THIRTY

Martine had run her errand; Thonon came to lunch. Little help, though. The man was limp and apathetic, and what juice there was soon squeezed. Oh, all right, he might have suborned the Lipschitz boy a little bit. To make sure there was no trouble with the building permit office. Nothing illegal: just keeping the dossier at the top of the heap and ensuring that all old Delalande’s scruples were respected. His plan had been quite straightforward and plain-sailing. Get a road run in at the back of that big garden. Water, electricity, drains, were at the corner. You could get four nice houses there. He would pay the boy a commission, and in return he would get the exclusive agency on the house after Sabine’s death. But there was nothing on paper. Granny’s gang could deny everything.

     Well, yes, he had been trying to get Sabine to agree to sell the house earlier. He supposed it did look bad. Maybe there was a motive there for suppressing her. But he hadn’t killed anyone. Not that it made any odds; he could see that he was cast for the part.

     What was that? Barde? He wouldn’t make a deal with Barde not if he were down to his last penny. Hadn’t known anyhow that Barde was in any degree friendly with old Sabine. They could charge him now with anything they liked. He just didn’t give a damn any more.

To satisfy Martine’s appetite for intrigue was not difficult. She made him a cup of coffee at ‘Green Gables’ and kept an obedient lookout by the stables. When she reported that Monsieur Barde – thank heaven for a man of habit – had sallied out upon his afternoon digestive promenade, it was not too difficult to slip across. None of this was all that difficult. Important that the press know nothing about it. Important to get some official cover, and Commissaire Peyrefitte hadn’t been very keen, but… As for Sophie, she was safe enough.

     It was dubious whether Commissaire Richard would have allowed such goings on. A sophisticated person, he would have asked what Castang thought this was – a Mozart opera?

     Castang had a notion that the maid was the key to the intrigue. All right. He knew nothing about Mozart operas. If anybody had enlightened him he would have said horrified that witty, intelligent girls like Susanna or Despina wouldn’t do at all. What he wanted was a thoroughly silly and tiresome girl, whose own liking for intrigue creates trouble for everyone. Zerlina, at a pinch. Richard just might have been sufficiently entertained to let him try. Monsieur Peyrefitte had not been so much shocked as sceptical.

     ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

     ‘Then nobody will ever hear anything about it,’ with a confidence Castang wasn’t feeling. ‘She’ll keep quiet, that’s for sure.’

     He didn’t have trouble with his own role. Winked at the pretty parlour-maid: coarse fellow.

     ‘His nibs in?’

     ‘Touring the domain – be back in an hour.’

     ‘Not that important – just a gossip. Just as soon chat to you. Where’s your old biddy?’

     ‘Having her siesta,’ giggling. ‘Is that all you do – gossip?’

     ‘Gets a bit dull sometimes – you know: all work, no play. You’re much in the same boat, no? Get bored sometimes?’

     ‘Oh, I play too, from time to time.’

     ‘Get out in the evenings?’

     ‘What d’you think – that I’m a slave or something? Whenever I want.’

     ‘It’s a dull town, this. What about a drink, after hours? Bite to eat, maybe?’

     She shook her head.

     ‘Town full of peekers and gabby mouths. People gossip!’

     ‘No sweat. I know a little place, on the ramparts. Nobody there, and the woman there knows how to keep quiet. I have to be careful too!’

     ‘I might.’

     ‘This evening?’

     ‘Well… I’ve a transport problem.’

     ‘Pick you up. Not here, of course. Bit along the road. Eight be all right? – when does his nibs have supper?’

     ‘He ought to be fixed with his coffee by then,’ giggling.

     ‘Give him my love – or no, on second thoughts, not.’

     There you are! And the fuss Peyrefitte had made! He sloped off, mighty jaunty. There’d been a time when policemen only approached bourgeois houses by the tradesmen’s entrance… And they still should!

     Peyrefitte had wanted to bring her down to the commissariat on some stupid pretext, but that, he had said, would only make her obstinate. She’d tell Barde! This was worth trying, surely.

     And Peyrefitte had started to laugh. He was a reasonable man. A bit staggered by the obscene ideas the PJ got in its head. Castang had been airy, as though he did such things all the time. The parallel police, you know. Come with a tale to the concierge that the electric wiring needs fixing, and slap microphones behind the skirting board.

     Sophie had been rehearsed. She wasn’t worried. Not with two policemen to cover her. And as Monsieur Peyrefitte said soothingly, in small towns there were things too, to which one learned to turn a blind eye. Lord Nelson. ‘I can’t see any signals.’

     Castang didn’t feel like Lord Nelson. He was a little smelly copper, doing a smelly little job. But he did want to make a success of his first independent enquiry.