Out of Sorts (10 page)

Chapter Thirty

In a Sticky Situation

There’s a first time for everything in life, but spending more than twelve hours in a cold, damp, claustrophobic cell isn’t on the list of things Ferdinand wishes to do before he dies. At first he shares his custody with a drunk homeless man, who has the good fortune to be released. As for his own fate, no one deigns to keep him informed. Nevertheless, the old man is confident this is just a gross misunderstanding and, very shortly, the commissioner, or even the chief of police himself, will come running and flatly apologize for this regrettable mistake. But for the time being, no one has come to rescue him. For more than twelve hours now, he’s been waiting, straightening up at every round of hurried steps—hope gradually eroding, knowing nothing of what plots are hatching on the outside.

And indeed Eric, the Super Cop, has done his work: neither the commissioner nor the chief of police would fly to the aid of a murderous old man. Eric’s best collar in the past five years, according to his superior. They are still waiting for confirmation of the murder, which will come from the examination of the body. The suspect’s confession should follow without a hitch. For the moment, they are applying the technique of neglect.

Ferdinand has the right to make a single phone call. He should have remembered that Marion isn’t the best at picking up, but her number is the only one he knows by heart. Marion, true to form, hadn’t answered. Be that as it may, she could always listen to the message, “Uh, Marion . . . it’s me. Pick up, please. It’s an emergency. I’m at the police station because of the concierge. You’ve got to call a lawyer for me as soon as possible.”

The policeman who escorted Ferdinand to his cell snickers. “I told you to call a lawyer. It’s nighttime in Asia. Nothing’s going to happen for . . . eight hours at least. You’re in trouble, old man. Deep trouble. What’s more, they don’t let maniacs like you get out easily. You’re gonna get forty-eight hours in police custody, man. Going after a poor defenseless lady for some business about canaries? No need to be so final. Then to shout it from the rooftops beforehand? I hope your daughter cares about you and listens to her messages.” The policeman steals all hope from him. Why had he chosen Marion? Why couldn’t he have called someone else? He has no friends. Nobody who cares enough about him. And most importantly, nobody who’s aware of what he’s been subjected to for more than thirteen hours now . . .

Ferdinand is thirsty, hungry, and sleepy, though he normally tosses and turns before falling into the arms of Morpheus. He’s lost track of the sequence of events and is going crazy. They’re still telling him nothing. He calls out, he shouts. His screams must be reaching somebody! Unless they’ve all gone home. Ferdinand starts to feel faint. “A glass of water, I need a glass of water!” He slaps the bars. In the distance, someone replies that old people are never thirsty. Everybody knows that, since they didn’t even get thirsty enough to drink the water they needed during the last heat wave.

Ferdinand continues to shout. He has no more saliva. He’s exhausting himself, and no one’s coming. Now he feels cold. He lets himself slide to the floor, back against the bars, curls up, and gradually sinks into a restless sleep.

He’s on an idyllic beach, alone. The sun warms him. Ferdinand is dazzled; he can no longer distinguish the glittering of the ocean, as he’s been staring at it for hours. The sky is postcard blue. Seagulls take to the air, followed by cormorants. A few yards in front of him, a fat lizard basks in the sun.
The good life
, thinks Ferdinand, shading his eyes with his hand to look at the horizon. Startled, the lizard runs away. In the distance, goats bleat and strike against the fences of their pen. A boat approaches the coast as the sun hides behind a cloud. Ferdinand looks up. The cloud is black, gigantic. The old man sees more clearly now. It’s not a boat coming nearer. It’s much too fast. And much too big.

Suddenly, the ocean retreats as fast as a galloping horse. The lagoon dries within seconds. Then a monumental wave more than fifty feet high rises up. Ferdinand’s mouth goes dry. His heart races. He barely knows how to swim, but he doesn’t have any more time to think. He takes a breath, the deepest he can, just as the full force of the wave crashes into him.

