From the crest of the hill where Paul Slater lounged, looking down on the picturesque Breton valley, he saw the murder unfold.
He was not aware, at first, that it would be murder or that he’d be drawn into it. He merely saw the man and woman—in black, peasant dress—enter the valley and take the path that led upward, towards the cliff, saw them without paying too much attention to them.
Slater was near the end of a week’s sketching trip, and it had been productive. Tomorrow he’d be with Bettina, his chic, French wife, and she’d have to admit he could get along fine without speaking a word of the language. And his victory would be sweet.
“How will you eat?’’ she’d asked him, when he’d suggested the expedition.
“Easy. When I want chicken, I’ll flap my wings. Like this.” He crooked his long arms and wobbled his elbows.
“And you’ll get an omelet,” she said, laughing.
“When I want an omelet,” he remarked, aware that laughter enhanced his wife’s loveliness, “I’ll make like one.”
She surveyed him with soft, deep eyes. “You look more like a string bean to me,” she said.
She kissed him good-by fiercely, as if she feared she’d never see him again. “Maybe I should come, too,” she said. “Ask me, Paul.”
He shook his head. “You’re beautiful, but you’ll keep. And besides, your family wants this week with you.”
“I’ll worry so,” she said tenderly. “Paul, think of all the things that can happen, and you can’t even speak French.”
“Look, darling, I don’t paint in French, and we’ll meet in Brittany, as agreed, and have a hell of a time together.”
“That does sound grand,” she said. “Our meeting in Brittany —that part of it.”
So he’d left gaily. After the grind of commercial art in a New York advertising agency, he craved a summer of serious painting, and this was it. He drove a tiny yellow car along the French roads, hunched over the steering wheel like an anchovy surrounding a caper, and thought good thoughts. When he felt like it, he parked the car and wandered off. With a sketch pad under his arm. Getting into the back country through fields hidden by high, earth ramparts. Like now.
He studied the shape of the secluded valley spread out below him. The stream tumbled into it noisily, past sharp cliffs and over a stony bed, then meandered through softer land. His eyes took in the patterns of greens and the play of light and shadow. He returned to the two figures, and with a start realized something was wrong.
The man, big and powerful, towered over the woman, who retreated in fear. She kept arguing and raising her arms to protect herself, and every time he approached her, she leaped back. Suddenly, he bore down on her and grabbed her. She fell to her knees, and he began dragging her by an arm.
To Slater, the situation was obvious. The man wanted to haul the woman to the cliff and push her over. The realization of what was happening, together with his powerlessness to prevent it, made Slater gasp with horror. Then he did the only possible thing. He stood up and yelled.
Maybe the man and woman were too absorbed in their struggle, maybe the rush of the stream drowned out all other sound. In any case. Slater’s shouts had no effect. The big peasant had lifted the woman and was carrying her; she fought back savagely, scratching and kicking. Her wooden shoe caught the man in the groin, and he dropped her abruptly. As she tried to scramble off, he pulled something from his belt and struck brutally at her head. She sagged and lay still.
Paul Slater, standing on the hillock, felt his muscles tighten and grab. He had a cramped, sick feeling in his stomach. Trancelike, with a sense of living through a nightmare, he watched the peasant wipe blood from his face, pick up the woman and trudge for the rock.
He’ll throw her over the cliff, Slater thought. He’ll claim she fell. How could he guess I saw the whole thing?
The peasant, however, advanced only a few steps. He halted, lifted his head and studied the landscape. Suddenly detecting Slater, the peasant lowered the body of the woman, and stared.
Despite the size of the peasant and the fact that he was armed with a weapon of some sort, he was a good hundred yards below Slater, and wearing heavy, wooden sabots. Still, because the terrain he had to cover was less rocky, he could probably beat Slater to the ridge where the little yellow car was parked. Therefore Slater decided to go the other way.
It was impossible for him to see the peasant’s expression, or for the peasant to distinguish anything besides Slater’s general appearance. The big farmer would merely be aware of a spare, tallish man with light hair, wearing the clothes of a foreigner. Nevertheless, despite the distance, the two men locked glances, and the hostility of each established a bond between them.
