Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

He was woken early next morning by a knock at the door. It was his elderly neighbour, Mme Denis. Grey-haired and brusque, and dressed in a worn, grey-patterned dress and white apron, she made no attempt to come in, but thrust out her hand. She was holding a small basket of fresh eggs.

‘You should eat breakfast,’ she said. ‘A nice omelette to start the day. My chickens are overproducing and I hate waste.’

He thanked her, seeing through the white lie, which was her way of being neighbourly. Taking the eggs was easier than arguing, and refusing them, along with the vegetables and fruit she occasionally left on his doorstep, was unthinkable. Local blood feuds had been started for less. Besides, she meant well and had his best interests at heart. She had helped ease his acceptance into the village, and had once saved him and Claude from a shooting, and destroyed an accusation of Rocco taking bribes. He wasn’t about to overlook that kind of support. ‘Tell your chickens their contribution is warmly appreciated.’

‘I’ll do that.’ She turned to go, then hesitated. ‘You had some visitors yesterday afternoon.’

‘Did they say who they were?’

‘No. They didn’t stop. Just pulled up in the lane outside and sat there for a few minutes. Then they left.’ She peered at him keenly, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. ‘I know they weren’t interested in me or my chickens, so it must have been you. You’re not in trouble with foreign gangsters again, are you?’ She was referring to his previous encounter with an English gang member — the one who’d offered the bribe.

‘Did they look like foreign gangsters?’

‘No. More like your bosses, actually. Smart suits and short haircuts. In a black Citroën DS.’ She handed him a scrap of card with a car number written on it in a shaky hand. ‘I wrote it down because I knew you’d ask.’

‘You’re getting good at this.’ He took the card. The number wasn’t familiar, but he could check it out. ‘I should hire you as an investigator.’

Mme Denis’ eyes twinkled. ‘Well, live next door to a flic long enough and you start to develop a nose for trouble.’ She turned and shuffled back down the path with a vague wave of her hand, duty done.

Moving to this house in Poissons-les-Marais the previous year after working the gangs and serious crimes beat in Paris and other centres had seemed like stepping back in time. At first the natives had been suspicious of the cop from Paris, and the quiet of the countryside had seemed almost threatening; almost as threatening as the unexploded ordnance scattered in the woods and the marais — the marshland — outside the village. Since then he had settled in more and was in danger of being almost accepted within the community. Another twenty-five years here should do it. His closest friends were Mme Denis next door, Claude Lamotte and his daughter Alix, and a family of fruit rats up in the attic. The latter were undemanding company, and there were times when he found the idea of living here long-term beginning to grow on him.

He went out to the water pump and filled the large jug, and put on some coffee. He looked at the eggs and decided an omelette wouldn’t be so bad. He put some butter in a frying pan on his latest acquisition, a new gas stove, and began cracking eggs.

‘Aha. I thought I could smell something.’ It was Claude Lamotte, sniffing appreciatively and carrying a fresh baguette. ‘Her next door been nagging you to eat properly again?’

‘She means well.’ Rocco held up two eggs and Claude nodded. He cracked them into a bowl and began to stir. Claude never refused food, day or night.

‘Got a message from Philippe Delsaire,’ Claude told him, drawing up a chair and breaking off two hunks of bread. Delsaire was the village plumber and man-of-all-trades. ‘He’s got the contract to connect the houses down here to the mains pipes along the road and needs access to your place to do the work.’

‘He can have it anytime he likes,’ said Rocco. ‘Mme Denis has a spare key. I’ll let her know.’ The pipes had been laid along the road outside for months now; all Rocco and the other houses along here had been waiting for was completion of the job. At least it meant he could give up having to use the handpump to draw water.

‘He’s got two men to dig the trenches from the road to the house.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

Claude looked awkward, and Rocco said, ‘Come on, spit it out.’

‘Huh?’

‘Say it. Something’s on your mind.’

‘Well, yes. You wouldn’t know, being still new here, but the work will go a lot faster if you … you know, stand them a drink down at the café. The faster they complete yours, the sooner everyone else gets done.’ He smiled briefly and cleared his throat.

‘I see.’ Rocco nodded slowly, letting him squirm. ‘So, let me get this straight: I pay for drinks and everyone else benefits. They put you up to this, didn’t they?’ He was referring to the other residents along the street whom he hardly ever saw.

Claude puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, that’s not exactly how it happened.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes.’ A drink meant putting up a bottle or two behind the bar. ‘I’ll see to it. Tell him that includes Mme Denis, too. In fact, they should do her place first.’

Claude smiled with relief. ‘She’ll be pleased, but she won’t like it.’

‘I know. She’s stubborn and proud. Don’t worry — I’ll talk to her.’

When the omelette was done, Rocco poured coffee for them both and they sat and ate in companionable silence.

