The bluebeard club, p.14
The Bluebeard Club, page 14
part #6 of Lord Kit Aston Mystery Series
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ said Redon moodily.
He reached down and took the Dobermann who, it transpired, was called Mimi, and led the killer into a bedroom and closed the door. This unjustified exclusion brought the worst out in Mimi who began to bark furiously and claw the door. Boucher was to spend the next ten minutes with one eye on a door that seemed likely to give way under the ferocity of the attack by the big black guard dog.
The apartment was a good size although the interior did surprise the young detective. The Redon’s seemed to be unaware that they were French and in the era of Art Deco. Instead, it was tastefully furnished in the manner of an English country house just before the butler murders his employer. Brown seemed to be a particular favourite of the couple. Wooden tables, wooden chairs, brown leather Chesterfield sofa and a wall of books on wooden shelves with reddish brown covers. Wherever you looked it was brown. At this point, Redon’s purple gown represented a welcome flash of colour in the monotone interior.
Mme Redon appeared just then with a face like a Marseilles sailor intent on starting a street fight. She was wearing trousers and braces which framed her ample bosom in a way that had Boucher’s eyes popping out of their sockets.
‘Who is this, darling?’ asked Mme Redon, smiling dangerously as she registered the impact she’d had on the young policeman.
‘A policeman, my sweetness,’ replied Redon with moustaches twitching nervously.
Mme Redon made a show of coolly appraising Boucher. The young man was certainly an improvement on the preening popinjay she’d married. For a moment she imagined him taking out his handcuffs and twirling them slowly around his finger in a manner that suggested she could be his prisoner if he so desired. She certainly did.
It was time for Boucher to step up to the boule circle as his dear old father would say.
‘May we sit down?’ said Boucher hoping that there was no hint of pleading in his voice. His desire to evacuate the flat and the hungry eye of Mme Redon as well as Satan’s favourite pet was overwhelming. She reminded him of a praying mantis he’d read about at school. The females had a nasty habit of disposing of their mate once he’d performed his duty. Any minute now he expected her to lick her lips. Thankfully the two Redons sat beside one another on the sofa.
‘Monsieur Redon, Madame, I’m sorry to tell you that your friend Monsieur Auguste Blanc was found murdered yesterday morning.’
Boucher announced this in a matter-of-fact voice, but his eyes were fixed on the couple to capture their reaction.
‘What?’ cried Redon, needlessly. He was on the point of asking if this was some sort of joke because it was in poor taste when his wife interrupted. As usual.
‘What happened?’
‘We are trying to understand this. I believe you met with Monsieur Blanc the night before in the casino.’
The Redons turned to one another. Both looked shocked by the news. So was Mimi if her howling was any guide. Boucher tried to ignore the pleading of the desolate Dobermann and push on with his interview.
After the initial few seconds of shock had receded Philippe Redon immediately worked out where this was heading. He erupted out of the chair and exploded at Boucher, ‘What are you suggesting, you young oaf?’
Boucher was aware that Redon was ex-army. He’d seen enough of this class to do him several lifetimes. He stared back at the former colonel unapologetically and without fear. The intensity of Boucher’s glare and the silence that accompanied it might have cowed many a man, but Redon had not reached the rank of colonel without being made of sterner stuff. However, in the presence of his wife, that stuff was pure terror. Once more she interrupted him.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’
‘He was poisoned sometime after he was seen talking with you. Can you tell me what you recall of that night?’
Redon, bristling with resentment at the young policeman and his wife, fell into a sullen silence. Mme Redon took over. Her calm voice had a notably soothing effect on the quarrelsome colonel.
‘Well, not a great deal unfortunately. Monsieur Blanc only stopped for a few moments to greet us. As he hadn’t met one of our party, Monsieur Aston, an English gentleman, he offered to show him around the casino.’
‘That was the last time you saw either man?’
‘No, Monsieur Aston returned around fifteen minutes later.’
