The Third Day

Something was bothering him. Something annoying. Loud. Unpleasant.

Dupin tried to ignore it. Whatever it was, it had pulled him out of a deep sleep. He fought against it; every fiber of his being wanted to sleep on.

But it was no use.

It took him a while to gain a moderate level of consciousness and orient himself. Then all at once he was back in reality, and everything was completely banal: it was the penetrating ring of his cell phone, increasing in volume because he hadn’t answered.

Dupin had to get out of bed in order to resolve the problem. His phone lay on a small table next to the sofa. Before he could reach it, it rang off.

He glanced at the time: 6:07.

Dupin jumped as the phone began to ring again in his hand.

A cantankerous “Yes?” was all he could muster.

“There’s another victim, Dupin. Come right away. It’s Walig Richard. At the foot of the vineyard.”

“What…?”

“We’ll meet there.”

“What’s…?”

The commissaire had already hung up.

It took Dupin a moment to grasp what she had said.

“Shit!” he exclaimed.

Another victim. Another murder.

The antiques dealer, Blanche Trouin’s close friend and confidant.

Dupin got dressed hastily.

What was going on here? Now there were three victims.

Within minutes, he had left the room and was behind the wheel of his car.

A good ten minutes later, he was parking it again.

It had been eleven kilometers, an almost straight line southward on the map, along the Rance, no traffic. In the last few hundred meters, the road had ascended gently. Dupin had stopped the car right at the top, by a solitary, peculiar-looking round tower—with defense battlements, but only a few meters high—where two other police cars were already parked on the unsurfaced lot. He’d been expecting a few more, Commissaire Huppert’s in particular. Everything seemed abandoned, there was no one to be seen. No vines, no signs, nothing.

Dupin walked along the narrow road that led away from the tower. Three or four stone houses stood on one side, a small wood with tall trees on the other. Other than that, nothing but fields and meadows. A few times he stopped and looked around. The sun had only just risen, climbing a little above the horizon, an understated orange-yellow sphere; the rest of the sky was tinged white. To the west, the Rance flowed in sweeping arcs through the valley and formed a veritable lake before Mont Garrot. There was a silvery shimmer above the water, a milky-blue mist rising up.

Dupin came to a halt. It was utterly silent, not a sound to be heard. Still no voices, nothing. And strangely, no birds either.

This couldn’t be, it was absurd. Where was the vineyard? The police officers? Where was the body?

His phone rang from deep inside his jeans pocket.

Huppert.

“What’s keeping you?”

“I’m at the top of the hill, by the tower, where the other two police cars are parked, and…”

“The body’s at the foot of the hill. Down where the vineyard begins. You needed to drive up the hill and down the other side, then turn to the right.”

Precise information. But unfortunately, too late. Now he was stumbling around through the countryside.

“Okay. I’ll go back to the car.”

“If you’re already at the top, just walk down the hill. Toward the river, you can’t miss us.”

“I’m…”

She had hung up.

“Damn it.” Dupin veered left into the undergrowth and began to walk briskly downhill. Wild meadows of tall grass, brambles. Everything was wet, as though it had just rained, but it was only dew. Soon Dupin’s shoes were just as wet, and full of mud. Voyages et aventures, he thought to himself. The freshness from the night was still tangible, a wonderfully clear air that smelled of dense earth and wet grass. And yet he could sense the day would be hot, especially here in the campagne.

Dupin made a wide arc around a particularly tall thicket, and suddenly there they were: the vines. Breton vines. And farther down, where they began, was a gathering of people. A large expanse of terrain had already been cordoned off.

Inside the cordon, toward the river, three men in hoods were moving carefully, two of them with cameras. The forensics team. Dupin hurried, and was soon with the group. Nedellec wasn’t there yet. Dupin recognized the medical examiner, who was standing right next to the corpse with Commissaire Huppert, whose facial expression was as analytically matter-of-fact as ever.

“Stabbed—like Kilian Morel. And Blanche Trouin. The police recommenced the search at sunrise. His car was rather concealed, they found it at around five fifty-five A.M.” Huppert frowned. “The most important detail, though, is that he’s been dead for a while.”

“What?”

The medical examiner—short, dark hair and angular gray glasses—joined the conversation: “The time of death is around twenty to twenty-six hours ago. I can tell you more precisely after the autopsy.”

His phone rang.

“I have to take this.” He moved away.

“Here I am!” Nedellec, breathing heavily, came to a halt next to the group. “I was up at the tower—”

“You’re not the only one.” Huppert cut him off, instantly returning to the time of the murder. “That would mean Walig Richard was murdered yesterday morning between four and ten o’clock. The body’s been here ever since.”

“Which roughly ties in with the time Kilian Morel was murdered”—Nedellec voiced the thought that had shot into Dupin’s mind—“meaning it could be one and the same murderer. Who,” Nedellec paused, “went on a little tour yesterday morning.”

“Mont Garrot would’ve only been a minor detour,” Huppert added prosaically. “On the way to or back from La Moinerie, the perpetrator would have driven over the bridge near here instead of the dam by Dinard. Given their vague alibis, all of our suspects could have managed that timewise.”

It certainly looked that way. Even if, of course, they couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility that two murderers had been out and about at the same time. It was just incredibly unlikely.

“Maybe the examination of the wound can tell us whether it was the same weapon. The same knife.” It was like Huppert had read Dupin’s thoughts.

“What would Walig Richard have been doing here? So early? And alone?” Nedellec already seemed wide awake.

“There’s not actually anything to do here in the wine region at the moment, the vines just need to be left to grow at this stage,” Huppert informed them. “But the vintners still regularly check that all’s well, make sure there aren’t any diseases or fungi. I’ve already spoken with one of the other vintners, the mayor of Saint-Suliac. Walig Richard had apparently come out here regularly over recent weeks. Always at roughly this time of day.”

“Someone’s working systematically here,” Nedellec declared emphatically. “It’s brutal, but clear. They’re eradicating the Blanche camp. Only Joe Morel is still alive. Everyone else has been eliminated.”

For a moment, everyone fell silent.

“I’ll go pay him a visit now.” Dupin had actually been planning to meet with the sous-chef first, but perhaps under these circumstances he would drive over to Morel’s first.

“You’re seeing Morel at twelve,” Huppert countered. “In his bar. I spoke with him a short while ago. I just wanted to make sure he’s okay, hear his voice. He’s out in the oyster beds right now, he’ll be busy there until midday.”

The call had been important, Huppert was completely right.

“To be on the safe side, I’ve also spoken with Braz, Clément, and Briard. I mean, you never know. Flore Briard dropped off a few things for Lucille at the station yesterday evening, by the way.”

Dupin gave the commissaire a questioning glance.

“Things that Braz forgot. He and Briard must have spoken on the phone after his visit to Lucille. She offered to take them in.”

Dupin remembered that Braz had mentioned having forgotten a few things.

“The perpetrator,” Nedellec thought out loud, “also knew where he could find Walig Richard, just like with Kilian Morel.”

“That would probably apply to all four remaining suspects,” responded Huppert drily.

Dupin had to run it through his mind first: there really were just four left now. He was being incredibly slow this morning, he could feel his brain resisting the work. It was pitiful.

He stepped closer to the corpse and crouched down.

Walig Richard lay between two rows of vines. He was of a short, stocky build, and had a sloping forehead with thinning hair. A wide nose, his face deeply tanned—he had clearly spent a lot of time outdoors. He wore jeans and a wide, blue-gray T-shirt; both looked like work clothing, well worn, rips at the knee. The “technique” the murderer had used to stab him looked—at least at first glance—very similar to that with Kilian Morel: three wounds in the region of the heart. The blue-gray of the T-shirt had stained a reddish-black around the chest. The antiques dealer lay on his back, his legs outstretched, head turned to the side slightly, one hand on his wounded chest. There were no obvious signs of a struggle. Nor were there any tracks on the ground, which was hard and dry, with withered clumps of grass here and there. There may have been a brief tussle, but probably nothing more—if at all. Either the murderer had ambushed Walig Richard, or Richard had known the murderer.

“Can I have the corpse taken away?” The medical examiner had rejoined them.

“Fine by me.” Huppert seemed deflated. “We’re particularly keen to find out whether it was the same knife that was used on Kilian Morel.”

“I’ll look into that first. By the way, the forensics team haven’t found anything of note yet. Not here, nor the parking lot or in the car. No clues regarding the perpetrator. And no cell phone either.”

At that moment, Dupin’s telephone beeped.

The message was from Clément, the sous-chef, answering Dupin’s text from yesterday evening.

Eight-fifteen. In Café du Théâtre. I have to go to the market and be in the restaurant by nine.

That didn’t give them much time.

Okay, Dupin responded, short and to the point. Then he turned to Huppert.

“We should take a look around Richard’s shop and house. Saint-Suliac is only a few minutes away.”

“Ah, are you back with us, Commissaire Dupin?” asked Huppert with a touch of sarcasm.

Nedellec spread his hands in a gesture of agitation. “Now it’s gotten even more complicated.” It sounded like a complaint. “Joe Morel wouldn’t stand to gain anything from Richard’s death. There’s no inheritance there. The question is: Who would profit from the antiques dealer’s death? And even trickier: from the deaths of Morel and Richard. And where’s the connection to the sisters? If there even is one…”

“Is there a café in Saint-Suliac?” Dupin interrupted. Before he could start to ponder everything, he needed caffeine. He urgently needed to get his brain into gear.

“There is,” Huppert replied tersely. “Why?”

“Who’s going to focus on Walig Richard, speak to his coworkers, his friends, the other vintners—find out if he has any family?”

Nedellec’s question was clearly rhetorical.

“Richard is your man, so it’s your assignment.” Huppert didn’t dither in her response.

“We have to find out everything about him, that’s the most important thing now,” confirmed Nedellec.

“Let’s meet in fifteen minutes at Richard’s antiques store.” Dupin turned away; he had to go up the hill to get to his car.

“It’s not fifteen minutes away,” Huppert corrected him. “It’s not even ten.”

Dupin didn’t react. He set off uphill between the vines.

The Rance lay to his left, a docile, well-tempered riverscape. Its banks were lined by picturesque villages; dense, deep-green forests; far-reaching meadows and fields on harmoniously undulating hills. This world bore no resemblance to the wildness of the nearby Emerald Coast.

The sun had swiftly gained strength, and color too; it now bathed the early morning in a warm orange light.

---

“No, genuinely, Nolwenn. I can’t think of anything right now.”

It was a grave situation. One that had never occurred before. Nolwenn was far from happy about it. But what was he to do? Right now, he really didn’t have any tasks to delegate.

Dupin had just sat down on the terrace of the Bistro de la Grève—right by Saint-Suliac’s long pier—and ordered two cafés and two croissants, when Nolwenn called. She had already found out about the latest murder, and was on her way to the station. She had called a meeting for the entire team at eight o’clock. Admittedly, though, they had run out of ideas yesterday as to what else they could do from Concarneau. They had found all the information the internet had to offer, and inquiries with authorities or banks about the victims and suspects had been taken care of by Huppert’s team. Which made sense, because the local and regional police officers knew the area and people best. In addition, all the police stations and gendarmerie in the region were on the case. While there was usually a lack of personnel for difficult cases, this time it was the reverse; there was an abundance. Due to the enormous public attention, which would expand to even crazier dimensions once they knew about the third murder, this was thoroughly justified.

“Okay then, Monsieur le Commissaire.” Nolwenn gave up. “But it is and remains a dissatisfying situation. We can’t do anything but jab holes in the wind.”

“I know.”

It was an old Breton expression for demoralizing, involuntary idleness.

“By the way, Riwal is still pursuing the biographical connections between the Trouin sisters and the legendary corsairs.”

Dupin hadn’t expected anything less.

The waiter arrived with the cafés and croissants.

“Thank you,” whispered Dupin.

“Quite right, too”—Nolwenn suddenly seemed conciliatory—“have your breakfast first.”

It was unbelievable. As always, she seemed to know precisely where he was and what he was doing. Dupin had long since accepted it as a supernatural, druidic gift, yet it still amazed him every time.

“You know, I’m sure that Saint-Suliac was declared one of the most beautiful villages in France by the national initiative Les plus beaux villages de France. And rightfully so.”

A large national beauty competition, of which there were numerous similar initiatives, where the Breton villages consistently came out in first place.

“Call if there’s any news!” A sharp command. “This case is really something.”

“Speak later, Nolwenn.”

Dupin leaned back in his chair. He hurriedly drank his first café, then, without pausing, the second.

Saint-Suliac lay in a paradisical, crescent-shaped bay. The riverbank was strengthened with an ancient stone wall, behind which was a well-tended strip of grass and inviting benches at regular intervals. The main village street, which led to the port de plaisance, ran straight onto the jetty, which stretched out far into the sea and sloped away very gradually. The Bistro de la Grève was located just before the jetty, on the most beautiful spot, and Walig Richard’s antiques store was just a few houses away—Quai des Lançonniers, directly on the narrow coastal road.

Everything here felt peaceful, sedate, tranquil. Idyllic was the right word. And quiet, absolutely quiet, at least at this early hour. A grandiose panorama, wide and free.

The water was rising, though it was still low tide. The milky-blue mist that hovered over the water was still unfurling its magic, and had now taken on an intense silvery shimmer.

The excellent coffee immediately took effect. Dupin could literally feel the caffeine, pure energy, reaching his brain; like electricity being switched on and instantly spreading out into all the connected networks. As his alertness grew, so did his awareness of the extraordinary brutality of this case. What on earth was going on here?

Dupin was just about to order a third coffee when he heard cars approaching. A few moments later they came into view: a convoy of vehicles, he counted seven, led by Huppert’s dark blue Peugeot 508. Commissaire Nedellec was behind her in his dynamic silver Renault. All of them stopped on the coastal road in front of house number 6.

Dupin stood up, realizing his third coffee wouldn’t happen, and swiftly made his way across to meet the others in front of the courtyard gate of the antiques store.

“It took a little longer than I thought,” Huppert greeted him. “We had to get the key from an employee because we couldn’t find them on Walig Richard’s body, nor in his car.”

“I had a few calls to make,” responded Dupin. The commissaire didn’t need to know about his extreme, almost medically indicated caffeine consumption.

Huppert strode past him into the courtyard.

“This shop is Walig Richard’s property, by the way, as is the house where he lives. It’s nearby, also right on the shoreline.”

Nedellec and Dupin followed her.

It was a beautiful old house. Exposed granite stones in differing sizes, shapes, and colors—dark gray, brown, but also red-toned, and gray. In front of all the houses in this incredibly beautiful village were flower boxes, colorful flowerbeds, and blooming shrubs. Lavender, oleander, rhododendrons, rosemary, agapanthus. It was fascinating: the village, just like the entire surrounding landscape, exuded an entirely harmonious beauty. As though the inhabitants had wanted to make everything just as beautiful as nature itself had.

The wooden doors and window frames of Richard’s house were painted a dark blue-green, the gutters light gray, tastefully coordinated. A luscious, pale pink climbing rose between the two entrance doors had grown to just beneath the windows on the first floor. Above the left-hand entrance, a discreet sign indicated the antiques shop. Pale gravel in the courtyard, and behind the low stone wall, blossoming artichokes.

“Some of the employees, as well as Monsieur Richard’s friends and acquaintances, will be arriving soon,” Nedellec informed them. “I arranged for them to come at intervals, one after the other.”

Nedellec had been busy. Dupin was glad; they urgently needed some new leads. And some luck. Someone who knew something, something significant.

The rest of the team had now gathered in the courtyard.

“The employee responsible for this shop,” Nedellec continued, “said he didn’t notice anything conspicuous in here yesterday morning, it was all as he’d left it the previous evening. They opened at around eleven, like always. So if the perpetrator came into the shop after the murder, they must have done it discreetly. They clearly didn’t ransack the place.”

Huppert unlocked the door.

“I still want forensics to go through everything meticulously and document it. The whole house.”

“Of course.” The three men with hoods, whom Dupin had already seen back at the vineyard, instantly made their way to the front.

They plunged into the dull light typical of old stone houses with few and small windows.

Huppert turned on the light. An immense chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling.

The entire room was artfully filled with old furniture and objects, but didn’t feel cluttered; the bare white walls staged them as tasteful arrangements. A brief glance was enough to see that the items for sale here were very classy. Of superior quality. The typical scent of furniture polish, oil, dust, and multiple centuries hung in the air, mixed with notes of citrus and lavender.

The forensics team had already gotten to work.

Opposite the entrance, at the far end of the room, stood a long wooden desk on which there was an old-fashioned cash register and a large computer. An upholstered wooden stool and a black leather armchair behind; it looked cozy. Next to the table was a dark-wood vitrine filled with old jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, rings, some with expensive-looking stones, hairpins inset with pearls, cuff links adorned with mother-of-pearl.

“What do you think?” asked Huppert, who was standing next to Nedellec in front of the vitrine. “Is there anything valuable there?”

“No idea.” Nedellec shrugged. “The employee didn’t notice anything missing. And in our case it won’t be about a jewelry theft.”

Commissaire Huppert walked around the table and opened the drawer of a rolling file cabinet. She rummaged around, pulled out a black notebook, and laid it on the table. Then she opened it at a random page.

It seemed to be Richard’s accounting book, as there were sales noted on the opened pages. The object and a number, presumably the inventory number, price, date, client name, and, written very small, the client’s address along with an ongoing case number. The old-school method.

Huppert leafed through the book. There were similar entries on all the pages. She looked for the most recent sales.

“Two picture frames were sold yesterday. To a Georges Duras. A Parisian address.”

“By which time Walig Richard,” Nedellec added, “was already lying dead in the vineyard.”

“A mirror was sold the day before, that’s in a different handwriting, possibly Richard’s.”

“He was here in the shop the day before yesterday,” Nedellec confirmed.

The men from the forensics team had now turned their attention to the jewelry display case.

“To a Pierre Comment from Saint-Brieuc,” Huppert read on. “And a wardrobe to someone from Cancale, a Madame Swann Muity. And a gold bracelet. Quite pricey, one thousand fifty euros. To Marie Fesnata from Rennes.”

Dupin had leaned forward a little in order to see. The handwriting was barely legible, almost as bad as his own.

“Bonjour, madame, bonjour, messieurs.”

A stocky man had come in. Black beard, short black hair, in his mid-fifties, Dupin estimated, with a lackluster posture that matched his drawling voice.

“Your colleagues told me to come in. I’m Matthieu Boldin, I’m responsible for this shop. Even when Monsieur Richard is here himself,” he hastened to add.

Huppert waved him over. “Then I’m sure you can tell us whether he made these entries? Here, in this book.”

The employee leaned over the notebook. He looked a little nervous.

“That’s his handwriting, yes.”

“And this is where all the sales are recorded?”

“That’s right.”

Nedellec took over the questioning: “Did Monsieur Richard know the customers from the day before yesterday personally?”

“As far as I know, only Madame Muity from Cancale; they were vaguely acquainted.”

“Had there been any conflict with her? Or with any other customer recently?”

The man looked confused.

“Absolutely not, no. Monsieur Richard ran his business in a highly dedicated, personal way. And so do his employees. I can assure you that our clients are always satisfied.”

“And outside of work, can you think of any conflict in Monsieur Richard’s private life?”

“He never argued with anyone. He just avoided people he didn’t get on with—it was one of his vital principles. And Monsieur Richard seemed to have very good friends.”

“One of them being Blanche Trouin.”

“Oh yes, very much so, at least as far as I could tell.”

“Do you happen to know when they last saw each other?”

“I don’t. She didn’t come here that often.”

“Do you know whether they met up in recent weeks?”

“I think they met up last week. But I can’t remember which day it was.”

“And Kilian Morel—do you know whether Monsieur Richard had seen him recently? Or if they were even in contact at all?”

“Unfortunately I don’t know that either.”

“Did Monsieur Richard specialize in anything in his business?” Huppert joined in.

“No. For him, it was about the really special pieces. The ones with character. With history and soul, as he put it. He didn’t focus on any particular era either.”

“Did that apply to the jewelry too?” Huppert nodded toward the display cabinet.

“Yes, but he only moved into that in recent years. He quickly became an expert, though. He was an expert in all the areas he turned his attention to.”

“Who was the last person to leave the shop the day before yesterday?”

“Monsieur Richard and I left together. At seven in the evening.”

“Did he seem any different to how he usually was?”

“No, not at all.”

Huppert looked at Nedellec. “You told my colleague on the phone that you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary here in the shop yesterday morning.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Can you entirely rule out the possibility that something’s missing? In the entire shop, in the display cabinet?”

“I think so.”

“I’d like you to check again and make sure.”

“Of course.”

