Dupin had arrived at Villa Saint Raphaël shortly after half past three in the morning, and three minutes later he was in bed. Despite his tiredness, it took him another torturous twenty minutes to fall asleep—the miraculous rum was now too long ago. There was too much running through his mind. Once sleep finally came, it was incredibly restless.
When his alarm went off at ten to seven, it took a good while to get his bearings. Only once he’d showered did he regain some of his energy.
He had arrived at the Café du Théâtre a little early and had already drunk two cafés in order to get his brain into gear.
Nedellec and Huppert had appeared at half past seven.
They sat in a quiet corner, the café already filling with early-morning hustle and bustle.
Huppert brought them up to date:
“Flore Briard’s attorney is about to submit a complaint over his client’s alleged unlawful detainment. He’s demanding her immediate release. I’ve spoken with the prefect and she fully supports us and our decision. I’ve set the interrogation with Briard for nine-thirty.”
Dupin was occupied with his pain au chocolat. And his fourth petit café. From time to time, one of the other customers looked over at them curiously. Dupin thought he heard the words “Britt Team” a few times. He had consistently ignored the newspapers, with their sensational headlines, which lay scattered over many of the tables in the café.
“What are we telling the pre—”
The ringing of Dupin’s cell phone interrupted Nedellec.
Dupin saw Riwal’s number.
“My inspector.”
He took the call.
“Riwal?”
“Morning, boss, is there any news on the rock? Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to find anything on a large blue diamond that played a role in Breton history.”
Dupin summarized what the expert had told them last night.
“Not bad! Four hundred to five hundred points. Unbelievable.” Riwal was highly impressed.
“Was there anything else, Riwal?”
“Success, boss! Mission accomplished.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gasoline! That was it! I poured gasoline along the edge of the garden last night. No more sign of a badger, it’s unbelievable.”
It seemed like a desperately harsh measure, but if it helped.…
“Now’s not a good time, Riwal, I’m sitting here with Commissaire Huppert and…”
“Understood, boss.”
“Speak later, Riwal.”
“Sorry.” Dupin turned back to Nedellec. “What were you saying?”
“I’m just wondering what we should tell the prefects. We’re in possession of the stone now, sure, and therefore the probable motive, but we still don’t know who the murderer is. If Flore Briard doesn’t make a confession and we don’t soon find something with which we can prove the murders and the theft, we’ll have to release her. Charles Braz, our second suspect, is dead. And we don’t even know whether it was murder or suicide.”
It was infuriating. They had come so far, so close—and it could still end up a complete failure. The more awake Dupin became, the more intensely he was aware of it. The worst thing was: they wouldn’t be able to pin anything else on Lucille Trouin either. She could simply wait it out and stubbornly claim that her sister’s murder was purely a crime of passion.
“I’m going to stop in on Madame Allanic again.” Dupin had eaten his last bite and was standing up.
“Yes, do that.” Huppert was pale; you could see how little she’d slept. “It’s worth a try.”
A pleasant side effect of going to see Madame Allanic was that it would mean missing part of the meeting with the prefects.
“See you shortly.”
And with that he was out of the door.
It was still early; the drive—along Avenue John Kennedy, which ran parallel to the beach—would take less than ten minutes. He knew the route by now.
The cloudless night sky had given way to a cloudless morning sky. An intense, brilliant blue, as though it had been freshly painted.
Shortly before eight, Dupin reached the first roundabout in Rothéneuf and braked abruptly. A now-familiar formation of cars moving at a blithely leisurely pace entered the roundabout ahead of him; the Journées Nationales des Véhicules d’Époque was clearly still ongoing. Dupin spotted an old dark blue Peugeot 404—his father had driven one, the first car that Dupin could remember. Predominantly recognizable by its spherical headlamps, which always looked as though they were observing the world curiously. This time, too, several of the drivers and passengers waved at him. Of course! He finally caught on. He had read it in the paper just recently: his XM-model Citroën was celebrating its thirtieth birthday, officially making it a classic. So he was one of them.
A short while later, he parked the car at the edge of the road in the small cul-de-sac where Madame Allanic’s villa sat enthroned. To the right, the marvelous little inland sea, half water, half sand.
Dupin climbed the stone steps to the entrance of the villa and pressed the old-fashioned doorbell.
A second time. A third and fourth.
No one came.
Perhaps Madame Allanic was still asleep. Given her partial deafness, she wouldn’t hear the doorbell. And maybe the housekeeper didn’t start until later. At half past eight, nine? He should have thought of that. But like always during an investigation, Dupin forgot there was a factual reality outside the case, one which, as banal as it may be, simply continued as normal.
Dupin pulled out his phone and searched for Madame Lezu’s number.
“Hello?”
“This is Commissaire Dupin. Are you still at home, Madame Lezu?”
“Yes, monsieur, but I’m just about to leave, yesterday evening I was—”
“I have a question regarding a very specific piece of jewelry, madame.” It occurred to Dupin that it would have been better if he’d brought it along, but at least he had the photos he had sent Riwal on his cell. “I’m in front of the villa.”
“You’re—what?” She sounded shocked.
“I’m in front of Madame Allanic’s villa.”
“Did you wake her?” the housekeeper asked worriedly.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll come immediately, Monsieur le Commissaire. Right this minute.”
“I’ll wait.”