‘It was closer to thirty minutes, my dear.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Just before midnight,’ replied the colonel. His manner had changed completely as if he now understood that it was in his self-interest to cooperate.
‘How was Monsieur Aston when he returned?’
This confused both Redons. In a comically choreographed moment, they shrugged simultaneously. Redon said, ‘I didn’t notice any change. He is always good-humoured. He does not take life or himself very seriously.’
‘I see,’ said Boucher. ‘You are sure that Monsieur Aston and Monsieur Blanc did not know one another.’
Once more they shrugged. This time Mme Redon replied, ‘It did not seem so to me.’
At this point the phone rang in the apartment. The former colonel turned and walked over to the side table and picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
He was silent for a few moments as he listened to a voice at the other end. His manner changed though. Boucher could see him turn visibly paler. He nodded and said goodbye.
‘Who was that dear?’
‘Of no importance. Just some business I must conduct.’
The rest of the interview saw Redon revert once more to a monosyllabic manner that appeared to infect his wife. She was obviously taking her cue from her husband’s manner and the drawbridge was well and truly pulled up.
-
Around the same time that Boucher had knocked on the door of the Redon household, Saimbron was engaged on a similar mission with the Russos. They lived in an apartment overlooking the port. Saimbron nodded to the doorman and showed his card. The doorman looked distinctly unhappy at admitting the policeman but realised he probably had no choice.
The Russos lived on the first floor. Saimbron straightened his tie as he looked in the mirror outside the apartment. Then he knocked on the door. He was met by an elderly maid who looked like she needed people to look after her. She sounded Italian. Saimbron wondered if she’d been with the lady of the house for a long time.
The first person to meet Saimbron was Mme Russo. She was dressed in a silk dressing gown and exuded polite hostility. Saimbron was used to the nervous suspicion that descended on someone when confronted with an officer of the law. It turned everyone into a naughty school child because almost certainly, they had done something wrong.
Moments later, her husband appeared with a welcoming smile. Hand outstretched, he approached the policeman. Saimbron smiled back. After all, it cost nothing to do so, and he wanted them to relax.
‘My apologies for this intrusion,’ said Saimbron. He introduced himself and asked if they could all sit down. The apartment was impressive. The view from the terrace was the port of Monaco and the deep blue of the Mediterranean.
‘You have a beautiful apartment.’
‘It belongs to my wife,’ smiled Russo proudly at the scowling woman beside him. Saimbron knew the background but pretended to be confused. ‘My wife’s late husband owned a factory that made yachts.’
‘I see,’ said Saimbron. On Briant’s suggestion, he already had men looking into the death of Mme Russo’s late husband. ‘Doubtless you are wondering why I have come here.’
‘On the contrary, Monsieur Inspector, I suspect it is in connection with the death of Monsieur Blanc yesterday.’
‘How did you hear of this?’ asked Saimbron.
‘I was passing the casino yesterday evening and I met with an acquaintance. He told me of the tragic circumstances.’
‘Unusual circumstances, you mean.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Russo. ‘Have you any idea who murdered him.’
‘We are holding one man presently.’ Saimbron kept his eyes fixed on the couple sitting opposite him. They betrayed no obvious sign that they knew where he was heading with this. If anything, Mme Russo was showing signs of fear now, rather than outright enmity. ‘You know him I believe. Monsieur Aston.
‘What?’ expostulated Russo. Even Mme Russo seemed shocked by this revelation.
‘Ridiculous,’ said Mme Russo dismissively. ‘He wouldn’t harm a fly.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Have you spoken with him?’ asked Mme Russo. ‘He has not a single violent bone in his body. You are making a mistake, I think.’
‘Why do you say that?’ This was one of Saimbron’s favourite questions. He’d probably asked it several thousand times, often in the same interview.
‘My wife is right, inspector. This is not a violent man. He treats life as a joke, like all Englishmen. Why would he want to kill Monsieur Blanc?’
‘Why do you think he wanted to kill him?’