Huppert, who was more than a head taller than the employee, seemed to have made a strong impression on him.

“Were there any other valuable items here in the building besides the antiques?”

The man looked perplexed.

“I—no. Only the antiques. And there isn’t much cash either. Almost everyone pays by card.”

Huppert took a step toward him. “So you have no idea why someone would have wanted your boss dead? And who it might have been?”

“No.” The employee gave the commissaire a despairing look. “It’s all so terrible, I’ve no idea why someone would have done something so awful,” he blurted out.

Nedellec looked at the time. “Monsieur Boldin, I’ve arranged to meet two of your colleagues as well as some of Monsieur Richard’s friends and acquaintances here. Is there a quiet room in the building we can use?”

“Upstairs. On the first floor. It’s predominantly a storeroom, but there’s a table there too.”

In the next moment, Nedellec turned to Huppert. “I think the conversations with Walig Richard’s friends and acquaintances are the highest priority now. You’ll have to manage without me for searching his house.”

He headed decisively toward the narrow wooden stairs in the corner of the room.

“Take our colleagues from forensics up there with you,” Huppert instructed him.

Dupin looked at the time. It was 7:50. He was due to meet the sous-chef in twenty-five minutes. In the meantime, he decided to take a look around the shop. And to leave the search of Richard’s house to Huppert and the forensics team.

---

Colomb Clément, with thick, reddish-blond hair and dark, lively eyes, had a well-groomed one-week beard. He was a strong-looking young man—thirty-two, Dupin knew—a little rough-and- ready, perhaps, also in his facial features. The sensory subtlety he must surely possess as an up-and-coming grand chef wasn’t obvious to look at him; Dupin had expected someone quite different.

Clément had been standing at the counter with unforced ease—dressed in jeans and a plain dark brown T-shirt—with an espresso cup in his hand, when Dupin came in through the door a few minutes late. The café was full to the rafters and bustling with activity, a constant coming and going.

Dupin had recognized him by his searching gaze. They had greeted one another with just a few words.

“Right then.” Clément set down his cup. “Let’s go shopping.”

The sous-chef had admittedly said he needed to go to the market, but Dupin hadn’t realized he’d be accompanying him.

“I’ll be ready in just a moment.” Dupin swiftly addressed the man behind the counter. “A petit café, please.”

He couldn’t let the opportunity slip by.

A brief nod, and the man immediately turned to the impressive-looking coffee machine. Clément seemed to take it stoically; in any case, he didn’t show any reaction. He waited in silence until Dupin had drunk his coffee. Meanwhile, Dupin had stared in surprise at the front page of the Ouest-France, from which his own picture stared out at him. Beneath the headline “The Britt Team Takes Over” were photos of the three commissaires.

“We can go,” signaled Dupin.

They left the café and turned left, arriving almost instantly at Place Bouvet, the center of Saint-Servan, where not only the impressive market halls were located, but the church too. Clément paused at the side entrance to the market, which by now had reopened for business.

Dupin realized he would have to get the conversation going.

“You’ve already spoken with Commissaire Huppert, Monsieur Clément.” Dupin came straight to the point. “It’s very significant for us to find out whether Lucille Trouin knew her sister had headhunted you. Has anything else on this come to mind?”

“No.” He did, however, manage an afterthought: “Like I already told your colleague: Blanche wanted to tell Lucille herself.”

“The question is whether she did that in the hours or days before the crime.”

“That I don’t know.”

His taciturn nature didn’t come across as unfriendly, but Dupin still found it onerous.

They stepped into the halls. Clément steered his way confidently through the aisles.

“Commissaire Huppert said you also didn’t know whether Blanche Trouin had told anyone beside her husband about it?”

“Exactly.”

“And why didn’t you tell Commissaire Huppert about this matter of your own accord?”

“No idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clément had paused by a vegetable stand and was appraising cœur-de-bœuf tomatoes.

“I didn’t think it was important, Lucille wouldn’t have killed her sister over that.”

His first proper sentence. One that made it clear how futile it was to discuss the topic any further. The whole thing with the headhunting, in any case, had taken a back seat since Walig Richard’s murder.

“Why did Blanche’s offer appeal to you?”

“She offered me a lot of creative freedom. And a significantly better salary.”

He walked on—the tomatoes seemed to have been only of fleeting interest; he was on the hunt for something else.

“You didn’t have this creative freedom with Lucille?”

“She’s very authoritarian.”

“Did you argue at times?”

“No.”

“How much more money did Blanche offer you?”

“About fifteen hundred more a month.”

A sizable leap. It was a strong argument.

Clément turned left and headed for the last stand in the aisle.

“Marie-Annick, Maraîchère” was written in green lettering on a white sign, along with an illustration of a vegetable cart.

“I also didn’t want to do those culinary boat trips anymore. It bores me.”

The first point that Clément himself had volunteered.

“Were there arguments over that?”

“No.”

“Salut, Colomb,” the stallholder greeted him, seeming to know him well.

“Bonjour, Marie-Annick.”

The owner herself.

“What’s it to be today?”

“Petit pois.”

The woman, who fulfilled every idea of a vegetable grower and stallholder in the loveliest of ways—a weather-beaten face, headscarf and dungarees—went over to the piled-up crates behind her, reached into the top one, came back with a single pea pod, and handed it to Clément. It was a practiced ritual: with seasoned dexterity, he retrieved the peas from their pod with just one hand. Then he rolled a pea softly between his index finger and thumb and tasted it.

For a while, there was only silence. Then, a laconic “Okay.”

Judging by Marie-Annick’s facial expression, she’d had no doubt regarding the quality of her peas, but a joyful smile danced on her lips nonetheless.

“They’re fabulously sweet right now. Just how you like them.”

“Give me ten kilos.”

“Pierre will bring them over right away.”

Clément nodded.

“Anything else?”

“Cocos de Paimpol.”

“You’re in luck, I’ve got the first of the season.”

The pea procedure was repeated with the white beans, except without tasting them. Although the stall owner must have noticed that Dupin was with Clément in some context, she paid no further attention to him.

Clément nodded once more. “Ten kilos again,” came his verdict.

“That’s everything?”

Neither of them seemed to require many words.

“Yep. See you later, Marie-Annick.”

Clément had already turned away and was walking on.

“You heard about the latest murder, I presume. Walig Richard.”

“They’re talking of nothing else on the radio.”

“Did you know him personally?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“No.”

“And Kilian Morel—did you have contact with him?”

“Again, no.”

“You would have run into him from time to time, I presume?”

“Very rarely. Sometimes at parties, public events.”

They had arrived at a butcher’s stand. Inside a large glass display case was everything the heart could desire: gigantic côtes de bœuf, sumptuous entrecôtes, filet steaks, legs of lamb, Ibérico pork cutlets, venison sausage, entire rabbits, and a variety of offal.

“What about Joe Morel, the brother of Blanche’s husband?”

“I know who he is, but I don’t have any contact with him.”

“Have you…”

Dupin’s cell phone. The peace had lasted an unusually long time.

Commissaire Huppert.

“Excuse me for a moment. I’ll be back in a second.” Dupin went off into a quieter corner.

“Yes?”

“Flore Briard. Her finances don’t exactly look rosy either.” As always, Huppert wasted no time on small talk. “From the one point seven million euros she inherited ten years ago, only twenty thousand remain, in a money market account. That’s everything. It looks like she’s living off of her business with the culinary boat trips. She owns her villa, admittedly, but that costs her a fortune in upkeep. And it seems she recently contemplated renting part of it out. Last year she sold a very expensive Rolex at auction, an heirloom.”

“Interesting.”

It really was. Not spectacular, but interesting.

“How did you find this out?”

“I have my contacts. Just like you.”

Information like this wasn’t usually obtained through entirely law-abiding methods. After all, in strictly legal terms, Briard wasn’t a key suspect. Huppert clearly had her terrain in the palm of her hand.

“So it’s unclear how she would’ve been able to lend Lucille money. Unless she’s planning to sell her villa. But I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“I’ll call Madame Briard. Is there anything else?”

“I haven’t been able to reach Nedellec, I think he’s carrying out his interviews. I’ll try again later. I’m still at Richard’s house.”

“And?”

“We haven’t found anything relevant yet. By the way, I’ve arranged for you to visit Lucille Trouin. You can go from early afternoon onward—she has a clinical-psychological examination before that, which she initially refused. But we’ll need to talk things over beforehand.”

“Absolutely. Talk soon.”

Dupin hung up and, within moments, was back with Clément.

The sous-chef was holding a piece of meat, pressing his thumb into it and studying it closely.

“Okay.”

For him, this seemed to be an expression of the highest possible satisfaction.

“Twenty of those.”

“Your souris d’agneau with white beans, petit pois, and la ratte potatoes?”

Clément mumbled an affirmation.

Unlike the owner of the vegetable stand, the butcher definitely took notice of Dupin:

“You absolutely have to order this dish of Colomb’s, monsieur, it’s one of his masterpieces. Mind-blowing. The lamb hock is marinated in cinnamon, blossom honey, and a little premium caraway, then gently braised for hours.”

Just the mention alone of souris d’agneau was enough to make Dupin’s mouth water. He also loved white beans and fresh green peas. And the marinade sounded equally heavenly.

“Absolutely.”

“It’s a really simple dish.” Clément played it down.

It was always the way: when an exceptional cook says “really simple”—and in their mind, it really is—for laypeople that means: no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to make it taste the same.

“Need anything else, Colomb?”

“That’s everything.”

“We’ll bring it over.”

The sous-chef had already left the stall.

“Had Lucille Trouin seemed any different to you lately, Monsieur Clément?”

“No.”

“Perhaps a little preoccupied?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know about the difficulties she was having?”

“No.”

Clément steered toward a stall with strawberries from Plougastel. “Les meilleures fraises du monde” proclaimed the sign. It was entirely true. Introduced in the eighteenth century from Chile and further refined in Plougastel, they were nothing like the standard European strawberries. Dupin couldn’t get enough of them.

“You also work for Flore Briard in a sense, if I understand correctly.”

“No. Not directly.” The distinction seemed important to him. “I create the dishes and menus, and another chef then prepares them on the boat. But La Noblesse sells the recipes; Lucille Trouin’s restaurant, not me. I get a salary bonus. Not much of one, though.”

He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and joined the small queue in front of the strawberry stand.

“Still, Madame Briard would struggle if you left.”

“She’ll find a solution.”

“You must sometimes have cause to meet with Flore Briard, I presume? To discuss the menus, for example.”

“From time to time. Usually at the start of the season. She was in the restaurant last week. Friday. She came into the kitchen after service and said she wanted a quiet word with me soon.”

“About what?”

“No idea. She said she’d be in touch. But she hasn’t yet.”

A topic for Dupin’s next conversation with Flore Briard.

“Whom did she usually come to La Noblesse with?”

“Mostly with girlfriends, as far as I’m aware. I’m always in the kitchen. On Friday she was there with a man.”

“Who?”

“Blanche Trouin’s brother-in-law.”

“What? Joe Morel?” Dupin’s eyebrows shot up.

“As I said, I don’t know him personally, I just know who he is.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“Yes. One of the customers wanted to speak to me, so I was in the dining room briefly.”

Flore Briard and Joe Morel. That was noteworthy.

“Did they seem—intimate with each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was Lucille there that evening?”

“No.”

The man at the strawberry stand greeted Clément warmly.

“How’s things, Colomb? I have some wonderful Gariguettes, Séraphines, and Surprises, which would you like?”

Three of the Plougastel strawberry varieties.

“Gariguette today, please.”

The man handed Clément a single strawberry, and the sous-chef took his time.

Dupin thought he could make out a smile on Clément’s lips as he let the strawberry slowly dissolve in his mouth.

“Five kilos.”

“You got it.”

Clément lifted his hand by way of good-bye and left the stand.

“I have to get back to the restaurant,” he said, turning to Dupin.

“Then thank you for your time, Monsieur Clément.”

The sous-chef had paused for at least a moment.

“Au revoir.”

Clément made a beeline for the exit through which Lucille Trouin had fled on Monday, after the murder.

---

Dupin got into the car, shut the door, and entered Madame Trouin-Allanic’s address into the GPS.

The route would take him along one of the bigger roads beneath Saint-Malo’s old town directly to Rothéneuf, past the large industrial port.

He dialed Flore Briard’s number.

It took a little while before she picked up.

“Hello?”

“Commissaire Dupin here. I have a few more questions for you, madame.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she answered confidently.

There was noise in the background; she seemed to be on her way somewhere too, on foot, probably out in the street, Dupin presumed.

“It’s about a few things you didn’t mention when we spoke yesterday.”

“Then there’ll be quite a lot.”

“You said you wanted to give your friend Lucille Trouin a loan, and I’m assuming a considerable one. But we’ve discovered you’re not in a financial position to do so.”

Flore Briard answered without hesitation: “I don’t know what you’ve heard and from whom, Commissaire, but I know my financial circumstances. Don’t you worry.”

“Our information is unequivocal, madame.”

“Ridiculous. My inheritance was manifold.”

Dupin remained firm. “This means you’re more dependent on the culinary boat trip business than we thought.”

“You’re wrong, Monsieur le Commissaire.” She didn’t seem at all irritated. “But I love my little business. It’s very important to me.”

How reliable was Huppert’s source? Did Flore Briard perhaps have an account or funds abroad that no one knew about? Dupin wouldn’t be able to push any further than he already had. What’s more, there didn’t seem to be any obvious link between her financial situation and the murders.

It was futile.

“One more thing, Madame Briard, what’s your—” Dupin slammed on the brakes; the tires screeched. A slow-moving convoy of cars crossed the arterial highway. The classics club. It looked like a procession. Today the banner on the last car read: “We Love the Classics.” Once again, a few people from the vehicles waved at him.

Dupin picked up the thread of his conversation again: “What’s your relationship to Joe Morel, Madame Briard? On Friday evening you ate out at Lucille Trouin’s restaurant with him. You didn’t mention that yesterday.”

She was the one who had spoken of the two “camps” yesterday—and Joe Morel belonged to the other camp. The Blanche camp.

“Joe and I have known each other a really long time. We’ve always gotten on. From time to time, we catch up over dinner. Not often, though.”

“What did you talk about on this occasion?”

Dupin had reached Saint-Malo’s industrial port. On the dock, countless blue plastic crates were stacked into towering piles, presumably waiting to be loaded onto boats.

“Everything, really. My work. His bar. How things are going. Nothing in particular.”

It was clear Dupin wouldn’t get anything out of her.

“Was it an impromptu get-together?”

“No. I went out to dinner in Cancale a few weeks ago. With a girlfriend. We stopped off at Joe’s bar for an aperitif beforehand. Joe and I chatted and made a plan to catch up. And this was it.”

“Have you had any contact with him since the day before yesterday, since the incident at the market?”

“Of course. We’ve spoken on the phone twice. And messaged. In moments like this, you have to be there for people.”

“How did he seem on the phone? In particular, after his brother’s murder?”

“He’s not the type to express his emotions. But they’re there. Of course it’s a terrible shock for him. Perhaps you should speak with Joe yourself.”

“I will. You asked Colomb on Friday evening if you could meet with him soon. What did you want to talk about?”

Dupin had passed the sign for Rothéneuf. So this was the location of the plot of land that was bankrupting Lucille Trouin.

“I think you knew about Blanche headhunting him,” Dupin continued. “And that Lucille did too.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what to think.

“I didn’t know anything about it, Commissaire.” Her voice took on an element of sharpness. “I meet up with Colomb two or three times a year. To find out what ideas he has for the coming season. With Lucille, I only discuss the business side, after all. The menus play an integral role in the boat trips. And I need variety. So that people always have a reason to book again, even though they’re already familiar with the views.”

“It was a bit late for a conversation about the summer season, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve decided to invest in a large grill for both boats. Barbecue cuisine is all the rage right now. That was the main reason I wanted to speak with him. The trips continue until late October or early November, that’s still another five months.”

Dupin couldn’t think of a substantive response. It was disillusioning. But then something else occurred to him.

“What were the items you dropped off at the police station for Lucille yesterday evening?”

He had meant to ask Huppert as soon as she mentioned it.

“Just a few things that Charles forgot. Flip-flops, contact lens solution, moisturizer. And a few things I knew she’d be glad to have.”

“Such as?”

“Her favorite cooking magazine. A book I knew she’d been wanting to read. A bar of chocolate with nuts.”

“Okay, Madame Briard. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from me again soon.”

“I look forward to it, Commissaire.”

Dupin hung up.

He was nearly there. One more right turn, then he would reach the Allée Notre-Dame des Flots.

---

While Madame Allanic-Trouin’s villa didn’t possess quite the dimensions of La Garde, it certainly had no reason to be bashful. It too had an impressive neo-gothic splendor; Dupin particularly liked the light shade of stone.

The setting was just as magnificent as the villa itself. A small, semi-private road, lined by wild meadows, led out of Rothéneuf toward the sea and ended there. More precisely: at the villa, which towered, grand and solitary, over the Atlantic on the very last sweeping cliffs. Just a stone’s throw away was a steep descent into a wide bay, which was framed by high rocks and connected only narrowly to the open sea; almost encircled by the land, it itself formed a little sea. An inland sea, which at high tide—as it almost was right now—became a part of the wild Atlantic; at low tide, by contrast, a gigantic, blinding sand basin. This was a phenomenon that could be marveled at in countless spots on the Breton coast. Small groves of windswept sea pines lined the shore, with the bright blue watercolor sky above—it was breathtaking. The inland sea was a glistening turquoise, primed with white sand. A pleasant breeze carried salt and iodine from the ocean. Dupin loved it; it was so restorative.

He had parked at the side of the road, some distance from the gate to the villa. For a while, he stood motionless next to the car, ruminating over how the meeting might play out.

Presumably the aunt wouldn’t know a great deal about the two sisters, and even less, or nothing at all, about the other people involved. By all accounts, her memory was fading.

Dupin let out a sigh and set off.

Behind the gate, which looked like a show-jumping obstacle, began a dark gravel path that led to the villa.

An elderly lady came out of the entrance door and hurried toward him.

“Pardon, Monsieur le Commissaire, I’m Francine Lezu, Madame Allanic’s housekeeper. I only just spotted you, otherwise of course I would have come to open the gate.” She looked over at his car with a frown. “You could have parked inside. I’m so sorry”—she spoke without pausing for breath—“I’m so glad you’ve come, I’m at my wits’ end. Madame is saying crazier and crazier things, the doctor has prescribed her a sedative but she’s refusing to take it and doesn’t want any injections either. But she’s getting worse and worse. I’m hoping your visit will help, which I’m sure it will.” She took a deep breath at last. “The visit from Commissaire Huppert yesterday—how shall I put it?—didn’t go so well.”

The housekeeper and Dupin were standing directly opposite each other. He estimated that she was in her mid-to-late seventies, with a wiry, almost bony frame, thinning hair, and her clothes seemed from another era: a long black skirt, a ruffled white blouse, and a pleated gray apron.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. And I look forward to meeting Madame Allanic too.”

She turned on her heel. “Along here—if you’ll follow me. Madame is waiting for you on the veranda, her favorite spot. She’s just had another angry outburst, and I was afraid she was going to completely break down. Sometimes she wants me to look in the house and find out where her husband might be hiding.”

“What was her husband’s profession?”

“He was a shareholder in one of the big shipping companies here in Saint-Malo. The biggest.”

This detail seemed important to Madame Lezu.

“How long have you been working for Madame Allanic?”

“Oh, nine years and three months.”

“Has Madame ever spoken with you about what will happen to her fortune after her death?”

She looked indignant. “Of course not, what are you thinking? I’m the housekeeper. An employee. Madame would never do that, it would be completely inappropriate. And of course, I wouldn’t want her to either.”

“When were the Trouin sisters last here?” It probably made more sense to ask the housekeeper.

Madame Lezu didn’t need to think long. “Lucille three weeks ago, Blanche just last week. She always took very good care of Madame; she brought delicious ingredients and cooked for her.”

Dupin pulled out his notebook. They had reached a wide, semicircular set of stone steps, which led up to the villa’s entrance.

“How often did they each come, as a rule?”

“Blanche every few weeks. Lucille less often. Sometimes they came when I wasn’t here. I work the whole weekend, but have Mondays off. But Madame would tell me about their visits.” Madame Lezu paused. “I got the feeling they preferred coming when I wasn’t here.”

“Why?”

Her face reddened a little: “Perhaps, how shall I put it—they felt less observed.”

They had paused in front of the large entrance door.

“Were the two sisters’ partners with them, the last time they came?”

“No. Neither of them.”

“After her nieces’ recent visits—was everything like normal? Or did you notice anything different about Madame afterward?”