A good fifteen minutes passed before Madame Lezu’s arrival. Dupin had used the time to walk down the path that ran alongside the villa to the cliffs, enjoying the wonderful fresh morning air. He could feel the lack of sleep too, despite the huge quantities of caffeine he’d imbibed.
Madame Lezu hurried up on foot.
“Here I am.” She already held the front door key in her hand. “I hope you didn’t ring the bell again, because—”
Dupin’s cell phone interrupted her hasty flow of words.
Huppert.
Dupin stepped to the side.
“Yes?”
“A letter addressed to Lucille Trouin has just arrived here at the station. A letter from Charles Braz. His name is on the envelope as the sender. Handwritten.”
“What?”
“It seems Braz wrote Trouin a letter and posted it yesterday.”
A message from a dead man.
“Have you opened it yet?”
“You know we can’t do that. In investigative detainment, there’s unrestricted privacy of correspondence. We would need a court order, which means an intensification of custody. For that we’d need to show there’s an acute danger of suppression of evidence. Which is far from easy, and it would take a while. And another thing: if we just open the letter, it won’t be permitted as evidence in trial.”
“Damn it!” This couldn’t be happening.
The contents of the letter could potentially bring the entire truth to light—clear up all the remaining questions.
“This is infuriating.”
“Who knows, maybe its contents are irrelevant to the investigation. A declaration of love. Consolation. Or a suicide note. Which means we would at least finally get some clarity on that point.”
“I’ll be there right away, Huppert.”
The letter was now much more urgent than waiting for Madame Allanic. They had to find a way to read it, no matter what, even if it seemed impossible. He could visit Madame Allanic later.
“Good. Nedellec is with the prefects, giving them a report. I’ll wait in my office. And I’ll see to the intensification of custody, even if it’s complicated.”
Huppert had already hung up.
Dupin turned to the housekeeper, who was still standing there with the key in her hand and looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.
“I’m afraid I’m urgently needed elsewhere, Madame Lezu. But I’ll come back later. Just one thing: Has Madame Allanic insured her jewelry?”
“I…” The situation seemed to overwhelm Madame Lezu. “Insurance? No!” Her face showed indignation. “For Madame, jewelry is something completely private. These are very old, personal pieces from the family inheritance, no one ever insured them. Someone from the insurance company could get the idea of stealing them.” She shook her head adamantly. “She would never risk that.”
She was starting to sound like Madame Allanic herself, thought Dupin.
“Do you know anything about a special blue diamond? On a silver chain?”
She thought for a moment. “No. Nothing at all.”
“Then thank you, Madame Lezu. And until later.”
Dupin was already dashing back to his car.
Twelve minutes later, Commissaire Dupin rushed into his colleague’s office.
“And?”
Huppert was sitting at her desk. “I asked two colleagues to compare the handwritten address on the envelope with other documents from Charles Braz.”
“And?”
“The handwriting seems identical.”
She held the letter out toward Dupin.
“I made the application for intensified custody and surveillance of correspondence. But actually we have no other choice but to give her the letter soon.”
Dupin studied it closely. The handwriting looked a little erratic.
Madame Lucille Trouin / Commissariat Central Police Nationale / 22, Rue du Calvaire / 35400 Saint-Malo.
Sender: Charles Braz / 12, Quai Solidor / 35400 Saint-Malo.
The envelope was pasted shut.
“I have an idea. Of how we could do it.”
Huppert raised her eyebrows. “How?”
“It’s a little unorthodox—but it could work.”
Dupin had racked his brains on the drive over, and the idea had come to him just before he reached the station.
“Out with it.”
The plan wasn’t complicated—within two minutes, he had explained it.
Huppert leaned back; she seemed at a loss. “I don’t know, it sounds a bit outlandish.”
She was silent for a good while.
Then she sighed.
“We’ll give it a go. I’ll tell the janitor, the restroom is directly next to the interrogation room. Then I’ll call Trouin’s attorney. As soon as he arrives, I’ll fetch Trouin and bring both of them into the interrogation room. Officially, this discussion is connected to new findings. I’ll ask a few questions, and at the end I’ll hand her the letter, as casually as possible. I’ll give you a call beforehand. After that, only text messages. Oh yes,” something else occurred to her, “and I’ll let Nedellec know. He has to be there. It’s a good excuse to free him from the prefects.”
“Perfect!” Dupin was already on his way to the door. “I’ll take a look at everything.”
It was hard to say what the chances were—but perhaps they would get lucky.
The commissaire then stepped into the restroom next to the interrogation room.
A unisex restroom. Perhaps fifteen square meters. Four cubicles. A washbasin directly behind the door, on the wall to the right-hand side. Over it, a mirror, a paper-towel holder. It smelled strongly of cleaning fluids.
He looked around.
The first toilet cubicle looked the most probable. He went in, activated the flush, and then went out again.
To play it safe, he would hide in the farthermost cubicle.
He played through the entire plan once more in his mind.
With a satisfied look on his face, he left the washroom. Only to pace impatiently up and down in the corridor on the third floor. The time dragged and dragged, until eventually his phone rang.
“We’re ready, the janitor too. Everything’s sorted. The attorney is here. We’re going into the interrogation room now. Nedellec isn’t here yet, but we’ll start regardless.”
“Okay.”
Dupin put his phone on silent.
He retreated back into the restroom. The fourth cubicle. He left the door just slightly ajar—in such a way that it wouldn’t draw attention—and positioned himself on the toilet lid. Then he waited.
