"Yes. Someone’s found a skeleton in the cellar. I want you to keep it secure until the chief gets there. And take some statements."
"Fine," Fleury said, rolling up the magazine and wedging it into its place behind the A-G file cabinet. He stretched. Nothing ever surprised Fleury very much. "You’re really going to call Monsieur Giscard on this? It’s probably just a goat."
Denis looked up. "A goat? Why a goat?"
Fleury shrugged. "Why a person?"
Sergeant Denis eyed him. He had never understood Fleury very well. "People don’t bury goats in cellars." Or gorillas either.
Fleury shrugged. "Isn’t Monsieur Giscard at his convention in St. Malo all week?"
"It’s not a convention, it’s an institute, very scientific, with professors giving lectures. But he’ll have to be interrupted."
Fleury grinned. "He’ll probably appreciate it. He gets grumpy when he’s around anyone smarter than he is."
FLEURY was right. Four and a half days of relentlessly abstruse scientific lectures had made Monsieur Giscard— that is, Inspector Lucien Anatole Joly—somewhat irascible. And the fact that most of the undeniably brilliant presenters were a decade or two younger than he was had not helped matters. True, there had been some high points: Gideon Oliver in particular was a lucid and engaging lecturer with, thank God, a sense of humor—an attribute not seemingly in great supply among scientists.
Still, what practical value was there in what he had to tell them? In over twenty years of police work Joly had called for the assistance of a forensic anthropologist three times, and not once could he say that it had made the difference between resolving a case and not resolving it. No, when it came down to it everything turned on the application of the well-established methodology of criminal investigation, diligently pursued. Without that, there was nothing, no matter how many forensic scientists you had on your side, gabbling about sternocleidomastoidal insertions, or sarcosaprophagous insects, or carboxyhemoglobin levels.
By the fifth afternoon, he was restless and bored, and he had begun to think up excuses for calling his office. When the message came for him to do just that, he responded with a sigh of relief and left the lecture hall with such alacrity that he stumbled over the legs of the Hawaiian FBI man dozing so comfortably in the aisle seat.
"Pardon, monsieur," Joly said.
"No problem," said the FBI man amiably without opening his eyes.
WHEN he had hung up after talking to Denis, Joly called the public prosecutor, Monsieur Picard, to inform him of the case, as was his duty. This he did, as usual with some resentment. Pleasant and harmless he might be, but Monsieur Picard was not a policeman and didn’t think like one, and to be subordinate to him was a raw, never-ending frustration. That was the one thing Joly admired about the American justice system with its impossible decentralization of police powers into thousands of squabbling jurisdictions. At least they were not under the thumb of the damned judiciary.
Picard, never content simply to let the professionals do their work, would figure out some way of interfering, even in a case like this.
As indeed he did. "Listen, Joly," he said after he had heard the details, "isn’t that American skeleton expert at your conference?"
Joly was hardly concerned that the gritting of his teeth might be heard at the other end of the line. "Yes, sir," he said, as near as it can be done without opening the mouth.
"Well, I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you talk with him and see if…"
GIDEON remained at the lectern for a few minutes after his third presentation of the week, answering the questions of a few people who had clustered around him. This was over swiftly, however; the attendees were anxious to take full advantage of the coffee break to fortify themselves for the upcoming session on "Recent Advances in Ionization Analysis by Means of the Gas Chromatograph-Mass Spectrometer."
When they left, he began crating the two skulls and assorted bones the University of Rennes had lent him. (He had wanted to use his own demonstration materials from the anthropology lab in Port Angeles, but the postal authorities there had made uneasy noises about shipping dismembered human remains across international borders, and in the end it had seemed simpler to borrow them in France.) He was feeling cheerful as he packed the bones in polystyrene chips. For one thing the lectures were going well; for another it was very pleasant to be at a conference strictly as a presenter and not an attendee. It meant he could skip sessions when he felt like it. (He always could, of course, but this way he didn’t feel guilty.) And inasmuch as ionization analysis exerted less than a hypnotic pull on him and the weather was brightening, he thought he might get a taxi into the Old Town and walk the famous ramparts.
John Lau came up sipping one cup of coffee and holding out a second. "Here. It’s good."
