Four weeks had passed.
Dupin had told the world the dramatic story, exactly as he had known it.
The prefect had for the very first time allowed him to speak on his own at a press conference, the matter having become too awkward for him in many ways, he had admitted frankly, although he welcomed the media fuss.
For Dupin things hadn’t become awkward.
He had spoken completely seriously. Leblanc’s crime had to be spelled out: his cold-blooded murder of three human beings. He related the story of the murders in minute detail. Part of that was the possibility that he had had an accomplice, something that was for Dupin a particularly important hypothesis because of the question of the location of the cross.
Riwal, Kadeg, and he had continued the investigation in every direction, had gone through everything again in the smallest detail, had talked once again to everybody, as well as with those they hadn’t spoken to. Leblanc’s telephone calls, his computer, email account, bank accounts, all of them had been thoroughly examined. But they had found no hint of an accomplice, and no mention of a cross or an “archeological find.”
Leblanc had acted very cleverly, very cautiously. The result was that the accomplice hypothesis was officially dropped. Eventually even by Dupin himself. Something—like so much else in this case—that he found incredibly difficult.
Dupin also felt obliged to report with the same exactitude on the crime committed against Leblanc, his unscrupulous murder. Dupin had calmly set out that he was totally convinced it was a revenge murder. Surprisingly the prefect didn’t object, even though he hadn’t a trace of evidence.
Obviously, as Dupin had expected, the press, media, and public saw the brutality of the killer as such that Leblanc’s death was nothing more than the punishment he deserved. Once again Dupin saw the influence of Morin in that he himself didn’t turn up, but a whole row of influential people did, and gave lengthy interviews in which they repeatedly referred to a “chain of unlucky circumstances.” That was the way it went. But Dupin didn’t let himself be influenced. He was continuing the investigation into the “police pursuit of a bolincheur suspected of smuggling.” A few actually applauded, while others shook their heads heavily. He wouldn’t rest until they knew if the boat still existed. If not, then they would really get started.
Charges were laid against the captain of the Gradlon, although the chances were slim of it coming to a trial, never mind a conviction. This “incident” had also been thoroughly reconstructed. Reports were submitted, thorough reports. The captain and seven seamen stated that it had been an accident. It was not them but a Zodiac traveling far too fast and too near the coast on a turbulent sea that was itself to blame. The reports had all referred to the adverse conditions. Nonetheless there remained a series of puzzling questions—for example why the trawler was coming out of Douarnenez harbor at all, when the sea fifty kilometers farther had suddenly been too rough for them?
The police investigation into the harbormistress on account of the discovery in her garden house of the murder weapon—which did indeed bear traces of the blood of all three victims—was dropped. In return Madame Gochat had dropped her charges against Dupin and the police and admitted she had guessed there was something to do with a “treasure,” which was why she had Kerkrom followed.
But what people had most been absorbed by over the past four weeks was the cross. The big golden cross Dupin had told them about. Despite the fact it hadn’t been found yet.
There was no hint of it, not a trace. No more witnesses. Just Dupin. A team of forensic experts who had specially come down from Paris had searched the cave, and in particular the dip in the ground. Without bringing the slightest thing to light.
The crazy thing was: the fact that the cross was missing was no bad thing; quite the opposite. Its absence gave free range to the boldest speculation, free fantasy and fable. A riot of imagination had broken out. Whether it was at the baker’s in the morning, at the Maison de la Presse, in the Amiral, it was the subject of discussion everywhere. The newspapers, the radio and television—local, regional, national—and of course the Internet, the most ripe medium for gossip, were filled with the most exotic tales told for days and weeks. Naturally most were about Ys. Some—and it was more than just a handful—saying a mythical realm was about to return, to the extent that even Riwal, reading the morning papers, furiously cried “Ridiculous!” and “What a load of humbug!”
The leader of the scientific expedition that was due to look for the ruins of Ys in Douarnenez Bay next year had announced he was bringing the whole thing forward, as they’d had three large donations. The regional council had turned head over heels to give permission to the plans. Only a few scientists and art historians had meticulously passed around Dupin’s description of the thing, which had in any case remained very vague. But none of them had dared to offer a guess, or place it in the context of a history of art.
What wasn’t reported was that the police search for the cross had meanwhile been called off. Dupin found that hard to live with.
It took a while, but gradually the press reports tailed off, primarily because there was no follow-up. It had been three days now without a single item on the subject.
Even at the commissariat the cross no longer seemed a topic of conversation.
Only Dupin couldn’t rest, found no inner peace.
In conversations with Claire or Nolwenn he heard himself saying that one day the cross would turn up again. But he realized it only made it seem more mysterious.