Long minutes passed. At times, it felt like hours. He stared fixedly at his phone, so he could see at once if a message from Huppert arrived.
Nothing.
Five minutes.
Seven.
Ten minutes.
It surely couldn’t take this long. The situation in the interrogation room must be going differently than expected.
He was just about to send Huppert a text message when the door suddenly opened.
He froze.
Someone stepped into the room.
They paused. In front of the washbasin, presumably. They walked—Dupin held his breath—past the four cubicles. Then stopped again and returned to the washbasin.
Dupin’s muscles were completely tensed. But there was only one thing he could do: wait. And hope.
For a while, he didn’t hear anything. It was completely quiet.
Then, all at once, a noise made its way to Dupin’s ears, one that he immediately recognized. This was exactly the sound he had been hoping for.
And again.
The sound of paper being torn.
Then he heard steps again, the door to one of the toilet cubicles being opened.
Now. This was the moment.
He sprang into action.
In one leap, he was out and lurching to the right.
The door to the first cubicle stood open; she hadn’t yet had time to pull it shut. Inside it was Lucille Trouin. She jumped, her face showing both bewilderment and panic. Everything happened at lightning speed. Dupin was just a meter away from her. In a few fractions of a second, she leaned forward and threw the scraps of paper she was holding in her right hand into the toilet.
The torn-up letter.
Everything seemed to have played out exactly as Dupin had imagined. At the end of the interrogation, as planned, Huppert had given Trouin the letter from Charles Braz, had perhaps even had one of the officers do it. Either way: with the receipt of the letter, Lucille Trouin had found herself in a very tight spot. Presuming, of course, that the letter contained something controversial, something incriminating—which Lucille would have known or at least feared. She must have immediately run through all the possible scenarios in her mind. In order to avoid the police getting their hands on the letter, she had decided to destroy it on the spot. There would be only one safe option in the vicinity: the toilet. And just one point in time: immediately.
“You’re too late, Commissaire.”
Lucille Trouin spoke with a triumphant smile, her right hand on the flush, which she pushed down. Then, in confusion, she pushed it again.
No water had appeared. And nor did it on her next attempt. She stared at the toilet in disbelief.
Dupin seized the moment and pushed his way into the cubicle, knocking her a little to the side in the process.
“You can flush it as often as you like, Madame Trouin. The janitor turned off the water. And if the letter was written in ink, we’ll be able to read every word perfectly.”
Dupin had already checked; none of the paper scraps had fallen into the U-bend.
“What are you thinking, following me into the toilet, that’s—” she began, only to be interrupted by a loud bang.
The door had been flung open and slammed against the wall.
Huppert. With two police officers right behind her.
“Well?” she addressed Dupin, all the while staring at Lucille Trouin.
“We’ve got it!” Dupin nodded his head toward the toilet bowl. “As expected, she was planning to destroy it.”
Huppert took a step toward the cubicle.
“Come out, Madame Trouin,” ordered Huppert.
“You set me up!” Lucille Trouin balled her fists and stepped out of the cubicle. “You’ve no power to—”
“We absolutely do,” Huppert retorted, now standing just a few centimeters away from Lucille. “We’re responsible for your safety. And we had reason to fear you were planning to hurt yourself. It was our responsibility to check on you.”
“Hurt myself?” Lucille was shouting now, she was beside herself.
Dupin leaned over the toilet, unmoved by her reaction, and reached for the scraps of paper.
They’d gotten lucky.
“There it is. Written in ballpoint. Wet, torn, but we’ll be able to decipher it.”
They would reassemble it right away.
“You’ve clearly disposed of the letter, Madame Trouin.” Huppert had returned to her rigorous practicality. “That terminates the privacy of correspondence.”
That was the showstopper to their plan.
Dupin could see Lucille’s derailed expression in the mirror above the washbasin.
“It’s over, Madame Trouin.” Dupin’s voice was calm.
They had brought Lucille to the moment of truth. For the first time, she was backed into a corner, and she knew it—now they had to continue, bring the situation to a head, use every tool they had to force her hand.
“Your aunt and Madame Lezu have just confirmed with me that the blue diamond belongs to your aunt. It isn’t an heirloom from your mother.”
As he spoke, Lucille had turned around to him as though in slow motion, then paused.
Now she stood there motionless, her gaze fixed on Dupin, empty, soulless. Otherworldly.
It took a while, but eventually she began to speak. Or rather, to whisper.
“Charles thought, or maybe I should say hoped, that he’d be able to win me back by doing this. By—committing these barbaric acts.” She spoke earnestly, sadly, pausing between individual words. In Dupin’s ears it sounded completely contrived. “He—he’s the murderer. He murdered my brother-in-law and Walig Richard.” Now a few tears ran down her cheeks, and she made a dramatic gesture with her hand. “It’s tragic.”
It was brazen. Brazen beyond all measure. Just like her “confession” yesterday. She didn’t even try to present her spurious emotions in a moderately credible way. Dupin struggled to control himself—but he let her talk; they had waited long enough.
“That’s precisely what the letter says,” she continued. “That Charles wanted me back. Couldn’t live without me. That he did all of it for me, for us. And that he could no longer bear it and was therefore putting an end to his life.”
