Eighteen
Detective René Desmoulins watched Rocco drive away then began his task of talking to the neighbours. Rocco’s signal had confirmed what he’d already suggested: that there had probably been no attempt by the local police at canvassing the area for information, presumably on orders from the Interior Ministry. Exactly why he didn’t know, but it left Desmoulins a clear run.
The entire street would undoubtedly have heard by now from the rumour mill that something was going on at Bourdelet’s house, which was going to make his job a little easier. Rather than having to explain his reasons for being there, and waiting for people to get over the shock, they would probably be in a hurry to get him off the doorstep.
He braced himself before knocking at the first door, which was an impressive chalet-style building with metal shutters. This wasn’t his first investigation by any means, but it was the first directly instigated by the Interior Ministry, and he didn’t want to let Rocco down.
His knock precipitated a rattle of bolts and the turning of a key, before an elderly woman appeared. She made a lengthy examination of his official card after listening to his explanation for his visit.
She shook her head. ‘I’d have been asleep at that time,’ she said finally, light flashing off her thick-framed spectacles. ‘Like all God-fearing folk. It’s a dreadful thing to happen in this area. We’re a peaceful, law-abiding community, not like some I could mention.’ She thrust his card back at him. ‘What are you going to do to make this area safe again, that’s what I want to know? Any day now and the criminal masses will be moving in and none of us will be safe in our beds.’
‘Madam, it was a suicide, not a crime,’ Desmoulins reminded her soberly. ‘There was nobody else involved.’
She gave him a vicious stare. ‘Really? You think suicide’s not a crime? You’ve plainly not set foot in a church lately, young man.’
Desmoulins felt his control of the situation slipping away. He tried to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about from criminal elements.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she snapped. ‘You’re young and I bet you always carry a gun, don’t you? I’m a frail widow barely able to walk.’ With that she hopped back swiftly and slammed the heavy door in his face.
This call set the tone for the day. Each house brought no answers, long tirades about unstable politicians, crooks, conspiracies and suggestions that weren’t far short of insane. In all, it was a normal day’s police work as Desmoulins knew it, occasionally interesting, sometimes good-willed but mostly unproductive.
Eventually Desmoulins approached a house in which an elderly man was clipping a small bush to certain death in his front garden, while pretending not to watch the policeman’s slow progress down the street. The local watchman, Desmoulins figured. Every neighbourhood has one, male or female, self-charged with keeping an eye on all the goings-on around them.
‘Ah, I figured you for a flic,’ the man said, eyeing the official card. ‘I’ve been waiting for one of you lot to turn up. You’ll no doubt be wanting to ask if I saw anything to do with Bourdelet at Les Jonquilles, won’t you?’ He stood up straight and brushed a stray leaf off his belly, before glancing around to see if he had a neighborhood audience. He didn’t and huffed in disappointment, slipping his clippers into his pocket.
‘That’s very perceptive of you,’ said Desmoulins. ‘And did you?’ As he spoke, he felt something tugging on his trouser leg and looked down to see a tiny dog, the size of a wet rat, sinking its sharp little teeth into the hem of the material.
‘Filou, stop that,’ the man muttered mildly. ‘Sorry – he’s harmless. Just don’t let him cock his leg at you, that’s all. He can pee for the Fifth Republic when he gets going. You wouldn’t believe how much piss comes out of such a small dog.’ He showed twin rows of yellowed teeth in a humourless smile. ‘After hearing Bourdelet blew his stupid head off, I’ve been expecting the place to be crawling with uniforms. Instead of which there’s just been the pimply youth on guard over there. He looks as if he’s hardly begun shaving. And now you. Not exactly a convincing response is it, for such a big cheese? What kept you?’
Desmoulins bit his tongue and resisted the temptation to flick the rat-dog away into the flower border. ‘You sound as if you weren’t a fan.’
‘What? Of Bourdelet? Damn right. Useless as a secretary of state and looked down on the rest of us as peasants. I never liked him, no. Is that a crime?’
‘Did you see anything that day or the day before?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. You seem the kind of person who might notice anything unusual in the area.’ A nosy, self-righteous bastard in other words, he wanted to add.
The man stuck his chest out and nodded proudly. ‘Well, I am known to be more on my mettle, as it were, than most of the old fossils around here. Sleepwalking to their graves, most of them, if not outright cou-cou.’ He made a circular motion to the side of his head with his finger. ‘Unlike them I’ve still got all my marbles and I like to keep an eye out.’
‘And … ’
‘A yellow van, PTT yellow, drove by while I was out walking with Filou. Seven a.m. it was. I checked my watch. Served in the navy as an observer/gunner, you see, so I got used to logging things. The strength of any fighting force, observers, did you know that?’
Desmoulins didn’t; he’d always figured on cooks being the centre of the military universe but he decided to keep that to himself. ‘I have heard it said. Is seven early for the postal delivery in this area?’
‘Well, yes. It’s usually about eight. At least, it would have been if it had been a PTT van.’ He said this with knowing emphasis, as if Desmoulins was mentally deficient, and smiled as if he’d just come up with the answer to solve the problem of Bourdelet’s suicide.
‘But you said it was PTT yellow.’
‘Indeed I did. And it was. But it was only when it had gone that I realised it didn’t have any of the usual markings on the doors. Right colour and all that, but no letters.’ He took out his clippers and chopped off another branch. ‘Being an observer, you see, I notice that sort of thing. But before you ask, I didn’t get the registration number. To be honest, I had a swine of a headache and Filou here was holding on to his pee, so I wasn’t fully focussed, you might say. Sorry.’
‘Never mind,’ said Desmoulins. ‘That’s very helpful of you, M–’
‘Dupannet. That’s one pee and two enns. Du-pann-et. Glad to be of service.’
Desmoulins left the ex-navy observer despoiling the bush and walked down the path with Filou snapping at his heels. He waited until the rat-dog followed him through the gate, then slammed it shut and walked quickly back to his car, leaving the dog barking excitedly as it took off along the pavement in the opposite direction with Dupannet calling it back without success.