Ferdinand is pulled into the depths, whirling and thrown in every direction. His arm collides with a tree trunk. Air. Quickly, air! He opens his mouth and manages to get a few gulps at the surface, in between rolls, when suddenly the pain in his arm becomes sharper, like a bite . . .

He discovers a man bending over him, pulling on his arm. He’s wearing a uniform. It’s a policeman holding a cup. Ferdinand, semiconscious, grabs it and drinks greedily, letting half of it flow down his chin. He chokes and coughs, but his thirst is finally quenched. His heart is racing two thousand miles an hour. Ferdinand isn’t sure where he is. Where did the wave go?

The policeman stretches out a hand to Ferdinand to help him up. “Pull yourself together, old man, it’s time. Your little fainting fit is nothing compared to what you’ve got coming. The commissioner is waiting for you. I don’t know what you did to him, but it seems he has it out for you!”

Chapter Thirty-One

For Heaven’s Sake

When Ferdinand enters the office of the commissioner—who is leaning back in his pleather armchair, hands behind his head and eyes hollow—Ferdinand gets the impression he is disturbing him. Commissioner Balard, in his forties, points to one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Ferdinand sits down. The policeman who escorted him in remains standing in a corner of the room. The old man is outnumbered. A rather unpleasant feeling. The commissioner stands abruptly, turns to the window, obstructed by dust-gray blinds, then turns and leans toward him, staring him right in the eyes.

“Mr. Brun, you are accused of the premeditated homicide of Mrs. Suarez. Are you aware of the facts alleged against you?”

“I have the right to a lawyer, Mr. Commissioner. I’ll tell you everything you want to know when he’s here.”

“And did you call this lawyer? No! So you must not need one. So let’s start again. You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Mrs. Suarez was found Saturday morning, around nine fifteen, in the trash area, unconscious. At the hospital she only lasted two days. That still means nothing to you? Allow me to refresh your memory. You had a dispute with Mrs. Suarez on Friday morning. I have two witnesses who swear to it. Voices were raised, you grabbed her and threatened to kill her. I quote: ‘You’ll pay for what you’ve done.’ Not very nice. And as if by chance, she has a fatal accident the next day. I’ll tell you what I really think: it wasn’t an accident and you know it, Mr. Brun! You were there, you were waiting for her in the trash area, and you did irreparable damage.”

“I’m entitled to a court-appointed lawyer, and he’s not here. I can’t answer your questions without him, sir.”

“That’s ‘Commissioner Balard’! And that’s enough of your acting! You watch too much TV. In a minute you’re going to tell me about the Fifth Amendment. We’re not in a TV soap opera. This is real life. There’s been a murder and we’re waiting for your explanation!”

Ferdinand is impassive, eyes staring into space, arms dangling. It’s not
that he’s playing games, but he’s had nothing to eat for more than a day, and he wouldn’t react even if they spit on him. He doesn’t have the energy to raise his voice, to explain himself. The only thing he can hang on to is his knowledge. His detective novels, his afternoons listening to the radio, his years of lunches with Super Cop. He knows he has rights, notably the rights to remain silent and to the presence of a lawyer.

But he also knows he’s not going to last long against the commissioner. No court-appointed lawyer was called or will come save him like magic. If the commissioner wants a battle of wits, or worse, to play hardball, he’s done for. Ferdinand knows the commissioner’s type: he’ll keep pushing, first with words, then physically. How many stories has he read about innocent suspects confessing after endless harsh interrogations? Only for the real culprits to be discovered decades later, when the poor men have languished in prison their whole lives—or worse. That’s what he’s got coming. He knows it. Might makes right.

Ferdinand comes back to his senses and finds the commissioner bright red, his forehead vein throbbing. He’s mangling a poor sheet of paper, which, a few seconds earlier, had recounted the progression of the investigation. Ferdinand understands that that’s it, things are serious. The interrogation will turn personal and become a settling of scores. He hears voices outside the office. Damn! Balard has called for reinforcements.

The office door opens. A figure Ferdinand knows all too well appears.