All the same, if it really did say that in the letter, it was an incredibly important piece of information. And there would be no point in Lucille Trouin lying. They would be able to read the letter soon anyway and discover its contents—regardless of how Lucille’s interpretations might look.
“I wanted to protect him. Charles. For many years, I really did love him, I…” She stopped and covered her face with her hands. “Poor Charles! How ill he must have been the whole time, I should have noticed it sooner. I feel so guilty. In his fury he even claimed I put him up to it all—that I’d said we could start afresh with the money, after the whole land purchase fiasco—and our relationship crisis. That I’d promised him that. He concocted it all in his mind so it reflected his innermost hopes. He,” a sigh, “confessed everything to me when he visited. He said he’d gotten the diamond back for me, murdered Kilian Morel and Walig Richard and…”
“The necklace was with Monsieur Richard?”
“No. It was at my sister’s house. Charles found it there. Walig Richard had valued it at my sister’s request, she wanted to know how much it was really worth.”
This part of Lucille Trouin’s theatrical statement corresponded pretty much with their suspicions.
“Walig Richard,” she continued, “knew about the stone and so, according to Charles’s ill logic, he had to die. He wanted to get rid of everyone who knew about it.”
She took a deep breath in and out, then closed her eyes.
“He told you all of that when he visited the station?” Huppert didn’t seem to want to allow her any pause.
“He hugged me. He whispered it in my ear. The policeman wouldn’t have been able to hear. And during the hug Charles also pressed the necklace into my hand. And”—her tears flowed again—“told me it was his pledge of love.”
“And? How did you react?”
“I said he had to turn himself in at once. That I condemned everything he’d done. That he was ill. The situation didn’t allow me to say much more. And of course I was completely shocked.”
No one in the room moved; the two police officers also stood there as though rooted to the spot.
“Read his letter! He writes that he couldn’t get past my reaction. That he only did it all for me—and that I’ve now suddenly turned my back on his love. Instead of declaring my love to him once again … Do you get how extreme his mental illness was?”
She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Her hair fell into her face, and she made no move to brush it back.
“But he didn’t turn himself in—he made a different choice. It’s terrible.”
Dupin had now realized why she wasn’t making much of an effort with her performance. Her aim wasn’t to sound convincing, but merely to establish her strategic position for everything that was to come. An interpretive perspective. Initially, of course, in reference to the letter. She had read it, she knew what was in it, and now intended to incorporate each and every word into her argument. Before Huppert and Dupin could read the letter themselves. She was fully aware that Huppert and Dupin wouldn’t be taken in by her attempt to drag herself out of the affair and pin everything on Charles Braz. But—she would follow a clear line from the beginning on. It didn’t get more perfidious than that.
Dupin had no doubt she had used Charles Braz like a puppet on a string. Abetted him in an abhorrently subtle and brutal way. People who were desperately in love were capable of anything; even more so when they were cruelly rejected. In all probability she had given him exactly what he’d claimed in the letter: a promise. The promise that they would get back together. That they would make a fresh start. Only to then drop him coldly, once he had done everything for her. He must have been so heartbroken.
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying, Madame Trouin.”
Huppert was clearly in complete agreement with Dupin.
“The fact alone that you tried to destroy the letter shows you wanted to avoid our discovering its contents no matter what. But now you can’t prevent that, given the failure of your little mission here, you’re trying everything to twist it to the shape of your own story. But you won’t succeed.” There were surprising signs of emotion in Huppert’s tone. “As far as your sister’s murder is concerned…”
“What’s happened? I came as quickly as I could.”
Commissaire Nedellec stood in the doorway. His gaze flitted cluelessly back and forth.
“Later, Nedellec, later!” Huppert was firm.
Nedellec obediently positioned himself next to the washbasin.
“So, Madame Trouin, do continue!”
Lucille Trouin took another theatrical deep breath. “I lost my composure, in a terrible way, for several fatal moments, just like I already told you. I think there had just been too much hurt, and—”
“We know this old story, Madame Trouin. Tell us how the story with the diamond began in the first place.”
“Blanche stole it from my aunt, who years ago, when we were little, sometimes told us about her jewelry, about a legendary blue diamond. But back then I thought it was just a myth and…”
“Why would your sister have done that?”
“Oh—for numerous reasons. It would have allowed her to expand her restaurant and businesses however she wanted, her husband’s too. And, more than anything, to put me in her shadow even more.”
In a way it was tragic, and probably she really felt that deep down: she was the victim, the eternal victim, and had only been defending herself. The complicated truth was that probably both were somehow correct. Nonetheless, Dupin felt no sympathy for her.
“It was greed. Blanche was greedy, she always was, even though she was great at passing herself off as generous. As someone who didn’t care about money, possessions, and all that. She—”
“You were the one who bankrupted yourself.” Huppert seemed to have had enough. “You had the ambitious plans to expand. I don’t believe that your sister stole the diamond.”
“She did, it was her!”
“And how and when did you find out about it?”
“I looked at the jewelry from time to time when I visited my aunt, and there was always this big blue stone. It was completely irresponsible of her to store it so carelessly. It wasn’t even insured. I always told her. Just think of her housekeeper, Madame Lezu. Naturally she could have decided that she deserved an extra something, after all her devoted years of service to my aunt, before everything goes to the sister in Canada.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I was at my aunt’s on Monday morning, visiting—and the necklace with the stone was gone. I immediately realized what must have happened. I was furious. And remember what I’d just found out—about Blanche stealing my sous-chef and publishing my father’s recipes in her own name. It was too much for me. I stormed out of the villa, got in the car, and drove to the market. To Blanche’s stall. I confronted her, told her to her face that I knew about the theft. When she denied it point-blank,” she lowered her gaze, “I lost my head. My control. It just took hold of me. Any psychiatrist will be able to tell you about the toxic impact of all those wounds.”
