The Isle of Devils (39 page)

“
Oui
, that is correct.”

“These are replacement papers, sir,” said Dunkley, suggestively, waving them about.

A set of tiny lines appeared about Dubois’ eyes as he narrowed them at the constable. “Yes, what of it?”

“Replacement papers are often found when a man is attempting to conceal his identity,” Dunkley said evenly.

“Ah,” replied Dubois, “I see your concern, Constable. But they are also required when a man’s original set is lost. There was a great fire at the Palace Hotel, where I was staying in San Francisco, sir, and everything was destroyed. I had not the foresight to store my identity papers in the safe, where they might have survived. Fortunately, I was able to wire to my employers in Paris, who left instructions with the Bank of California to credit me enough money to
enable
my homecoming to France. But I was forced to have a new set of temporary papers made for me in San Francisco until I can make the crossing and have an official set re-issued.”

“I see,” replied Dunkley in a tone that suggested nothing of the kind. “And I am certain that your wife can confirm these details?”

Dubois shrugged. “But of course.”

“Naturally,” Dunkley nodded. “And may I ask you to write out a phrase for me?” He pushed the piece of paper and a J pen across the intervening table.

Dubois sat motionless, failing to pick up the pen. “Why?”

“Come now, Mr. Dubois,” said the constable testily, “you can plainly see from the paper in front of you that the other guests all complied with my request. As the last one questioned, I am not clear what your objection could be?”

“I have none,” said the man, shaking his head, and laughing with perhaps a forced jollity. “It is simply the habitual caution of my profession. A man’s signature is a powerful tool. It is not to be laid down lightly. But you are correct, Constable, that I can see no harm in acceding to this simple request.” He picked up the pen and wrote the phrase with a composed air. Even from where I sat, with the writing upside down, I could plainly tell that his elegant hand had nothing in common with the rude letters that we had found in Dumas’ room. Once he had finished, he set down the pen and pushed the paper back to Dunkley.

“Thank you, sir,” said the constable, placing the paper in his satchel. “You mentioned your profession. I believe that your wife reported that you are a solicitor?”

“Yes, that is correct. I am an
avocat
, trained at the Sorbonne.

“And how did you know Mr. Dumas?”

The man’s eyebrows shot upwards in great surprise. “I am not certain how you formed the impression that I knew Mr. Dumas, Constable, but I can assure you that I never met the man before the day that I set foot in this hotel!”

“Come now, sir,” protested Dunkley. “Do you mean to tell me that you did not know the man? You are both French!”

Dubois laughed in amazement. “Constable, while it may be possible on an island as small as Bermuda to be acquainted with every last soul, France is another matter entirely. The vastness of the country, the varied terrain, the insular nature of the various provinces does not lend itself to such familiarity as you seem to suppose. He hailed from Normandy, I believe, and I had little to do with that region. I spoke to him briefly on the day of our arrival, but I found the implications of his words distasteful. My impression is that he was an odious man.
Un véritable sauvage
. The world may be better off without him.”

“I see,” said the constable crossly. “So you have nothing to tell us of the man’s death?”

“I did not say that, Constable. In fact, I discovered something of exceptional importance this very morn.”

Dunkley leaned forward with sudden eagerness. “Yes, what is it?”

“You see, gentlemen, I am a denizen of one of the greatest cities in the world. I require the noise, the activity, the vitality of a metropolitan area to sustain me. I wither in the quiet provinces, and the closeness of this small island is a thousand-fold worse. Gentlemen, there are areas where you can actually stand and see the ocean on both sides!” He shuddered visibly. “I would rather be onboard a boat. At least there you have the sensation that you are progressing towards your final destination. Here I feel trapped, like a caged cock. It is as if I have
la fièvre roche
, a ‘rock fever,’ which can only be relieved by setting foot upon a solid continent.”

“If you knew that you would dislike it so much, why did you come to little St. George’s?” inquired the constable irritably. “At least Hamilton has the semblance of a city.”

Dubois nodded, as if he anticipated this question. “I did so at the request of my wife. It was one of her little fancies that, at the time, I was happy to humor. She longed for a peaceful repose before the final crossing of the Atlantic, and I am certain, gentlemen,” he glanced over at me, “that you understand that I can refuse her nothing.”

Dunkley shook his head crossly, “What in the blazes does this have to do with Mr. Dumas’ murder?”

“A thousand pardons, Constable,” said the man contritely, “I was just coming to that. You see, in order to relieve the
ennui
born out of our confinement in this town, I decided to engage in my sport of choice.” He hesitated for a moment, and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve in order to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Is it hot in here, gentlemen? The closeness of the humid air in this room is affecting me.”

Dunkley glared at him, and then turned to me. “Would you be so kind as to open the window, Doctor?”