‘That’s the point,’ said Russo. ‘He wouldn’t. He’d only just met him.’
‘When was this?’
Mme Russo’s eyes narrowed at this point and the hostility returned. Her face was a mask of hatred in fact and Saimbron suspected that her husband would be on the receiving end of a tongue lashing when he left. To be fair, Russo was no fool and he immediately realised that in his loyal defence of his new friend he’d allowed the shrewd-looking detective an opening to pry a little into their affairs. There was nothing for it but to forge ahead and make the best of a bad job. He didn’t have to look at his wife either to realise that he was in trouble. It was something in the aggressive way his wife was breathing. Like most men, Russo could always tell when the doghouse beckoned.
‘We were in the casino the night before last, and Monsieur Aston was with us as he has been for the last week or so. Monsieur Blanc came over. He is a very sociable man and knows everyone. Everyone knows him. Except, as it turned out, Monsieur Aston. Blanc, as you will find out, is always at pains to be the most generous host and invited Alastair to join him on a tour of the casino.’
‘What time did they return?’
‘Around midnight. No, before, because that is when we all left.’
‘Did you see Monsieur Blanc after he had been with the Englishman.’
‘No,’ said Mme Russo.
‘Did he say what they had done or where they had gone?’
Mme Russo had a hard gleam in her eye, and she replied with a certain finality, ‘No.’
Just then the phone rang. The maid answered it and then turned to the two Russos.
‘It is Monsieur Fournier.’
If Mme Russo had been showing signs of anger before, the raging fire that erupted in her eyes at that moment told Saimbron that it wasn’t just her husband who was in for a verbal rinsing. She leapt out of the sofa like she was sitting on a hot plate. She confined the conversation to single words with one syllable and then hung up without a goodbye.
Saimbron saw that she was distinctly paler. Her husband, too, was more agitated now. He guessed that the police had not only visited all the people Aston had been with, but they had done so at the same time. They were all, now, very much under a microscope.
Russo knew this was a problem. A very big problem indeed.
19
Late afternoon in Agatha’s Cap d’Ail villa saw the return of Mary and Harry from their surveillance operation on the Fourniers and Redons respectively. Betty had played her part too by volunteering to follow the Russos. This had required her to spend most of the morning and a good portion of the early afternoon sitting outside at a bar near the yachts in the harbour.
Agatha looked suspiciously at her friend upon her return and asked, ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘A little refreshment, my dear. Nothing more.’
The credibility of this statement was somewhat undermined by Betty placing a firm hand on the side table to maintain her stance. It was greeted with a derisive snort from her friend which Betty happily ignored as usual. Spying Kit waiting at the dining room table, she made her way over carefully to join him and the others in sharing what they’d witnessed during the day. Betty arrived safely at the table having steadied herself on a couple of occasions and sat down with great dignity.
Mary joined her and shot her husband a knowing smile. Soon everyone was in in place. Agatha confirmed that Alastair was in good spirits having seen him earlier. Kit asked Mary to open the batting and relate what she’d observed in her time with the Fourniers.
‘The Fourniers stayed in their house until just before lunch,’ reported Mary. ‘Then I followed them to a restaurant near that little beach at Lavrotto. I must say that man is perfectly beastly.’
‘I gather,’ replied Kit, remembering what Alastair had said. At the time he’d though that it was more a symptom of his uncle’s growing affection for Mme Fournier. Meeting her husband had convinced him that something else was afoot in this relationship. ‘What did you see?’
-
Monsieur Fournier and Elsa Fournier emerged from their apartment around midday. Fournier was wearing a beige-coloured suit and a Panama hat. He might have been described as a fine, if rather severe, figure of a man. Tall, perhaps a little heavy but not overweight. The contrast with his wife was striking. Mme Fournier wore only a light blue cotton dress which emphasised her slender build and pale skin. She carried an umbrella to shield herself from the sun. Fournier walked ahead of his wife as if he was too embarrassed to be seen with her. Mary already felt her hackles rising.