“Well, I never—what kind of manners are these? Nobody pushes me, Mrs. Claudel, Esquire, Mr. Brun’s lawyer. I was kept at the reception desk for over an hour by a certain Eric. I’ve been prevented from attending the interrogation of my client, which has already begun. That’s illegal, Mr. Commissioner. And I would have appreciated being let in without all the searches. I’m not hiding explosives in my cane, for God’s sake!”

At the word
explosives
, worried looks pass between the commissioner and his men. Balard is taken aback: he hadn’t foreseen this, just when he was about to get down to business. Within a few moments, the atmosphere changes. The old lady takes over the place, from her smelly perfume, to her handbag on his files, to her cane, which she taps at every turn to draw attention. The commissioner tries to regain control.

“Ma’am, under no circumstance would we keep you longer than necessary. It’s normal procedure. With all due respect, how long has it been since you practiced?”

“Shouldn’t you cede your place in the interrogation, Mr. Commissioner? There’s a conflict of interest when the victim is the commissioner’s mother-in-law,” replies Beatrice Claudel without missing a beat.

The party’s just getting started . . .

“Mrs. Claudel, your client is looking at fifteen years. That is, he’ll never see the light of day again. We have two witnesses swearing he threatened the life of Mrs. Suarez; he has a motive—some sordid story about a dog and canaries. Plus, there is his suspicious behavior, with the comings and goings in the complex’s trash area, and intimidation via books detailing murderers’ physical abuse. Not to mention inappropriate behavior with young children!”

“Have you finished?” The commissioner nods, and Beatrice Claudel continues. “I see nothing but speculation, Mr. Commissioner. So, if you don’t mind, let’s concentrate on the death of Mrs. Suarez and proceed with the facts. Nothing but the facts, Mr. Commissioner. I have here the medical examiner’s report, prepared just two hours ago. It confirms a natural death via heart attack. There is nothing astonishing about that for a woman who has been in the care of a cardiologist, Dr. Bernardin, for more than fifteen years. But you already knew that, Mr. Commissioner. Mrs. Suarez had been taking ASA, acetylsalicylic acid, and perindopril, a hypotensive, every day for eight years to reduce the risk of a cardiac event. I have here a copy of her prescriptions. Mrs. Suarez had several times charged me with picking up her medications, on days when she was too weak to leave her loge. As an oversight, I kept the prescription at the bottom of my bag. There are so many useless things knocking about in a woman’s handbag, Mr. Commissioner. As you can see, she picked up her medications at the pharmacy on Rue Bonaparte every month. The pharmacist can confirm that.

“Furthermore, Mrs. Suarez’s cardiac problems were taken very seriously by her doctor, given her family history. Her mother and aunt each had a myocardial infarction, at fifty-three and fifty-five years of age, respectively. They did not survive. Mrs. Suarez was fifty-seven. You will find here the death certificates and a note from Dr. Bernardin. I should point out that he is not infringing on any patient confidentiality, since these certificates were given to Mrs. Suarez so that she would be aware of potential risks.”

Balard can’t help but laugh richly and begins to put an end to the charade, when Beatrice, with a tap of her cane, takes over once more.

“Next, the time of death. The medical examiner places it between nine o’clock and nine thirty on Monday morning at the hospital, after her heart attack on Friday evening. Did you ask my client if he has an alibi? Do you have proof he was at the scene? Well, I’ll tell you. Mr. Brun, present here, was at the post office sending a package to his grandson for his birthday. The employees are precise: he arrived at the Garibaldi office around 8:55. He then used the ATM at 9:28. I have a copy of the receipt. He took out seventy euros, then left on foot. The grocer is adamant that Mr. Brun was the first one that day to buy chanterelles.

“In short, Mr. Brun’s busy life is not, it seems, the object of his arrest. Therefore, Mr. Commissioner, I ask you: since the medical examiner confirms the natural death as a result of a heart attack, and since my client has numerous alibis, what are we doing here? Why was my client kept in prison for over twenty hours? Why was he locked up under conditions that defy comprehension? Why?”