I have to get help and accuse him, Slater thought, and he has to kill me before I manage to do it. He’s shrewd and he’s familiar with the countryside, whereas I—maybe Bettina was right. A strange land, strange people, strange language. I’m in a vacuum.
The two men turned simultaneously, and both began running. Slater knew he was cut off from the car, and that if he approached it he’d have to deal with a giant for whom he was no physical match. And the peasant doubtless knew he had to act fast. But he had no idea of his tremendous advantage, that Slater lacked a knowledge of the French language.
At the highway, Slater headed downhill. He’d enter the first house he came to. He’d have protection, and his need for an English interpreter would be obvious. Conveying his news might be a slow and awkward process, but at least he’d be out of danger.
He kept running at top speed, breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the house.
It was a two-story structure of stone, with brick window sills that gave it a mild, architectural pretense. The home of a well-to-do farmer, probably, who felt himself a cut or so above his neighbors. Slater shoved open the gate and saw the neat, colorful flower garden, bisected by a muddy, clay path. As he walked up the path and turned momentarily, he was horrified to see the small, yellow car coasting down the hill.
He ran to the door. It was unlocked, and he opened it and slammed it shut behind him. When he heard a baby crying upstairs, he relaxed.
“Hello?” he called out. Nobody answered.
He entered the first room off the central corridor and noticed the carved, Breton chest and the sturdy, oak table. He strode to the window and peered through the curtains. Outside, the peasant had parked the yellow car and stepped out. Slater left the room and raced for the kitchen and the back door. It was locked. He turned at once and ran to a room upstairs. From the window, he saw the peasant sitting in the garden as if this were his home. Obviously, he had no idea that Slater was trapped inside.
The baby cried again, and Slater saw it lying in a cradle alongside a bed. It’s a French baby, he told himself, so don’t talk to it in English. Besides, if you open your mouth, friend murderer’s going to hear, and he’ll come up and beat your brains out. So sit tight.
The baby apparently disagreed about the need for silence. It began screaming. If that kept up. Slater reflected, the peasant would come upstairs. Then Slater spotted the pile of clean diapers, and he leaned over the crib and felt the baby.
He’d had experience with a niece, and so he was adept. He folded the diaper in three parts, as his sister had taught him to, and removed the dirty diaper and slipped the baby into another one. A big, healthy boy. Slater observed, and he pinned him up expertly and returned him to the crib. The infant stopped crying, and Slater stepped back proudly. When he turned, he saw the big peasant blocking the doorway. He’d removed his sabots and was wearing slippers.
Slater froze and stared at the round, reddish face. The scratch on the cheek was caked with dirt, and the dark, shrewd, peasant eyes glittered with satisfaction. A peasant is the better man, they seemed to say. Everything the peasant had done thus far was right; everything Slater had done was wrong.
Slater had the impression of reading the peasant’s mind, and of agreeing that Slater had been a fool. Naturally, the nearest house belonged to the farmer, and naturally the crying baby belonged to him and his wife. Now there remained only the comparatively easy job of attending to Slater.
Slater could jump through the window, and take the risk of getting cut by glass or breaking a leg. Or stand his ground. Either way, his chances were not good.
After a while, he grew aware that the peasant had not moved. The man still blocked the door, his gimlet eyes holding onto a look of cunning triumph.
The baby made an awkward, meaningless motion, coughed once and fell asleep. Slater saw the dirty diaper; he saw women’s clothing spread out on the bed. The woman must have been dressing when her husband had told her to come out to the fields.
Slater wondered why the peasant remained there, rooted, expressionless, in the doorway. And then he edged toward the window. The peasant immediately advanced the same distance. When Slater reached for the casement, the big farmer growled and made a threatening gesture. Slater withdrew his hand.
The sweat came out on Slater’s forehead; his knees were weak. He thought of Bettina, of the dead woman in the valley. Time—measured by the slow, steady tick of a clock—dragged.
Outside, a car went by. Somebody called from the road; a bicycle bell jangled; a motorcycle spluttered. Shakily, stiff-legged, Slater inched away from the window and along the side of the room. The peasant stepped clear of the doorway for the first time.
