The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (3 page)

Suddenly there came the insistent sound of a spoon being tapped on a glass. The string quartet had stopped playing, and the Patriarch had advanced to the edge of the balcony, his arms held up for silence.

“Excellencies, generals, friends, you know I never give speeches, far less long ones,” he said, pausing for the laughter. “So I simply thank you all for coming here to my native Périgord to celebrate my ninetieth birthday, and I hope you will all return in ten years’ time for the big one. I’ll be here if you will.” There was more laughter and scattered cheers. “And now, if today’s Armée de l’Air is half as punctual as we were in my day, you might want to protect your ears.” He gazed to the west and pointed.

Bruno became aware of a distant growl growing steadily louder, saw the sun glinting on distant wings, and then with a monstrous howl that seemed to shake every bone in Bruno’s body three Rafales swept overhead, unbelievably low and impossibly fast. France’s latest jet fighters, worth a hundred million euros each and capable of twice the speed of sound, the Rafales lit their afterburners and soared into a vertical climb. Plumes of red, white and blue smoke spilled from their tails in salute. Then the aircraft rose in formation and spread apart. Somewhere over Sarlat they turned and came diving back in line astern, each warplane performing a victory roll as it passed over the Patriarch’s head.

“
Mon Dieu,
I loved that,” said the Patriarch as the roar of the jets faded into the distance. “My thanks to my friend the minister of defense and to General Dufort for that wonderful demonstration, and to the memory of my revered old boss, Marcel Dassault, who has given France so many magnificent airplanes. I only wish I were still flying them. And my thanks to all of you who are French taxpayers, who paid for that splendid birthday gift. And now, enjoy the rest of the party.”

The Red Countess was wilting. Chantal said she’d bring Marie-Françoise home later. The old lady made her farewells, and Bruno wheeled her back through the house, out to her car and drove her home. It had been a remarkable day, he reflected; his boyhood admiration had not been in the least dented by the reality of meeting the Patriarch. And he was invited to one lunch by Raquelle, and to another at the vineyard where he’d be able to see more of the great man and maybe hear some of his stories. He saw the countess installed safely back in her château and drove contentedly home to walk his dog, feed his chickens and tend his vegetable garden, and knew nothing of the tragedy that was unfolding in the house that had just echoed to the roar of the Rafales. It was only the following morning when the mayor called to tell Bruno of the death that had taken place.

Just after dawn the next morning Bruno had begun sharing his breakfast with his basset hound, Balzac, when the mayor phoned. He sounded subdued and shaken as he said he was calling from the Patriarch’s château where there had been a death. Startled, Bruno paused before voicing his immediate concern for the Patriarch himself, but the mayor rang off before Bruno could ask for any details. That was odd, Bruno thought as he changed into his police uniform and headed off in his official van. He was usually informed of deaths by the emergency services or by a doctor or by a priest. As a municipal policeman, Bruno was an employee of the town of St. Denis, which meant that the mayor was his boss. This was the first time he’d been summoned to a death scene by the man who’d hired him, and Bruno wondered what the mayor was doing at the Patriarch’s place so early.

The château felt different in the early morning light, somber rather than joyous, without the animation brought by the previous day’s throng of fashionably dressed people. Bruno parked, and seeing no signs of life at the front of the building, he walked around to the terrace, calling to ask if anyone was there. Just as he was beginning to wonder if his summons were some bizarre joke, the mayor came out to greet him with a handshake.

“You’ll just have to take care of a few formalities,” he said, steering Bruno indoors. “Dr. Gelletreau has already signed the death certificate.”

The dead man was in a large, semicircular room in the base of the old medieval tower that seemed to be used mainly to store garden furniture and tools. The body rested on a lounger of tubular steel and canvas that would have looked more at home beside a swimming pool. The room stank of booze and vomit and was full of people when Bruno arrived, although it was almost too dark to see. A single narrow window slit and the open door that led to the château provided the only light. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Bruno made out Victor and Madeleine standing hand in hand beside the lounger. Victor had his other hand over his eyes, and his shoulders moved as if he were weeping. His wife held a handkerchief to her nose.

Dr. Gelletreau was packing his stethoscope into an ancient medical case. Father Sentout was also there, and Bruno spotted the gleam of oil on the eyes and forehead that meant the dead man had been given the last rites.