"Ah, thanks, John." He sipped gratefully. "Sorry if I spoiled your nap."
John laughed, the sudden, baby-like burble of pleasure that always made Gideon smile in return. "Sorry, Doc. I didn’t think you noticed."
"Only when you snored."
"Ah, hey, come on. Anyway, it wasn’t your lecture. It was that second beer with lunch."
"It was that
third
beer."
The big FBI agent considered solemnly. "That too," he said.
"How are you going to make it through an hour and a half of ionization analysis?" Gideon asked unsympathetically. John was an attendee; he wasn’t supposed to spend his afternoons walking around St. Malo.
John blew out his breath. "Oh, Christ. I—" He turned and moved a step to the side, with what Gideon had come to recognize as a policeman’s instinctive discomfort at sensing someone behind him.
"Pardon me," the man said in a cultivated, nasal voice with only a slight French accent. "I didn’t mean to interrupt."
"That’s all right." Gideon recognized him; a tall, bald, self-contained man, rather stiff, who could have doubled for Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, except for his gleaming, steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been soberly attentive through Gideon’s lectures so far, and had asked several polite, intelligent questions, but always with a discreetly veiled, unobtrusively superior skepticism; a man not inclined to accept anybody’s judgment but his own. He was exactly the sort of man whose posture, or way of speaking, or perhaps whose mere presence, brought out Gideon’s not-too-deeply-buried insecurities. All he had to do was gaze down his long nose and raise an eyebrow preparatory to making a remark, and Gideon felt like a ten-year-old in grownup’s clothes caught out playing pretend-scientist.
"I am Inspector Joly of the OPJ—the Office of Judicial Police," he said, gazing down his long nose.
John held out his hand. "John Lau, FBI, Seattle."
Joly made a formal, straight-backed ghost of a bow to each of them and ceremoniously shook hands.
"Something has come up that may be of interest to you, Dr. Oliver…"
"ANY particular reason for assuming it’s human?" Gideon asked as Joly pulled the blue Renault out of the parking lot of the new St. Malo Conference and Exposition Center and turned south on the Boulevard des Talards. They skirted the industrial docks of the Bouvet Basin, where huge cranes glided like colossal spiders among the stacked container loads of coal, fertilizer, and wood pulp.
"Yes, the attestation of a butcher," Joly said drily. "Aside from that, there are apparently some hand bones. I assume there wouldn’t be any other animals with anything like human hands—aside from the apes, of course."
"As a matter of fact, there are. The skeleton of a bear’s paw isn’t hard to confuse with a human hand or foot. Even the flipper of a small whale."
"Ah," said Joly.
John, who had been quick to accept the inspector’s invitation to see the French criminal justice system in action, spoke up from the back seat. "Hey, great, we’re really narrowing things down. It’s either a person, a bear, or a whale. The case is practically solved."
"Not quite," Gideon said, "there’s always the possibility of a polydactylous pig; that is, one in which the primary metapodials have shortened and doubled. It’s not that unusual, really…"
There was a certain indescribable expression with which John greeted terms like "polydactylous pig," and he made it now, sinking back into the seat cushions with a rumbling mutter. Joly was less demonstrative, but Gideon noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of his lips that suggested the inspector did not approve of lightness in police matters. Gideon sighed and let the subject of polydactylous pigs drop. Narrow interests, these policemen. Touchy too.
"Any ideas who it could be?" John asked as the car swung onto the N137 and the city buildings began to thin out. "Unclosed homicides? Missing persons?"
"We’re making inquiries of the local prefect of police," Joly said, "but you have to remember this is an old house, built in the fifteenth century. The bones may have been there for hundreds of years. Besides, well…"
"Besides?" Gideon prompted.
"Well, whenever something like this turns up, there’s always the Occupation to consider. You know, there was a lot of Resistance activity in Brittany. And the village of Ploujean was the scene of a mass execution in 1942. That sort of thing—It makes for very strong emotions."
"I’d expect so," Gideon murmured.
"No, not just against the Germans. I mean villager against villager.‘If you and your brothers hadn’t blown up that SS motorcycle, my mother and father wouldn’t have been shot.’ That sort of thing. And—I’ll be frank—there
were collaborationists as well as Resistance heroes. There were a lot of unsolved deaths; a lot of mysterious disappearances at that time."
