It had turned into a late night. And it had actually been pretty lively, almost boisterous. Even Locmariaquer had been bearable.
Dupin hadn’t got back to his hotel until almost one in the morning. Huppert had stayed until the end too, despite the day ahead holding several thoroughly unpleasant, challenging tasks for her. In particular, yet another interview with Lucille Trouin, in which she had to confront her, amongst other things, with Madame Lezu’s statement and once again with Charles Braz’s letter. It would be the last interrogation in Saint-Malo; afterward Lucille would be transferred to Rennes. It was highly likely that even now she would try to find some way of twisting the facts. But nothing could help her now; in the end she would be sentenced to life imprisonment.
Shortly before half past eight, Dupin had been woken by the rays of sunlight heralding the new day.
He had slept with the windows wide open, and the wonderful morning freshness had filled the room.
As he woke up, the entire case—the two rival sisters, the murders, all the inconceivable events of the last few days—seemed like a dark chimera, a somber, nebulous nightmare.
Dupin had survived the week, he was a free man. The weekend lay before him, starting with this Friday morning. In a few hours he would be back home. And Claire would be back tomorrow night; the two weeks without her were finally over.
Dupin had enjoyed an unhurried breakfast, and the wonderful hotel owner Madame Delanoë had sat down with him for a while. They had only briefly mentioned the case, talking mainly about the beauty of the Emerald Coast, which was Madame Delanoë’s home, and of which Dupin had seen a fair bit over the past few days.
Afterward he had packed and thrown everything in the car, which he had driven right up to the open gate of the Villa Saint Raphaël.
Dupin took one last sentimental look around him before getting in the car. It was a stunning estate, a real find. Grand, elegant, but not intimidating. A forecourt with white gravel and a tall, picture-postcard palm tree. But the most wonderful thing was the magnificent exotic garden behind the house. A little oasis.
Madame Delanoë stood by the gate. “Au revoir, Monsieur Dupin, it was such a pleasure to host you. I hope you’ll come back again soon. But perhaps without any murders—just for enjoyment.”
“I will. Claire will love it here.”
Dupin had already been thinking about doing so over the last few days. He had to admit that he’d fallen a little in love with the Emerald Coast. He would surprise Claire with a little Saint-Malo trip. It was only a two-hour drive, and the Villa Saint Raphaël was fantastic for a weekend break. What’s more, he now knew so many excellent restaurants.
Madame Delanoë handed Dupin a large paper bag. “A driver dropped this off for you earlier.”
He took the bag. There was a card attached to it: A memento of Saint-Malo—best wishes from Rue de l’Orme. Yours, Louane Huppert.
Dupin couldn’t help but grin.
Curious, he glanced into the bag.
It was astonishing: A bottle of Rhum J.M., buckwheat cookies, buckwheat honey, two jars of babas au rhum, a pretty little spice jar with an orange label—“Curry Corsaire”—and of course, butter from Yves Bordier, a demi-sel and one with Roscoff onions.
“Amazing!”
Dupin’s exclamation was heartfelt. But how did the commissaire know about the rum?
He packed the bag into the car and said good-bye to Madame Delanoë a second time.
After ten minutes, he reached the Route Nationale heading westward, then immediately turned off into the deserted inland, and made his way from the northeast back to the southwest of Brittany.
Two hours and seventeen minutes later, having made good time, Dupin parked his Citroën on the spacious lot in front of the Amiral, a stone’s throw from the harbor and the Ville Close, Concarneau’s legendary old town.
It was just before half past twelve. The perfect time for a light lunch. Something simple.
Perhaps his regular table would still be free.
He stepped into the Amiral, his home away from home, off Avenue Pierre Guéguin.
All at once, he came to a halt.
Where his regular table should have been, three of the tables for two had been put together, as though for a small party.
One single chair was still empty; all the others were occupied.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
The whole group. Nolwenn, Riwal, Kadeg—and even their colleagues Le Menn and Nevou.
They were immersed in the daily papers, which, as the headlines showed, were reporting nothing but the case.
Dupin couldn’t help but feel moved. They must have gathered here on the off chance; no one had known he was coming here. Although the probability that the Amiral would be his first stop in Concarneau was admittedly exceptionally high.
Dupin went over to the table.
“Monsieur le Commissaire!”
Nolwenn was the first to notice him. She jumped up and seemed overcome, almost as though she was happy to even see him alive again.
“There you are! Welcome home. Finistère is so proud of you! Although we must admit,” she gave a conciliatory smile, “that Saint-Malo did a good job too.”
They really had.
“It’s about time you came back, boss!” Riwal had also stood up.
Kadeg got up now too, it almost looked choreographed. “Good to have you back.”
The second inspector also made it sound as though Dupin had been away for weeks, months even, and for a moment it looked like he was about to hug the commissaire, but then he quickly sat down again.
Then the two policewomen made a move to stand up—Dupin preempted them.
“Please, don’t get up!”
He emphasized the request by sitting down himself.
“Well, finally!”
Paul Girard had appeared as though out of nowhere, the taciturn owner of the Amiral and Dupin’s longtime friend. They gave one another a firm hug.
“I’ve got a few extra-large entrecôtes for you all. Spectacular pieces.”
“Perfect!” Dupin exclaimed.
That was just the thing, it couldn’t be better. Something simple …
Nolwenn reached for her glass—Dupin had already seen the bottle, one of his favorite red wines, Lagarde, an everyday Bordeaux—and began to speak:
“Taol da bouez’ ta!”
One of the most beautiful Breton expressions, it meant: Cast off your worries!
“On Monday you’ll have to explain everything to us in minute detail. But not now. Now we eat!”
Dupin picked up his glass too.
Nolwenn gave the celebratory toast. “Yec’hed mad!”
Translated literally, it meant something like “good health,” but actually the magical saying expressed much more:
The best of luck, the best of everything.