“Accidental death,” said the doctor. “Died in the night, dead drunk. No suspicious circumstances.” He sidled up to Bruno and murmured in his ear, “The poor fellow drowned in his own vomit.”

That was quick, Bruno thought. Gelletreau usually hemmed and hawed and left his options open. “Who found him?”

“I did, this morning, expecting to find Gilbert nursing his usual hangover, so I brought him some breakfast,” said Victor, turning to Bruno and releasing his wife’s hand. He looked stricken as he pointed to a tray on a small side table. It carried a coffeepot, a cup and a glass of orange juice. “I shook him to wake him up, but he was already pretty stiff so I called our family doctor. Dr. Gelletreau came right away.”

“The night wasn’t cold, so I’d put the time of death at around midnight, maybe a bit before or after,” the doctor said. “I checked the lividity and the body temperature. He died here and hasn’t been moved.”

Bruno stepped forward to stand beside the lounger and look down on the face of the drunk who had tried to pull Chantal away at the party. Somebody had cleaned his face and chin, but there were drying pools of vomit on his chest and on the lounger where it had trailed down the side of his neck. The dead man, Gilbert, had been an old air-force friend of Victor. After becoming too old to fly fast jets, he’d been air attaché in Moscow.

“My condolences on the loss of an old friend,” Bruno said, facing Victor. “I’m sorry, but you’ll understand I have to ask a few questions, just for the formal report. I saw you escort him away from the party yesterday afternoon, just before the flyby for your father. Is this room where you brought him?”

“Yes, it was convenient and close by, a place we could put him down to sleep it off,” Victor replied. “Gilbert was plastered, staggering drunk. We just wanted him out of the way quickly. I knew the flyby would be coming, and I didn’t want that spoiled for my father’s sake. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks.”

“I saw Gilbert carried off by someone who didn’t look dressed for the party,” Bruno said. “Who would that have been?”

“That was Fabrice, the gamekeeper,” said Madeleine. “When I saw what was happening, I asked him to remove Gilbert.”

“Did you look in on him after that?” Bruno asked.

“I did, sometime after seven, when most of the guests had gone, except for those staying the night,” said Madeleine. “He was snoring, but there was no vomit. I’m sure if he’d been sick I’d have smelled it. I didn’t see that flask, or I’d have removed it; I put that blanket over him.”

Madeleine was pointing to a large leather-covered hip flask, perhaps twice the size of the one Bruno took when he went hunting. It lay between Gilbert’s chest and his arm.

“It was the same at about ten, when I looked in just before I went to bed,” said Victor. “No sign of vomit, and the blanket was still in place, as though he hadn’t moved.”

“I heard he was an alcoholic. Is that true?”

“He was always a heavy drinker,” Victor said. “After he came back from Moscow he was in bad shape. We got him into a couple of clinics and then into Alcoholics Anonymous and he stopped drinking for a while, but he always went back to it. Vodka, mainly. He acquired a taste for the stuff in Russia, or maybe he assumed we wouldn’t smell it on him.”

“Had he been this drunk before, throwing up in his sleep?”

“Not to my knowledge, but this was unusual, him being here at the château,” Victor said. He turned to look at the body of his friend, and the sadness on Victor’s face aged him so that he looked more like Madeleine’s father than her husband. “We didn’t often have to put him to bed.”

“Just before I saw him being carried away from the party, he was obviously drunk but still on his feet,” Bruno said. “Did he go straight to sleep when you brought him in here?”

“Yes, he seemed to crumple. By the time we got his shoes and tie off and laid him down, he’d passed out.”

Bruno turned to Gelletreau. “Alcoholics usually have a fairly high tolerance for booze. Is this sort of reaction unusual in any way?”

“It might have been, if we hadn’t found the flask.”

Bruno pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, then lifted the flask to his nose. It was empty, had no cap and smelled of alcohol. He put it in an evidence bag and began looking around for the cap. He found it underneath the lounger. There were markings on the bottom of the flask, and he squinted in the dim light to make out
MADE IN ENGLAND, 12 OZ.
He knew about English fluid ounces from whiskey bottles; twelve fluid ounces was a third of a liter.

Bruno felt the dead man’s clothes where the flask had been. There was no dampness; whatever liquid it had contained had not spilled out. Presumably he’d drunk all of it.

“What did he usually drink?”

“Stolichnaya Blue,” Victor replied. “It’s a hundred proof, fifty percent pure alcohol.”

