Dying on the Vine (21 page)

She nodded.

“Right,” I said. “Let's go.”

A
N HOUR AND A
half drive northwest of Nice, the ancient city of Herculanum spread over a large hillside, houses and villas crouching behind walls denuded of their roofs, temples and halls awaiting the crowds of two thousand years ago, public baths dry and silent, soaring arches untouched by time and massive columns rearing into the sky seeking a purpose.

A large sign explained that a Neolithic settlement had been here originally and was then rebuilt in about the year 150
A.D.
by the Greeks. They did not establish a colony but moved on, leaving the site to be developed by the Romans a hundred years later. The location was perfect for the Romans' purpose as it lay close to both of the routes between Spain and Italy, one over the Alps and the other along the coast. Work to restore it was continuing, a sign said. We sat for a moment, awed by the thought of a city dead for so many centuries, destroyed by the barbarian hordes from the East, though its stones remained.

Veronique had said little on the drive here. I presumed she was having mixed thoughts about a reunion with a husband who had so mysteriously disappeared. I had presumed that Morel would be at his office when we arrived. The finding of the note and the key made it appear that the change of venue had been planned and that he had no intention of being at the office. The choice of the Roman city of Herculanum was peculiar, but perhaps a public place suited Morel's plans better.

“There should be cars and people here,” Veronique said.

She was right. Where were all the tourists and visitors? It was evening and perhaps the place was closed. Ahead of us was the triumphal arch of Augustus Caesar and near it, the mausoleum with a ninety-foot tower. All was quiet.

A freshly painted sign outside the main entrance gate caught my eye and I drove over to it. The site was closed for a week while important work was being done to strengthen the safety precautions, it said.

Veronique thumped one small fist on her knee in frustration.

“It can't be closed!” she said angrily.

“That key …,” I said. “He must expect you to go in.”

Her anger at her husband for playing these games with her showed on her face but she calmed down quickly and gave me a brief, apologetic smile.

“You're right.” We looked in all directions.

“Down there,” I pointed. A smaller gate suitable for individuals to pass through led to a building that was probably offices. A large board displayed a map and identified the various ruins and their functions. The forum was clearly identified.

I parked, Veronique produced the key and gave me a triumphant smile as it turned in the lock. I glanced around nervously. Not a soul was in sight nor was there any sign of humanity.

“This is very strange,” I told her. “This is not a normal place to meet.”

“We are here,” she said, and with simple French logic added, “so now we go in.”

We were moving into the shadow of the hill and the sun was behind it, dipping as it ended its day's work. The light was dimmer now and the shapes of the buildings raised by Roman hands centuries ago were stark and grim.

Veronique shivered. “Where do we go?” she asked.

“According to that map, we go this way. Be careful, the ground is very uneven and it's getting darker by the minute.”

It couldn't have been my words—but lights came on. Some were mounted on poles, others were on the ground. They made the sky instantly darker.

“The lights are on a timer,” I said with a ring of confidence. “Security.”

Veronique threw me a nervous glance. Security could also mean guards or large and vicious dogs—I could read that thought in her eyes.

We walked past gaping doorways and shattered stone walls. The soil was densely packed from the thousands of feet belonging to curious folk of the twentieth century who wanted to see how their forebears had lived. They saw a surprisingly sophisticated city with swimming pools and thermal baths, temples and ball courts, three-story homes with fountains and courtyards, shops belonging to bakers, butchers, carpenters, and wine merchants, a theater, and a town hall with fluted columns and shaded patio. The site was getting rapidly more eerie, with fantastic shadows interlacing into strange patterns.

The forum consisted of two low, crumbling walls and a third and fourth largely restored. Mosaic tiles covered the floor and some vestiges of the original colors miraculously still remained in them. I had thought a forum was always an open square, but apparently it could also be a hall where indoor meetings could take place.

There were two wide steps leading in, splintered and broken, with weeds forcing their way through the cracks. We went forward cautiously, a light on a pylon outside casting beams ahead of us.

Veronique uttered a faint cry. … A figure was huddled in the far corner. Our footsteps clattered loudly on the tiles and then we knelt beside him—for it was a man, and one glance at Veronique's face told me that it was unnecessary to ask …

“Is he …” she was asking, and it was another unnecessary question. Part of his head was crushed in and blood ran down his face. By his feet was a chunk of marble the size of a brick with blood on it too.

Veronique rose to her feet, shivering, her face pale. She swayed and looked about to fall. I put my arms about her and she clung to me tightly.

A voice said, “You will both step away from the body. I have several questions that you must answer.”

I recognized that voice as its owner stepped into view over one of the low crumbling walls. It was the “gendarme” from the Huitième Bureau, Aristide Pertois.

A
RISTIDE PERTOIS WAS A
very unusual detective. How did he come to be on the scene so promptly? was my first thought. I wasn't sure how long Edouard Morel had been dead but the blood was only just beginning to congeal, so it wasn't very long.

Pertois was also a very stern detective. The affable front he had presented to me after the murder of Elwyn Fox had disappeared and I didn't like the hard glint in his eyes. His small black mustache was menacing and even his short, bristly black hair looked threatening. It was evident that my association with corpses was getting too frequent for him.

Veronique sat with a woman detective at a hard, cold steel table in the gendarmerie at Saint Remy, the post nearest to Herculanum. I sat on the other side of the woman detective and Pertois was opposite. The woman had taken our fingerprints and footprints. Veronique had been invited to empty her handbag on the table and Pertois had examined her revolver after giving her a look of reproof.

“You have a permit for this weapon, of course?” he demanded.

“My husband does.” She was tight-lipped and pale but otherwise quite composed.

