The flat occupied by Paul and Régine Crébert was as different from the one occupied by Tadeuz Kiczymrczik and Anna Ripka as it was possible to be. It was on the ground floor of a block in one of the most expensive areas of the city, and it was elegantly furnished with expensive fittings. The walls were covered with paintings, there was a grand piano, a large television and a host of potted plants which, with the light coming into the room through the enormous windows, made Nosjean feel a bit like a newt swimming among sunlit reeds.
Madame Crébert was sitting on the settee, in tears, but still, Nosjean noticed, managing to look elegant. She was tall, well-made and beautiful and, despite her misery, had dressed carefully, every hair in place. Some people, Nosjean told himself, put on the right clothes as automatically as washing themselves. To Madame Crébert, it would have been bad behaviour to appear badly dressed, whatever had happened. Her husband stood by the window, his hands in his pockets, staring out at the street, his face bleak, his eyes empty.
‘He went out after school,’ Madame Crébert was saying slowly, as if picking her way through her thoughts. ‘He had just done his homework. He was inclined to be lazy at school and was sometimes difficult and he’d been given extra to do.’
‘Was he clever?’ Nosjean asked.
‘Yes.’ The father turned and spoke over his shoulder. ‘But he wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t get down to it.’
‘Neither would you,’ his wife observed bitterly. ‘Never. You could have made something of him but you never bothered.’
Her husband gave her a look which seemed to indicate that he thought much the same of her. Nosjean coughed and brought their thoughts back to where they had been.
‘Was he a well-behaved boy?’
‘He’d been properly brought up,’ Crébert said.
His wife enlarged. ‘He had excellent manners.’
‘When he chose to use them,’ her husband added.
‘What do you mean by that, Monsieur?’ Nosjean asked.
Crébert drew a deep breath like a sigh. ‘He was like most children these days. He could be pleasant enough with other people but with his parents he was difficult. He answered us back, was often sullen, refused to do things, often went days without speaking to us.’
‘It wasn’t always like that,’ his wife said.
Her husband sighed again. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not always.’
‘Can you tell me more about when you last saw him?’
Madame Crébert dabbed at her eyes and steeled herself. ‘He finished his homework,’ she said. ‘Then he went out. Shortly afterwards, I had occasion to go to my handbag and I realised a fifty-franc note was missing. I’d got it especially to pay my daily help and it had gone. Then I remembered that Charles-Bernard had been in the hall just before he left the house. I’d thought he was just sulking and thought no more about it. When I realised the money was missing, I realised what he’d been doing.’
Nosjean waited quietly as she dabbed at her eyes again. ‘I feel so guilty,’ she said, her voice rising to a wail. ‘I feel it was my fault.’
For a while she was unable to speak and her husband spoke for her. ‘When the boy came in,’ he said, ‘she accused him of taking the money. He admitted that he had and she told him what she thought of him.’
‘But then–’ Madame Crébert’s voice was a moan ‘–he produced a bunch of flowers and said he’d taken the money to buy them for me because it had been my birthday the day before and he’d forgotten it. I felt so awful. I apologised and said how wonderful he was. But he’d already taken offence and went off in a huff. That was the last I–’ she looked at Nosjean with tragic eyes. ‘It was my fault. I know it was my fault. I worried all evening about where he’d gone.’
‘Were you here?’
‘All evening.’
‘Alone?’
‘My husband was away on business. My brother came to see me. He sometimes does when my husband’s away. He’s always kind. We think the world of him. Charles-Bernard was upset because I’d been angry with him, but how was I to know?’
‘You weren’t,’ her husband muttered. He crossed the room to place a hand on her shoulder and looked at Nosjean. ‘Sometimes you didn’t know where you were with him. When you tried to be kind he rejected you. If you tried to be strict, he sulked. He’d been spoiled all his life.’
‘By you,’ Madame Crébert said.
Crébert stared at her for a moment, then he snatched his hand away and went back to the window.
‘I didn’t realise he hadn’t come in again,’ Madame Crébert said. ‘He had his own key and he had to go out that night, anyway, to his gymnastic club. When I went in to wake him for school the next morning his bed hadn’t been slept in. At first I thought he’d run away again–’
‘Had he done it before?’
‘Once he got as far as Vézelay. The second time he didn’t go beyond the city boundaries. He did it to make us angry. He was always doing things to make us feel guilty. I rang his school. They hadn’t seen him so I thought I’d better let the police know. You have to, don’t you? And I wanted him back.’
Nosjean leaned forward. They had already checked all the known homosexuals in the city, the perverts and the men with records of indecency towards children. ‘Why do you think he was at Vieilly?’ he asked quietly.
The Créberts looked at each other.
‘Is there anyone at Vieilly to whom he’d turn if he were in trouble at home? An aunt? Someone like that?’