Why? Slater asked himself. Why? Because I’m supposed to do something, fall into a worse trap. Except that nothing’s worse than this, menaced by a great, hulking body and its sly, animal brain.
He slid cautiously along the wall, and the peasant circled correspondingly. When Slater had gone halfway around the room, the peasant had made the same arc, and the two men were equally distant from the doorway. Incredulous, Slater thought, He’s going to let me out. But why?
With his eyes glued to the peasant’s. Slater took a tentative step forward, curious as to what his reaction would be. The peasant let out an oath and lunged at Slater. Though Slater tried to sidestep the charge, a giant arm pushed him off-balance and sent him spinning against the door jamb. Staggering, he recovered his footing and lurched into the corridor. He scuttled downstairs.
The yellow car was still parked in front of the gate, and Slater ran to it and climbed in breathlessly. And as he turned on the ignition and started the motor, he wondered why he hadn’t been pursued. He drove off jerkily, still puzzled by the relative ease of his escape. A half mile beyond, he stopped and looked in the back of the car, because the thought had come to him that the peasant had let him go, after having put the body of the dead woman in the car, to link him with the murder. But on the floor behind him lay a bloody wrench.
Slater studied the weapon without touching it. Now he could guess the peasant’s scheme, and it was a good one. A stranger stops at a house in which there is a woman alone with a baby. The car in all likelihood has been seen there. The stranger will admit having entered the house and having gone into the valley, where the body of the woman will be found. He has the murder weapon. The logical inference is that he assaulted the woman, that she escaped and ran to the valley, where he overtook her and killed her lest she accuse him of the assault.
In rebuttal would be Slater’s simple word. And his story would be incredible, no matter how skillfully he told it. Add the problem of language and a local suspicion of strangers, and what chance did he have? He’d be in jail tomorrow, the day Bettina was due on the four-thirteen train. When he didn’t meet her, she’d panic and worry, and eventually she’d have to take the brunt of the whole situation. If she could.
He repeated the words, if she could. Then the full force of his predicament hit him. No alibi, no person he’d spoken to since breakfast. He hadn’t even flopped his arms for an omelette. He was nobody, doubly a nobody because he couldn’t speak the language of the country. To seek out the police would be suicide.
And the alternative? Slater frowned. To guess what the peasant would do next, to follow the workings of his mind and wait for his mistake. To pit his own intelligence against an individual who was on his home grounds and had every advantage.
Stated that way, the alternative sounded foolhardy. And yet, Slater had no choice. And besides, he had to show Bettina that, French or no French, he could take care of himself. He’d boasted about it often enough, and had to make good.
He tapped the steering wheel. “Facts,” he said. “Here’s a big brute of a peasant living in a landowner’s house, instead of in one of those stone cottages that are half-house and half-barn, with a manure pile at the front door. So the guy probably married a rich woman and then decided to get rid of her. With a baby to take care of, he probably has another woman in mind, but he’ll avoid her like the plague for the next week or two. No hope there. What I need is time, and a friend to help me out. Because the murderer is undoubtedly figuring on my going straight to the police with my story, and my getting accused before I know what it’s all about.”
Slater started the car and drove on towards the town of Lannion, where Bettina was due to meet him. Beyond the outskirts he found a field concealed by the typical high, earth fences surmounted by a hedge, and he drove the car inside and hid it in the bushes. He took overnight things from his bag, and trudged into town.
He arrived at four o’clock, found the station and waited for the four-thirteen to arrive from Paris. Then, as if he had come by train, he walked to a small hotel and took a room for the night.
To the proprietor, who spoke a few words of English, Slater made it known that he wished an interpreter for a day or so. A half-hour later, a delicate young man with small, anxious features introduced himself as Monsieur Bayon, a school teacher.
Slater shook hands formally. “I need company,” he said, “and I’d like to learn something about the life of a French town. Tell me the gossip and be my friend for a day. Since this is vacation time you’re free, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Monsieur. It can arrange itself.”
“Good. Have dinner with me, and make your own terms.”