“Mr. Brun is wanted for premeditated homicide, following the testimony of two witnesses. For the moment, we prefer to keep their identities a secret.”

“Ah, the witnesses! How reliable! No need to tell me the names of the two neighbor ladies in question. Mrs. Joly, a notorious alcoholic, who has replaced her morning tea with Floc de Gascogne liqueur for years. We all know she stays cooped up in her home, the third-floor stairs having already given her a memorable fall. When Mr. Brun supposedly had words with Mrs. Suarez, Mrs. Joly was already drunk. Next, the second witness, Mrs. Berger, known by the police to be a kleptomaniac, has a grudge against my client, more precisely against the late Daisy, Mr. Brun’s dog. Her Persian cat was scared stiff of that dog. She’d tried to give rat poison to Daisy, who had refused the piece of meat. I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t ask you to believe me. I invite you to check your witness’s alibi. You will discover that when she claims to have heard a dispute, she was being held in the back room of the Franprix supermarket on Rue Bourseau for stealing mascara. They kept her there until she agreed to pay, at closing, at 7:00 p.m. So I ask you, Mr. Commissioner, do you have irrefutable proof against my client?”

Balard glances around for support from his men, but they all duck their heads.

“I’ll take your silence as a no. Therefore, nothing whatsoever is detaining my client. I hope not to see you again soon. Good day!”

With these words, Beatrice stands up and grasps Ferdinand’s arm, supporting him on the way to the office door.

As they’re exiting, the commissioner says, “Be sure to pay the one-hundred-and-thirty-five euro fine for unauthorized parking in a handicapped spot.” Beatrice shoots daggers at him, and the commissioner hastens to add, “I’m joking, obviously.” He immediately side-eyes his colleague, causing the man to rush off.

“I don’t doubt it,” retorts Beatrice. “Trampling my client’s rights was sufficient. You couldn’t have intended for a man over eighty, dehydrated and hypoglycemic, to walk over three hundred feet. Good day!” Beatrice turns to Ferdinand. “I’m not kidding, my friend. You’re in bad shape. We’re going to the hospital. You must see a doctor immediately. We’ll have them verify the terrible treatment and then we’ll see who’s paying far more than one hundred and thirty-five euros!”

Beatrice helps the old man into her black Mini. A true exercise in contortion for the tall Ferdinand, already worn out. Without putting on her seat belt, Beatrice tears out of the parking lot and onto the road, not taking the slightest glance at traffic. Ferdinand immediately buckles his seat belt and clings to the door handle.

“Slow down, Mrs. Claudel. It’s not an emergency.”

“Mrs. Claudel? Since when do you no longer call me Beatrice? Poor dear! They really turned your brain. And you haven’t seen your face! You’re white as a sheet, even paler than you were before.”

“I’d feel better if you slowed down. Maybe you should let me drive.”

“In your condition? We’d be ripe for an accident! Oh, shoot, we just missed the exit. Look out your side and tell me if anyone’s coming.”

“You’re going to back up on the freeway?”

“Is anyone there or not? No one? I’m going!”

Beatrice shifts into reverse for fifty yards to get to the access ramp leading to the hospital. She takes the corner, pedal to the metal.

“I mean it! Slow down or we’re gonna die!”

“Isn’t that what you wanted, after all? I’m kidding, my dear. No, seriously, we’ve had car accidents in my family. My husband was a Formula 3 driver and he died during a training run, may he rest in peace. And one of my nephews got himself run over by a bus in England. He looked the wrong way and died on the spot. So believe me, I am extremely careful. Stay buckled up, though, we just went through a stale yellow light.”

In the distance, the glowing
H
of the hospital appears. Ferdinand breathes a sigh of relief. Only a few more yards. At fifty miles per hour, Beatrice charges into the parking lot and comes to a stop with a controlled skid, in the area reserved for emergencies.

Totally bananas
, concludes Ferdinand.

“Look, we’re safe and sound. Come on, let’s hurry.”