‘We have no relations at Vieilly.’
‘Has he ever been there before?’
Crébert frowned. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
Remembering the wounded woman at Porsigny and the shot at the watchman at St Blaize, Nosjean tried a new line.
‘Was he interested in guns?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
Nosjean paused. ‘Explosives?’
Crébert stared. ‘Explosives? What are you suggesting?’
‘Nothing in particular. But many boys experiment with making explosives. A lot of them know how. Especially those who’re good at chemistry.’
‘He was not good at chemistry,’ Crébert said stiffly. ‘His subjects were literary. Languages, mostly. Why do you ask?’
Nosjean drew their attention to what had happened in the Impasse Tarien and mentioned the wounding of the woman at Porsigny and the theft of the detonators at St Blaize.
Madame Crébert covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, God, Paul,’ she moaned, ‘what had he got himself involved in?’
Nosjean hastened to set her mind at rest. ‘We’re not suggesting that he was involved in anything,’ he said. ‘It might not be connected, but we have to enquire.’
‘He was a good boy.’
Crébert frowned and seemed to steel himself. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘He wasn’t a good boy. He was spoiled and self-willed and he had a habit of wandering about the streets late at night when he should have been at home. But he knew nothing of explosives and little of chemistry. I’m sure of that. On the other hand, in his roamings, it’s possible he may have seen something.’
Madame Crébert’s lips tightened. ‘He was a lonely boy,’ she said. ‘Sad. He kept to himself. His father didn’t like him.’
‘Régine, for God’s sake, stop talking like that–!’
‘Doctor Nisard said so.’
‘Doctor Nisard said nothing of the kind.’
‘Who’s Doctor Nisard?’ Nosjean asked.
‘The family doctor,’ Crébert said. ‘He knew the boy well, of course. He’d treated him since birth.’
‘He suffered from depressions,’ Madame Crébert put in. ‘His father always said he’d come between us. He never really liked him.’
Crébert threw up his hands. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ he said. ‘He did come between us. But only because he was allowed his own way too much. But to say I never really liked him – in the name of God, Régine–!’
As Nosjean reached the street, a small red Renault like his own drew up in front of the house and a young man climbed out. He saw Nosjean and immediately approached.
‘You the police?’ he asked.
Nosjean was wary at once. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You the press?’
The young man looked startled. ‘Mon Dieu, no!’ he said. ‘I’m part of the family.’ He gestured at the house. ‘I thought I’d better call round and see how they were. How are they?’
‘How would any parents be when they’d just learned their son’s dead?’
The young man nodded soberly. ‘Yes, of course. Silly question. I’m his uncle. Régine Crébert’s my sister. Name of Delacolonge. Robert Delacolonge.’
Nosjean studied him. He had the same features as Madame Crébert, he saw now, the same blond good looks, the same weakness about the mouth. He was immaculately dressed with a touch of the dandy about him, and Nosjean wondered if he were a homosexual.
‘Did you know the boy well?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I’m much younger than my sister and we were very good friends.’
‘So you know the things he did?’
‘Most of them.’
‘Had he ever made fireworks? We think there might be a connection between his death and the theft of explosives at St Blaize.’
Delacolonge considered for a moment. ‘Well, a lot of youngsters fancy making fireworks, don’t they? But you don’t think he stole gelignite, do you?’
‘I didn’t say it was gelignite,’ Nosjean pointed out immediately. ‘Why did you think it was gelignite?’
‘Isn’t that what they use for blasting?’ When Nosjean didn’t answer Delacolonge went on quickly. ‘I always thought it was. In any case, I doubt if he’d know what to do with it if he did steal it. More than likely blow himself up. And that wasn’t what happened, was it?’
‘No.’ Nosjean eyed Delacolonge. ‘I wasn’t thinking that he stole the stuff. I wondered if he knew anyone who might steal it.’
Delacolonge shrugged and Nosjean closed his notebook.
‘Mind if I come and have a chat with you in the next day or two?’ he asked.
Delacolonge looked startled. ‘Why me?’
Nosjean gestured. ‘Parents are a little confused and distraught at a time like this,’ he said. ‘It’d be nice to talk to someone who knows what goes on but isn’t too involved. Did the boy talk to you much?’
‘Often. Always round at my place when he was in trouble. Came to get things off his chest.’
‘Ever stay the night?’
‘He has done.’
Nosjean felt he was on to a scent at last. Dandified young uncles who had a place of their own where young nephews often spent the night – it seemed to suggest all sorts of things.
‘I’ll call round and see you,’ he said.
Delacolonge nodded. ‘Any time. Number 19, Apartments Sagnier, Rue Mulhouse. Ring up first in case I’m working, though.’
‘What do you do?’