The couple walked for a few minutes down the street before turning off, arriving at a small square, Place da la Visitation. There were several hansom cabs in the square. The couple climbed onto one of them. Mary overheard them ask to be taken to the beach. A minute after they departed, Mary took one of the other open hansom cabs.
‘I’m a little late for an appointment,’ said Mary. ‘Could you go quickly?’
A small restaurant was the Fournier destination. It was situated just across from the beach. There were several outdoor tables with parasols. The waiter greeted them both warmly as they entered which suggested to Mary that they were regular customers. At this point Fournier walked straight over to a table without a parasol. Although Mary could not hear what was being said, it was clear that his wife was dismayed with the choice. Her shoulders slumped and she pointed to a seat underneath a parasol that would give her shade. Fournier waved away her objection.
Mary gave the Fourniers a few minutes to settle at their table before arriving in the restaurant and taking a table towards the back, in the shade. From this position she was able to view Mme Fournier. There was no question that she had a fragile beauty that many men would be attracted to. This made her husband’s treatment of her all the more baffling.
The couple ordered and then waited in silence. Both seemed content to gaze out onto the beach. The better weather had brought out several mothers, or nannies, with small children. Was it Mary’s imagination that Mme Fournier gazed wistfully towards them? Mary wondered if she had any children. She was perhaps not too old to have a child now. Mary judged her to be no more than forty. Fournier seemed quite a bit older. There was at least ten years between them, perhaps more.
A few minutes passed and it was clear that Fournier was growing impatient for the waiter’s return and their order. He said as much to Mme Fournier who replied that they had not been there so long.
‘Nonsense, my dear. Why there is only us and that young lady over there in the restaurant. It’s weak-minded to think anything other than they are taking too long.’ His voice was gentle, but the tone was icily dangerous. ‘Why we must have been waiting fifteen minutes or more.’
He tapped his waistcoat pocket in search of something. He frowned momentarily, then stood up and began to search his pockets.
‘What is wrong, my dear?’ asked Mme Fournier.
‘I can’t find my watch. Is this another one of your little mischiefs, my dear?’ The question appeared innocent, but Fournier’s tone was dark.
Mme Fournier grew even paler. She shrank into the seat so much that Mary had to resist the impulse to fly over and give the arrogant bully a piece of her mind. And that piece was vitriol.
‘I didn’t do anything, I swear. Look at me,’ cried Mme Fournier. One look at her would have convinced the most sceptical of sceptics. This woman was innocent and living in fear.
‘Open your bag.’
Mme Fournier glanced down at her bag. Terror spread over her face like an infection. Just at this moment the food arrived at the table, forcing Fournier to sit down. He paused for a moment to allow the waiter to leave them alone and then he turned sharply to his wife and hissed, ‘Open your bag, please.’
She hesitated for a moment then reluctantly lifted it off the empty seat. Fournier tore the bag from her hands and opened it up. Then, with a look of triumphant contempt, extracted a pocket watch from inside the bag.
‘How do you explain this?
Mme Fournier stared at the watch in speechless horror. All power of communication vanished, and her eyes shifted from her bag to the watch and then up to her husband who, although seated, seemed to tower over her. Finally, she found her voice. It was barely a whisper and Mary could just about hear her.
‘But why would I do something so wicked?’
The look on Fournier’s reddened features and angry eyes asked ‘why indeed’ but he said nothing. He turned away from his wife and tried to eat some of the food but angrily gave up. Meanwhile, Mme Fournier could not bring herself to eat and wept quietly.
‘It’s too much, Elsa. You need help, my love. Stealing my watch. Always moving the painting from the wall. Why do you do this?’
‘I don’t. I don’t know,’ she replied before covering her face with her hands.
Mary’s food arrived a minute later. The thought crossed her mind to carry the plate to the Fournier’s table and empty it over the ghastly persecutor’s head. In fact, it raged within her like a forest fire. Whatever she could do to make this man pay she would do with a happy heart.