“Not at all, no. By the way, I should tell you that she can’t hear very well anymore.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Madame Lezu.”

“It’s a long time since Madame has left the house; her life only takes place here now.”

The housekeeper opened the door and made her way through the magnificent entrance hall to another door opposite.

Within moments they stepped into a huge space that seemed to be the living room. Dark, heavy, and intricately adorned wooden furniture, unlike anything Dupin had seen before. Peculiar artwork, incomparable with any of the styles he knew. A dark wooden floor with wooden mosaics, large paintings in bulky frames on the wall, nineteenth century, landscapes. A generously sized double door led directly out onto the terrace.

“Have you ever overheard any of the conversations between Madame Allanic and her nieces?”

The housekeeper glanced around nervously, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

“Of course not,” she whispered. “I just made the coffee or tea. Served the cake.”

“And you yourself don’t live here in the house?”

“Madame wouldn’t like that. There’s a small house for the employees farther down the road, in the village.”

“Are there other service staff, then?”

“There used to be. But for a long time now it’s just been me.”

“Thank you, Madame Lezu.”

Immense relief emanated from the housekeeper’s face as Dupin headed for the doors to the terrace.

It was like something in a film. The entire setting. The terrace—which had to be at least fifty square meters—was a kingdom in itself, surrounded by a curving balustrade at hip height in elegant white. A breathtaking sight: to the right, the small inland sea, and everywhere else, the endless Atlantic. The legendary emerald green shone in deep contrast to the white and blue of the sky. Then the noble green of the occasional sea pine and the gray tones of the rocks and cliffs.

Near to the wall of the house, sheltered from the wind but in the sunlight, stood a large wicker armchair, with a rectangular cast-iron table and three chairs alongside it. In the armchair: Madame Allanic. She was wearing a straw hat with a broad, sweeping brim and a deep-pink band. A small tray stood on the table, bearing a silver teapot, a blue-and-white porcelain cup, and a matching milk jug.

Madame Allanic sat there utterly motionless, as though she were frozen to the spot. Her gaze rested vaguely on the ocean. She didn’t seem to notice Dupin and the housekeeper. Her combed-back, short, dark blond hair shimmered white at the temples, and her striking forehead was bare, her skin astonishingly smooth for her ninety-three years. She had a narrow nose, and subtly made-up lips.

“Good morning, Madame Allanic.” Dupin spoke more loudly than usual.

She turned abruptly toward him, in stark contrast to the unmoving, withdrawn state she had been in. Out of the corner of his eye, Dupin noticed the housekeeper retreat discreetly.

“My husband will be back shortly.” Madame Allanic seemed agitated. “And then he’ll sort everything out here. He always straightens everything out, you’ll see. I don’t care when I die. He’ll bring new treasures with him! Lots of new treasures, even more valuable than the old ones! They stole them, that’s right, stole! They can’t force me to speak, I won’t say a word.” All of a sudden, she stopped speaking and seemed to fall back into her paralyzed state, except that, this time, her gaze rested uncertainly on Dupin and not the ocean.

“I’m Commissaire Dupin, Madame Allanic, from the Police Nationale. You asked to speak with me.”

Something akin to deep astonishment appeared in Madame Allanic’s expression. Together with confusion. She was wearing a mixed-wool jacket, a Bordeaux-colored blouse beneath with white piping on the collar, and a golden brooch set with a single jewel. Pleated black pants. As elegant as her appearance was, her vulnerability was plain to see. And her old age. Particularly on her hands.

“You’re too late.” Now she sounded resigned all of a sudden, sad. “It already happened. They murdered her.”

“You mean Blanche? Your niece?”

Once again, she looked surprised, as though she were wondering how he knew.

“She was my favorite. And she’s coming to see me again soon.” She paused again, motionless. Then she was gripped by a new impulse: “They came and took everything from us! Those evil thieves. They scaled our town’s mighty walls. I’m going to Canada, you know. Canada belongs to us. To my sister in Canada.”

“The one you’re planning to leave your estate to, if I understand correctly.”

Dupin watched her attentively.

“To Canada!”

She fell silent.

Dupin noted how deeply this whole situation and the old woman’s condition was affecting him. She seemed imprisoned in her own darkly gleaming night. He didn’t even know how to calm her down. A normal conversation was out of the question.

She began to speak again: “Blanche has them. Blanche! She has them all. The spices. The aromas of the world. From the most exotic of lands. No one knows them but her, only my husband. Blanche took the recipe book. It was her. From her father. She has the gift.”

“Did Lucille kill Blanche because of it, do you think?”

Yet again, she gave him a look of intense bafflement. Then it seemed as though she were gathering new strength.

“The corsairs were proud men. We conquered the whole world. I’m a corsair woman. And I won’t tell them, nor will Blanche.”

“You won’t tell them what, madame? What exactly?”

She looked down at the ground.

“Persian cumin, Afghan saffron, the most valuable spices in the world. Bourbon vanilla from the Comoros, Tasmanian pepper, cardamom from southern India, Arabic mace. Real treasures! But I didn’t tell them.”

The meaning of her words remained a mystery.

“I see you’ve found your sun hat. It’s lucky it wasn’t stolen.” Dupin remembered the housekeeper mentioning it on the phone the previous day.

“They stole everything.” She looked horror-struck. “Everything.”

A beeping tone sounded out. A text message.

Dupin glanced quickly at the display on his phone. A message from Huppert: Conversation with L. Trouin: 2:00. So she’d sorted it, good. Dupin put his cell phone away.

He decided to have one more attempt with reality: “Madame Allanic, you know that Blanche’s husband was murdered yesterday. Kilian Morel.”

Dupin thought he saw the hint of a nod. It was something, at least.

“Do you have any thoughts on this, madame?”

“My husband went to Rio. With his magnificent ship. He sailed around the whole world.” She gave Dupin an oddly penetrating stare.

“And this morning, madame, there was another murder. The victim was Walig Richard, the antiques dealer in Saint-Suliac. A friend of Blanche’s.”

She fell silent again.

Perhaps she simply didn’t have any strength left. Dupin felt sympathy for her. The conversation was clearly tormenting her. Dupin was tormenting her. He decided to bring it to a close. He liked this eccentric old lady, in whose head everything had slipped out of place, where things that didn’t belong together linked up, reassembling themselves haphazardly. For her it was a closed world—her world. Dupin wouldn’t mind getting similarly lost in his own world when his final days came.

“How’s the investigation coming along? Kilian was a good man. Where’s Lucille?”

Dupin wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. These were clear sentences in a clear voice, concrete, realistic questions, sentences from this world. And they were obviously directed at Dupin.

“Lucille’s with the police. In investigative detainment. But she’s refusing to talk.”

Madame Allanic’s reaction this time was a distinct nod.

“Do you know why Lucille did it? Why she stabbed Blanche?”

Madame Allanic was silent. But it was a different silence to before, Dupin felt. Or was he just imagining it?

“We’re trying to find the motive, madame. For Lucille’s act and also the other murders. The story that could be the key to all of it. Do you have any idea what it might be?”

Madame Allanic seemed to be agonizing over something.

“Gone.”

One loudly echoing word.

“What’s gone?”

“But my husband will be back. He’s already on his way.”

“Did you mean your husband’s gone?”

It hadn’t sounded like that was what she meant.

“He’ll put everything straight.” She seemed to be slipping away again. “I don’t know which ship she’s on. Blanche was so fond of the vanilla. Like my husband. Lucille, she can be very wicked.”

“What do you mean by that, madame?”

She looked at him with empty eyes.

The fleeting clarity seemed to have gone—if it had ever existed.

“I won’t say a word.”

Dupin waited. For a long while. But the old lady remained silent.

“Thank you, Madame Allanic.” Dupin decided to leave it at that. “And I can assure you we’ll do everything in our power,” he paused for a moment, “to put things straight again.”

For a brief moment, she looked alertly at Dupin, only for her gaze to then drift off again across the Atlantic.

“Au revoir, madame.”

She had fallen back into her rigid state. Dupin thought he saw her shiver gently, even though the temperature had risen further in the last half hour.

He turned to go.

---

Dupin stood alongside his car feeling slightly disoriented; the last three-quarters of an hour had been surreal. For a while, his gaze wandered around aimlessly, then he jolted himself back into action and got into his car.

It was only just past ten, so he had plenty of time. He was meeting Joe Morel at midday. Then Lucille Trouin at two.

He turned the engine on, looked at the map on the GPS, expanded a section of it. He found what he was looking for.

Three minutes later, he was there.

He had taken a lane full of deep potholes, which branched off sharply from the paved road. Before him lay the plot of land that was now useless to Lucille Trouin, and that would likely push her to financial ruin. It was a meadow, surrendered to nature, full of hedgerows and bushes that stretched all the way to the cliffs. A fantastic piece of land, almost in the same position as the aunt’s—which was just a few hundred meters away as the crow flies.

Dupin walked along a narrow path toward the sea. On the right, some distance away, was a modern, elongated building with a high, tent-like roof. It must be the famous restaurant Huppert had mentioned.

He wasn’t pursuing any specific plan. It was pure coincidence that the property was so close to Madame Allanic’s. But it was fitting of this peculiar case that prompted him to rack his brains, to the point of feeling dizzy, over details that quite clearly weren’t connected.

The plot of land was located on a plateau a good thirty meters above sea level. A solitary, solemn cross stood on an overhang that was shaped like a sharp wedge.

Dupin walked down the treacherously steep path and came to a halt by the cross. And then, accompanied by three gulls that were circling and screeching above him, he ventured an even more treacherous descent down to the sea. He wanted to find a sunny spot to sit in for a moment. Which wasn’t easy; the dark rocks were craggy and sharp-edged, and he also had to watch out for the waves.

After a short while he reached an abrupt dead end—a yawning crevice separated the cliffs, cutting off his path. He had to turn around.

Between two breaking waves, Dupin heard the penetrating ringtone of his cell.

Huppert.

Dupin picked up.

“Yes?”

“Dupin, Nedellec’s on the line too. The medical examiner called me regarding the time of Walig Richard’s death. He’s specified the window as eight to ten yesterday morning. And, even more importantly, after closely inspecting the wounds, he found clear indications that both men were killed with the same blade. Probably a large pocketknife. A nine- or ten-centimeter-long blade, which creates a small, characteristic injury.”

“Then,” Nedellec immediately picked up the thread, “I was right with my hypothesis. The perpetrator killed them one after the other. We just don’t know who was first.”

“The examiner suspects that Kilian Morel was killed a little earlier.”

Dupin was distracted. It was really odd. Probably just a strange figment of his imagination. On the other side of the crevice, in one of the rocks, Dupin could see a face. At first just vaguely, but then with increasing clarity. He briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he suddenly saw human features in a second stone too. And in the one alongside it. It was eerie; the entire rock overhang opposite was coming to life: faces, heads, grimaces appeared everywhere. Dupin shook himself and tried to keep a clear head.

“This means,” Huppert deduced, “we’re another step further with the reconstruction of yesterday morning.”

Dupin wrenched his gaze away from the cliffs. Was his imagination really so overheated that he was seeing apparitions?

“The key events of our case,” emphasized Huppert, “took place between Monday at one fifty in the afternoon, and Tuesday morning, seven thirty to ten. Which also means that nothing has happened in roughly the last twenty-four hours.”

Dupin clambered back without even glancing over his shoulder.

“There could be another incident at any time. This could still be ongoing. And claim more victims.”

Nedellec’s wording sounded unnecessarily dramatic, but of course he was right.

“We’ll soon find out. Nedellec, how are the conversations going with Richard’s employees, friends, and acquaintances?”

Perhaps the most important question of all right now.

“I’m making good progress.”

“Meaning?” Huppert pushed.

“I’ve spoken to all his employees, but without finding out anything significant. And I talked to Richard’s best friend here in Saint-Suliac. A musician—a pianist. He’s also a vintner at the same vineyard. They liked going for walks together, or sitting in the bistro on the quay. He says he has no idea what his friend could have gotten mixed up in. He saw him on Monday evening, they had a few glasses of wine together, after Blanche Trouin’s death. Richard must have been devastated, understandably. His friend said that alongside the grief, pain, and bewilderment, he also noticed another emotion. An uneasiness. Very clearly, at times. And he asked him about it. But Richard was evasive.”

“Could it have been fear?” Dupin had—panting a little—reached the cross on the overhang.

“He just referred to it as an unease. The pianist was with him until eleven at night, then Richard wanted to be alone. By the way, he told his friend he was planning to go to the vineyard the next morning. Which he didn’t consider unusual, as Richard loved the place, the hills, the vines, the solitude there. And he liked going there early in the morning. His friend presumed he wanted to take his mind off things. It was clearly a meditative place for him.”

“Good. Whom else are you meeting with, Nedellec?”

“The mayor next, whom Richard knew really well. Then his neighbors. I’ll call with an update later.”

“Okay. And Dupin, how was your visit with the aunt?”

“There’s not a great deal to tell.”

Dupin struggled to give a proper account of it.

“I suggest we talk in detail after the interrogation with Lucille Trouin. Agreed, everyone?” A rhetorical question.

She had already hung up.

Dupin was back in the meadow. On Lucille Trouin’s land. He glanced at the time: 10:35. Still a little early, but he would set off for Cancale regardless.

---

Dupin left the D201 just north of Cancale. He drove directly down to the harbor, straight toward the Atlantic. The street was lined by little white houses, which had presumably been built by oyster fishermen. He soon reached the shore, or more specifically: the wide promenade, fortified by an imposing quay wall, which stretched along the whole neighborhood.

Dupin took an instant liking to the atmosphere here. The mecca of the oyster world—together with Belon, of course—an iconic shrine for oyster lovers, of which Dupin was definitely one. There they lay, in front of the quay wall, Cancale’s famed, extensive oyster banks. The sea floor of the infamous Baie de Cancale, through which the Breton-Normandy border ran, consisted of nothing but white sand.

Dupin got lucky, immediately finding a free parking space next to the promenade. Joe Morel’s oyster bar had to be somewhere around here. He got out, walked over to the edge of the quay, and stopped.

Now, at high tide, the Atlantic was streaming over the oyster banks. The oysters fed on plankton, for hours on end, the smallest of particles. Then they lay exposed to the air for hours, which today meant the hot sun. The banks were visible as dark shadows on the sea floor. In the Cancale bay, the tides showed off with all their might; depending on the coefficient, they reached Breton record status here, and not only that: with a tidal range of over twelve meters, the bay ranked in second place on the global tidal rating.

The view was captivating, the air lucid. You could see how far the bay stretched out, its impressive breadth. The gaze was drawn to the coast opposite; the shimmering beaches there belonged to Normandy. The silhouette of the legendary Mont Saint-Michel could be clearly seen. The ocean was as smooth as a mirror, like oil. No trace of the emerald green; a pure aquamarine dominated, with increasing patches of blue toward the horizon.

The landscape had a completely different feel to what Dupin knew from the rest of Brittany; it didn’t seem at all Breton-like. This is where Brittany came to an end; that was the melancholic feeling. Perhaps it was the English Channel, that typical Channel atmosphere, becoming tangible here. Or, and this was also possible, you only felt the end of Brittany because you knew it ended here.

The proximity to Normandy made Dupin think of Claire. “His” Normandin.

He decided to try and catch her. Admittedly it was five in the morning where she was, but that at least made it likely she wasn’t out and about.

He dialed the number. Waited. Once again, her voicemail kicked in.

Was she really so fast asleep? She usually heard the phone; an occupational hazard of being a cardiologist. But not on this occasion.

“Claire, it’s me.” He hadn’t actually wanted to leave another message. “It’s lovely to hear your voice—at least on here.” What a stupid thing to say. “I hope you’re doing well.” An empty phrase. “I’ll try you again later. Kisses.”

He hung up. It was depressing.

Tucking his cell phone away, Dupin made his way toward the pier, which stretched far out into the sea. Only at the very tip of it did he come to a halt. A few of the oyster fishing boats were tied to the pier.

He ran through the day so far in his mind: Walig Richard’s murder—he’d been “uneasy,” his friend had said; had Richard seen it coming?—and the inspection of the antiques shop; the telephone call with Flore Briard; and, of course, the disquieting visit to the old lady.

Dupin watched three large red tractors driving along the coastal road. He headed back toward the quay. A dozen stands were set up at the start of the pier, selling fresh oysters. The canvas tents kept strictly to the Atlantic color scheme, predominantly blue and white. Large wooden crates contained oysters of differing sizes and varieties, and signs over the stands indicated the names of the respective oyster fishers. There was a wonderful atmosphere. The air carried the scent of the seaweed and algae on which the oysters were presented in the crates.

Dupin ran his hand across his forehead; he was sweating. Before long the walk would no longer feel pleasant; it was getting even hotter. He looked out for a café.

At 11:47, after two petit cafés and further intense ruminations, he was standing in front of Joe Morel’s oyster bar. La Cabane des Huîtres.

The building’s façade consisted of white-painted wood, everything simple and unfussy. Chairs and stools at a long bar. A small terrace with three tables; any more wouldn’t have fit. There were still only a few guests, but it would soon pick up with the lunchtime service.

Dupin stepped in, then came to an abrupt halt.

A familiar face was heading toward him.

Flore Briard.

“What a funny coincidence, Monsieur le Commissaire. Given we were only just speaking on the phone.” She paused right in front of him, in a pale yellow dress, large Creole earrings, and high espadrilles. She was wearing her blond hair down today, and a lighthearted smile. The situation didn’t seem to be making her uncomfortable in the slightest.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.

“I was in the area for a meeting with my oyster supplier. Life must go on, after all. So I popped in to see Joe. It was lovely to see him. He’s back there in the courtyard.” She gestured toward a narrow corridor at the far end of the room. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a moment.”

Numerous questions danced on Dupin’s tongue. But was it worth probing further? It could, of course, be just as Flore Briard had described it. Still, it was a little suspicious.

“Who’s your oyster supplier?”

Not even his curt follow-up question seemed to rattle her.

“Marcel Duché. He also has a stand out there on the quay.”

“And you get the oysters for your boat trips from him?”

“Exactly.”

“Not through Lucille’s restaurant?”

“No, directly. But he’s the same trader. We both know him well.”

“What were you talking to Joe Morel about?”

“About how terrible all of this is”—she spoke in a hushed tone now—“terrible and mysterious. By the way, just so you don’t find out afterward and agonize over it: I’m just about to go and meet Charles Braz. In Lucille’s restaurant. We felt the need to talk.”

This meant that three of the four suspects would soon be in the same locale. Colomb Clément, the sous-chef, was in the kitchen. And Flore Briard had just visited the fourth here. Curious occurrences. There could be something behind them—or nothing at all.

“I see.”

Dupin had endeavored to sound as masterful as possible.

“Okay—then, see you soon, Commissaire—you’d best go find Joe in the courtyard. It’s just through the kitchen.”

Dupin nodded and made his way toward the corridor.

He stepped through a swing door into a large room. On one side, there was a professional kitchen unit, on the other, an old wooden table with four chairs and a somewhat tired-looking black leather sofa. A young man and a young woman, who were working at the long counter, blinked at him with surprise.

“The toilets are to the left along the corridor.”

The woman had a shucking knife in her hand, and was in the process of opening a Creuse oyster. In front of her was a wooden crate containing an impressive quantity of them.

“I’m here to see Joe Morel.”

With a minimal head movement, she nodded toward the open door that led outside.

A moment later, Dupin was in the courtyard.

Joe Morel was sitting at a small blue table. He was leaning back, a cigarette in his hand, his legs outstretched.

Dupin stepped toward him.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Morel.”

“Commissaire Georges Dupin. We have a meeting, I know. Your colleague was here yesterday.” His voice sounded raspy.

Their gazes met. Morel wore old, worn-out jeans with a rip in one knee, and a black T-shirt. Athletic build, slim, certainly one-eighty in height. He looked younger than his forty-two years. Thick, tousled hair, as though he had only just got out of bed, defined cheekbones. And yet there was something uniquely gentle in his features. To top it off, he had sparkling bright blue eyes, which for sure dozens of women had fallen in love with.

“My sincere condolences on the loss of your brother, Monsieur Morel. And your sister-in-law.”

He really had been hit hard by this.

Morel pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket and lit a new one. An empty espresso cup rested next to an ashtray.

“Thanks.”

His sitting posture had remained unchanged. Dupin was now standing directly in front of him. It was a small garden, tucked away behind the building, with stubbly grass, high stone walls to the right and left, and two long palms that seemed slightly out of place.

“You’re working? Despite everything?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Morel answered. “It’s my store.”

Dupin decided to sit down on the chair opposite him.

“Are you back together with Lucille Trouin, Monsieur Morel?”

Morel looked at Dupin.