In an exaggeratedly melancholic pose, she ran her hands through her hair.
“And that’s it. That’s absolutely everything there is to say. I don’t have anything to do with the terrible events after that. And no one can expect me to turn in someone I loved for a long time, and in a certain way still do. I would never have been able to betray him.”
Dupin had experienced a lot over the course of his career, had convicted unscrupulous, calculating murderers—but Lucille Trouin’s cold-bloodedness seemed to surpass them all. Of course, there was a reason she was like that, but nonetheless, after a certain point—he had to see it like that, otherwise he lost all hold—a person was entirely responsible for their own actions. Not for the cards they’d been dealt, but certainly for what you made of them. That was Dupin’s deepest conviction.
“The only reason you didn’t turn him in is because he would have told the truth”—Huppert was justifiably refusing to let Lucille Trouin’s claim stand—“thereby destroying your chances of getting away with the diamond. You almost managed it. You had the stone in your possession, and no one would have found out about it. You would have claimed a crime of passion, and got a reduced sentence. Instead of doing life for murder, you would have been convicted for manslaughter, and free within one or two years. On parole, perhaps even earlier. As a millionaire.”
It really was that dramatic.
Lucille’s pupils had narrowed. “I’ve said what I have to say. The truth and nothing but the truth.” She began to move, heading toward the door.
The police officers, who so far had remained silent, glanced at Huppert, who gave a minimal nod.
“Accompany Madame Trouin. Her attorney is still next door in the interrogation room. After that, take her to her cell. We’ll have the opportunity soon enough to continue this conversation.”
Lucille Trouin raised her head—it was intended to be a gesture of pride, but looked grotesque—and left the restroom, accompanied by the police officers.
The three commissaires had retreated to Huppert’s office and reassembled the wet scraps of Charles Braz’s letter as best they could.
The message was short.
Lucille,
I gave everything I had, did everything you wanted. I knew it was wrong, that I was committing terrible, unforgivable acts.
I did it for us, for our love. You know that.
You said we would have a fresh start.
Now you’ve torn the ground out from under all of it. From me.
I can’t go on, Lucille, I don’t want to go on.
I love you, now and forever.
Charles
“The letter confirms everything we thought.” Huppert was the first to speak.
The three commissaires huddled over the desk, just as they had the night before when studying the diamond.
“That’s the proof. It was cold, premeditated murder. Lucille Trouin used Charles Braz to carry out her malicious plan. Presumably she called him on Monday when she was on the run, despite what he said in his statement. Perhaps from some café. Or maybe they even met somewhere, they would have had enough time. We’ll get it out of her.” Huppert had long since returned to her objective mode. “It won’t be easy for her to convince anyone of her claims.”
“So Briard, Joe Morel, and Clément have nothing to do with the whole thing, they’re innocent. As was Walig Richard,” Nedellec summarized, Huppert having caught him up on the events on the way back to her office. “Charles Braz was the murderer, incited by Lucille Trouin. Kilian Morel may have known about the stone, and probably also where Blanche was keeping it, but presumably that was all he was guilty of. If that. As things stand, there are only a few unanswered questions.”
“Speaking of Flore Briard”—it seemed to have just occurred to Huppert—“we should release her at once.” She reached for the phone. “And then quickly meet with the prefects and inform them about the latest developments.”
“Some of it they already know,” clarified Nedellec. “I just sent them a message…”
Dupin’s phone. He had turned the volume up again.
The number looked familiar.
“Yes?”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?” A frail, female voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is Madame Lezu.”
The housekeeper. She sounded scared. “You said you’d be back soon.”
It had actually resolved itself, at least the question regarding the diamond.
“We’ve since found out that it really is about a necklace belonging to Madame Allanic. A necklace with a very valuable stone, the blue diamond I asked you about earlier. It was stolen from her. In that sense, it’s no longer urgent. I’ll come by between eleven and twelve.”
He would have to tell Madame Allanic everything, regardless of how much her confused mind would be able to process. And soon. Before the story in which her diamond played a key role reached the press. Above all, he would have to reassure her, tell her that the stone had been returned, that she would soon have it back. But he would also have to tell her that one of her nieces—Blanche? Was it really true?—had stolen the gem. One thing was certain, the whole thing would be incredibly upsetting for her.
“Really? Has someone confirmed that to you? That it’s about the blue diamond? That all those people were murdered because of it?”
The anxiety in Madame Lezu’s voice had been joined by something else. He detected a strong sense of discomfort.
“That’s exactly right, Madame Lezu. Lucille Trouin has just confirmed it.”
“I—I understand … I think I need to speak with you, Monsieur le Commissaire. I don’t have anything to do with all of this, nothing at all, but still. There’s this one thing.”
“What’s this about, Madame Lezu?”
“I’d prefer to tell you in person.”
Dupin had an ominous feeling.
“I’ll be there shortly, madame. In ten minutes.”
“I’ll wait in front of the house for you.”
Dupin hung up.