I complied with alacrity and regained my seat, eager to hear what Monsieur Dubois was apparently reluctant to reveal. He licked his lips and his eyes darted back and forth between us, as if to gauge our sympathy upon our faces. I doubt that he encountered much. “What I am about to say, Constable, appears at first glance to be somewhat incriminating. I briefly entertained the idea of keeping this from you, but I was certain that it would come out if you determined to search our rooms, and I ultimately decided that it would be best if I volunteered this information freely.” He took a deep breath. “You see, gentlemen, I had heard from the other guests that a pistol had been
found by Monsieur Dumas’ bedside, but it never dawned on me to ask a critical question: ‘What was the model?’” He paused and looked at us, expectantly.

Dunkley frowned. He hesitated for a moment, as if to contemplate the wisdom of sharing this fact with the man. Finally, he said simply, “It was a Colt single action revolver.”

The man sighed deeply, as if he had been holding his breath while awaiting this information. “That is what I was afraid of.” He reached down and lifted the case that he had entered with. Setting it upon the table, he spun a set of combination locks and threw back the lid. Inside, we found two depressions molded into a purple velvet-lined padding. In one of the depressions lay the duplicate of the six-chambered pistol that we had encountered upon Dumas’ nightstand. The other was empty.

Dunkley and I stared at the case, and I am certain that his brain resounded with as many questions as my own. Before we could voice them, however, Dubois continued.

“You see, gentlemen, I always carry a brace of pistols with me when I travel, as one can never be too careful. There are places in the western United States where the arm of the law has never reached. And yet, they are primarily for sport, to be used in target shooting. Therefore, I have always kept them carefully locked up, so as to prevent any unfortunate accidents from occurring. Until this morning, when I decided to do some pistol practice in the open-air, I had no reason to check to see if they were still both safe in their case.”

“Even last night, when you knew that a murderer still roamed free in this hotel?” interjected the constable sharply.

“You assured us, sir, that we were perfectly safe. I took you at your word,” replied Dubois with equal heat. “And yet now I see that the sanctity of my room has been violated, and my possessions ransacked and stolen.”

Dunkley leaned forward and inspected the lock on the box. “Yes, there are many scratches here, as if the lock had been forced,” he concluded. He gazed sternly into Dubois’ eyes. “However, that effect would also be easy to fabricate.”

The man’s lips pursed together angrily. “That is the second time, Constable, that you have accused me of dishonesty. It is an unfamiliar sensation to me, and I find that I do not care for it. At
another time and place, one such accusation would be grounds for me to seek satisfaction. Do you mean to arrest me, sir?”

Dunkley held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. “Now, now, sir. Take it easy. You must understand that it is my job to suspect everyone in this building until the murderer has been caught.”

Dubois visibly calmed, but he raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Everyone excepting the Doctor here, it seems.”

Now was my turn to grow offended. “What do you imply, sir?” said I, heatedly.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Only that I believe that you have no official
locus
standi
in this investigation? And you hold a privileged position, sir. You performed the post-mortem examination, even before the constable arrival, from what I hear. You have been present at the questioning of every guest, able to steer the conversation in the direction of your choosing. In short, you have
carte blanche
. If I was a murderer, it would be the exact arrangement that I would covet. How could I ever be suspected?” His eyebrows rose suggestively. 

I started to rise in anger out of my seat, but the constable’s hand upon my shoulder restrained me. “
Touché
, I think is the word in your tongue, is that not correct, sir?” said Dunkley.

Dubois merely smiled grimly and nodded. 

“Do you have any other theory, besides the guilt of the doctor here, as to who shot Mr. Dumas?” continued the constable in a reasonable tone of voice.

The Frenchman shrugged again. “We have a saying that seems apt.
‘Le mauvais goût mène au crime.’
Perhaps he found himself so odious that he shot himself?”

“Seven times?” I scoffed.

He turned to me and looked me straight in the eyes. “He was most odious.”

Against my better judgment, a smile cracked my lips. There was a grain of macabre wit to the man. I shook my head in bewilderment, for this did not seem like the kind of absurdity that would amuse the Lucy that I had come to know. I have never been accused of having an overly-developed sense of humor, but I greatly wondered what had attracted her to him? Was she simply tired of being alone in the world after her mother passed on? And yet, a lady as exquisite as Lucy
would have had her pick of eager suitors even if she had not a farthing to her name. Why this man?

Dunkley shook me out of my reverie, “Very well, Mr. Dubois, if you have nothing else?”

The man licked his lips. “I was wondering, Constable, if you knew whether I might eventually get my pistol back?”

Dunkley pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “Certainly, Mr. Dubois. There will be no need for the evidence of the case once it has been solved. Any effects will be either be destroyed or returned to their rightful owners… presuming that you are innocent, of course.”

Dubois laughed easily. “Yes, of course. I have no such concerns, Constable. I am certain you will catch the man soon, and the rest of us may be on our way.” He closed the half-full pistol case and stood up. He bowed slightly to us. “
Au revoir
, gentlemen.”