“No. But we get on well.” He took a drag of the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Are you friends?”

Morel breathed the smoke out slowly.

“Friends is a bit of an exaggeration. We’ve seen each other two or three times over the last six months.”

“And Blanche and your brother knew that you sometimes met up?”

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Not even Blanche?”

“Not even Blanche.”

He took another long drag of his cigarette. His hands were remarkably steady.

“Your sister-in-law Blanche was also one of your close friends.”

“Yes.” His gaze drifted past Dupin. “We saw each other almost every week, mostly in some bar or another, or had dinner together. Sometimes we went out on my boat.”

“Did she confide in you?”

“Presumably not about everything, but a lot.”

“And from what she’d told you recently, is there anything that could be connected with what’s been happening?”

Dupin knew this was quite an abstract question. But Nedellec had already discussed everything concrete—the recipes, the matter of the sous-chef—with Joe Morel yesterday.

“I wouldn’t know what.”

“Did Blanche seem different to you recently at all?”

“No. Not at all. I saw her last Monday.”

“And you didn’t feel guilty”—Dupin came back to the previous point—“about meeting with Lucille again and not telling your sister-in-law about it?”

“It would have made things unnecessarily complicated again. And it’s also completely uninteresting. Sometimes the two of them just went a bit nuts.”

“Because of all the competition between them?”

A nod. “Like kids—but deadly serious. Blanche knew that’s how I saw it. She was okay with that.”

“Is it possible that Blanche heard about your contact with Lucille from someone else?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. But obviously I can’t rule it out. In any case, Blanche never challenged me on it.”

“And she would have?”

Morel cocked his head to the side. “Definitely. Or maybe not, I don’t know.”

“When exactly did you last see Lucille?”

“Two or three weeks ago. She dropped in spontaneously because she was in the area. It was a short visit.”

Evidently lots of people dropped in when they were “in the area.”

“And nothing of what she said now echoes strangely, after all the terrible events?”

“No.”

“Did Lucille tell you anything about having bought a plot of land in Rothéneuf?”

“No.”

Joe Morel stubbed out the cigarette. And sat just a little bit more upright.

“Would you say your relationship with your brother was a close one, Monsieur Morel?”

He took his time with the answer, closing his eyes.

“I liked him. Very much. We got on well, always had really. But I wouldn’t say we were very close.”

That could mean everything and nothing.

“How often did you see each other?”

He seemed to be thinking it over. “Maybe once every two months. Mostly he came by here. Whenever I was in Dinard, I went to see him—at his place, I mean.”

“When did you last see him?”

“About a month ago. We had some oysters here together.”

Morel really didn’t seem the type to show his emotions. And yet Dupin could feel his grief regardless.

“He didn’t tell you about anything unusual? Any worries, financial difficulties, conflicts?”

“No.”

Dupin had been sitting down for long enough. Abruptly, he stood up. “Now you’ll inherit everything from your brother. Who in turn inherited everything from his wife. That’ll be quite some sum.”

Morel shrugged. “Could be. Yes.”

“You don’t have a proper alibi for yesterday morning.”

“I’ve made a statement about where I was and when, and what I was doing.” He slumped back down into his relaxed posture and took another cigarette. “You can believe me or not. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

“You’re aware that the quite considerable inheritance makes you a key suspect?”

Another shrug of the shoulders. Nothing more.

“What will you do with the restaurant? The spice business? The online shop?”

“Sell them, I think.” He already sounded decided.

“Right away?”

“I think so. I don’t want to have to spend time on them. My bar’s enough for me.”

There was always something brutal to it: a person had put their heart and soul into building something up, over the years, over the decades, dedicated their entire life to it—and a sudden death made it all null and void.

“Don’t you want to expand your business? You’d have the money for it now.”

“Definitely not.”

“You live here in Cancale, right?” Dupin was walking up and down in the courtyard; Morel followed him with his gaze.

“Yes, just over there.” He pointed vaguely toward the street at the back. “The house is mine.”

“How well did you know Walig Richard?”

“He wasn’t really my cup of tea. And Blanche knew that. It was okay. To be honest, I rarely saw him. But he meant a lot to Blanche.”

“Are you in a relationship at the moment, Monsieur Morel?”

“No.”

During the conversation, a frustration had been rising in Dupin. He felt they were still only scratching the surface.

“Flore Briard—is she just a friend?”

“Yes.”

“She was just here. Had you planned to meet?”

They wouldn’t have had time to agree on a story, and Dupin knew that.

“No. She just popped in. Very briefly.”

“What was she doing here in Cancale?”

“Her oyster supplier’s based here.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“We didn’t talk much. Flore’s very upset.”

“And you’re not?”

“Of course I am.”

Dupin’s mood had become even more dejected. Everything was so incredibly arduous.

“That’s all for the time being, Monsieur Morel. We’ll be in touch.”

“Fine.” Morel, who seemed unfazed by the conversation’s abrupt end, stood up. “It’s just straight through there.”

“I’ll find my way.”

Dupin left the bar and reached for his cell phone. He dialed Huppert’s number.

“What is it, Dupin?”

“Can you send someone to La Noblesse to discreetly watch a couple of people there?”

Dupin was fed up; they had to change their approach. Be more aggressive.

“Who and why?” A calm follow-up question.

“Charles Braz and Flore Briard, they’re meeting there for lunch. Colomb Clément will be in the kitchen.”

In all likelihood, this would be futile too. If Braz and Briard were involved in the murders—or even Clément too—and wanted to discuss something delicate, then they would choose a different location. Not in public, not Lucille’s restaurant. On the other hand: sometimes the most conspicuous thing attracted the least suspicion.

“Okay. I’ll send someone.”

“Right away?”

“Right away.”

“I’ll call again later.”

Dupin hung up.

Without thinking about it, he headed to the left.

Dupin reached the colorful oyster stalls on the shore. Ever since he’d got out of the car in Cancale, his mouth had been watering again and again. The oysters were omnipresent; in the ocean, in the bars and restaurants, on the stalls, the advertising signs …

Perhaps it was sensible, even, to give in to temptation. Their meeting with Lucille was at two, and he should definitely eat something before then. He needed to have all his wits about him. What’s more: nothing in the world nourished the tiny gray cells more efficiently than oysters. They were the best brain food.

He made his way decisively toward one of the stalls, where there was already significantly more hustle and bustle. The midday trade had begun. “Huîtres Simon” looked very promising. The taut fabric on the stall shone a dark blue with yellow stripes—and, together with the turquoise blue of the bay, created an atmospheric play of color.

“Six Plates and six Creuses, please.”

With this one sentence, his mood improved immeasurably.

The man countered the order with the obligatory question: “A bottle of Muscadet with that? Or just a glass?”

Dupin turned both down with a heavy heart. He had to be fully focused for the interrogation.

He took a place at one of the standing tables, and was swiftly served the large plate of oysters, a basket with some baguette, a small jug of water, and the vinaigrette for the oysters. And—a glass of Muscadet. Dupin was just about to protest—but things were so busy here he would only create confusion; it wasn’t worth it.

He drank a sip. Heavenly. Everything was just as it should be: the wine was perfectly chilled and tasted a little citrusy, the best preparation for his taste buds ahead of the first—famous!—oyster.

Dupin let his gaze wander across the wide bay, half Brittany, half Normandy. But soon, on his second oyster, his mind was once again occupied with the complexities of the case.

---

The Commissariat de Police Saint-Malo was in Rue du Calvaire, at the intersection with Boulevard Théodore Botrel—it was a modern, tall building constructed at an unusually sharp angle around the corner. The entrance was made entirely of glass, with the Tricolore resplendent above—bleu, blanc, rouge. The premises were part of the same complex as the police school. It felt to Dupin as though many weeks had passed since he’d sat in the seminar room; it seemed so incredibly long ago.

His short break at the oyster stall had played out differently than expected. He hadn’t managed to get into any intense contemplation, as two calls had come in, one after the other. The first from Nedellec, with Huppert also on the line. The commissaire had succinctly reported back on his conversations with the friends and acquaintances of the antiques dealer, where nothing of note had arisen. Then, Huppert had informed them about the analysis of Walig Richard’s cell phone records: apart from the phone calls with Blanche Trouin and her husband, Kilian Morel, which they already knew about, there were no other calls of interest. And still no sign of the cell phone itself.

After that, Nolwenn had called to remind Dupin, with great emphasis, about his home team’s ongoing willingness to lend a hand.

Dupin was just a few meters away from the entrance to the police station when the glass sliding door swept open and Commissaire Huppert came hurrying toward him:

“You’re cutting it a bit fine.”

It was 1:57; he was perfectly on time.

“Follow me. I’ll take you there. I think we should confront Lucille with everything we know so far,” began Huppert, as they made their way to the elevator.

“That would be my approach too.”

They needed strong ammunition for this conversation. And the strongest they had was their knowledge about the plot of land and Trouin’s financial situation.

They got out on the third floor.

“I’m in the room next door. Trouin’s attorney, Monsieur Giscard, is already there.”

In truth Dupin couldn’t stand it when he had to do observed interrogations, but that wasn’t important now. At least he would be speaking to Lucille Trouin alone.

They turned down a corridor, and at the end of it Commissaire Huppert came to a sudden halt.

“Room 318—here. They’re already inside. With two police officers for the moment. As I said, I’m next door if you need me.”

Dupin nodded and reached for the door handle. He was relieved; he had been expecting a more exhaustive pre-discussion.

He stepped in.

A long, narrow table, with three chairs on each side. Just one window, looking out over Rue du Calvaire. Dupin would sit with his back to the large mirror, through which the others were watching him; Lucille Trouin and her attorney were already sitting opposite.

The attorney, in an elegant suit with designer stubble, had gotten up as soon as Dupin entered and now came toward him.

“René Giscard. You know my client doesn’t want to give a statement on the incident. So we see no reason for a renewed interrogation.”

The two police officers who had been standing by the table left the room.

“We know that, monsieur. We know that.”

Without any sign of haste, Dupin sat down and shifted his chair until he was directly opposite Lucille Trouin. She was an incredibly attractive woman, whom he would have estimated as being in her mid-thirties, not forty-two. Jet-black, shoulder-length hair, with a slight auburn sheen, if you looked closely. Big, dark brown eyes that were very close to black, eyebrows skillfully emphasized with pencil. A simple but elegant black pullover, a plain silver chain with a single, impressive stone, black jeans. She stared out of the window, her expression empty.

“My name is Georges Dupin, I’m one of the investigating commissaires. Bonjour, Madame Trouin.”

She turned toward him, at least. It was impossible to read even the slightest hint of emotion in her face; Dupin had rarely seen such a neutral expression. Her immaculately made-up lips didn’t move.

“Madame Trouin,” the attorney took over, “has already been questioned by Commissaire Huppert, and as I said, doesn’t wish to—”

“We know,” Dupin interrupted in a calm tone, “about your financial ruin, the fiasco with the plot of land. We know you urgently need money in order not to lose everything. Everything you’ve built up is at stake.” Dupin had fixed his gaze solely on Lucille, as though her attorney didn’t even exist. “What’s more, your bankruptcy would have meant, and this would perhaps have been the worst element, losing the lifelong, bitter feud with your sister. Your drastic financial situation must surely have played a decisive role in what you did.” Dupin had to escalate things like this, there was no other way. “We doubt that your act was a crime of passion after all, and are investigating correspondingly. We also see the murders of Kilian Morel and Walig Richard as connected. It’s just a matter of time until we get to the bottom of it all.”

It was a shot in the dark. But that didn’t matter: Dupin’s aim was to trigger something within Lucille Trouin. If possible, to break down her reserve. She was a murderer. And she was keeping her silence. They had to break it.

Dupin waited.

Madame Trouin hadn’t even blinked as he spoke.

He waited. Until the point where his words began to fade away, to lose force. In that very moment, he continued:

“We also know that your sister stole your sous-chef from you. Clément had signed the contract and would soon have been working for Blanche. And, in addition, we know that you ended your relationship with your partner and have been meeting with Joe Morel.”

Once again, his aim was for the most intense provocation, to trigger the greatest discomfort. And anger. Dupin needed to make as much noise as possible.

“And finally,” this—if she didn’t already know—was sure to hit her hard, “we’ve found out about the imminent publication of your father’s recipes, which your sister had been working on with a well-known publishing house. She was planning to show the whole world that she was the better chef.”

A leaden silence. Lucille still seemed fully composed. It was unsettling.

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at, Commissaire.” The attorney eventually interrupted the silence. “Why are you telling…”

Dupin stood up abruptly. The chair almost tipped over, clattering loudly back down.

“That’s all from our side.” He continued to ignore the attorney, looking Lucille Trouin directly in the eyes. “Madame, thank you.”

Dupin went toward the door, and a moment later had left the room.

It had been a conscious, albeit spontaneous decision not to ask Lucille any questions, which she could once again have refused to answer. She had been playing that game for too long already—because, of course, it was a game that she was playing with them. All that remained was to wait and see whether he had aggravated her enough to make her speak.

He walked back down the corridor, in urgent need of fresh air. A door was flung open behind him, and Huppert quickly caught up with him. Dupin wasn’t in the mood for a post-mission critique.

“That was a clever move, Dupin.”

She looked at him from the side.

“But a dangerous one too. You really pushed her to the limit. Let’s see what comes of it.”

The critical postscript almost entirely qualified the praise she’d given.

They had reached the elevator.

“I’m in the process of examining Walig Richard’s finances.” Huppert changed the subject. “I’ve agreed with Nedellec that we’ll meet at four in my office. By the way, I heard from my colleague who was watching Flore Briard and Charles Braz in La Noblesse. Unfortunately he was unable to get a seat where he could’ve heard their conversation—he said they were sitting at a table for two in a tucked-away niche.”

Exactly as people do when they don’t want to be overheard.

“And the sous-chef didn’t come out even once.”

“How did they seem with each other?”

Huppert obviously knew what Dupin meant: “Close, certainly, but my colleague couldn’t make out any indications of a romantic relationship.”

It had been worth a try.

“I’ll bring Nedellec up to speed now.”

“Speak later…” Dupin was just about to turn away when something occurred to him. “One more thing, Huppert.”

He lowered his voice. He couldn’t get it out of his mind; the experience had been too peculiar.

“Between Lucille Trouin’s plot of land and the aunt’s house, on the cliffs right by the ocean, I saw something…” He pondered how to best formulate the question.

Huppert spared him the ruminations:

“You weren’t hallucinating, Dupin, don’t worry. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, a monk chiseled three hundred stone sculptures into the rocks. If anything, he was the one who was delirious.”

“I—thank you.”

Dupin was relieved, even though the monk sounded a little sinister.

He said good-bye to Huppert, took a step forward, and the door of the police station glided soundlessly open.

---

Dupin had turned right, toward the kilometer-long beach that stretched all the way to Rothéneuf. It didn’t take him long to reach it; the Ville Close lay to his left and, slightly in front, the powerful Fort National. He would use the next hour to go for a walk; for Dupin, this was the best way of thinking.

An unmissable sign greeted him as he stepped onto the beach: “Grand Plage du Sillon—La plus belle plage de la France.” Even the beach had won an award; a great accolade.

As Dupin replayed the interrogation in his mind, he began to feel more and more dissatisfied. Perhaps he should have given it a little more time at the end, to allow something to develop. By breaking it off abruptly like he had, perhaps he’d ruined everything. On the other hand: maybe it had triggered something in Lucille Trouin, and his approach might still pay off.

The overall course of the investigation was making him increasingly unhappy. Of course, there were moments of despondency in every investigation, but this time their progress seemed more hopeless than Dupin had ever experienced. The police statistics made it abundantly clear: with every hour that passed after a crime without the police shedding light on it, the chances that it would ever be solved sank drastically. Dupin felt resignation, but also an uprising against it, a fierce, desperate agitation.

The sand was unusually fine, and Dupin sank deeply into it. The Plage du Sillon was worthy of its honors; it was wonderfully long and wide, a true city beach. To the right were magnificent houses and villas. In front of the quay, which protected it from the raging tides, dense rows of tree trunks had been driven into the sand as an extra defense.

The beach had filled with the first holidaymakers, the weather prompting a summerlike cheerfulness. People were sunbathing, strolling, reading, children were playing, a few particularly brave individuals were even venturing into the water, which was divided into two colors today. A band of glittering turquoise near the shore, and a band of emerald green farther out. The sky was an intense blue, an even tone without shadows or nuances, resembling a painted backdrop.

Dupin was just reaching a flat rock ledge that overhung the water—he had been walking for a good twenty minutes now—when his phone rang.

It was Commissaire Huppert.

“What’s up?”

“She wants to talk, Dupin. Right now. I’m just going to 318. Lucille Trouin requested a private word with her attorney right after you left.”

“I’m on my way.”

Dupin had already turned around and was hurrying back.

“It’s best we don’t wait.” Huppert was out of breath. She seemed to be running. “I’ll go in immediately. And I’ll call you soon.”

Before Dupin had a chance to reply, she was already gone.

Finally, something was happening.

A quarter of an hour later, as he turned in to the street where the police station was located, his phone rang again.

Huppert. He picked up at once.

“She’s made a statement.”

“And?” Dupin’s nerves were stretched to the limit.

“She says it was a crime of passion. A sudden, irrational act. That she wasn’t aware of what she was doing. Like she was in a trance. All she felt was rage and contempt. In the moment, all the indignities, slights, and hurt that had built up over the years and decades just erupted.”

The way Huppert emphasized the words betrayed what she thought of the statement: namely, not much.

“She says that in the weeks beforehand she was so worn down by her financial problems that she’d become mentally unstable, and that she couldn’t sleep for nights on end. She cited practically everything you can find in the judicial forensic science textbooks on ‘victim situations’ and ‘explosive reactions,’ every key term you can imagine.”

“And what was the alleged trigger for this ‘explosion’? What provoked the crime of passion?”

Dupin could already see the police station.

“Yes, well—here it comes. Brace yourself.” Huppert’s voice had taken on a peculiar tone. “She says she found out about the publication of the recipes last Sunday.”

“Incredible. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Wait, it gets even better. She was beside herself then already, which is why she went to the market stall on Monday, where Blanche not only ‘shamelessly confirmed’ it all, but also told her about stealing Clément away. That, apparently, was the final straw. She completely lost it, and that’s how the ‘terrible drama’ came about.”

Dupin had come to a halt just a few meters away from the station. He was lost for words.

“After her confession, the tears flowed. She swore that she feels awful and wishes she could take back what she did. It’s laughable. Anyway, Trouin now wants to speak with the psychologist she previously refused to say a word to. She was in a ‘state of shock,’ she says—and that was the only reason she hasn’t spoken before now. She was simply incapable of saying anything. She claims that your ‘vigorous outburst’ earlier helped her to regain her senses. And to make the confession.”

It was monstrous. And it exceeded all the brazenness Dupin had ever experienced with perpetrators. Without hesitating, Trouin had turned the tables and used—or rather, abused—his information to create a plausible reconstruction of a pure crime of passion. It didn’t get more perfidious than that. Could he have predicted this? Either way, without intending to, he had helped her out of the tight spot. It became clear to him only now: after the crime, she couldn’t simply have invented a “trigger” without taking the risk of being caught in a lie. That’s why she’d had to remain silent. In order not to risk anything.

“She didn’t know about either!” Dupin was furious. No one had ever made him look like this. Like a complete idiot. She was making fun of him. And she was approaching it very intelligently. Because how would they ever be able to prove the opposite of what she’d said? It was humiliating.

“Of course not. She didn’t know about any of it.” Huppert’s confirmation unfortunately held no trace of consolation. “But it’s come at just the right time for her.”

Dupin was still standing there as though he’d been hit by lightning.

“And who allegedly told her about the recipes?”

“She didn’t want to say, apparently in order to protect the person, who had nothing to do with the whole thing.”

“That’s complete and utter nonsense.”

Dupin had started walking again. Not to the entrance of the police station, but back toward the beach.

“Shrewd, though.”

It certainly was.

“Did she say anything about the other two murders?”

“Just that it’s all very tragic and she doesn’t have the slightest idea what’s going on. That’s when she ended the conversation. It’s clear what position she’s planning to take,” Huppert summarized drily. “Crime of passion equals diminished culpability equals a significantly reduced sentence—and she has nothing to do with the other two murders. You’ve handed her on a silver platter what she was so far lacking: the plausible catalyst for the crime of passion. We’ll see each other later, Dupin. Four o’clock.”

She had hung up. Clearly, she was no longer expecting him at the station.

Just a short while later, Dupin walked onto the most beautiful beach in France for the second time. Compared with the state he was in now, his downbeat mood during the first beach stroll had been a joke, a fleeting gray shadow. This time, a colossal, pitch-black monster of a cloud hung over his mind.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Nolwenn’s number.

