The Three Evangelists

XXVII

NEXT MORNING AT BREAKFAST, MARC WAS AMAZED TO SEE LUCIEN tucking into the leftover langoustines with his morning coffee.

‘You’ve completely recovered, I see,’ he said.

‘Not entirely,’ said Lucien, pulling a face. ‘My head’s shot to bits.’

‘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 Siméonidis 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.’