“What does she want to talk to you about? Any ideas?” Nedellec probed.
“I have no idea.”
“Get round there!” Huppert instructed him. “We’ll give your apologies to the prefects again.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He had already left the office.
Madame Lezu was waiting impatiently for Dupin, standing on the solitary street that led to the villa.
Dupin parked the Citroën at the side of the road, and the housekeeper immediately came up to the car door.
“I’d prefer to speak with you here outside.” She glanced an apprehensive glance back at the house. “It’s—it’s about me. In a way.”
Dupin was still getting out of the car.
“What’s bothering you so much, madame?”
“I…” She paused. Dupin noticed that she was trembling slightly.
“Tell me, Madame Lezu, there’s no need to be afraid.”
She seemed to get a grip on herself.
“I saw something. Without intending to, of course.” She seemed to grow more uneasy by the second. “During Lucille’s last visit here, about three weeks ago, I saw her looking at Madame’s jewelry. Madame was sitting on the terrace, like she always does when the weather allows. I was working. Her niece crept into Madame’s bedroom, the door was open just a little, I was about to clean the hallway—I—” She almost tripped over her words. “I swear to you I wasn’t spying on Lucille, it was just a coincidence.”
She fell silent, as though she’d used up all her strength. Of course, Dupin doubted her assertion a little. She probably had been spying on Lucille. But that wasn’t important.
“Do go on, Madame Lezu.”
“She had the blue diamond in her hand. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What did she do with it?”
“She looked at it and took photos with her cell phone. Then she put it back again.”
“And you’re completely sure about this? Including the fact that she put it back? That’s very important for us, Madame Lezu.”
“I’m completely sure.”
“And Lucille didn’t notice you?”
“Oh no, definitely not.”
Three weeks ago, therefore, the diamond had still been in the safe in the villa. And Lucille had shown unequivocal interest in it. It fit with the chronology of the land fiasco—that she had received the catastrophic news shortly before that.
“I then called Madame Blanche to tell her. I…”
“You did what?”
“I didn’t want to tell Madame Allanic, she would only have gotten really upset. She would have misunderstood, she…”
“You called Blanche Trouin? And told her her sister had been looking at the blue diamond?”
Sheer panic lay in Madame Lezu’s gaze.
“I … I thought Blanche should know. I didn’t know what to do, please understand me, Monsieur le Commissaire. Who was I supposed to speak to? Madame Blanche was such a nice, honest person. This is incredibly unpleasant for me, I didn’t want anything to do with the whole thing. I…” Her face had lost all color. “I’m so incredibly sorry.”
So that was one of the calls itemized on Blanche Trouin’s cell phone bill. Dupin remembered Huppert having told him about it. It fit perfectly.
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”
“I … I wanted to, but I—I was afraid. Do you think I…”
Her voice failed her.
“What did Blanche say when you told her?”
“She just thanked me, that was all. Then she hung up.”
“And then she came by and picked up the necklace with the diamond?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t pay any more attention to the matter. It wasn’t my business, after all.” She slowly seemed to be regaining her composure.
“Do you know whether Blanche was here at any point after your call?”
“Not on the days I was working, no, definitely not. But perhaps on my day off, I can’t say about that.”
“And you didn’t happen to check to see whether the necklace was missing?”
“Of course not. I don’t have the authority to look at Madame’s jewelry, it would be a breach of trust and cause for dismissal. As I said,” she was trembling again, “I discovered the safe by accident only, but I didn’t open it myself, not ever.”
Dupin believed her.
“But you would still have helped the police enormously, if…”
He let it be. It was futile, and in the end would only lead to Madame Lezu feeling devastated. It was what it was.
“Did I do something wrong, I mean, will I be prosecuted?”
“No one will prosecute you, Madame Lezu. What you’ve just told me is incredibly significant for our investigation.” Dupin ran a hand through his hair, struggling to take it all in. “It’s good that you decided to confide in me.”
Madame Lezu had most probably handed them the last piece of the puzzle: that it really had been Blanche who had taken the diamond. Even if, as things looked, they would only ever be able to speculate over her reasons. Perhaps one could put it like this: Blanche had wanted to secure the necklace because she suspected Lucille was intending to steal it.
On closer consideration, it was chilling: in actual fact, Lucille’s plan had been perfect. She had had every reason to presume that, given her aunt’s confused state, no one would ever find out about the theft. If Madame Allanic’s sister in Canada had inherited her estate, it would no longer even have been possible to reconstruct everything.
“And you’re sure nothing can happen to me?” There was something pleading to the housekeeper’s tone.
“Completely sure, Madame Lezu.”
Faced with thinking about the answer he should actually have given Madame Lezu, Dupin felt dizzy. It was extreme. If Madame Lezu had not, with the best of intentions, called Blanche, then the entire sequence of events would never have been set in motion. And even before that: if she had come into the hallway a few minutes later and not seen Lucille with the stone … Blanche wouldn’t have taken the diamond herself, Lucille wouldn’t have realized this on Monday morning—and nobody at all would have died. Nothing would have happened apart from the theft, which presumably no one would ever have discovered.
A shudder ran down Dupin’s spine, giving him goose bumps.
“I’d like to have another quick word with Madame Allanic.”
Ten minutes later, during which Dupin had waited on the terrace, the housekeeper accompanied Madame Allanic—dressed in a dark green suit—to her wicker armchair next to the little table in the sun.