“Monsieur le Commissaire, how are things going?”

Dupin hesitated. Where to begin?

“What’s happened?”

He pulled himself together and recounted the interrogation debacle. And then everything else that had happened since their last phone conversation.

Nolwenn was silent throughout; no questions, no analysis, no comments. Then she said, “Well. That’s Saint-Malo for you. Even the criminals there operate only in the superlative. All five of us are here, by the way. I’ve put my phone on speaker. We’ve got your back.”

Dupin almost felt sentimental.

“Always remember: Pa v ear fallán an amzer—E vezer an tostan d’an amzer gaer, Monsieur le Commissaire. Right when the storm can’t get any worse, that’s when you’re closest to the sunshine. It’s true!”

A Breton saying. At least some things were the same as ever. And it was a particularly wise one, at that. It helped a little.

“Okay, so…”

“Riwal wants to speak to you.”

She had already passed the phone along.

“Salut, boss,” the inspector greeted him in a forcibly cheery tone. “You’ll figure things out!” A well-meaning attempt. “Kadeg just forwarded me a newspaper article from last week. On the underwater sandbank, not far from the two frigates Dauphone and Aimable Grenot, which were discovered back in 1995, they’ve found another boat from the corsair era. Less than twenty kilometers from Saint-Malo! It probably sank around the same time. At the beginning of the eighteenth century. I have no idea how I could have missed the report.”

“And?”

“It seems there’s a mountain of treasure in the boat. They’ve already salvaged some gold and silver, and jewelry too. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies. There’s even supposed to be some connection to the Duguay-Trouin corsair clan. But that’s probably pure speculation, one—”

“Was there anything else, Riwal?”

“The electric fence at ankle height was a complete non-starter, boss.”

“What electric fence…” Dupin broke off as he remembered. The badger! Of course.

“He was back again last night.”

“Don’t lose heart, Riwal.”

For a moment, Dupin really had felt distracted from his own disaster.

“Don’t worry, boss. Tonight will be a very special evening for you. You’ll be cooked for by Hugo Roellinger in Le Coquillage.”

It had completely slipped his mind. It felt fundamentally absurd to go out for a fancy dinner after a day like today.

“Hugo Roellinger grew up among the legends of the corsairs, apparently in the same house in Cancale where the immortal privateer Robert Surcouf played as a child. Roellinger worked at sea for years before he followed in the footsteps of his father Olivier, an almost unearthly three-Michelin-star chef, by becoming a chef himself. With two stars of his own by now.”

Dupin remembered the remarks of Huppert’s assistant; she had mentioned the Roellingers.

“He says his main inspiration is the horizon. Make sure you get the lobster with cacao and chili three ways with sherry sauce. You’ve never had anything like it. An homage to the great seafarer Daniel de la Touche, who set sail from Cancale and came back with boats full of cacao, vanilla, and chili.” Riwal seemed to be making the most of the fact that Dupin was letting him ramble on. “And bring back some of the heavenly spice mixes made by his father! You won’t find better anywhere in the world—”

“Thank you, Riwal.” Now it really was time to interject. “I have to go.”

“Okay, boss.” The inspector took it on the chin. “Good luck!”

“Speak later.”

Dupin was still riled up. And in urgent need of a café.

---

In no time at all, Dupin had found a nice bar on the promenade, drunk two petits cafés, calmed down a little, and sunk back into feverish ruminations.

At 3:40 he finally set off, and at 3:59, entered the police station for the second time. This time without being greeted; he’d needed to ask the way.

The meeting took place in Huppert’s office, on the second floor, directly above the entrance. It was a generously sized room with windows overlooking both streets, furnished with emphatically modern office furniture.

The commissaire was sitting at her desk. Nedellec and Dupin took their places opposite.

They had proceeded just like the day before: first, recounting everything in order, reduced down to the facts.

Huppert had managed—once again in the gray zone of police work, Dupin presumed—to get at least a vague overview of Walig Richard’s finances, as well as those of Colomb Clément, Charles Braz, and Joe Morel. So far, without discovering anything conspicuous. She had also told them about the final report from the forensics team. Nothing unusual had been found in either the vineyard, Richard’s two antiques stores, or his home, and there was no indication that the perpetrator had searched them.

Finally, she had talked about the interrogation disaster.

“Well, that certainly backfired.” Nedellec couldn’t hold back a comment, albeit while giving Dupin a sympathetic glance. “So what do we do now?”

“We can’t sit around waiting to see whether something else happens—and for the murderer to finally make a mistake.”

Commissaire Huppert had said precisely what was on Dupin’s mind.

It was grotesque: a brutal murderer out there somewhere, and in here sat three competent, experienced commissaires who were on the brink of giving up hope.

“We have to go through everything again. Starting from the beginning.” Nedellec now sounded admirably constructive. “Speak with everyone again.”

It was an act of pure desperation. But what else could they do? As they didn’t have any new leads, they’d have to pore over everything again in minute detail. Maybe they’d overlooked something? Perhaps they had already found the key to this infuriating case?

“Okay,” Huppert agreed listlessly. “We’ll analyze everything again, try it from a different angle. We’re meeting the prefects at seven o’clock. In Saint-Méloir-des-Ondes, right by Cancale. In Le Coquillage. We’ve got time before then.”

“You mean, we’re going through everything again together?” Dupin’s gaze fell on the large flip chart next to Huppert’s desk—his idea of a nightmare.

“I’ll fetch coffee, and then…”

Huppert was interrupted by the shrill ringtone of her cell.

“Yes?”

She listened. Her expression froze.

“At Pointe du Grouin?”

The person at the other end of the phone seemed to be answering in detail.

“I understand.” Huppert’s tone had changed. Something wasn’t right.

“Okay, yes, we’re on our way.”

She jumped up and made her way toward the door.

“Charles Braz! He was found a few minutes ago. He’s dead!”

Her hand was already on the door handle. The two other commissaires reacted instantaneously and were right behind her.

They hurried along the corridor. “He fell from the cliffs. At Pointe du Grouin, between Rothéneuf and Cancale. They’re the highest in the region.”

They had reached the stairwell.

“Who found him?” Dupin was utterly focused.

“A couple from Alsace. They were hiking the coastal path. It’s quite an isolated area. And today most of the holidaymakers are at the beach.” Huppert was taking two steps at once. “It must’ve only just happened, or at least that’s how it looks. Two officers from Cancale are at the scene.”

It couldn’t have been much longer than that. Braz had been in the restaurant with Flore Briard until half past two.

Dupin was running alongside Huppert. “Did the police find his car there?”

“It’s up at the side of the road, properly parked.”

“I’ll call Flore Briard. She was with him earlier.”

They had arrived downstairs.

“Are there any signs of a struggle? Any indications that he was pushed?”

It was a notorious quirk of Dupin’s, asking for details when no one was able to answer them yet.

“The police officers only just got there,” Huppert replied calmly. She turned and dashed over to her car. “See you both there.”

She was already gone.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Dupin was the first of the three commissaires to park at the side of the coastal road that crossed the high plateau between Cancale and Saint-Malo. He left his car directly behind the police cars and ambulance.

Charles Braz’s Volvo was a little distance away. The gendarmes had cordoned off the entire section of road. The forensics team would search scrupulously for evidence of a second car having been there. If it had been murder—and this was surely the most convincing hypothesis at present, even if the murderer hadn’t used a knife this time—there were two possible scenarios: either the perpetrator had come here with Braz, or in their own car. The question of whether the previous two murders had been the last had been gruesomely answered: this was still ongoing. Someone was unwaveringly following a merciless plan, seemingly without much fear of being caught.

Flore Briard’s phone had been constantly engaged; Dupin had tried again and again.

He got out of the car. A brisk wind immediately gripped him. He saw a vast coastal cliff—steeply descending, seventy meters high for sure—infinitely more rugged than the other stretches of coast he had seen over the past few days; a surprising landscape, especially in contrast to the shallow, gentle bay of Cancale just a few kilometers away.

He needed to find a safe descent down to the coastal path, and from there, farther down to the water.

Two cars came to a halt just behind him. Nedellec and Huppert.

“What are you waiting for?” The commissaire jumped out of her car. “Along here.”

She ran ahead.

“On the drive here I gave orders for Briard, Clément, and Morel to be brought to the station for further questioning. They’re the only three left. Even though we don’t yet know the connection: they’re prime suspects, and there’s a flight risk. If they make a fuss, I’ll have them temporarily detained.” Huppert spoke calmly, as though she had all the time in the world. “We’ll question them together later, including about their alibis for this afternoon.”

It was serious, and Huppert had made the right decision. The circle of suspects had shrunk further still. Even more critical was the fact that, this afternoon, all three of them had been relatively close to the latest crime scene—even if their precise alibis weren’t yet known.

The three commissaires had reached the coastal path, which was also cordoned off, and were now headed in the direction of Saint-Malo.

Behind a towering cliff overhang, they were awaited by two police officers.

“He must have fallen from over there,” said the older, corpulent officer, pointing toward a spot around twenty meters away that was marked with a neon yellow sign. “In any case, he was lying directly underneath it.”

“Forensics are nearly here.” His younger, equally corpulent colleague spoke up. “There are lots of incredibly sharp rocks down there. He had no chance. There was a suicide in almost exactly this spot around seven years ago, by the way.”

“A suicide, right here?” Dupin blurted out.

“It’s the ideal place for it.” The policeman paused briefly. “If you see what I mean. Of course, it would also be perfect for murder.”

“Is the medical examiner here yet?” Huppert wanted to know.

“Should be arriving soon.”

Nedellec had already walked a little farther along the coastal path, taking immense care to stay on the left-hand side, away from the cliff edge, so as not to disturb any potential evidence.

Dupin followed.

“I’m going down to the rocks.” Huppert walked back along the path the way they had come. There must be a path there somewhere; she seemed to know the area like the back of her hand.

Dupin reached the marker, a folded neon yellow vest.

This was the spot.

He crouched down next to Nedellec. The path here was seventy centimeters wide at most, and consisted of well-trodden earth and stones, some short, scrubby grass at the sides. From the edge of the path, it was less than thirty centimeters to the cliff edge.

At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any obvious clues. On one spot where the path transitioned into grass, there was a small scuff of earth, perhaps a centimeter high. It could have been caused by the tip of a shoe, a heavy tread. It was too small to judge clearly.

Someone really could commit the perfect murder here. The perfect murder—something humanity had puzzled over for centuries. It crossed Dupin’s mind every time he found himself at a particularly dangerous stretch on Brittany’s coastal paths. There would be no need for a struggle, not even a heavy shove. Just a nudge would be enough, while someone was looking at the breathtaking landscape, and they would lose their balance.

Nedellec pointed toward the potential shoe scuff:

“We should leave that to the experts.”

“You’re right. Let’s go back down. I just want to try Flore Briard again quickly.”

Nedellec nodded and walked ahead, Dupin a little behind, his phone to his ear.

This time the call went straight through.

“Yes?”

“Madame Briard, this is Commissaire Dupin.”

“How can I help you, Commissaire?”

She sounded as though she didn’t know. Or she was pretending not to. Dupin wouldn’t put it past her.

“Charles Braz is dead. He fell from the cliffs. At Pointe du Grouin, just north of Cancale. We’re presuming it was murder.”

“Charles?”

There was clear horror in her voice now.

“It only just happened. Where are you right now, Madame Briard?”

“I’m at home.” She seemed to be finding it hard to speak. “I drove home after our lunch. I’ve been here ever since.”

So much for an alibi.

“Are there witnesses?”

“No. Does that mean I should come to the station?”

“For that, and other reasons.”

“You really suspect me?” She seemed genuinely surprised.

“Of course, Madame Briard. Back to Charles Braz: How did he seem when you saw him earlier? What did you talk about? What were his plans after your lunch?”

“I can’t believe it. Charles—he’s really dead?”

It sounded as though she was crying.

Dupin didn’t answer. There was a pause.

He had arrived at the spot where Nedellec had left the coastal path and—he had to look closely—followed a lightly trodden path through the bushy grass, which led downward in narrow, treacherous serpentines.

Dupin embarked on the descent.

“Are you still there, Madame Briard?”

“Yes, yes.” She hesitated. “Charles barely said anything at lunch. He seemed distraught, even worse than yesterday and the day before. He kept saying he couldn’t take it much longer.”

Dupin had to clamber down a section of the path, and clamped the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Couldn’t take what much longer?”

“The thing with Lucille, but everything else too. He seemed broken.”

Braz hadn’t seemed in all that bad a state to him yesterday, but naturally that didn’t mean anything. The most intense of emotions sometimes took a while to come out. And he had surely tried to keep his composure while talking to Dupin.

“I tried to cheer him up. But there wasn’t much I could say. He’s right, this is all terrible and so hard to cope with. I was really worried about him.”

It was a difficult phone call. If Briard was lying to him, lying to all of them, and it really was another murder and she the perpetrator, then she was exceptionally cunning. The thought sent a shiver down Dupin’s spine. First, she would have murdered Charles in cold blood, and then brought his supposed emotional devastation into play to suggest suicide. They would never be able to verify what state of mind Braz had really been in. But of course, what she was saying could also be true. As things stood, they couldn’t rule out suicide. The only question was: How reasonable was the supposition that Braz had taken his life due to the events of the last few days? Why would he do that?

Dupin had to concentrate on the path; he had almost tripped on a root.

“Did you talk about anything else?”

“No.”

“Where did he go after you saw him?”

“He…” Briard broke off, then, after quite a long pause, continued. “He wanted to—walk a little. He needed some fresh air, he said.”

“He said that? That he was going for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be all for now, Madame Briard. We’ll see each other at the station.”

Dupin put his phone away and climbed down the last, risky section of path. He couldn’t afford to make any wrong moves.

Soon he was standing on the rocks at the bottom, just above the water.

There was no sign of Nedellec. Or of anyone, for that matter. To his left was the protruding cliff they had just circumnavigated on the coastal path. Down here, there was barely half a meter’s breadth to squeeze around the cliff wall—and only when the waves had just retreated.

Then Dupin saw it—the scene of the gruesome occurrence. Nedellec, Huppert, and four police officers were standing around the spot.

Dupin had seen many mangled, deformed corpses in his time, but never one as horrifically maimed as this. The sight was hard to take. Charles Braz had fallen sideways on his shoulder onto a sharp rock, to which skin and blood now clung. His head had almost been severed, he lay at an impossible angle; his spine must have broken in multiple places. There were deep, gaping wounds on his neck, and his lilac polo shirt was in tatters. On his upper arms, which were also visibly broken, bare flesh bulged out, his skin having been torn away in strips.

The head and shoulders had slipped down onto a flatter rock after the collision, and his abdomen and legs into a crevice, where the blood had pooled and now stood several centimeters in height. His entire body seemed slack and shrunken, as though all the blood had drained out of it.

Dupin approached, feeling queasy for a moment.

“It won’t be easy to identify signs on his body of his having been pushed—if indeed there are any.” Huppert’s voice was quieter than usual.

“I don’t think it was suicide.” Nedellec was pale; he too was clearly impacted by the horrific sight.

“I…” It hit Dupin like a thunderbolt.

Something had just occurred to him. It hadn’t given any forewarning—usually he had at least a vague sense when something was occupying his subconscious, even if it took a long while to identify exactly what it was. But this thought had suddenly appeared in his mind. It daringly connected the things he had seen and heard over the last two days. It was, admittedly, a bold thought. But that had never stopped Dupin from pursuing an idea before.

“Is something wrong, Dupin?” Huppert had noticed his sudden silence and looked concerned. “Do you want to sit down for a moment?”

Dupin’s brain was racing, searching feverishly for connections, creating links. It tried to make sense of it all, but couldn’t just yet.

“I … something’s just come to me. It might be too far-fetched, but…” Dupin instantly set into motion. “But I think I should follow it up.”

“What is it? Where are you going?” Huppert’s tone was strict.

Dupin was already a few meters away.

“I’ll call later,” he shouted out without turning around. Then he concentrated on the difficult ascent—and his thoughts.

It was still far too speculative. One of Riwal’s comments during their last phone call had suddenly come to mind and made him think. But if Dupin was right, there had already been clues before then. It could be the key to solving the whole story. It wouldn’t only give them the murderer, but perhaps, at long last, the motive.

Dupin clambered up the slope as quickly as he could.

Breathless, he reached his car.

His phone rang.

Huppert. For the third time already since he had set off. And once again he ignored it. He flung the door open and jumped in. It wasn’t far. Five minutes.

The engine roared into life; the tires screeched.

It wouldn’t be easy to develop this rash thought into an ironclad theory, but he had an idea. Which, like the entire notion, might well be insane, but that didn’t matter. He needed at least an initial clue as swiftly as possible—preferably, of course, a genuine piece of evidence—so that he could then go for broke.

---

He left the car in the same place he’d parked it the day before and walked the rest of the way.

It was impossible to predict how this conversation would go.

Dupin rang the doorbell. An old-fashioned bell, but no less powerful for it.

He waited. He waited a long while.

Then—without any sounds having made their way outside beforehand—the door opened.

“Bonjour, Madame Lezu, I have to speak with Madame Allanic.” Dupin caught the housekeeper off guard.

“She—she’s not prepared for visitors. I don’t know whether…”

“I’m terribly sorry, madame,” he stepped in, “but I’m afraid there’s no option. It’s an incredibly urgent police matter.”

She paled and stepped to the side.

“Madame is in the living room.”

Dupin knew the way.

“I’d like you to be there too, Madame Lezu. You could be of help to me.”

Every sentence he spoke seemed to further overwhelm the housekeeper, who was dressed like before in a black skirt and white ruffled blouse.

“I don’t think Madame will approve of that in the slightest.”

Dupin had already reached the door to the living room. “Come along, Madame Lezu!”

The housekeeper’s face displayed pure horror.

He knocked distinctly and immediately went in.

Madame Allanic was lying on a chaise longue, facing away from the door. Her multi-toned woolen jacket was now done up. A television was on, but without any sound; it was completely quiet.

“She can’t hear you,” whispered the housekeeper, “she’s wearing headphones.”

All of a sudden, Madame Allanic turned round. Strangely she didn’t seem surprised to see Dupin standing in her living room.

“Good, good”—she removed her headphones with fumbling movements—“there you are at last. It’s bitterly urgent.”

Only now did she seem to notice the housekeeper.

“I’ve asked Madame Lezu to stay in the room,” Dupin explained.

“Is my husband back? He’s back, isn’t he? Didn’t I tell you.”

Dupin knew this would be complicated. But Madame Allanic was his only hope.

“This is about something else. I’d like to know whether you own any valuable jewelry, madame?”

Deep bewilderment appeared in the old woman’s gaze.

“They stole everything.” She looked around as she spoke, as though she feared unwanted guests. “All our treasure.”

Dupin’s phone vibrated. He had just put it on silent. It was sure to be Huppert. He ignored it once again.

“That’s exactly what I want to know, madame, about your treasure—was it valuable jewelry? Precious stones?”

“It is,” she lowered her voice, “a legendary treasure trove.”

Dupin tried his question once again; it was decisive. “What kind of treasure is it, madame? I think you’re talking about jewelry, right?”

Perhaps he just needed to plunge into her world along with her. Madame Allanic had been talking about treasure from the start. Repeatedly. The housekeeper had even told Dupin when she’d called on Tuesday that Madame Allanic had mentioned gold and precious stones. At the time, he hadn’t reacted, thinking it was just insane rambling. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe—as crazy as she might seem—Madame Allanic had been talking about something real the entire time. At least in this respect. In her own way, in the peculiarly mysterious way that her brain now functioned. Maybe there really was a hoard of treasure. Not in the form of centuries-old wooden trunks with fabled gold and silver, but jewelry. Which could be set with valuable gemstones.

This was the thought that had darted into Dupin’s mind earlier. Prompted by Riwal’s tale of the treasure on the frigate, the wreckage of which had recently been discovered on the ocean floor not far from Saint-Malo. It too had contained jewels—Riwal had expressly mentioned diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. In this light, Madame’s speech about her treasure suddenly sounded entirely different. She had spoken yesterday and this morning about thieves, of how she had been robbed, and Dupin, like everyone else, had taken it as the figment of a dementia sufferer’s imagination. But what if it was true? What if she really had been robbed? If Madame Allanic really was somehow related to the corsair clan of the Duguay-Trouin family, it would be even more plausible. Perhaps she owned the extraordinary heirlooms?

Madame Allanic had been silent for a while, her eyes wide. “They came and took everything!”

Dupin turned to the housekeeper.

“I must be right, surely, with the assumption that Madame owns valuable jewelry?”