Bayon, distant at first, reacted to a good bottle of wine and poured out his heart. He was engaged to be married, but marriage is expensive, and he and his Katrine were saving their money. In five years, perhaps, the great event would take place.
“Do it now,” Slater said amiably. “Love should never wait.”
“But the father and mother of Katrine, they do not consent, unless.”
“Are you marrying Katrine or her parents?” Slater asked.
Bayon looked startled. “Her father,” he said with awe and respect, “is a man of authority. He is Monsieur the Judge.”
As they ate the cheese and fruit, a stir started in the restaurant, and Bayon rose and went to another table at which there was vehement conversation. He returned with the news.
“There has been murder,” he said excitedly. “The wife of Claude Ferrou, he find her in the fields. Her head is crushed, pouf! And there is talk of a man in a small yellow car.”
“This Ferrou,” said Slater. “What’s he like?”
“An ox of a man. He marry the daughter of a landowner, she is a little ugly, but very rich. I see him in the café many time, when he come to sell the cows. They have the small baby.”
“And the yellow car?”
“Several people notice the license number that end in seventy-five, which is from Paris. And a small yellow car from Paris, that is easy for the police, they have the organization. They will find.”
Oh, no they won’t, thought Slater, not until I’m ready. Aloud he said, “And Ferrou—will he marry again?”
“It is to be seen.”
Slater ordered another bottle of wine. “What will happen to the baby?”
“The family of Ferrou, they are peasant, they live near. There is always someone to care for the small baby.”
Slater filled both glasses. “Find out all you can,” he said, “and tell me about it tomorrow. The thing interests me.”
In the morning, Bayon arrived with the latest bulletins. The police had questioned Ferrou at length; they had made a thorough examination. Yesterday afternoon, Ferrou had been in the fields at some distance from the valley, and had had trouble with a small bull, which had gashed his cheek. When he had returned to the house, his wife was absent and had gone looking for her. He had almost stumbled over the body.
The house told its own story. In the garden were the footprints of a stranger, clearly evident because he wore shoes instead of sabots. He must have found Madame Ferrou alone. The upset furniture and a broken bottle of wine showed there had been a struggle. Probably the stranger had tried to assault or rob her, and she had resisted and escaped to the valley. He’d overtaken her, and the ground showed where a second and fatal struggle had taken place. It was here that the stranger had smashed her skull with a weapon, probably of iron.
Neither the stranger nor the weapon had been found, yet. The yellow car was still missing, but several more people had seen it parked in front of the Ferrou house. A neighbor, seeing the car, had called out to the Ferrous and received no answer, proving the house was empty at the time. As for Ferrou, he had been released.
“The police,” Slater remarked, “can make mistakes, and often do. And after all, Ferrou only married her for her money.”
“Why not?” Bayon demanded. “Many tried, he had the success. Is there something of evil in money, when you marry?”
“Skip it,” said Slater. “But he’s the sort of man who would kill, isn’t he?”
“Ferrou? Impossible. He always live here; everybody know him.” Bayon spoke with annoyance. “It is the stranger who kill.”
“Where’s Ferrou now?”
Bayon answered coldly. “At the Café de la Place. With friends. He take the glass or two of wine, and then go home.”
“Good. We’ll go down the road and wait for him, at a point between the cafe and his home.”
“Which road?” Bayon asked, as he had suddenly become wary.
“Show me. You know where he lives.”
“In this direction,” Bayon said, pointing north.
Slater shook his head. “I think it’s in the opposite direction.” He pointed south, whence he had come yesterday. “Anyhow, that’s where we’re going. You’ve an idea about me that’s bothering you. Am I right?”
“I walk badly,” said Bayon, ignoring the question. “I have an evil of the feet.”
Slater took him by the arm. “Come with me,” he said sternly. “And don’t worry; we’re friends.”
Bayon hesitated and glanced up the street, as if looking for help. Then, dominated by Slater, he shrugged and yielded.
Without speaking, they walked along the highway. Traffic was sparse, a few cars and trucks, an assortment of scooters and bicycles, a two-wheeled cart drawn by a pair of horses in tandem.