Bruno raised his eyebrows. Gilbert had been stumbling drunk at five in the evening. Depending on how much there had been in the flask, there was more than enough to keep him dead drunk until midnight.

“Do you know if he left a will or where he kept his papers? I should go and take a look.”

“I don’t know about a will, but he had nothing to leave. Gilbert was usually broke. He lived in a small house on the vineyard and had an old car but with the drinking…” Victor ran his hand across his eyes. “You should have known him before. He was a good man, an amazing pilot, brave as a lion—”

“Gilbert hadn’t driven a car for years,” Madeleine interrupted. “We wouldn’t let him. He had a bicycle to get around the estate, and if he needed to go into Bergerac he’d come with us.”

“There’s nothing more for me to do here, and I’d better get to the clinic,” said Dr. Gelletreau, handing Bruno the signed certificate of death. He’d written “natural causes; alcohol abuse.”

“Has Gilbert’s family been informed of his death?” Bruno asked Victor as Gelletreau left.

“He had no family, only divorced wives and abandoned mistresses,” said Madeleine sourly. “Most of them will probably celebrate at the news.”

“Are there any next of kin that you know of?” Bruno pressed. “Brothers, sisters, cousins. There’s usually some relative.”

“He always indicated me as next of kin,” Victor responded. “I was his wingman for years, in the same squadron, so we were very close. I think there was a sister who died a few years ago.”

Bruno looked down at the body, thinking this was a sad end for a man gifted enough to be a fighter pilot, one of the lords of the air. He remembered his own youthful dreams of becoming one. “In that case you’ll have to decide whether this is to be a burial or a cremation.”

“I can help you with that,” broke in Father Sentout. “Perhaps I should call later in the day when you’ve had some time to settle yourselves.”

“Well, it all seems very straightforward,” said the mayor, briskly, in the way he did at council meetings when the main decision had been taken to his satisfaction. “It’s very sad, of course, and a great loss to you, Victor, saying farewell to an old friend and comrade of your youth. But I’m sure the chief of police here will handle matters with his usual discretion and dispatch.” He looked at Bruno and added, “We don’t want anything that could cast a shadow over the Patriarch’s birthday.”

Bruno nodded amiably while putting his hand beneath the body. He found a full pocket and drew out a well-used wallet. There was an identity card, one of the old French driving licenses in pink cardboard, a Carte Bleue credit card, a
carte vitale
medical card and four twenty-euro notes. In a smaller pocket he found an out-of-date ID card for the foreign ministry and a membership card for the Air Force Association. He took the cheap mobile phone from the pouch on Gilbert’s belt and thumbed through the recent calls, surprised at how few there were. He’d made just one call the previous day, to a recipient identified as Victor.

“He called you yesterday morning?” Bruno asked Victor.

“I took the call,” said Madeleine. “It was about what time we’d pick him up to drive here to the château.”

“Did you drive home after the party?”

“No, we stayed here last night,” Victor replied. His wife broke in, “We live at the vineyard but we keep a suite here.”

“Was Gilbert going to stay here as well?”

Victor shrugged and looked at his wife. He seemed to let her answer most of the questions, Bruno thought.

“No, the château is pretty full with guests, so Marc or somebody would have given him a lift back,” she said. “In fact some of them must be getting up about now, so I’d better go and check on breakfast.”

“I’m sure the chief of police won’t need to disturb your guests,” the mayor said firmly, and looked at his watch.

“Just one more thing,” said Bruno. “I’d better take a look at Gilbert’s house. Where is it, exactly?”

Madeleine explained, already at the door that led to the château. “Sorry, but I have to go.”

“Excuse me, but I have to be at Mass,” said Father Sentout, quickly shaking hands with Bruno and the mayor and following her out. The mayor stepped forward, took Victor’s hand and shook it solemnly, in silence. Then he turned to put his hand on Bruno’s back and steer him to the door. It was very neatly done.

“You don’t have any reason for doubt about this, do you?” the mayor asked, when they were outside.

“No, not really,” Bruno said. He was about to say that he didn’t like being pressured, but his phone began vibrating at his belt. He checked the screen and saw it was Albert, the chief
pompier.

“There’s been another accident on the Rouffignac road just after the turnoff to the big camping site,” Albert said. “It’s those damn deer again. You’d better bring a gun in case the animal is still alive.”