Madame Allanic looked overwhelmed.
“Bonjour, Madame Allanic.” Dupin sat down on one of the cast-iron chairs and came straight to the point, not wanting to make it complicated. “I have good news. We found your necklace with the blue diamond. It’s back. We just need it for a little longer, then we’ll return it to you.”
Astonishment and disbelief crept into the old woman’s features. All of a sudden, she smiled.
“My husband—I told you. He’ll find the thieves. He’ll bring everything back. And he’ll come back himself. He’ll put everything straight again, everything.”
She had incorporated Dupin’s news into her own world. Into her own fantastical world, which seemed bizarre to outsiders. Dupin felt deeply moved. The news had reached her deep within. And had taken away her anguish. He wouldn’t bother her with anything more. This reaction was enough for Dupin; he had fulfilled his role. In a certain way, as strange as it might sound, this moment here was the end of the case—at least for him.
“Good.” He got up. “Then I’ll leave you to the sunshine and your beautiful view, Madame Allanic.”
She seemed to have retreated back within herself, and had lowered her head. It was a peaceful sight.
“Au revoir, Madame Allanic,” he said to the old woman, then turned to the housekeeper. “Au revoir, Madame Lezu. It was a pleasure.”
Dupin was overcome by what was actually an entirely inappropriate exhilaration. He let it be.
He left the terrace, light-footed, and a few moments later, the villa.
Before he even got back to the car, he got out his phone. Huppert and Nedellec were presumably sitting with the prefects now.
Huppert picked up at once.
“And?”
“There’s news…”
Dupin swiftly and succinctly summarized the important details.
“This is completely insane,” said the commissaire, “but conclusive. We’re almost done here. I’ll just pass on this part of the story, and then that’s that.”
This meant, or at least Dupin understood it in this sense, something along the lines of: “Everything’s sorted, we no longer need you here.”
“Good.” Dupin pondered for a moment. “I’ll come by the station later.”
“Do that. The prefects have called a press conference for twelve-fifteen. I’m sure this will be of national interest. You should at least briefly—”
“I’ll try.”
It was the last thing Dupin wanted to think about right now. He didn’t have the energy left. Nor the enthusiasm.
“Really, do try. And this evening there’s the big good-bye dinner. Until then, Dupin.”
Dupin put his cell phone away, and walked along the narrow path that led down to the inland sea.
He had time for a little walk. Time to stretch out on a particularly beautiful, welcoming spot on the fine, white sand for a while. He would do nothing but stare up at the endlessly vast, endlessly blue sky. And think about nothing. Nothing at all.
The short walk by the inland sea had turned into one and a half hours.
It had done him good. Dupin had walked along the beach for a quarter of an hour, then found just the spot he was looking for.
Comfortable in the sand, with the sun on his face, he had almost nodded off a few times, but was thwarted by a few loudly screeching gulls. A deep tiredness had descended over him.
There was no trace of the previous night’s storm. The world had long since dried out again, and the sun reigned in all its glory over the vast, endless sky. A wonderful early summer’s day on the Atlantic coast—on days like this, you could breathe more deeply and freely.
On the way back, Dupin had called the Concarneau office and reported back to Nolwenn. Just the most important details; the more comprehensive report would follow. She had been very content.
He hadn’t reached his car again until just before twelve. Unequivocally too late for the press conference. Wanting to spare himself the discussion with Huppert, he had sent a text message. Astonishingly, the response was merely: All fine. See you at 1:30 in my office. She didn’t seem to take offense. Completely unlike Locmariaquer. Shortly after twelve he had tried to reach Dupin three times in quick succession. Dupin had ignored it. He knew him, and his annoyance would be short-lived; by the time of his grand appearance in front of the press, at the latest, all would be forgotten.
Just to be on the safe side, Dupin had driven straight from Rothéneuf to Saint-Sevan; he didn’t want to be anywhere near the police school before his meeting with Huppert. He had parked his car close to the market, and was planning to have another coffee in the Café du Théâtre—as a good-bye. He had passed the market halls where it had all begun three days before.
In spite of the coffee and his doze on the beach, he had almost fallen asleep on the barstool. His strength was completely used up, and it was only getting worse, not better. On the radio he had heard snippets of the latest report on the case, and was glad that, amidst the café hubbub, he couldn’t fully make it out.
In a peaceful side street—on the way back to his Citroën—he had tried to reach Claire. He’d actually wanted to do it this morning; she hadn’t tried to reach him again since he’d rejected her call the night before. But once again it went to voicemail. He couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy.
Shortly after half past one, Dupin had arrived in the police station as planned.
Nedellec was still in conversation with his prefect, so Dupin had been alone with Huppert. The strain of the last days could be seen on her too.
Huppert had given him an account of the press conference. Dozens of reporters and numerous camera teams had been there. Her boss, the host prefect, had presented an overview of the case and its resolution, then each of the three other prefects had added a commentary, and finally the “Britt Team” had been thanked profusely.
They had showed the press both the letter from Charles Braz and the diamond—Dupin didn’t want to imagine the headlines that would arise from even just the “legendary blue diamond from a corsair treasure trove.” And perhaps it really had originated from a corsair. For a moment, Dupin had chuckled to himself, thinking back to the eager town historian who had told them about the adventurous René Duguay-Trouin. The entire story couldn’t have been better suited to Saint-Malo.