When Slater reached the field in which the yellow car was parked, he halted.
Let’s sit here and wait,” he said. “I’ve been too inquisitive about Ferrou, haven’t I?”
Bayon gulped uncomfortably. “It is but natural.”
“No,” said Slater. “I think you guessed, and so I’ll tell you what happened. I saw Ferrou kill his wife, but I have to prove it. And the only person who can help me is Ferrou himself.”
“You are mad.”
Slater shook his head. “Criminals usually convict themselves, in one way or another. I’ll let Ferrou choose his own way. I’ve got a little scheme.”
“Monsieur,” Bayon said anxiously, “it is best that you give yourself to the police. And in my company, so that Katrine’s father will hear of my bravery.”
“The hell with you!” Slater exclaimed. “Fight your own battles, and I’ll fight mine.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” said Bayon, thoroughly cowed.
They waited until the black Citroen came down the road. Ferrou was driving, and at sight of Slater, the peasant stopped. He growled something in French, and Bayon answered in a quick, nervous voice. Then the giant stepped out of the car and approached menacingly.
Slater stood his ground and pointed to town. Bayon spoke again, pleadingly, but Ferrou paid no attention. He strode up to Slater and grabbed him by the jacket. Slater wrenched free and called out, “Bayon—get help—the police!”
Then Ferrou was on him and Slater went down, with the heavy body crushing him. He hit Ferrou on the jaw, but Ferrou merely tightened his grip. Then Ferrou’s hands clamped on Slater’s throat. Choking, gasping, Slater worked at the fingers that were throttling him. He bent one of them back double, and Ferrou loosened his grip and rolled over in pain, but still clung to Slater. He pounded short hooks to Ferrou’s body until a truck stopped and two men jumped out and pinioned him. Slater nodded a grateful surrender.
The interrogation of Slater took place in a large, somewhat dirty room, furnished with a few tables and a number of wooden chairs. A half-dozen armed police stood guard while the chief, a long-nosed man with a black mustache and quick, incisive gestures, sat in the center. His sharp eyes seemed to accuse Slater before the questioning even started. Bayon sat next to Slater and acted as interpreter, and Ferrou, opposite, dwarfed the table on which he leaned.
Slater gave his story in detail, and gave it argumentatively. He told where he’d hidden his car, and why, and he pointed out that though the murder weapon was in the car, his own automobile wrench lay unused, in the trunk.
“Tell the chief,” Slater said to Bayon, “that her nails will have bits of blood imbedded in them. And Ferrou’s face is scratched, not mine.”
Bayon translated meekly, without energy, and listened respectfully to the chief’s reply. Then he said, “She claw the earth. The earth is in her nails. If there is blood it is lost; there is so little.”
“Tell him to look,” Slater said irritably. “With a microscope.”
Bayon merely compressed his lips. His main interest seemed to be to ingratiate himself with the authorities, so that Katrine’s father would hear well of him. My friend, Slater thought sarcastically. I had to go get myself saddled with him.
Ferrou, catching the drift of the questioning, sat back smugly. The police chief studied Slater with cold suspicion, as if probing for a weak spot. He spoke to Bayon in rapid French; then resumed his scrutiny of Slater.
“Monsieur le Chef,” Bayon said obediently, “he ask what you do upstairs, when you see the baby.”
“I diapered him,” Slater said. “He needed it.”
“Diaper?”
“The cloth,” said Slater. “Around the legs. He was wet.”
“Ah,” said Bayon. He spoke to the chief, who grinned broadly and turned to shout an order. For a few minutes nobody paid any attention to Slater.
“Tell him,” said Slater, “that Ferrou made up the story about the bull, that he smashed his own furniture in order to frame me, and that he drove my car and his fingerprints are on it somewhere. Tell the chief to investigate, instead of accusing me.”
Bayon said nothing.
“Tell him,” Slater demanded angrily, “to have a doctor examine Ferrou and me for day-old bruises and scratches from yesterday.”
Bayon licked his lips, and the door opened and a woman came in with a baby. “Monsieur le Chef,” said Bayon, “ask you should change the baby.”