Claude looked up at the ceiling, head cocked to one side. ‘You haven’t got rid of your neighbours, have you? I thought you liked them.’

‘I do. They’re harmless enough.’ They had gone quiet recently, although he could hear them some nights, scuttling about like dry leaves whispering across the bare floorboards. ‘They like to sleep late these days. Must be the warmer weather.’

Claude’s eyebrows lifted and settled again, and he smiled. ‘Have you ever seen what’s up there?’

‘Not yet. Why?’

‘Well, some people use the term “fruit rat” for anything that lives in the roof space and eats fruit. I know people who’ve lived here all their lives and never seen one. But there’s more than one species. You thought it was a fouine, fair enough.’

‘Actually, I didn’t. That’s what Madame Denis called it.’

‘Really? Well, there you go. She’s probably never seen one, either. Mind you, if it is a fouine up there, it’s not what I’d call cuddly. They have razor-sharp teeth.’

Rocco stared at him, thinking about the times he’d gone up to investigate the noises. ‘How come you’ve never mentioned this to me before?’

‘I didn’t want to spoil your perception of life in the country. Nor did I want you blowing holes in the roof with your gun if you saw a big one. Some people can be funny about stuff like that.’

‘Do you have them?’

‘Sure I do. No idea what kind, mind you, but they’re up there.’ He shrugged. ‘Live and let live, I say.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’

‘You’re going native, you know that? Happens to all of us in the end. Any day now, you’ll start changing those fancy black imported clothes for a set of working bleus from the farm supplies store and a packet of Gitanes.’ He laughed at Rocco’s scowl and wiped his plate with a piece of bread, popping it in his mouth with relish. ‘You’re getting good at this, too. You’ll make someone a fine husband one day. You know Mme Drolet’s still available, don’t you? And she’s on the hunt.’ He fluttered his bushy eyebrows. ‘Word is, she likes ’em big and tough.’

‘Too bad,’ Rocco growled. Mme Drolet had recently taken over the village co-op. She was a handsome, single woman with what Claude had once called the tendencies of a black widow spider, and seemed hell-bent on getting an invitation to cook Rocco supper. So far he had managed to resist her advances. ‘Anyway, she’s not my sort.’

‘Of course she’s your sort.’ Claude grinned earthily. ‘She’d keep you entertained at nights and do more than cook an omelette, I can tell you. Lots of warm, loving meat on those bones. We’re all laying bets, you know — she’ll have you in the end.’ He smacked his hands together as if he were crushing an insect. ‘Paff!’

Rocco stood up and put the plates in a bowl of water. ‘You and the rest of your degenerate friends should get out more,’ he said mildly. ‘What exactly did you want, anyway?’

‘Ah, yes. I went over to see Bertrand yesterday evening — the farmer who works those fields beyond the Clos du Lac? His farm’s not visible from the lane, but he says he heard an engine go by the night before last, about four-thirty. He thought it might have been a motorbike. Could be our man.’

Rocco nodded. It would fit with what they knew and the tracks across the grass. What it didn’t tell them was the man’s name. Or where he came from.

‘You thinking of taking up photography?’ Claude asked, picking up the two American magazines. ‘Not really your thing, I’d have thought.’

‘You’re right and I’m not. They were among the stuff hidden at the Clos du Lac.’

Claude flicked through the pages, which included numerous examples of colour pictures and equipment available for the enthusiast. ‘I’m no expert,’ Claude commented, ‘but this looks like professional-level equipment.’ He turned the magazine over and added, ‘Whoever Mr S. Devrye-Martin is, he must have plenty of cash. I couldn’t afford the subscription for this, not on my wages.’ He dropped the magazine back on the table. ‘I might borrow them when you’re done, though.’

Rocco was staring at him, his mind still on what he’d found at Drucker’s place. Or rather, what he hadn’t found. Then Claude’s words clicked into place.

‘What did you just say?’

‘I said I might borrow them.’

‘No, before that.’

Claude picked up the magazine again. ‘Mr S. Devrye-Martin must be rich, to subscribe to this.’

‘Let me see.’ Rocco took the magazine and stared at the back. A small white label at the bottom of the page carried a name and address:

S. Devrye-Martin, Les Hirondelles, Rue de Nonancourt, Evreux 27000

S for Stefan? Or a fellow patient who’d lost their magazines to a human magpie? He thought it unlikely to be a member of staff, since the cost of imported publications like this would be considerable, especially with the cost of postage. And why send them via Evreux? It was something worth checking.

‘Can you keep a friendly eye on the Clos du Lac?’ he said, putting on his coat and jamming the magazines in his pocket. ‘Just a passing glance now and then, in case anything happens.’

‘Of course. What are you going to do?’

‘Start looking under some stones. Official ones.’