The Mercedes pulled off the track and the driver opened the rear door. The procureur rose with difficulty from the seat.
The procureur could have passed for a white man, despite the short curly hair, now turning white. His skin was pale. He was overweight and he had to exert himself to get onto his feet. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of pale blue slacks. His tennis shoes appeared exceptionally small.
The onlookers had come from the neighboring hamlets, on bicycles and mobylettes, or in battered Peugeot and Toyota pickups. There were several women, squat on their rubber sandals and shapeless beneath cotton dresses. One held a child to her chest.
Barriers had been put up and a gendarme held the crowd back.
Uniformed men and civilians moved within the radius of the converging floodlights.
The corpse lay beneath a dark blanket.
A van stood near the pond. Nearby, two men were talking. Commandant Lebel looked up and, noticing the crowd of onlookers draw apart, rose to his feet and saluted briskly.
The procureur was out of breath. He took a small cigar from his mouth. “This Calais?”
Commandant Lebel nodded. He bent over and lifted the edge of the blanket. The procureur squinted, smoke in his eyes. He looked down on the face, now grey in death. “Poor bastard.”
“You knew him, monsieur le procureur?”
“Who didn’t know Calais?” Slowly the procureur turned on his small feet and looked at the stationary vehicles, the Jeeps and the Saviem van.
“Everything in order?”
Lebel let the blanket fall back on the dead face, “Everything in order, monsieur le procureur.”
“I’ll be needing an autopsy.” He paused, looking at Lebel thoughtfully. “Gun wounds?”
“We’ve found the cartridge—twelve bore.”
“Fingerprints?”
Lebel shook his head. “The cartridge had been trampled in the mud.”
“When did he die?”
“The corpse must’ve been in the water for at least eighteen hours.”
The procureur took a small packet of Déchets de Havane cigars from his pocket. “Twelve bore?” He lit another cigar with the burning stub.
“We’ve located the culprit.”
“Fast work, Lebel.” The procureur raised an eyebrow. “My congratulations.”
“We need permission for a search warrant—and to bring the man in for questioning.”
“Who?”
“An old man. A revenge killing.”
“You’re sure?”
“The man spent most of his life in French Guyana—in the penal colony. An ex-convict.”
“How do you know he’s guilty?”
“He’d been making threats against Calais.”
The procureur sucked on the new cigar and looked upwards into the sky. For a few seconds the moon broke through the low clouds. It soon disappeared again, leaving a blue aureole. Addressing no one in particular, the procureur said, “Calais must be disappointed.”
“Disappointed, monsieur le procureur?”
“To be killed by an old convict.” He raised his shoulders. “Calais who wanted to be a martyr, who wanted to die for a cause.”
“What cause?”
“God knows.” The procureur laughed again.
Commandant Lebel appeared embarrassed.
“You’re sure it’s the old convict?”
“Good evidence, monsieur le procureur. I think we can be sure.”
“Hearsay is not evidence.” The procureur’s smile was bland.
“You want me to bring him in?”
The procureur nodded; his thoughts were elsewhere. “I can entrust the enquiry to Juge Laveaud.” The floodlights caught his smile and revealed large, stained teeth. “Let’s see what she can make of it.”
“She’s an intelligent woman.”
“No doubt. Intelligent and ambitious.”