Madame Lezu looked at Dupin fearfully.

“You won’t tell anyone, Madame Lezu. Not ever.” Madame Allanic seemed deeply agitated, and was now trying to get up.

“Stay lying down, Madame Allanic.” Dupin tried to calm her down.

He felt guilty; the conversation was clearly taking a great deal out of her. But he didn’t know any other way. He had to try.

The housekeeper came closer to Dupin and whispered:

“Of course Madame owns jewelry. But I don’t know how valuable it is. It’s in”—now her voice was barely audible—“a small safe, in her bedroom, that hasn’t been locked in years. Behind a painting.”

Dupin nodded and moved toward Madame Allanic, who was still trying to stand up. He helped her as best he could. She looked at him with gratitude and bewilderment.

“Madame Lezu, could you leave us for a moment, after all?”

The housekeeper looked confused.

“But you…”

“It would be very kind of you.”

Dupin’s cell vibrated yet again. Huppert clearly wasn’t giving up.

“Fine, then.” With a slightly offended expression, the housekeeper left the living room.

“Now that we’re alone, Madame Allanic. Which jewelry is missing?”

Madame Allanic was trembling. Dupin helped to steady her.

“I won’t say a word.” All her muscles had tensed; she stood as upright as she could, a small, angry protest.

“Then we’ll never get the treasure back, madame. I’m here to help you.”

Dupin meant it in all seriousness.

“It’s gone.”

“I know, madame. And I’ll get it back. Like your husband would have done.”

A shiver went through her.

“He’s back, isn’t he?” Her eyes lit up.

Madame Allanic wanted to go back to the chaise longue. Dupin helped her.

“Who stole the jewelry from you, madame?”

An oddly impassioned gaze.

“You were robbed, madame. Thieves.”

“I know who it was.”

Dupin paused. Her sentence had sounded clear and rational.

“Do you want to tell me, madame?”

By now she was lying down again, with a hint of a smile on her face. In the next moment, it disappeared.

“I’m going to Canada, monsieur. And I’m taking everything with me. I won’t say a word.”

Her wrinkled hands balled into fists, like the reaction of a small child, a gesture that Dupin found strangely moving.

“Beforehand, please help me to find the treasure again, Madame Allanic.”

She leaned her head back and turned her face away, after which her gaze became lost again. Perhaps she was back in her inner world.

“I’m begging you, madame. Talk to me. Who was the thief? What did they steal?”

Hélène Allanic showed no more reaction.

Dupin waited, but with every minute that passed, his hopes dwindled that the conversation would continue.

He decided to bring it to a close.

“Thank you, madame. I have to go now. If you want to help me get the treasure back—your housekeeper has my number. You can reach me any time, night or day.”

Once again, there was no response.

“Bonsoir, Madame Allanic.”

He left the room.

---

The housekeeper was waiting for Dupin right outside the door.

“I hope Madame isn’t unhappy with me that I—”

“Madame Lezu, do you know exactly what was stolen from her? I beg of you, tell me if you know. Otherwise you’d be guilty of obstructing a police investigation.”

“I…” Her face had suddenly lost all color. “But Monsieur le Commissaire! I don’t know anything at all. I…” She tried to stay composed. “Do you really think something was stolen? Madame has been saying for some time that there were thieves in the house. But so far I’ve not noticed anything, I…”

“So you don’t know about any item of value that has disappeared? A piece of jewelry, for example?”

Now she was indignant. “I would have told you immediately if I’d noticed anything like that. Madame tends to misplace things—”

“Show me the safe in the bedroom, Madame Lezu,” Dupin interrupted her once again. It was an order, not a request.

Dupin looked questioningly at the other doors that led off from the corridor.

“Madame wouldn’t like that at all…”

“Unfortunately, I must insist on it.”

Dupin knew he had no authority to do this. It could bring him all kinds of trouble.

“Madame would immediately dismiss me from my post and—”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

Dupin steered decisively toward the first door.

“I think you need a warrant for that!” She tried to give her tone authority.

“Madame Lezu, do you want to help the police find a serial murderer or not?”

The housekeeper put on an afflicted expression, but began to move nonetheless. She went toward the door at the end of the corridor.

“This way.”

Dupin followed her. They entered the bedroom. A sprawling space with its own terrace. Unlike the living room, it was furnished sparsely. A commode with an oil painting hanging above—a harbor scene in an Impressionist style—a wardrobe, and a bed.

The housekeeper went over to the picture.

“If you move the painting to the side a little, you can see the safe.” She blushed briefly. “It sometimes happens to me when I’m dusting. You’ll see that it’s slightly ajar.”

Dupin promptly took the painting off the wall; it was surprisingly light.

A square recess in the wall came into view, roughly forty by forty centimeters, and inside it was an old-fashioned safe made of solid metal. As she’d said, the door really was slightly ajar. Dupin was familiar with this kind of safe from his mother’s house; thirty or forty years before they had been considered appropriate for securing valuable items.

“Madame couldn’t remember the code anymore, nor where she’d noted it down. That’s why it’s open.”

The housekeeper seemed to know a lot about it—without, as she claimed, having ever discussed it with Madame.

Dupin opened the safe door. And found himself staring—a light had switched on inside—at a cluttered, glittering heap. Dozens of pieces of jewelry, all jumbled together; some seemed inextricably entangled. Long necklaces, short necklaces, bracelets, earrings, brooches, clasps, rings, two watches. All of it looked very old. Some of the rings, brooches, and earrings were set with gemstones in every color imaginable.

Dupin couldn’t even hazard a guess at how much it was all worth. For that, they’d need to consult an expert—for which they would need Madame Allanic’s express permission. In addition, and this made the idea of an appraisal seem absurd: the jewelry was here. Secure in the safe. Only a few individual pieces could have been stolen at most.

“Madame Lezu, do you know Madame’s jewelry well enough to be able to say whether anything’s missing?”

She seemed downright incensed. “How should I be able to do that? Madame never wears much jewelry. I’ve never seen most of it. I don’t even know whether Madame herself would be able to say what’s here and whether anything’s gone.”

Dupin wasn’t sure whether to believe her. Naturally she wouldn’t admit it if she had snooped around in here from time to time.

“Nowadays she only wears two rings,” Madame Lezu stated more precisely. “Her wedding ring and family signet ring. Some days she also wears a necklace with an opal, which she loves, and always this one brooch. That’s all the jewelry I know.”

“Can you see the necklace with the opal anywhere?”

He hadn’t noticed it on Madame Allanic.

“At the front, there.” She pointed at one of the longer chains. “That’s it.”

“Does Madame have any close friends who might know anything about her jewelry?”

The housekeeper looked at Dupin with consternation.

“She would never disclose something like that. Madame is very private about her possessions. She has two friends, but only sees them rarely now.”

“Have you ever overheard Madame Allanic talking to her nieces about the jewelry? Or do you remember whether she was here at the safe with one of them?”

“No. When her nieces came to visit, I usually stayed in the kitchen. And on my days off, I of course have no idea.”

Dupin ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Damn it.”

Where could he go from here?

He sighed, moved the door of the safe back into its previous position, and hung the picture back on the wall.

“I’m heading off now, Madame Lezu. Thank you for your assistance.” Dupin spoke in the most formal tone he could muster. “This little jewelry inspection stays between us for the time being.”

The housekeeper nodded, looking a little scared.

Dupin went into the hallway, then paused. Something else had just occurred to him.

He hurried toward the front door. “I’ll be back in touch soon, Madame Lezu.”

“And what should I do now?”

“Just act as you always do.” Dupin had already opened the front door and was stepping outside. “Look after Madame Allanic.”

He dashed down the steps.

---

The address was already saved in the GPS. Saint-Suliac.

Dupin had reached a bigger road heading south. He dialed Huppert’s number.

She picked up before it had even begun to ring properly.

“Dupin! What the hell was that?” There was no trace of her characteristic objectivity. “I’m going to ask the prefect to take you off—”

“I think I’ve solved it. The whole case.”

He had to lay it on thick. Go all in. It was the only way to placate her.

“Where are you? What are you up to?”

“Meet me at Walig Richard’s antiques store. As quickly as you can. Tell Nedellec to summon the pianist friend there. And also the employee who was there this morning.”

“I’m not going anywhere till you tell me—”

“Saint-Suliac, in fifteen minutes. I’ll tell you then. I’m sorry.”

He meant it.

“I…” She seemed torn. “If you don’t present us with the solution, you’re going to be in serious trouble, Dupin!”

“Trust me, Huppert.”

Dupin knew he was taking a massive risk. But his gut told him that he was on the right track.

She seemed to wrangle with herself a little longer, but her cooperative side won out.

“Okay, see you shortly in Saint-Suliac. We’re still at Pointe du Grouin.”

“Has the medical examiner said anything yet?”

“Only that he’s not able to tell us much for the time being. Apart from that Charles Braz hadn’t been there long.” Dupin could hear that Huppert was walking back already. “And that given the state of the body, the autopsy could take some time. Due to the severity of the injuries, he’s very doubtful he’ll be able to find clear indications of a struggle or push.”

“Has anyone gone to check out Braz’s house?”

“Four officers have been there awhile already. Nothing of note. No suicide letter, either. Right, I’ll see you shortly, Dupin. And this better be good!”

Dupin stepped on the gas.

Precisely twelve minutes later, he pulled up in front of Walig Richard’s shop.

It was just before eight o’clock; the sun was already a little lower in the sky. It would set over the low hills of the opposite shore and was sure to be a spectacular sight; the colors already seemed to be intensifying. A peaceful calm lay over the neighborhood. Only the Bistro de la Grève, where Dupin had drunk his coffee this morning, was bustling with early-summer activity.

Dupin stepped into the courtyard of blossoming artichokes. He realized he didn’t have a key for the shop, so he would have to wait. But Huppert and Nedellec would be there soon.

An opportunity to give Nolwenn a quick call.

He headed out onto the narrow pier that stretched far out into the small bay of Saint-Suliac. It was still low tide; immense expanses of sand lay exposed to the evening sun.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Commissaire. We heard about the latest body.” Nolwenn spoke at high speed. “It’s all getting a bit out of hand, don’t you think? These Malouins…”

“I think I know what’s happening, Nolwenn. I think I’ve found the key to the whole story.”

“What? Wait a moment.”

Dupin heard the irritating on-hold jingle. By now he had almost reached the end of the pier.

“Right, everyone’s here. I’ve put you on speaker. Tell us everything.”

All at once, he heard cars racing at far too high a speed toward the port de plaisance. Dupin turned to look.

“I’m sorry, Nolwenn. I have to go. I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“Call us soon!” The call was ended.

Huppert and Nedellec stopped directly behind Dupin’s car; the doors were flung open.

A man was hurrying on foot along the coastal road. Dupin recognized him: Richard’s employee. Good.

“There you are!” cried Huppert. Dupin had reached the courtyard again. “We’re all ears, Dupin.”

“Come on, tell us!” Nedellec was impatient. He had the key to the shop in his hand.

“I came as quickly as I could.” Richard’s employee came over to them.

“Thank you.” Dupin took over. “We have a few more important questions for you.”

“Of course.” The man nodded almost subserviently. “How can I help?”

They stepped into the semi-darkness of the shop.

Dupin flipped on the light and went straight to the glass cabinet containing the old jewelry. Even this morning the jewels had called his attention—then, like in other moments since Monday, he had been really close.

“Catch us up first, Dupin!” Huppert had followed him, pacing swiftly.

“In a moment.” Dupin promptly turned to the employee. “You said this morning that over recent years Monsieur Richard had become a kind of jewelry expert.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“For stones, too? Gemstones?”

“Of course. The stones define the value.”

All four of them were now standing in front of the display cabinet.

“Meaning that Monsieur Richard was capable of valuing pieces of jewelry?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you remember whether he had examined any special pieces of jewelry over the last few weeks? One, or even several, extraordinary pieces?” Dupin specified.

Richard may potentially have gotten involved in this way, and ultimately become a victim. Even if this theory was still very vague, it was the first that would connect Richard with everything that had happened. The first that made some kind of sense.

“I don’t know of any. But that doesn’t mean anything. Walig often took pieces home for examination. Or stayed later in the evenings than us, at least two times over the past week for sure. He could have been looking at anything. And at the weekends too.”

Dupin turned to Nedellec. “Could you ask Monsieur Richard’s other employees and friends the same question?”

“Can you explain to us first why—”

“It’s incredibly urgent, Nedellec. This might be the crucial detail.”

Nedellec frowned, mulling it over.

“What exactly am I asking them?”

“Whether they’re aware of Walig Richard having been occupied with one or more special items of jewelry. Perhaps a webpage left open, a telephone call, a conversation, an email, anything.”

It was only a faint hope, but they had to try everything.

“As I said, it could be the vital clue.” Dupin loaded his tone with pathos.

“Understood.”

Commissaire Nedellec headed for the stairs to the first floor and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

Dupin turned his attention back to the employee.

“Is there jewelry in Monsieur Richard’s second store too?”

“No, only here.”

“Is there a safe here?”

“No. Only the lockable glass cabinet. But we don’t have any really expensive jewelry.”

“Richard’s home was documented by the forensics team.” Huppert spoke up. “I got an inventory of all the valuable items. There was no jewelry on it.”

Dupin began to pace up and down in front of the glass cabinet.

“Do you still need me?” The employee was visibly uneasy.

“You can go, but make sure we can contact you. And get in touch immediately if you remember anything else.”

Looking relieved, the man retreated.

Before he had even left the shop, Huppert issued her command: “And now you’re going to tell me everything that’s going on in your mind, Dupin. And by everything, I mean everything.”

---

There was no getting around it: Dupin had to come out with it.

“I suspect that jewelry was stolen from Madame Allanic—one piece or even multiple pieces, of exceptionally high value.” He hesitated. “And that one of the sisters did it.”

Dupin was still walking up and down in front of the cabinet.

“Hmm.” Huppert crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And then what?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

What he had formulated was essentially the basis of his theory; all the rest was just random speculation for now.

“It had to have been Lucille—as we all know, she really needs the money. But why would she then kill Blanche? At the market, in front of everyone? Perhaps Blanche found out about Lucille stealing it, and Lucille killed her because of that. Perhaps Blanche had the jewelry that Lucille wanted? Was she the thief first?”

For now, that seemed more logical. But the problem was: there were countless other possible scenarios. Far too many. And they were so different that you couldn’t really even use the term “logical.” Dupin had already played through many of the variations in his mind.

“But why would Kilian Morel and Walig Richard also have to die?” Huppert joined in the speculation. At least she didn’t seem to regard the basic hypothesis as utter nonsense.

“Perhaps because they knew about the jewelry—the jewelry and the theft. Or, because the jewelry, after Blanche’s death, was with them or one of them. Probably with Kilian Morel. That would explain his house being ransacked, which his murderer—whoever it is—really put some effort into. They were looking for the jewelry.”

The fact that their house, Kilian’s office, and Blanche’s test kitchen had been searched made the theory that Blanche could have been in possession of the jewelry more convincing than others. But countless questions remained unanswered. Including whether the perpetrator had actually found the jewelry in Blanche Trouin and Kilian Morel’s house.

“Maybe Blanche asked Walig Richard to value the jewelry. And so it was with him, at least for a while. Perhaps that’s how Richard was involved and why he was killed.”

Dupin paused in front of the cabinet.

“But why would Blanche have done that?” Huppert’s arms were still crossed. “Steal from her own aunt? They were apparently very close. And Blanche was doing well financially, she wouldn’t even have needed the money.”

“I don’t know.”

“And if it was her, how does Lucille come into it?”

Questions with arrow-like precision. And still a blind spot. Dupin began to pace again.

“She must somehow have found out that Blanche had the jewelry.”

“And the murder of Lucille’s life partner, Charles Braz? How does that fit into the theory?”

“Ex-life partner. And we still don’t know whether that might have been suicide, after all.”

“And if it was—how does that fit together? It doesn’t make any sense, it…” Huppert paused, something flashed in her eyes. “Unless Charles Braz…”

She didn’t even need to finish the sentence—it had occurred to Dupin himself on the drive over here.

“It’s entirely possible.”

“But why would he kill himself now? Guilt? If he was cold-blooded enough to kill Blanche’s husband and her friend Walig Richard over the jewelry, why would he suddenly feel so guilty a day later that he takes his own life? Plus the fact that, following your hypothesis, he would’ve been in possession of the ominous jewelry that everything had revolved around from the start.”

Dupin was starting to detect a fundamental skepticism in Huppert’s words.

“Perhaps the jewelry is valuable enough to make all of Lucille’s financial problems disappear.” Dupin knew himself that this wasn’t an answer. “I don’t know.” It was the only honest answer.

“And Lucille Trouin? What role does she play in this scenario? If Charles Braz is the perpetrator—do you think it was all her plan? That she put him up to it? Or that she at least knew what he was planning?”

“I have no idea.”

The commissaire’s brows knit together. “What proof do you have for this whole jewelry theory?” Huppert became pragmatic. “Some circumstantial evidence, at least?”

“Just Madame Allanic. As confused as she may be.”

He was aware that she provided neither proof nor circumstantial evidence, but for the moment, she was all he had.

“The old lady with Alzheimer’s?”

Dupin told her about his visit.

“It would fit perfectly,” he concluded. “It’s possible that Madame Allanic has told us everything already, just in a jumbled-up way. It’s entirely plausible that she owns some incredibly valuable pieces of jewelry, presumably from this old corsair clan, the Duguay-Trouins. It would be a very Breton story, and above all”—this might be a key point psychologically, in order to convince Huppert—“your discovery yesterday would be integral to this scenario. Lucille needed money, and very, very urgently.”

“Any judge would consider Madame Allanic mentally incompetent. And she didn’t even really confirm it with you—insofar as she would even be able to. I’m doubtful.”

Dupin couldn’t contradict her.

“We need evidence, Dupin. Solid evidence. And pretty quickly some clear proof.”

That was the problem.

“Do you have any idea where the jewelry might be?”

“No.”

Everyone who, according to his theory, had been in possession of the jewelry—and who could have attested to its existence—was now dead. Apart from Lucille Trouin.

“Does Lucille even know about Charles Braz’s death yet?” The question had occurred to Dupin a few times already.

“I called her from the scene. I wanted her to hear it directly from us. And also, to hear her reaction.”

“And?”

“She only listened. And didn’t say anything.”

“What did you say in terms of whether it was murder or suicide?”

“The truth. That we don’t know yet.”

“Flore Briard could be conspiring with Lucille Trouin.” Huppert returned to the possible scenarios. “She doesn’t have an alibi for either yesterday or today. And she needs money herself, if we’ve been correctly informed. So by now she would be free of anyone who could pose a problem for her. She wouldn’t have anything more to fear. And we would only have one chance of convicting her: we’d have to find her in possession of the jewelry.”

Precisely.

“Which applies to all three of the remaining suspects,” Huppert said, completing the picture. “And even Charles Braz. There were no surprises in his phone records, by the way. Only the calls with Flore Briard, which we already knew about.”

Dupin’s brain was freewheeling in an overheated way. Without pause and at top speed, he ran through the possible event progressions, but without reaching a conclusion.

“Briard, Clément, and Joe Morel have been at the station for a good while now,” Huppert reminded him, something Dupin had almost forgotten. “We…”

“Nothing.” Nedellec came down the stairs. “Neither his friend nor his employees were aware of any special piece of jewelry or valuation.”

It was depressing. They urgently needed a stroke of luck.

“So, Dupin, out with it—what exactly is your theory?”

Huppert pulled out her phone and moved toward the exit. “I’ll arrange the interrogations of the three suspects.”

Dupin groaned. He didn’t feel like repeating it all. But he didn’t have a choice.

“Right, okay,” was Nedellec’s conclusion. Dupin’s summary had taken a few minutes. “It all sounds quite fanciful—but right now it’s all we’ve got.”

He didn’t sound convinced, admittedly, but Dupin had expected more resistance.

“If I’ve understood you correctly, it could mean that Lucille Trouin orchestrated the whole thing.”

Dupin hadn’t expressly worded it like that, but it was a possibility. One of many.

“Which means that…”

“Briard, Clément, and Morel are waiting for us in the interrogation room. We have to go,” Huppert interrupted, having finished her call and rejoined them. Dupin was relieved; all further speculation felt futile right now.

Huppert was already heading for the door. Nedellec and Dupin followed.

---

Dupin had probably never spent so much time at a police station during an investigation before, not even in Concarneau. This was the third time today he had entered the Saint-Malo commissariat.

He hadn’t driven quite so quickly as usual, and so had arrived last. From the car, he had called Nolwenn to tell her about his theory and bring her up to date. They hadn’t had time for a proper conversation, but at least she now knew the latest.