“Madame, I asked if
you
have a permit.”

“No, I don't.”

“It is a serious offense to carry a gun without a permit.”

“My husband was killed with a piece of marble—he wasn't shot,” she replied spiritedly.

“You say he was killed. Why would you not suppose that it was an accident?”

“He is a private detective. He has been on a case where others have died. He has been missing for some time. It is far more likely that he was killed.”

Pertois regarded her. “You say you found this note in his office.”

“That's right.” Veronique's voice was firm.

“And this key was in his desk drawer?”

“Yes.”

“What else did you find there?”

Veronique shot a glance at me. “There was a receipt from a restaurant.”

“Which restaurant?”

“La Toque Imperiale in Ajaccio.”

“Had your husband been in Ajaccio?”

“I don't know. I haven't seen him for some time.”

“Have either of you been in Ajaccio?” he said, looking from Veronique to me. We both shook our heads.

“So neither of you knows anything of this death? You arrived here to find the body?”

“That's correct,” Veronique said. Pertois looked at me and I nodded.

Pertois switched his questions to the subject of Veronique's knowledge of her husband's movements during the recent weeks. She answered him carefully but without adding any embellishments.

“And you were at his office today? Because of this phone call?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you were not sure it came from your husband?”

This went on for some time and many women would have lost their temper, but Veronique hung on, face drawn and occasionally slightly acid-tongued at being asked the same question three or four times.

I expected the same treatment, but when Pertois had finished his verbal battering of Veronique, he simply said:

“I shall require statements from both of you. Please be in the Poste Provisoire at eight-thirty in the morning.” He turned to Veronique. “How did you get here?”

“We came in my car,” I cut in.

Pertois looked over at the woman detective. She was middle-aged and austere. She nodded. “We can find a car to take her back.” She glanced at me but Pertois said, “M'sieu will be staying.”

As Veronique rose to go, I went over to her. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes. I think I'll go and stay with my sister in Cap d'Ail for a few days.” She turned to Pertois and said calmly, “May I have my handbag?”'

He hesitated, then nodded to the woman detective.

“You may have your bag and its contents except for the gun. We will give you a receipt for that. Leave us your address and phone number in Cap d'Ail.”

The woman said, “We have also kept the key. It will be returned to the site office at Herculanum.”

When the two women had gone, the Huitième Bureau man turned to me.

“Once again, m'sieu, you are there when a death occurs.”

“Veronique—Madame Morel—received the phone calls and the note. I went along with her because she asked me.”

“Tell me exactly what happened from the time she phoned you.”

I went through it step by step. He didn't interrupt and his coal black eyes never left my face.

“And you say he was dead when you arrived at Herculanum?”

“You know he was!” I said heatedly. “You came in seconds later.”

He grunted. “Actually, I was there before you.”

“What!”

“I was in my car near Saint Remy when a call was relayed from my office. An anonymous caller said a man was being attacked at Herculanum by a man and a woman. I came here and found the body. I saw you two arriving and watched to see what you would do.

I stared at him in exasperation.

“Then you know we didn't have anything to do with it!”

“It looks that way,” he said nonchalantly. “Unless one of you killed Morel, left Herculanum, and then returned there to
find
the body.”

“But you don't believe that!” I pressed.

“This soft earth will show how many sets of your footprints are present,” he said confidently.

“And you let us think that we were under suspicion?” I said angrily.

He gave me a pleasant nod. “Yes.”

“So we were being framed?”

“It would appear so. Had I been in my office, it would have taken much longer to get here. I would have arrived to find you standing over the body.”

“It's beginning to make sense,” I told him. “I thought it was strange to be called to Morel's office only to find that he wasn't there, and then to be redirected to Herculanum. It's obvious now.”

“Under less fortunate circumstances, the two of you would have been in a very dubious position,” said Pertois. “An estranged wife, her paramour, a quarrel resulting in a dead husband, and a million-franc insurance policy—a most suspicious combination.”

“You have concluded that it was murder, haven't you?”

“Officially, I have to wait for the medical examiner's report but it looks like it. I could find nowhere for that piece of marble to have become detached and fallen on Morel's head.”

“You haven't had any reports on his movements in the past weeks?”

“No.”

“Any news on the crossbow bolt?”

“The bow and three bolts were stolen from a museum about two months ago.”

“Here? In Provence?”

“No, a museum in Porticcio.”

“Where's that, Italy?”

“No, it's in Corsica. It's just around the other side of the bay—from Ajaccio.”

“Ajaccio! That place keeps turning up, doesn't it?”

“It does,” Pertois agreed.

“Not just from the water in Chantier's lungs,” I added.

“Hmm …”—he rubbed his chin thoughtfully—“and also the restaurant receipt you found in Morel's office. I must remind you once again to be careful,” he went on. “We have enough corpses in this case already. Another would complicate it even further.”

I presumed this to be an example of French black humor but in case it wasn't, I said nothing. He pushed his chair back in a dismissive gesture. I stood too as I said: “You referred to me as Veronique's paramour—I presume that has the same meaning in French as it does in English. I'm not her paramour.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He walked me to the door. “I had your car brought here. You will find it in the visitors' parking lot at the back of the building.”

“How did you do that? I still have the keys.”

“Poof!” he said dismissively. “We do not stand on formalities here in France.”

I
DROVE BACK TO
Le Relais musing on what an unusual detective he was. It was fortunate that the Huitième Bureau had established a role in this business before I had arrived, otherwise I might have been stuck with some starchy official without imagination or ability.

I went up to my room as slowly as possible. That way, I was able to delay doing something I
really
didn't want to do. When I dialed Sir Charles Willesford's home number, I did that slowly too.