Old Bones (20 page)

"So what could somebody be afraid you’d find out?" John asked. "For instance."

"What I did find out. That Alain du Rocher’s buried in the cellar. That no matter what that plaque says, and the prefect of police says, and anybody else says, Alain’s body was buried—hidden—under the floor of the old family home."

"Let me get this straight. You think he
wasn’t
executed by the Nazis? You think somebody’s trying to cover up a murder in the family? How could that be? How could everybody have the facts wrong?"

Gideon rocked his head slowly back and forth against the bolster, gazing absently at the ceiling. "It beats me, but everybody
is
wrong. Alain’s in that cellar, not in some mass grave."

"Maybe they got the body back form the Nazis—to bury it decently, you know?"

"And chopped it into pieces and wrapped it up in butcher paper like so many veal cutlets?"

"No, I guess not." John was silent for a few moments. His chair, tilted onto its rear legs, tap-tapped softly against the wall. "But look: Realistically, why should anybody expect you to find out it’s Alain? I mean, who’d even know he had a sternal foramen?"

Gideon laughed. "Don’t you remember? I spent half an hour in the salon the other night—while you were gobbling up hors d’oeuvres—explaining what I was doing to anybody who’d listen; how I was sure the body wasn’t Kassel’s, how it was built like a du Rocher, how I could find out all kinds of things about it, and on and on."

"Oh, Christ, that’s right. Smart, Doc."

"Brilliant."

"Is Joly giving you police protection?"

"No, I’m just supposed to exercise reasonable prudence, was the way he put it. He said the kind of guy who’d send me a letter-bomb probably isn’t the kind of guy who’d take a shot at me in the street, or try to run me down with a car, or anything like that—"

"That’s true, he probably isn’t. But you know, he’s sure as hell the kind of guy who’d put cyanide in somebody’s wine, isn’t he?"

"I suppose he is. Or she." Gideon stretched and raised himself from the bed. There was a tightness at his temples and a throbbing at the base of his skull. He got headaches

so infrequently that it took him a moment to realize what it was. Maybe he
was
shaken. Or maybe he was hungry.

"I think I’ll go get something to eat. I missed dinner. How about you?"

"Me?" John said, his surprised laugh indicating how ridiculous the idea was. "No, I had a steak a couple of hours ago." He tipped his chair forward and stood up. "I’ll keep you company though."

"That’s all right. I wouldn’t mind a walk in the fresh air to think things through."

John looked directly into his eyes. "Doc, let’s get something straight right now. The conference is over in just a couple more days, and we go home. Until then I’d be a lot more comfortable if you didn’t go anywhere without me. Nowhere. Okay?"

"John," Gideon said, bridling, "Joly said reasonable prudence, not—"

"Yeah, but I know you; you’re not reasonably prudent. You start poking around—"

"Goddammit, I don’t—"

"Look, will you just give me a break?" He chopped at the air, his voice rising. "Just humor me for once?"

For no reason he could think of, Gideon burst out laughing. "All right," he said tiredly, "I’ll give you a break." He clasped John’s arm briefly. "Thanks."

He pulled his windbreaker from the open coat rack near the door and tossed John his. "So I guess you’ll be coming to Mont St. Michel with me tomorrow after the session."

"What’s at Mont St. Michel?"

"The Romanesque-Gothic abbey. One of the wonders of the Western world. I wouldn’t want to leave without seeing it."

"Yeah, it also happens to be where Guillaume drowned, right?"

"Well, yes. I might like to have a look at the tidal plain too, out of curiosity."

"I’m coming, all right," John said. "Don’t look so glum. There’s a famous restaurant there.

Mère Poularde. One of the shrines of French gastronomy." John made a face. "Pancakes again?"

"Omelets."

"You know the first thing I’m going to do when we get back to the States?" John asked, slipping into his jacket.

"Buy a hamburger."

"Damn right."

   THIS time when Julie called him at 7 a.m., he’d been up almost two hours, ostensibly getting his notes ready for class, but mostly brooding about letter-bombs, murders, dismemberments, and the all-around nastiness of people.

"Hi," she said. "Isn’t it Wednesday there yet?"

