking out of their windows for a long while. Marc was the first to speak.

‘You’ll be late for your lunchtime shift,’ he said. ‘Juliette will be wondering what you’re up to.’

Mathias sprang up, went upstairs to put on his waiter’s uniform, and Marc saw him leave at a run, buttoned up in his black waistcoat. It was the first time Marc had seen him run. He ran well. A very good hunter.