The three commissaires walked along the corridor to the interrogation room.

“I’ve instructed forensics to search the homes of Lucille Trouin and Charles Braz one more time,” Huppert informed them. “The only problem is that the new search order isn’t exactly very specific. Exceptionally valuable-looking jewelry, one-piece or multiple?”

And yet the order was a good one, Dupin felt.

“We don’t have sufficient grounds to get search warrants for the homes of Briard, Morel, and Clément,” the commissaire admitted. “And Briard will, of course, have her own jewelry, probably from her inheritance too. She could always claim it belongs to her.”

“How are we going to approach our conversation with the three of them?” Nedellec brought them back to the most pressing question.

“Head-on confrontation, I’d suggest. Everything on the table. We’ll work with Dupin’s hypothesis. And let them tell us their alibis for this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Nedellec was in agreement. Dupin too.

“Then let’s get this started.”

Huppert opened the door and they stepped in, one after the other.

Flore Briard was sitting in the middle, Joe Morel and Colomb Clément to her left and right. The small group formed an odd picture.

“Bonjour, madame, messieurs.” Huppert pulled a chair to the opposite side of the table. Dupin and Nedellec sat alongside her.

“Would you be so kind as to explain…” Flore Briard immediately spoke up in a sharp tone.

“We’re not here to waste our time on trivial banter, Madame Briard.” Huppert fixed her with her gaze. “Among the three of you is a serial murderer who has come into the possession of valuable jewelry. It belongs to the aunt of the Trouin sisters. We know everything.”

Huppert let the sentence take effect.

There were distinct reactions on all three faces, even Joe Morel’s.

“Jewelry? From Lucille’s aunt?” Briard was the first to react, attempting a smile that ended up involuntarily crooked. “That’s grotesque. You think everyone was murdered over some jewelry? Jewels, or what? I for one know nothing about it.”

As always with her, it was impossible to say whether her indignation was genuine or feigned.

“You of all people could have known about the jewelry, madame. You’re Lucille’s closest confidante, you work with her, have no alibis for the times in question, and you could certainly use the money,” Huppert established drily.

“As I said: it’s grotesque! And disgraceful,” repeated Briard in agitation.

“What about you, Monsieur Clément?” asked Nedellec combatively. “What do you have to say? You work with Lucille Trouin too, so far, at least. Did she involve you in her plans? Or did you find out about the jewelry by chance and act independently?”

Given that Nedellec had only just been clued in on the theory, he was playing his part very well, thought Dupin.

“Me? No!” The young star chef was clearly rattled; Nedellec’s offensive was having an effect, and interestingly a stronger one than Dupin had expected. “I’ve got nothing to do with it. And I don’t find out things like that from Madame Trouin either. She’s just my boss. I’m innocent, I swear!”

He made a nervous gesture.

“You were recently in contact with Blanche Trouin too. So with both sisters,” Nedellec continued, as nondescript as he was merciless. “You must have seen or heard something.”

Beads of sweat formed on Clément’s forehead.

“Nothing at all. I’ve not seen or heard anything.”

Dupin intervened: “So why are you so nervous, Monsieur Clément?”

He hesitated. “I’m not nervous.”

“You are, and very.”

A brief pause, then Clément stammered: “Does my boss know about Blanche’s offer now? That I’ve already signed? Then—that means I no longer have a job.”

So that was the source of his anxiety. From his perspective—presuming he was innocent—it was understandable.

“Don’t worry, monsieur.” Huppert remained as matter-of-fact as ever. “Madame Trouin will soon have such big problems that this disappointment will barely register. Where were you today between three and four o’clock in the afternoon?”

“I was in the restaurant, until just before three maybe. And then I drove home to sleep for a while.”

“Can anyone attest to that?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t have an alibi for today either,” summarized Nedellec with a hint of satisfaction.

Dupin, on the other hand, felt frustration rising within him. This conversation was coming to nothing.

Huppert turned to Joe Morel, who was sitting there in his black T-shirt and washed-out jeans.

“You and Lucille Trouin have become closer again recently, Monsieur Morel, and you’re also inheriting everything from your brother and his wife, which could now include the stolen jewelry. It’s quite conceivable that you’re involved.”

The commissaire had spoken in an energetic tone, but phrased the content carefully.

Morel leaned back before he answered.

“What can I say.” He shrugged, looking entirely unfazed. “I don’t know anything about it. And I don’t have a verifiable alibi for this afternoon either.”

Dupin ran his hands through his hair. The problem was that Huppert, Nedellec, and he didn’t have anything with which they could push at least one of the three to talk.

Huppert, too, seemed to be reaching the limits of her patience. “Then we’ll just have to take a different approach. I’m going to immediately arrange search warrants for your homes.”

“You won’t get them.” Flore Briard was overtly aggressive.

Joe Morel remained indifferent, as though none of this had anything to do with him, and Clément merely said: “You won’t find anything at my place.”

Dupin shot to his feet. He was fed up, and couldn’t take it anymore.

His annoyance had turned to anger, because what they’d wanted to avoid, at all costs, was happening: they were losing the momentum that had only just come into the investigation, the forward momentum.

“It’s no use, we have to speak to Lucille Trouin again.” Dupin spoke as though the three suspects weren’t even there, and went to the door. “We have to try to get something out of her. She has to realize we know about the jewelry and the theft.”

It was infuriating. The whole time they were struggling here, Lucille Trouin was in the very same building, so close to them it was like a relentless provocation. First, she had given Dupin the runaround with her silence, mocking him, and then through her outrageous confession: “It was just a crime of passion.” The emotions really may have run high at that fateful moment in the market, but Dupin was nonetheless convinced she was a cold-blooded murderer who had ruthlessly pursued her motive: getting the jewelry in order to make money.

“Dupin, wait!” called Huppert.

It was too late; he was already outside.

Huppert turned to Briard, Morel, and Clément: “We’re done here.”

The commissaire hurried after Dupin.

Just before she reached the door, she turned around briefly. “Nedellec, please accompany these three out.”

Huppert caught up with Dupin. “Trouin will want her attorney present.”

The commissaire seemed in agreement with his plan.

They reached the elevator.

“I’ll take care of it, Dupin. Meet me here in half an hour.”

“See you soon.”

---

Dupin was in dire need of some fresh air. Some contact with the world and reality. He had to stretch his legs, breathe in a little salt and iodine.

He had left the station and walked to the big city beach again, even though he didn’t have much time. He continued right up to the water’s edge.

The sky had been clear on the drive here from Saint-Suliac—the sun had already sunk down close to the horizon—and now it had darkened. Large, dark, menacing clouds, like earlier this afternoon, but this time even more so. There were bizarrely shaped holes in the clouds, through which the setting sun fell, seeming to display every shade of red, lilac, orange, rose, pink, and yellow in existence. A highly dramatic sight.

The ocean had already darkened, the emerald green dying away in a somber green-black—only where the last rays of evening sun met the surface of the water was it still illuminated. Blindingly so. The strong gusts of wind from the day before yesterday were back too, as were the waves, driving the sea spray into the air.

Dupin had to concentrate on one single question to the exclusion of all others, as important as they may be: Where was the jewelry now?

That was it. That was the question.

After he had stood there for a while, he checked the time. The interrogation with Lucille Trouin was imminent. Their second one.

Although it had been just a short walk, it had done him good.

Ten minutes later, he reached the interrogation room where, not long before, they had sat with Briard, Morel, and Clément. Room 318.

Huppert arrived almost simultaneously, a little out of breath.

“They’re both in there. I’m next door with Nedellec again.”

“Good.”

Dupin went in, without any haste, and calmly closed the door behind him.

Lucille Trouin looked composed, self-assured, and even now, still in possession of an unyielding pride. No sign of uncertainty or sadness—although she had only recently found out about Charles Braz’s death. She seemed to have touched up her makeup for the interrogation: her eyebrows looked even darker, more defined than in the afternoon, her skin tone more matte. In the absence of daylight, the reddish shimmer in her hair was no longer discernible.

“We meet again so soon.” Dupin made his way toward the chair, but then walked past it and paused in front of the table, on the opposite side to where Trouin and her attorney were sitting.

“Just a moment…” The attorney—dressed this evening in a striking, dusky pink polo shirt—seemed to have remembered something, because he shifted closer to Trouin and whispered something to her. She responded. They went back and forth a few times.

“Okay. Madame Trouin is ready. What’s this about at such a late hour? It would be better—”

“We know now what’s going on.” Dupin fixed his gaze on Lucille, speaking slowly and not very loudly. “You killed your sister in order to get to your aunt’s valuable jewelry. It was more than a crime of passion.”

Dupin paused.

He was sure he saw Lucille’s eyes widen a little. It was the only visible reaction. Her self-control was extreme, and must demand enormous focus. It was impossible to make out what was going on in her mind.

With her left hand, she brushed a strand of hair off her face, and Dupin noticed how slender her hands and wrists were.

Dupin stepped closer to the table and leaned forward, propping himself on his hands. He took up the thread again.

“That’s the crux of the story. It’s that simple. You wanted the jewelry. By selling it you could have warded off bankruptcy and secured the fruits of your lifelong labor. It would have saved you. Perhaps the sum would even have helped you make your ambitious new plans a reality. Either way, what mattered most to you was not losing the bitter contest with your sister. For that, you were willing to do anything. And you still are.”

It was eerie. Lucille Trouin sat there steadily, like a wax doll. No blink of the eyelids, no twitch of the lips, not even a discernible rise and fall in her rib cage. Nothing.

“In terms of how things played out in detail,” Dupin raised his voice, “whether someone murdered for you or did it of their own accord, and who it was—Flore Briard, Joe Morel, or Colomb Clément—we’ll find that out soon. Including what role your ex-partner Charles Braz played and what happened to him.”

“I’m intrigued to find out.”

She’d spoken so quietly that the sentence was barely audible.

“Your theory is ridiculous, monsieur. Everything about it.”

She stood up.

“My client has nothing more to say to your accusations.” The attorney strove for a formal tone. “I consider this the end to the interrogation.”

Dupin briefly pondered whether he should insist on its continuation, but decided against it.

The attorney followed Lucille, who was already standing by the door and had pressed the bell.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Commissaire,” said Monsieur Giscard.

With that, the two of them left the room.

Dupin remained behind alone.

Suddenly, there was an almighty crash. It came from outside. Thunder.

It had happened quicker than expected; a storm had gathered.

---

“Well, that was another washout.”

Nedellec entered the interrogation room with Huppert behind him. His observation wasn’t even meant mockingly.

“I’m not so sure about that,” commented Huppert, before immediately changing the subject: “The team from Braz’s house have been in touch. They didn’t find any jewelry. By the way—”

A booming clap of thunder interrupted the commissaire, swiftly followed by a second. She waited patiently until it faded away.

“By the way, I asked the medical examiner to search the clothing on the corpse again. He didn’t find anything.”

“We should have Charles Braz’s shops, Lucille Trouin’s restaurant, and her cheese shop in Rue de l’Orme searched too. And in principle also the homes and businesses of the other suspects.”

“This is getting a little out of hand,” muttered Nedellec.

“Let’s start with Charles’s and Lucille’s business premises.” Huppert was firm. “And then go from there.”

“Whoever is in possession of the jewelry, and murdered to get their hands on it,” Nedellec furrowed his brow, “will have hidden it well. How are we supposed to find it without a lead? We don’t even know exactly what kind of jewelry it is. A ring, a necklace, a brooch? Several different pieces?”

That was the dilemma.

“They could also have hidden the jewelry somewhere else, outside their homes or workplaces. That would actually be much smarter.” Nedellec was excelling himself: one objection after the other.

“Also”—Huppert spoke with an unusually grim expression—“I’ve arranged for Briard, Morel, and Clément to be under constant surveillance. They won’t be able to take a single step without us knowing about it.”

“Excellent.”

Dupin went across to the window.

“And what if it’s not even about jewelry?” Nedellec looked thoughtful. “If we’re barking up the wrong tree? Perhaps we’re chasing a ghost.”

He was certainly right on one point: it felt as though they kept reaching a dead end through pursuing this theory. Objectively, the skepticism was justified. Dupin could be wrong, he could have picked up the wrong scent—one that he was now following with increasing doggedness. It had happened to him before. And yet his instinct was telling him they should stick with it. In desperate situations like this, when he began to get pessimistic, Nolwenn would usually boost him with an old saying which, to non-Breton ears, might sound macabre: Sometimes you have to die a few times in order to prove you’re ill. Strange in that uniquely Breton way, but true.

“It’s the best hypothesis we have right now. The only one. I say we follow it until it leads us to the solution. Or until we have a better one,” declared Huppert with her resolutely down-to-earth logic.

Dupin felt happy with that. It was a more solid argument than simply trusting his gut.

“And what do you suggest we do now?” Fortunately, Nedellec didn’t seem to want to launch into a fundamental debate about the theory.

“The search of Trouin’s home is under way, the surveillance of the suspects has started, and I’ll pass through the new orders in a moment—for now we can only wait and keep thinking.” Huppert came over to Dupin at the window as she spoke.

Heavy rain had set in. Fat drops smacked against the windowpanes. The hefty gusts of wind were threatening to turn into a serious storm. It was loud even through the closed, well-insulated windows, sounding like crashing waves. A rattling and clattering came from all around. As the light from a flickering streetlamp fell on Huppert’s face, Dupin noticed how worn down she looked; these intense days had left their mark. On them all.

“I agree,” confirmed Dupin, who had understood Huppert’s words as a signal it was time to go.

He desperately needed some time alone; the last few hours had been a breathless gallop. And a lot of “team.” Continuing to pull their hair out here wouldn’t get them anywhere. More than anything, Dupin needed caffeine. To be anywhere near capable of engaging with his thoughts again.

Huppert glanced at the clock.

“We all need some downtime, so we’ll meet again tomorrow morning. The prefects have summoned us to the police school for eight. Dinner’s already over.” Dupin thought he heard a sigh. “The three of us should meet at half past seven.”

Collective nodding.

“Café du Théâtre, Saint-Servan.” The commissaire was already en route to the door. “You already know it, Dupin.”

Nobody objected. Nedellec and Dupin followed the commissaire.

This time Huppert sighed audibly. “I had to promise the prefects we’d be coming with a hot lead.”

Outside, loud thunder boomed once again.

---

“The usual? The J.M. rum?”

The amiable landlord of the Bistro de Solidor had appeared alongside Dupin’s table.

The commissaire had only just taken a seat, having gotten soaking wet on the few meters between the parking lot and bistro. His jeans and polo shirt clung to his skin.

The restaurant was almost empty already, only two tables were still occupied.

“A double, please. And a café. Is the kitchen still open?”

They had unfortunately missed out on the famous restaurant in Cancale this evening. And he urgently needed to eat something.

“We still have one portion remaining of today’s special. Pluma de porc avec purée de pommes de terre. The pork comes from a local organic farm, black pigs, much better than Ibérico. With a honey-and-balsamic glaze. And the potato puree is from vitelottes, the little lilac potatoes. A velvety Languedoc to accompany it?”

“Definitely.”

The owner smiled contentedly. “Just the ticket after a day like today.”

He had heard what had happened, of course. The regional radio, TV, and online newspapers were reporting of nothing else. Dupin was relieved when the landlord left it at that and disappeared into the kitchen.

He had pulled out his notebook.

Where could the jewelry be? Who had it?

Dupin stared at the scribbled pages. He leafed through them randomly.

The sound of his cell phone pulled Dupin away from his disconnected thoughts.

Huppert.

“Nedellec’s on the call too, Dupin. During the renewed search of Lucille’s house, eighteen pieces of jewelry were seized—rings, including ones set with stones, necklaces, and earrings. Which, of course, isn’t surprising—it could be her own jewelry. It was stored in a wooden box in her bedroom, which was already noted in Monday’s protocol. The team took it all with them. None of the pieces look exceptionally valuable or particularly old, but of course, only an expert can say for sure. Who knows—maybe Lucille was hiding the stolen jewelry in with her own. There’s no better way of making something invisible than hiding it in the most obvious place. It’s usually the last place people look.”

“Without Madame Allanic’s help, there’s no way of finding out whether the stolen jewelry is in with Lucille’s,” Nedellec pointed out.

“We should still get everything valued. Then we’ll know whether there’s anything especially valuable in there or not.”

Huppert was right, it was a first step.

“The expert should get to work right away.” Dupin felt the productive, jittery restlessness returning.

“Good. Then till later.”

Huppert ended the midnight telephone conference.

Dupin reached for the rum glass on the small tray that the landlord had set down during the phone call.

He took a long sip. He liked how smooth it was, with a veiled sharpness. Subtly sweet and simultaneously spicy. Dupin loved contrasts, unusual combinations. The café also tasted wonderful together with the rum.

The rain was still pelting down furiously, driven by the ferocious squally wind. Lightning flashed at regular intervals, chased by powerful thunder.

“Et voilà!”

Once again, the owner of the bistro appeared as though out of nowhere. This time with a large plate.

The Breton pork tasted exquisite: the honey-and-balsamic marinade wasn’t too sweet, and the meat was melt-in-the-mouth tender. But the best element was the potato puree. Dupin could taste a hint of curry and nutmeg. Heavenly; even the aroma alone made him feel happy.

All at once, it hit him.

Dupin almost dropped his fork.

That could be it. Of course!

What had Huppert just said? “There’s no better way of making something invisible than hiding it in the most obvious place.”

There was a place that was even more obvious than the rest, even more so than Lucille Trouin’s jewelry box.

And if he was right with the idea that had just shot into his mind, then he had already seen it. Already seen both, the hiding place—and the jewelry too. The piece of jewelry. A very particular one.

He jumped up.

It was utterly insane. The thoughts flashed wildly through his mind.

He laid a few bank notes on the table and hurried over to the door.

As soon as he was outside, he reached for his cell phone. Dialed the number and sprinted to his car.

“What is it?”

“Come to the station at once, Huppert. I…”

“Hello? I can’t hear you.”

Of course, it was the storm. It was drowning everything out.

“Just a minute,” he yelled into the telephone. Soon he would be in the car.

“Hello?” Huppert was shouting now too.

He swiftly opened the car door. A gust of wind lashed the apocalyptic rains in.

“Come to the station right away!” Dupin still needed to shout; it wasn’t much quieter even in the car. “I’ll see you there, I’m already on my way, I’ll be there in three minutes.”

“What’s happened, Dupin?”

“I’ll tell you there.”

He hung up.

The wheels spun momentarily on the wet asphalt, then the car lurched forward.

---

The sliding door at the police station entrance was deactivated; for nighttime hours, there was a side entrance.

Dupin rang the bell. As the door opened, he rushed in.

“I’m expecting Commissaire Huppert.” He addressed the two startled-looking police officers on night watch. “She should be here in a moment.”

“Do you want to wait upstairs in her office? Room 212, second floor.”

“Thank you.”

Dupin had already hurried past them. He knew the way.

Arriving in Huppert’s office, he turned on the light, went over to the window, and stared out into the furious stormy night. Once again, he was drenched to the skin; his clothing clung to him even more than before. He was leaving little puddles of water behind him on the floor.

“I’m here.”

Dupin almost jumped—Huppert was standing in the doorway. A dark blue rain jacket hung over her arm.

That was quick. Dupin realized he didn’t even know where she lived. Clearly close by. Or she had still been out and about.

“What is it, Dupin?”

“We have to speak with Trouin again, right now.”

The commissaire hung up her coat calmly.

“First explain to me what—”

A dim light coursed through the room. Lightning. Then came the explosion of a particularly loud clap of thunder. The storm was refusing to abate.

“Damn it.” Dupin had completely forgotten about it in his agitation. “Call Trouin’s attorney and tell him to come at once.”

For a while, Huppert didn’t seem to know how to react.

“I’ll explain everything, Huppert, I promise. Like before.”

She studied him closely.

“Another idea?”

“Another idea.” Dupin nodded.

“Okay.” She had made her decision, and took control: “Wait here. I’ll organize everything and let you know. Don’t go anywhere.”

Dupin had no idea what she feared, but if that was the only condition …

“Understood. But we have to have the conversation in her cell.”

“For now, I’m not going to ask why.”

She had already gone.

Dupin began to pace restlessly up and down. The wind gusts slapped the rain against the windowpane, again and again, bringing small, broken-off branches along. Probably from the two trees not far from the window. Their black-green silhouettes swayed wildly to and fro, wrenched around by invisible forces.

Dupin was incapable of forming a clear thought—he just wanted to know. That was all that mattered: finding out if he was right.

It took a full twenty-four minutes until Huppert reappeared, an eternity. It was a quarter to one.

“Okay. We’re ready. The attorney is here. I’m coming in too.”