It was as if someone had opened a window and let a fresh breeze into a fetid room. Her voice was sleepy and warm, bringing a vivid image of what it was like to awaken next to her in the morning, her warm, naked bottom snuggled sweetly against his thighs and belly, his arm lying loosely over her waist, his face against the silky, fragrant, sleep-damp nape of her neck.

He put down the ballpoint pen and closed Stewart’s
Essentials of Forensic Anthropology.
"I wish it was," he said sincerely. "Were," he corrected. That was what came of being around Ray again.

"Me too. It’s crazy, but I can’t sleep when you’re not with me; not very well, anyway. There are all kinds of

creepy noises in the house that aren’t there when you’re here."

"What?" he said, pleased and flattered. "This from a thirty-year-old, self-sufficient park ranger who slept alone her whole life until recently?"

"Well, I wouldn’t exactly say my
whole
life. I mean, there were a few nights here and there—"

"Okay, okay, I’m sorry I sounded smug. But it’s nice to be needed."

"Oh, you’re needed, all right," she said with agreeable warmth. "Gideon, how are you? I’ve been worrying about you."

"Worrying? Why?"

"Because you—I don’t know, you always get into… adventures that never happen to anyone else. There isn’t anything wrong, is there?"

"Wrong?" He laughed. "No, of course not." What was a bomb in the morning mail to the truly adventurous? Besides, why bring it up now when it couldn’t serve any purpose other than to worry her? Later was good enough. If there was going to be any comforting and soothing as a result, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t be there in person for the benefits. "Not that things haven’t been exciting," he said. "Let’s see, when did we talk last?"

"Friday night; Saturday morning your time."

"Two days ago. Let me think now….No progress on the Guillaume thing, but it looks as if those bones in the cellar belong to a cousin named Alain who was murdered by the Nazis. Joly doesn’t think so, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure."

"But what were they doing in Guillaume’s cellar, then?"

"Ah, you cut right to the heart of things, don’t you? Nobody knows."

He took the electric coil out of the mug of water he’d been heating and tipped in a little Nescafé out of the jar. "I suppose the only other interesting thing is that we’ve had a

murder; another cousin, a distant one named Claude Fougeray, who everyone blames for Alain’s death. He knew the SS was coming for Alain and didn’t warn him. Someone put cyanide in his wine. He expired in the drawing room, as a matter of fact, with everyone right there, including me."

He searched without success for a plastic spoon he thought he had somewhere, gave up, and stirred in the powdered coffee with his pen, listening all the while to her quiet breathing. "No comment?"

"I was just trying to decide whether or not you’re serious."

"And?"

"I decided you are." Another brief silence. "Aren’t you?"

"Sure."

"Gideon, you’re absolutely amazing. Never a dull moment. Do you know who did it?"

"No, but we think it might have something to do with Alain’s death, which makes most of the older members of the family suspects. They all loved him. Oh, and there’s even a chance the butler did it. The Nazis killed his father at the same time; also with Claude’s knowledge."

"Claude sounds like a wonderful guy. I agree with you; the murder’s probably got something to do with that, all right."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"You’re welcome, but actually I was thinking about the cyanide."

"Come again?"

"Didn’t the Nazi bigwigs use cyanide to commit suicide if they were caught? Or am I thinking of arsenic?"

"No, you’re right. It was cyanide; because it works so fast. Goering killed himself with it in Nuremberg. Himmler bit into a glass capsule too. What makes you ask?"

"I was just thinking that if somebody
was
getting back at Claude for cooperating with the SS, cyanide would be a logical choice—you know, a kind of symbol, linking him with Nazi war criminals. Does that make any sense?"

"Well, it seems a little theatrical, but I guess it’s a point. I’ll mention it to Joly. Any other hints I ought to pass along?"

"You’re being snide, but yes, there is something else. You can tell him that Mathilde’s husband… What’s his name?"

"René."

"You can tell him that René isn’t guilty."

"Fine, I’ll sure do that. This morning. Did you want me to give him any particular reason?" He sipped the coffee.

"Uh-huh. You can point out that since he’s the one who let the workmen in to dig up the basement—You did tell me that, didn’t you?"