The prefect had omitted from her summary the exact details of how they had gotten access to the letter—the scene in the restroom. Huppert had finished her report with a contented remark: “Everyone’s in agreement that Lucille Trouin won’t get away with it.” Dupin had remained silent the whole time.
He was out of the station again by 2:05, and had driven straight back to his hotel. He laid down for a nap, and only woke up again at half past six. But that didn’t matter. The case was solved, it was over.
He showered and changed into a fresh, dark blue polo shirt and his last clean pair of jeans. Tomorrow morning he’d be going back to Concarneau.
The restaurant was only a stone’s throw away, so Dupin walked there through the balmy summer air.
At exactly seven thirty, he entered Saint Placide—the final stop of their epicurean program—more punctually than on any of the recent days.
As soon as he walked in, Dupin felt a sense of peace. The restaurant was spacious, and had round tables with long white tablecloths; it was like a meditation on simplicity. Stone-gray chairs with elegantly curved backs, an oak floor, the walls painted in white and terra-cotta, lamps hanging over the tables in differing geometric shapes, gold inside, bathing everything in a warm light. A wooden counter bearing dozens of different wine decanters.
Smiling, Dupin reached the table at the far end of the restaurant. In spite of his punctuality, he was the last to arrive.
“Ah—there he is! Mon Commissaire!” called Locmariaquer. “So he does still exist.”
Dupin resolved not to let the prefect affect him and his good mood this evening, no matter what he said.
Dupin greeted the group.
The “Britt Team” was sitting together, with Huppert in the middle, which Dupin was happy to see. Really happy, he noted—almost a little sentimental.
“And to you too, Commissaire Dupin.” The host prefect stood up ceremoniously and everyone followed her lead. “Congratulations! Excellent work! Finistère has really done its bit!”
She nodded approvingly.
“We were a good team.” Dupin looked at Huppert and Nedellec. “A very good team.”
They really were.
The prefect reached for her champagne glass—there was already one at Dupin’s place setting too—and lifted it into the air with a flourish. “I think we should now make a toast to the three commissaires. To your exceptional investigation skills! To the Britt Team!”
The others picked up their glasses too.
“Hear hear!” the red-haired prefect from Morbihan agreed emphatically.
Even the surly expression of the prefect from the Côtes d’Armor brightened. “Absolutely!”
“What a triumph!” Locmariaquer, of course, couldn’t leave it at a simple toast. “I would say the four Breton départements have proven their combined clout impressively. And much more spectacularly than could ever have been the case in a seminar or training exercise—let’s be happy it happened like this. What a wonderful opportunity!”
Locmariaquer’s comment was so abstruse that the prefect didn’t even respond to it.
“To all of us! To the Breton police force! To Brittany!”
Everyone drank.
“Not to forget, of course, the incredible results,” Locmariaquer continued, “which we prefects were able to achieve in our intensive consultations and which we—”
“Many thanks, my esteemed colleague. Let’s proceed to our reward for the efforts of the last few days.” The host prefect’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s turn our attention to the heavenly creations of Luc Mobihan, the famous chef of Saint Placide, one of our greats, bestowed with a Michelin star. It’s also the celebratory conclusion of our culinary roundelay.”
Everyone took their seats.
“I’ll hand over to Isabelle Mobihan, our hostess and wonderful sommelière.”
A friendly looking woman in a colorfully patterned dress had appeared at their table.
“Bonsoir, mesdames, messieurs. Perhaps you’re already familiar with the motto of our kitchen: Voyages et aventures.”
It had been the motto of the entire case—a perfect conclusion.
“Luc’s immense curiosity drives him to continually search for extraordinary taste experiences. He’s always bringing new ideas back from our travels all over the world, frequently from Mauritius or the Seychelles. Imagine Saint Placide as a cabinet gourmand des curiosités, we don’t concern ourselves with gastronomic trends. It’s said that the most complicated thing of all is to achieve simplicity, and that’s precisely what we try to do.”
She gave the group a warmhearted smile and pointed toward the plain white cards that lay at every place setting.
“We’ve decided to offer you the menu Choisir, c’est se priver du reste—to choose is to deprive yourself of everything else. It consists of nine courses. You’ll find them listed on the little menu cards.”
A wonderful concept and a heavenly promise. Dupin felt his excitement building. He was hungry, yes, but it was more than that: pure Lucullan lust.
“Each course will be accompanied by selected wines. We wish you a wonderful evening.”
Within seconds, a silently captivated study of the menus commenced. Everything sounded like pure poetry. In moments like these, Dupin felt very aware of how much he loved French culture, a culture that ranked a masterful menu composition alongside a great opera, painting, or novel. An event.
The menu read like a collection of Dupin’s most delicious dreams: from wild oysters with shallots and red wine ice cream, and abalone mussels with garlic foam, via hand-gathered scallops with citrus fruits and Madagascar pepper, to pan-fried pigeon with café jus and young vegetables from Mont Garrot. Not to mention the desserts.
Over the next few hours, they would explore a sensual epicurean wonderland even more delicious than the land of milk and honey.
Among the prefects, delighted discussions had begun about what the menu held in store for them.
Huppert reached for her glass, which held the last sip of champagne, and spoke under her breath so only the two commissaires could hear:
“To the three of us.”
She smiled.
They toasted.
Dupin hadn’t thought it possible, but it looked set to be an enjoyable evening. They all seemed to need it.