That was fine by Dupin.

They made their way to the staircase.

“I can’t get hold of Nedellec,” said Huppert as they walked down the steps. “I left a message on his voicemail.”

They had reached the first floor. The interrogation cell was at the far end of the corridor.

“Here we are.”

Huppert opened the door without knocking.

A sterile, rectangular room came into view. A relatively inconspicuous, barred window, a small table, and two chairs in a somber green tone. Cool white walls, a bed, a nightstand. A narrow cupboard for clothing and personal items. Cold, clinical light.

Lucille Trouin and her attorney were sitting at the small table.

The attorney jumped up.

“This really is the limit!”

His almost conciliatory tone contradicted the intended drama of his performance. It came across as a dutiful show.

“My client doesn’t have to put up with this, she was asleep and—”

“Save it.”

Dupin went straight toward Lucille and stopped directly in front of her. Huppert had leaned against the wall by the door.

Dupin studied Lucille overtly. Her upper body, her neck.

But she had already gotten changed for bed, he realized. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue T-shirt and wide black cotton pants. Her jet-black hair was tousled, which actually made her even more attractive. As did the fact that she wasn’t wearing makeup.

“What’s this about, Commissaire?” The attorney tried to lend emphasis to his words.

Dupin turned away from Trouin and moved toward the narrow cupboard.

“What are you doing, Commissaire?” persisted the attorney.

Instead of answering, Dupin calmly began to open the cupboard.

“What’s this about?” Notable agitation lay in Trouin’s voice. “Stop that! Is he allowed to do that?”

She turned frantically to her attorney.

“Hmm. Difficult to say. If the circumstances demand it.” He hesitated. “I…”

“He’s allowed,” Huppert intervened ruthlessly.

The cupboard now stood wide open.

Inside it, at half height, was a clothing rail. Above that were various compartments containing clothes. Clothes that Charles Braz and Flore Briard had brought here.

Dupin’s gaze moved painstakingly through the interior of the cupboard.

Hangers hung from the clothing rail. A jacket, a pair of pants, two blouses, and a black pullover, presumably the one she had been wearing at lunchtime.

“We have to take everything out of the cupboard,” explained Dupin.

Huppert and the attorney stared at him in silence. Lucille fidgeted nervously on her chair.

“We have to look at every item…”

Dupin didn’t finish his sentence.

He had seen something. He reached for the hanger with the black pullover.

Hanging from it, only just visible, was something else. Something shimmered from beneath the neckline.

A chain.

A silver chain.

The necklace that Lucille had been wearing at lunchtime and this evening. Dupin remembered it well.

He swiftly took it out from beneath the pullover.

An involuntary smile spread out on his face.

The necklace was set with a stone.

A striking blue gemstone.

“Leave the necklace alone. It’s a keepsake from my mother.” Lucille jumped up.

Huppert seemed to have been expecting this. She blocked her path.

At that moment the door opened, and Nedellec came in, gasping for air. He must have been running.

“What’s going on?” he blurted out.

“In a moment, Nedellec,” Huppert assured him. “We have everything under control.”

Dupin strode without haste over to Lucille, who seemed frozen to the spot, her eyes fixed on the necklace.

“This is what it was about—only this.” Dupin spoke coolly. “This gemstone. This is it. The necklace belongs to your aunt. I’m presuming it’s an incredibly valuable stone.”

Lucille Trouin remained silent, her face expressionless.

“Here? In her cell?” Nedellec approached. “She had the jewelry here?”

He spoke as though Lucille wasn’t even there.

“A perfect hiding place. Almost.” Huppert too was staring at the necklace and gemstone.

“People were murdered for this stone.” Dupin held it in his hand, the chain swaying beneath. “It’s the center of the entire story”—he cast Lucille Trouin a penetrating glance—“that I’m sure we’re about to hear in all its detail.”

Trouin had seemingly regained her composure. “As I said, it’s an old heirloom from my mother.”

It was so incredibly cynical. She knew they couldn’t check—and therefore neither refute—her claim. Only Madame Allanic could, theoretically.

“I hadn’t worn the necklace in a long time, I’d almost forgotten about it, but for the last few months I’ve been wearing it regularly again. Including on Monday, when—”

Huppert cut in: “Someone must have brought it to the police station. I didn’t see it on the evening of the arrest, I’m sure of it. She was wearing it today, I remember. But definitely not the day before yesterday.”

She took a deep breath, an unusually emotive gesture for the otherwise prosaic commissaire.

“And that someone was either Charles Braz or Flore Briard. After he or she killed Morel and Richard in order to get the necklace. Thereby eliminating the only people who knew about it.”

That was exactly what had gone through Dupin’s mind earlier in the bistro, when he’d had the idea about the necklace. Both of them, Briard and Braz, had brought things into the police station for Lucille. Somehow one of the two had managed to smuggle in the necklace. Charles, perhaps, when they’d hugged, or Flore Briard with the things that she’d handed in.

“I’ll get the jewelry expert we engaged to come to the station right away.” Huppert’s tone turned pragmatic. “And send someone to get Flore Briard. I’ll have her taken into temporary custody.”

“It’s better we drive out to Briard ourselves and take her by surprise. So she won’t have time to think.” Dupin didn’t want to take any more risks.

“Good idea. Let’s pay her a visit!”

Dupin handed Huppert the necklace.

The attorney, who had watched the scene unfold in silence, now found his words again. “You can’t just take my client’s personal possessions with you.”

“Yes I can. I think this gathering here has fulfilled its purpose, Monsieur Giscard, and I’m bringing it to an end. Unless”—Huppert now spoke directly to Lucille Trouin—“there’s something else you want to say, and by that I mean: make a confession. Is that perhaps the case?”

“As I said”—Trouin’s voice was firm—“it’s a piece of jewelry I’ve owned for twenty years. I was already wearing the necklace the day before yesterday, no matter what you say.”

“Then it should be listed with the things you were wearing at the time of your arrest. All of that was logged, as required by law. So it can easily be checked.”

Without waiting for a reaction, the commissaire went over to the door. Then she turned around one more time.

“You can spend a moment longer with your client if you’d like, Monsieur Giscard. I’ll close the door. If you want to come out, press the bell next to the door, two of my colleagues will be outside.”

Nedellec and Dupin left the room with her.

---

The storm was finally relenting. There was only the occasional clap of thunder, and the rain had become less insistent.

Commissaire Huppert was sitting at her desk, Nedellec and Dupin opposite, and she looked content. The necklace lay before her on the desk. In her hands was the list that had been drawn up the night before last, after Lucille Trouin’s arrest.

“There’s no necklace on here. I think that was pretty obvious. Nor with the things that Charles Braz and Flore Briard brought in for her.”

“She’ll keep insisting regardless. And that it’s an heirloom from her mother. She’ll claim it was sloppiness on the part of the officials that the necklace wasn’t listed, and continue her brazen spiel.” Unfortunately, Nedellec was right. “We need foolproof evidence. First of all, we need to establish that the gemstone really is incredibly valuable—and then we need to prove, without a doubt, that it was stolen from Madame Allanic.”

“Our colleagues doing the surveillance have confirmed that Flore Briard is at home, by the way.” Huppert was already one step further. “But first the jewelry expert. He should be here soon. He’s bringing his mobile equipment with him. We probably won’t be able to get a definitive evaluation tonight, but an initial appraisal will be enough.”

“Shouldn’t we perhaps show the stone to Madame Allanic and see how she reacts? She might be able to identify it in spite of her mental state.”

Nedellec voiced what had already occurred to Dupin. It would certainly be the simplest way. But he had immediately dismissed the idea again.

“I’m afraid it would be futile.” Based on his experience with Madame Allanic, Dupin couldn’t imagine it working.

Huppert spoke up. “She’s not in the position to give a reliable statement. And she would also need to prove ownership of the necklace with documentation. The statement alone of a ninety-three-year-old with dementia won’t help us.”

“Perhaps there’s some insurance paperwork,” commented Nedellec.

“If it’s even insured at all.” Particularly in families with old money, Dupin knew, this was frequently not the case. “And in order to get to the documents, we would have to speak to Madame Allanic.”

“I suggest we wait to see what the expert has to say on the necklace’s value—then go from there. Perhaps the housekeeper knows whether the jewelry is insured and where the documents are,” Huppert suggested.

At that moment, Dupin’s phone rang. He glanced quickly at the display. Claire. He rejected the call, as much as he hated to, but he couldn’t talk right now.

Dupin stood up and reached for the necklace.

He studied the stone.

It was almost circular and immaculately cut, set within a delicate silver clasp. Dupin estimated its diameter at one and a half centimeters, perhaps a little more. The most striking feature was its extraordinary shade of blue. A sparkling, constantly changing magical blue that became more intense toward the center—from a light blue shimmer to a deep blue gleam. Endless nuances that changed with every movement and every minimal shift in the direction of the gaze. Looking closer, Dupin got lost in endlessly mirroring and overlapping triangles, all of them in different shades of blue. More and more surfaces and facets opened up—until he felt dizzy.

“A diamond. A blue one.”

Nedellec, who was now standing next to Dupin, played the expert. Nonetheless, Dupin wouldn’t even have been able to name the type of stone.

“Just a moment.” Dupin put the stone back down on the table as an idea came to mind, got out his cell phone, and activated the speaker.

It took a little while for the call to be picked up—understandably; it was a quarter to two in the morning.

“Boss? What is it?” A sleepy voice. At least the inspector wasn’t out on a badger hunt.

“Riwal, a large blue diamond—possibly a Trouin family heirloom, the old corsair clan. Does that say anything to you?”

Possibly, it had just occurred to Dupin, it might be a famous stone.

“You found a blue diamond? At the Trouin sisters’ aunt’s place?”

Riwal’s tiredness seemed to have disappeared instantaneously.

“We found it on Lucille Trouin, but it could belong to the aunt, yes.”

There was a short pause, as though Riwal needed time to take in what he had just heard.

“Blue diamonds are the rarest and most valuable of all diamonds. What’s the diameter?”

“Between one and a half and two centimeters.”

“Send me a photo, boss, I’ll research it. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything. But there are a number of famous diamonds that are considered lost.”

“Call me when you have anything.”

“I will. Is this what the whole case was about? This one stone?”

“I think so.”

“Not bad. And do you know who it was?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure we will soon.”

“Understood. I’ll let everyone know, boss. Talk soon.”

The call was ended.

“My first inspector,” explained Dupin, seeing the questioning looks of his colleagues. “A little verbose at times, but a universal genius. Specializing in Brittany and Breton history.”

“You think this could be a legendary stone?” Nedellec seemed impressed.

“No idea, but—”

A loud knock at the door interrupted Dupin.

“Come in,” called Huppert.

A stocky, bald gentleman of around sixty years of age came in. He was wearing a tired-looking gray suit and carrying a leather suitcase in his left hand.

“Monsieur Malguen—I’m the jewelry expert.”

He sounded remarkably timid.

“Oh yes—bonsoir.” Huppert stood up. “Do come in. Have a seat.”

Huppert pointed toward one of the chairs.

“This is the stone in question.” Huppert laid the necklace directly in front of Monsieur Malguen on the desk. “We just need an approximate value.”

“Then I’ll get straight to work.”

The expert opened his briefcase and took out several instruments. Then he took the stone between the thumb and index finger of his left hand and reached for a device that looked like a wide electronic thermometer, with a row of LED lights. It seemed to form some kind of scale; the first four were green, followed by four orange and four red.

“A diamond verifier,” he remarked succinctly.

A tiny prong emerged from the tip of the device, like the lead in a protracting pencil.

The expert pressed the prong carefully against the stone and activated a small button on the side of the device.

There was a loud beeping sound, and all of the LEDs lit up.

“Okay.” The expert raised his eyebrows. “So that means it’s not a fake. It could have been a simulant, like zirconia. But it’s not.”

Now he reached for a compact, rectangular lens—“Microscope 75X” was written on it, presumably a professional magnifying glass—turned on a lamp that was mounted on the side of it, and put the lens to his right eye.

He inspected the stone carefully, moving and turning it expertly from time to time.

“This color is incredibly rare.”

He paused for a long while.

“VVS1 Clarity, I presume, the highest clarity, purity, and color intensity.”

Another pause. He took his time, turning the stone again.

“No extraneous colors that would compromise the blue. Excellent cut—excellent luster—excellent symmetry.”

With these final words, he laid the stone and necklace back on the table.

“So?” Dupin blurted out.

“I’m almost certain it’s an incredibly exquisite, extremely rare fancy blue diamond.”

“And?”

“Just a moment.”

He laid the stone and chain on a third instrument: a black, compact scale with a small silver weighing pan.

“What do you think?” Dupin’s impatience increased further.

“I’d estimate it as four hundred to five hundred points.” He raised his eyebrows even higher than before. “In other words, four to five carats. I can only say for sure once it’s taken out of the setting.”

“And what does that mean?” This time it was Huppert probing for more information.

“You mean, how much could it be worth?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, it’s not that easy to say. Unique pieces like this are usually sold at auction, and the value there is volatile at times, according to the current state of the market and participating collectors. There isn’t a fixed price.”

“A minimum—what would you say?” This was getting too complicated for Dupin.

“Hmm.” The expert cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. I would say—it should fetch five or six million.” He spoke with utter calm. “An incredibly delicate stone, no doubt of that—perhaps even a little more, but as I said, it depends whether—”

“Six million?” cried Nedellec in disbelief. “That’s madness.”

It was. Madness—and it exceeded all their imaginations. Even Huppert looked amazed.

This really would explain everything. Everything.

A sum like that would save Lucille Trouin. More than that, it would allow her to put her ambitious business plans into action. Any expansion of her gastronomic activities she could dream of. She would have been able to achieve great things, and in the process, trump her sister.

“Do you still need me?” The expert interrupted the commissaire’s long silence. He had already begun to pack his tools back into his briefcase.

“We’re almost done here, monsieur,” Huppert confirmed. “How difficult is it to sell a stone like that?”

“There are fanatical collectors for whom money isn’t a factor. Some of them don’t even care where a stone comes from. For five million, it would go pretty quickly, I think. Within a few days. With a bit of research, you can find the people who know how to approach something like that. It’s usually easier than one might think.”

“Could it be a famous stone?”

“I’d say it’s not one of the few legendary missing stones we know about today. But perhaps it was well-known a long time ago.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Malguen. For the moment, that’s everything. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”

It was much more than they’d hoped. Dupin had feared a considerably more vague appraisal.

Huppert accompanied Monsieur Malguen to the door with his briefcase.

“Many thanks again, monsieur. And—bonne nuit.”

“My pleasure, Madame le Commissaire. My pleasure.”

“Just one more thing, monsieur.” The man was already halfway out of the door. “If you could keep this in strict confidence?”

“That goes without saying, madame. Au revoir.” The expert went to the elevator.

“And now it’s time to pay Flore Briard a visit.” Dupin got up too.

Huppert picked up the necklace.

“I’ll just take this to my safe in the weapons room. We’ll meet outside.”

---

On the entire drive they had encountered only two cars; Saint-Malo and Dinard seemed deserted, the streets swept empty. The sky too had been swept empty; it was unbelievable, just a short while before, the apocalypse had raged, and now the night was starry clear. The mountainous clouds had disappeared as quickly as they’d come, the whole storm had been like a ghost, the only lingering reminder the particularly large puddles.

They had taken Dupin’s car; it was directly in front of the police station. Driving at a significant speed, they had reached the white gate of Flore Briard’s magnificent villa within fifteen minutes.

The moon had risen at the other end of the bay, right over Saint-Malo. A wanly glowing crescent moon, whose sparing light was enough to give the villa an atmospheric appearance. The sharp gables towered up into the night sky.

The sea was in view, a captivating sight even now—admittedly without its emerald green, but in its place was the monochrome magic of a bluish-gray tone. The boats were still pitching back and forth, a final after-effect of the storm.

Dupin rang the doorbell. Three, four times.

They waited. Presumably Flore Briard was sound asleep.

He rang once again.

Now they heard a crackle in the intercom system at the gate.

“Who is it?” A sleepy voice.

“The police. Huppert, Nedellec, and Dupin. We have to speak to you, Madame Briard.”

A brief silence.

“What about?”

“Let us in, Madame Briard!” intervened Huppert.

The gate began to move.

Dupin knew the way through the garden.

They entered the villa, hurried through the immense reception hall, and were soon standing in front of the door to Briard’s actual apartment.

Two minutes later, Flore Briard appeared. She was wearing leggings and a blue sweatshirt. Her face was bare of makeup, her hair entirely disheveled, giving her a wild appearance.

“And what’s so urgent you have to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?”

She turned and walked along the corridor toward the large living room with the fantastic view.

“We’ve come to take you into temporary custody, Madame Briard.”

Huppert had said it without any trace of drama.

“You’re under suspicion of two, possibly three counts of murder. And of grand theft.”

Flore Briard stopped. She seemed composed.

“So in your desperation you’ve all decided that I’m the murderer? I thought that was just a threat, in order to—”

“We are in possession of the stone—the blue diamond, Madame Briard,” Nedellec interrupted her.

Briard shrugged lightly. “What diamond? What are you talking about?”

“We’re talking about an exceptional gemstone that’s worth at least five million euros, which was stolen from your best friend’s aunt.”

Nedellec dispensed with phrases like “presumably” or “highly likely.”

“The stone you murdered Kilian Morel and Walig Richard to get to. Then you took it to Lucille Trouin in investigative detainment. And perhaps you even pushed Charles Braz off the cliffs today.”

“That sounds like some wild corsair legend, Commissaire.” Flore Briard looked unimpressed. “I have nothing to do with any of it. And I don’t know about any diamond either.”

Dupin looked her directly in the eyes. “You were in on it with Lucille Trouin from the start. Probably she put you up to it, but that’s irrelevant. She promised you a significant share of the profits. You wouldn’t have to sell your villa, and could extend your business.”

He noticed that he’d lost the renewed energy that he had felt earlier, before their arrival here in Dinard. It was strange.

“You and Charles Braz were the only ones who dropped items off for Lucille Trouin in custody.” Nedellec completed the argument. “We were able to seize the diamond in Trouin’s cell this evening. Madame Trouin wasn’t wearing the necklace when she was arrested, otherwise it would have been registered at the station.”

“Not to mention,” concluded Huppert, “that you don’t have an alibi for yesterday morning—nor for this afternoon.”

Flore Briard still looked mostly unfazed.

“So, putting aside for a moment that I don’t have any financial difficulties whatsoever—why do you think it’s me and not Charles?”

Of course, she would take this tack.

“Investigative detainment as a measure is designed for exactly this kind of situation,” deflected Huppert, not having an answer prepared for Briard’s question. “So that where there’s valid suspicion and an acute flight risk, we can investigate the remaining evidence for the conclusive arrest of a suspect. The law gives us twenty-four hours in which to do that. So let’s go, Madame Briard.”

Huppert had reached the limits of her patience, and Dupin could understand why.

“You’re making a serious mistake, Commissaire.” Madame Briard’s eyes had narrowed, her voice sounded strangely hissing, and her self-assurance had now evaporated. “I’m warning you. There will be consequences.”

She made a sudden movement toward the sofa.

Huppert’s hand darted to her gun, and Dupin’s muscles tensed.

“My cell phone’s on the sofa. I want to call my lawyer.”

“You do that!” Huppert kept Flore Briard in her gaze. “Tell him to come to the police station. We’ll be there in fifteen.”

---

The journey through the night to the police station had been eerie; no one had said a word.

This was due in part to their immense tiredness. It was three hours already since they had ended their very long day for the first time, having been on their feet for over twenty hours. And a lot more had happened in the meantime. A huge amount. Albeit not enough. Not enough to finally bring light into the dark.

Arriving at the station, they had briefly spoken with Briard’s attorney, who had then spoken with Briard alone for a while. She had protested vehemently at first, of course, but then acquiesced. Due to the extreme circumstances, even though the attorney did his best to object, they had the right to demand investigative custody.

Huppert had scheduled a thorough interrogation for the morning. In the presence of the attorney, she had taken Flore Briard to the second cell in the police station. It was directly next to Lucille Trouin’s.

The three commissaires were now on the first-floor landing.

“What now?” asked Nedellec.

“Now we get some sleep,” replied Huppert firmly.

For a moment, an objection danced on Dupin’s tongue—they risked losing the momentum, they might be on the brink of definitively resolving the remaining questions—but he swallowed it down. He felt dizzy and exhausted. Utterly depleted.

“We’ll stick to our plan,” Huppert continued. “Half past seven in the morning at Café du Théâtre.”

Nedellec and Dupin nodded briefly.

Then all three of them left the station, each heading in a different direction.