Delacolonge hesitated. ‘I’m a poet.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot of future in poetry these days.’
Delacolonge managed a twisted smile. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said. ‘I have to work for a living, too. I’m a male nurse at St Saviour’s.’
‘What’s St Saviour’s?’
‘It’s a nuthouse.’ Delacolonge gave a small deprecatory smile. ‘They call it a nursing home, but that’s what it is. For disturbed people. They’ve got some funny types there, believe me. Some of them a bit homicidal. They should never let them out.’
Nosjean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do they let them out?’
‘People come and fetch them. Sometimes for a week-end or a public holiday like Bastille Day.’
It put a new idea into Nosjean’s head. But there was the other one, too, that featured Delacolonge himself. Nosjean had a marked distrust of people who called themselves poets.
‘This poetry of yours,’ he said. ‘Had anything published?’
Delacolonge gave a sad smile. ‘Isn’t much demand for poetry these days,’ he said. ‘Just one slim volume. I paid for it. We gave most of the edition away to friends. They were quite polite about them.’
‘You said “we.” Who’s “we”?’
Delacolonge looked blank. ‘Delphine and I,’ he said. ‘Delphine’s my wife. She’s looking after the baby.’
‘And that, Nosjean thought as Delacolonge waved and ran up the steps to the Créberts’ house, seemed to shatter that theory.
Still unsatisfied, Nosjean decided to try Doctor Nisard. There had been something about Madame Crébert that had worried him. She seemed strained in a way that went beyond the death of her son, and there seemed to be a distinct division of loyalties, as if she were the sort of person who took sides firmly and found it impossible to change even when the evidence suggested she should. The way she had set herself against her husband was clear proof of it.
Doctor Nisard seemed to think the same. He was an old man with grey hair and a wise, strong face.
‘Well, they’re an odd lot, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘In what way, doctor? Is there insanity in the family?’
Nisard hesitated. ‘Well – certainly, the boy’s elder brother isn’t normal. Huge chap. Must be eighteen or so now. Beetle-browed. Strong as an ox. He once beat up Charles-Bernard when he upset him. Almost killed him. Judge demanded a psychiatrist’s report. Result was that when he did it again two years later, the parents were told he had to have treatment. He went into St Saviour’s and he’s never been out since.’
‘They never mentioned this to me.’
Doctor Nisard managed a thin smile. ‘It’s not something you make a lot of song and dance about, is it? It’s probably what made the mother a little odd.’
‘Is she abnormal, too?’
Nisard shrugged. ‘Subject to depression.’ Suicidal at times. I suppose it’s natural with your elder son in a place like St Saviour’s. It’ll be worse still now that the younger son’s been murdered.’
‘What’s the younger son like? Was he unbalanced, too?’
‘I wouldn’t say so, but he was given to fits of fury. She leaned a lot on her brother, of course – young Delacolonge. He was surprisingly good with her, as a matter of fact, and was about the only one who could get her out of her depressions. All the same–’ Nisard shrugged ‘–there’s certainly an odd strain running through the family. Her mother committed suicide and her grandmother was found dead – in circumstances that suggested her grandfather had pushed her down the cellar steps. Nevertheless–’ Nisard paused ‘–Madame Crébert is a woman of warmth when she’s not under strain. She’s law-abiding, unobtrusive, kind and serious – too serious, in fact.’
‘What do you mean by that, Doctor?’
‘She takes remarks to heart when they’re often uttered only lightly. Then she’s motivated by resentment or imagined grievances, and tends to be unstable, flitting from one idea to another. She’s self-centred and easily moved by hate or love. She’s a patient of mine.’
‘Does she hate?’
The doctor frowned. ‘Let me put it this way: When she married, she was very much in love. I’ve known the family for some time and that was patently obvious. But her husband’s a businessman who’s often away and then she feels forgotten. When she’s low in spirits or tired or unwell, she actively hates him for what she considers his neglect of her. In fact, he’s never neglected her. He’s a good husband in his own way and she’s no worse off than the wife of any other busy man.’
‘This hatred,’ Nosjean asked. ‘Could it turn to hatred of her own son?’
The doctor sighed. ‘Well, her condition’s certainly become worse in recent years and nowadays she’s in a more or less depressed state a lot of the time. She now even has a tendency to unbalanced opinions and morbid and delusive projects.’ He raised his hands in a defeated gesture. ‘I would have said that any hostility she felt would be towards the husband not the son. Nevertheless in her misery she could feel the boy was coming between her and her husband.’
‘But he was thirteen years old. A good athlete, too, I understand, and well muscled for his age.’
The doctor gestured again. ‘She’s a large woman,’ he said quietly.
‘And the diazepam capsules that were found?’
Nisard shrugged. ‘I recommended them for the mother,’ he said.