"Yes…"

"Then he couldn’t have had anything to do with Alain’s body being down there, or he’d never have let them get near the place."

Gideon put down the mug. "Julie, that is really a good point! Of course he wouldn’t have! I
was
being snide, and I hereby apologize. Abjectly. You’re making more progress back there in Port Angeles than I am in St. Malo."

She laughed, delighted. "You really hadn’t thought about that yourself?"

"I hadn’t even thought about thinking about it." He had another sip of coffee and ran the idea through his mind. "So if it’s true that Claude’s murder has its roots in the Occupation, and if it’s true that it was an act of revenge, and if René’s out of the picture… that just leaves Mathilde du Rocher and Sophie Butts. And Marcel, of course. They were all young then, but they haven’t forgotten."

"Don’t get carried away now; that’s a lot of if’s."

"There are a few," he admitted.

"Now that I’ve made my contribution, you don’t suppose we could talk about something besides murders, and skeletons, and Nazis for a while, do you? Things are getting creepier than ever around here."

He smiled. "You bet. You all settled down for the night?"

"Uh-huh. I’m in bed."

"Good," he said, his voice softening. "What are you wearing? That silky tan thing, I hope; the one that accentuates that lovely, long, marvelous intra-sacrospinalis sulcus you have."

"Ah," she said with a sigh, "that’s more like it."

   JOLY brought the three hoards of bones to the seminar in separate boxes, and he, Gideon, and John tagged each set with different-colored plastic tape to identify them. Then Gideon had the attendees lay them all out in proper anatomical position.

This was accomplished to his and the students’ satisfaction. Of the 200 visible bones of the human body (the other six were ear bones, deep in the skull), 197 were present, mice apparently having made off with three small wrist bones.

Gideon then told them in general terms about the circumstances of the find, discussed the sternal foramen, and pointed out and explained the knife-scarring on the fifth rib.

"Now, what I’d like you to do," he said to the twenty-odd trainees gathered around the table, "is to estimate sex, age, and height on your own, going through the same steps I would; by now you should know what they are. See what you can do with race too. You’ll split into three groups and we’ll get three separate reports, and then I’ll tell you how I see it. Any questions? If not—"

"Hold on one moment, please, Doctor." The speaker was a slender, delicate black police captain from Nairobi; voluble, articulate, and animated. And always ready to argue. "How do we know," he demanded in his machine-gun English, "that, these bones are a single individual? They were found in three separate packages. Perhaps they are parts of three individuals. Or two, or four. Who can tell for certain?"

"It’s obvious," retorted an officer of the Parisian
Sûreté Urbain
irritably, anxious to get on with the exercise. "We found a hundred and ninety-seven bones, all different. If there were more than one person here there would have been some duplications: two mandibles, two left clavicles—"

"True," Gideon heard Joly say quietly behind him, apparently talking to John.

"No, no, no," the Kenyan said. "To find duplications would indeed prove that there is more than one burial. But
not
to find them does not prove that there is
not
more than one burial." He folded his slender arms. "It is not warranted by the facts."

"That’s true too," Joly allowed.

But the class grumbled predictably at the Kenyan: Hadn’t Dr. Oliver said a hundred times that science doesn’t deal with proof, but with probability? And to find 197 bones without a single duplication—

"No, wait," Gideon said. "Captain Morefu’s making a sound point. We can do better than that. As a matter of fact, I have; while you were putting the skeleton together, I did a little matching."

He picked up the fifth cervical vertebrae, which was tagged with blue tape, and the fourth, tagged with green. "Vertebrae are the most complexly shaped and probably the most variable bones in the body, and they nestle into each other more closely than any others do; that’s what gives the spinal column its strength. Now, this C4 and C5 were in two different packages; if they were from two different people, they might fit roughly into each other—but not like this."

He held up the small, hollow-centered bones and slipped them against each other. They fit perfectly; as neat, tight, and inescapably matching as a pair of stackable chairs.

"No. No, Dr. Oliver, no." Captain Morefu was shaking his fine head. "How can I accept this as proof? How can we say with certainty that no two people have ever had greatly similar spinal columns? Many times have I seen—"