“At last,” said Slater. Apparently the chief wanted to see if Slater knew how, in order to substantiate his account. Slater stood up eagerly, and with a practiced hand he folded the diaper and made the change. The baby cooed. The chief looked interested, and the mother shook her head and began objecting. When Slater had finished, she took her infant and tore off the diaper as if it had been contaminated. Angrily, erupting in a flood of words, she refolded it in a triangle and pinned it in place.
The chief and his staff had a spirited argument, but Slater saw he’d won an important point. They folded their diapers in triangles here; his technique of diapering the Ferrou baby had been noticed and it proved that he had handled the infant yesterday afternoon. There was hardly need for Bayon to transmit the information.
“Good,” Slater said. “I guess the chief realized I’m telling the truth. He’s a smart guy, after all.”
“He say,” Bayon observed, “that criminals do the things strange, but you are the first who change the baby before you attack the mother.”
“Nuts!” Slater said furiously. “He’s crazy. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But tell him it’s late and I have to meet my wife at the station, and I have something important for him, first.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
Slater leaned forward and spoke earnestly. He’d gone through all the preliminaries, done his best to plant doubts. Now, before Bettina arrived, was the time to ask the question that Ferrou couldn’t answer.
“Listen carefully,” Slater said. “Ferrou claims he was chasing a bull when his wife was killed, doesn’t he? Ferrou claims he was somewhere else all afternoon. Get that clear first, will you?”
Bayon translated, the chief nodded attentively, and Slater said, “Good. Now I’ll show you how Ferrou convicted himself. Ask him how he was able to identify me on the road a little while ago, if he never saw me before.” And Slater leaned back triumphantly. “I took you along, Bayon, so that I could have a witness that that was what happened.”
Bayon licked his lips. “He identify you because I tell him who you are, when he stop the car. It is unfortunate, Monsieur, that you do not understand the French.”
Slater said, “Oh.” Bayon, the fool. Bayon had gummed up the works. Bettina wouldn’t be much help, after this.
Slater spoke icily. “Would you send someone to the station to meet my wife?”
“But yes,” said Bayon, “if you will describe her.”
Slater gritted his teeth. “She’s the most beautiful woman there, and I want her quick.”
Bayon translated and the chief gave an order to one of his subordinates, who left the room. For the next fifteen minutes Slater sat in glum silence, martialing the arguments that Bettina could give. Then the door opened and she swept in.
Slater jumped up, and she ran to him and clung tight.
“What happened?” she asked, finally. “Oh, my darling, what happened?”
He held her hand and grimaced. “Betts,” he said, “tell this goof I didn’t kill anybody, will you?”
Her hand tightened in his, and she squeezed it nervously while she spoke to the chief for all of five minutes. At last, the chief stood up and bowed. Then he said something that caused Bettina to break into smiles and look up happily.
“Paul, he says you’ll have to make a signed statement and that there will be certain formalities, but you’re free.”
He gave her a dazed look. “Betts, what magic did you use? I gave him all the logic in the world and he wouldn’t believe me, and then you come along and in a few minutes it’s all over. What did you tell him, anyhow?”
“Nothing, really,” she said. “I just talked about us. And he said I’m young and beautiful and in love with you, so how could you possibly assault anyone as ugly as Madame Ferrou? He said it speaks for itself.”
Slater grinned. “French,” he said. “Why bother learning it when all you need is the right wife?”
AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT: Last summer we spent a week in St. Briac, Brittany… One day I’d put in a harrowing time at nearby Dinard getting our car greased and struggling with minor repairs and major delays. My French has definite limitations, and I came home exhausted. Under the circumstances, being sick was out of the question, but I gave a fairly good imitation of it for a half-hour or so. Lying down on a cot, I felt miserable and thoroughly sorry for myself. I could hear French voices, mostly children’s, and they sounded strange, with the words blurred by distance and filtered through the walls. I seemed not to belong here, and I wondered at the madness of people speaking different languages and unable to communicate. The ordeal of the stranger who is sick, and is cut off completely and can’t make himself understood sifted through my mind and my mood. Now suppose, I thought—just suppose…