"And that’s what you think the bones are?" John asked. "A wartime murder?"
Joly extended his lips and shrugged, looking very French. "Who knows? We haven’t even seen them. But that would be my first guess, and if it’s right, it may be that you won’t see the OPJ at its vigorous and unflagging best. I suspect we’ll resolve the matter in the quietest way possible, bury these bones again, and leave them in peace."
John was shocked. "But it’s a murder! You don’t have a statute of limitations on
murder,
do you?"
"It isn’t that, my friend," Joly said. "After the war there was a terrible time of retribution. I was no more than ten, but I remember the killings, the trials, the parading of people naked through the streets, the spitting… Ah, my God, once—"
But that was as close to revealing his emotions, Gideon realized, as Inspector Joly was likely to come. He closed his mouth, then went on more impassively. "Well, it’s been almost fifty years now. The old wounds are closed. No one wants to open them again." He smiled thinly. "And our good German friends fill our hotels as paying guests."
They sat in silence as the Breton coast’s wide sky and low dunes gave way to the rolling hills of the Rance estuary, and then to the somber heaths and dark little forests of the interior. At an intersection with a narrow, graveled road, a primitive wooden sign with the word "Ploujean" pointed left. Joly turned, and in two or three miles they came to a metal plaque at the entrace to a still narrower road lined with old plane trees:
"Manoir de Rochebonne, XV
ème
Siècle, 1000 m. à Droite."
"You’re kidding!" Gideon exclaimed. "Is that where we’re going? Rochebonne?"
"You know it?" Joly said, surprised.
He did indeed. A couple of years before, while he was still teaching at Northern California State, he’d spent most of the summer working on an Upper Paleolithic dig in the Dordogne, near Les Eyzies. At the invitation of Ray Schaefer from the Comparative Lit Department, who was passing the summer "on the family
domaine,
" he’d driven up to Brittany to join him for the weekend. He’d gone somewhat reluctantly (he was rarely comfortable staying at other people’s homes, and the picture Ray had drawn of his Uncle Guillaume was highly forbidding), but to his surprise it had been a relaxing and stimulating two days.
The elegant old building, deserted except for the three of them and two servants, had been a great place to loll around in after the dusty cave site in the south. Ray had been his shy, likable self, and Guillaume du Rocher, once his aloof and frigid shell had been cracked, had turned out to be fine company.
Unlike many shell collectors, he was a well-read student of marine biology and biology in general, and over dinner the second night he and Gideon had had a table-thumping, highly entertaining debate over whether or not the Neanderthals were entitled to a twig on the Homo branch of the hominid tree. They had parted warm friends, to Ray’s amazement, and had continued a sporadic correspondence consisting mostly of articles from scholarly journals overlaid with yellow highlighting and emphatic marginal notes.
"Yes," Gideon said. "I know Rochebonne." He had, in fact, planned on dropping by the manoir during the weekend. "I also know Guillaume du Rocher, and I have a hunch he’s not going to be too keen on a bunch of policemen wandering around his house and digging up his cellar."
"You were friends?" Joly asked with an odd inflection.
"Yes, in a way." He glanced at the inspector. "Did you say‘were’?"
"I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Oliver …Guillaume du Rocher is dead."
"Oh, no," Gideon murmured. He was sorry but not surprised. With his war-ruined body, it was amazing that Guillaume had lived as long as he had. "Of what?" he asked.
"He was caught by the tide in Mont St. Michel Bay while collecting seashells. On Monday, I believe; the day the conference started. There was a report filed."
Gideon nodded, smiling faintly. Well, there was a sort of rightness in that. Certainly Guillaume would have preferred it that way, out there on the ocean floor, rather than having his wrecked kidneys or liver give out while he was in a hospital bed buried in tubes. It was too bad, though; Gideon had been looking forward to re-opening the debate.
They turned through the open gate of iron grillwork set between two tall stone gateposts with carved spheres on top, the only opening in a low wall of lichen-stained granite blocks. To the left, what had been a small kitchen garden was being substantially enlarged. Workmen were setting in the walls of a raised bed, and piles of lumber and black earth littered the ground.