Page 25

TWELVE

‘ W e have found the pharmacie !’

Frédéric Voltaire was pleased with himself and didn’t try to conceal it. He had been waiting in the reception area of the Grand-H?tel when Pünd and Fraser came out from breakfast, sitting beside the main door, smoking a cigarette. From the way he told them the news, it was as if outsmarting the famous Atticus Pünd mattered to him more than making a breakthrough in the investigation.

‘So, where is it?’ Fraser asked.

‘In Nice. The Rue Lafayette. We interviewed more than fifty pharmacists in the area. To begin with, this fellow was reluctant to admit that he had provided the poison which killed Lady Chalfont. And with good reason! He may lose his licence.’

‘The Rue Lafayette.’ Pünd might have ignored everything else the detective had said. ‘That name is familiar to me.’

‘It is a small street, only a short distance from the Galerie Werner-Waysmith.’

‘That is certainly interesting. Have you spoken to the pharmacist?’

‘I am leaving now. You may join me if you wish.’

Voltaire was back in control. He led the way out to the car and sat with his arms crossed and a half-smile on his face for the entire journey. They drove into Nice and, perhaps deliberately, crossed the Place Masséna, passing the gallery before entering a maze of backstreets and alleyways further away from the seafront. Finally, they arrived at a sunless street that might have been forgotten by the rest of the city, lacking anything that would attract a tourist or visitor. There was a uniformed gendarme standing outside the Pharmacie Lafayette, which had been closed for the day.

They went in.

Pünd could see at once why a killer might have chosen this place rather than any other. It was twenty years out of date, with bottles and boxes stretching out along wooden shelves that had warped with age, a pair of scales that was positively antique and an ugly-looking cash register that took up far too much space on the counter. The pharmacist himself was in his sixties, nervous and sullen, with bad eyesight. He had not yet spoken a word and seemed to have no intention of doing so, afraid that he would only get himself into more trouble.

Voltaire took charge of the interrogation, speaking in French. Fraser did his best to provide a translation, although part of him was still wondering if Pünd might not actually speak the language better than he did.

‘You are Hector Brunelle,’ Voltaire began.

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘And you recall selling aconitine to a customer three days ago?’

It was the same day that Lady Chalfont had died.

‘Yes, monsieur. He told me he was a doctor. I had already noticed that he had the smell of surgical spirit on his clothes. He showed me his licence.’

‘And how carefully did you examine it?’ Voltaire lifted a hand. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

Brunelle squinted, but it was obvious he couldn’t see that far. ‘I need my spectacles,’ he admitted.

‘And were you wearing your spectacles when this customer came in?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I don’t remember,’ Brunelle replied miserably.

‘Can you describe him for us?’ Pünd asked in English, then waited for Fraser to translate. ‘Was he French?’

‘No, monsieur. He spoke in French but with an accent … English or maybe American.’

‘What of his appearance?’

‘It was not easy to see him. He was wearing sunglasses and a hat made of straw with a band. I noticed that he kept his head down, as if he was afraid of being recognised. When another customer came into the shop, he looked away. He was not young. He had white hair and an ebony walking stick. He told me that he had a patient who was suffering from the gout. Aconitine is a well-known antidote for this condition if used in small doses and I sold him only two grams.’

‘What else was he wearing?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I cannot remember exactly, monsieur. I think it was a linen suit, either blue or grey. I seem to recall that it did not fit him well.’

‘Do you have any idea what time he came into your establishment?’

‘I can tell you that exactly. The other customer was a lady and she was in a hurry. She asked the time and he told her: twelve fifteen.’

‘That was all?’

‘“ Je suis un peu pressée. As-tu l’heure? ”’

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry. What time is it?’ Fraser translated.

‘Those were her exact words?’ Pünd asked.

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘What did this lady purchase?’ Voltaire demanded.

‘She did not purchase anything. She asked for a certain shampoo, but we did not have it. She left.’

‘And the man?’

‘He took his purchase and he also went. I did not see in which direction.’ Hector Brunelle was close to tears. ‘I did nothing wrong,’ he complained. ‘The man told me he was a doctor. He had a licence.’ A thought occurred to him. His eyes brightened. ‘He signed his name in the register.’

‘Let me see it!’

The pharmacist ducked down behind the counter and reappeared with a thick leather volume with deckle-edged pages. He found his glasses and put them on, then laboriously searched through the entries. At last, he found the date he was looking for. ‘Here!’ he said. But he sounded disappointed.

Pünd saw why. When the book was turned round, the signature was nothing more than a scribble of turquoise ink in which not a single letter was legible. The so-called doctor had not even pretended to add an address.

Brunelle knew immediately that he was at fault. He should have worn his glasses. He should have taken more care. ‘I only provided him with two grams of the medicine,’ he protested. ‘It was not a fatal dose!’

But once the three men were back out in the street, Voltaire took a different view. ‘The man is a fool,’ he snapped. ‘Two grams would have been more than enough to kill an elderly woman with a heart condition.’

‘Will you prosecute him, Monsieur Voltaire?’

Voltaire considered. ‘No. What good will it do? But this will be a warning for him to take more care in future.’ He glanced at a café that was just a few steps away. ‘I would like a coffee,’ he said. Perhaps it was an invitation. Pünd and Fraser exchanged looks, then joined him at a table underneath the awning.

The café was not the most charming in the city, but there was something honest and authentic about the striped canopy and the tables spread out along the pavement that put all three of them at ease. For a moment, the murder and the friction between the investigators could be forgotten. A waiter with a long white apron appeared and they ordered three coffees. Voltaire lit another cigarette.

‘You live in Paris?’ Pünd asked.

‘I have lived there for much of my life. I have a wife and a son in Montparnasse.’

‘How old is your son?’

‘His name is Lucien and he is seventeen.’ Voltaire smoked contentedly. ‘He was born two years before the war. During that time, he and his mother moved to the south, to Hyères, which is not so very far from here. They were safer staying with relatives.’

‘And you?’

‘I was a police officer but also an army reservist. I was conscripted and sent for training in a town called Bitche in the Moselle.’ He glanced at Fraser. ‘It is perhaps fortunate that your friend has no need to translate.’ He paused. ‘I found myself serving in the Ardennes, part of the famous Maginot Line that was said to be indestructible until the moment it was destroyed. I was in one of the petits ouvrages – as we called them. A bunker connected to a network of tunnels. A German hand grenade ended my war on the twenty-eighth of May 1940. It left me as you see me now.’

‘I am sorry,’ Pünd said.

‘Are you, Herr Pünd? It does not matter now, of course, but we were on opposite sides. I was in hospital for many weeks and spent the next five years as a prisoner of war. Some prisoners were exchanged under the relève system, but I was not considered to have any value and so remained in a stalag in Gorlitz in the far east of Germany. At least I was spared forced labour. My injuries made that impossible. Instead, they tried to starve me to death.’

‘You were fortunate to survive,’ Pünd remarked. ‘But if you will allow me, Monsieur Voltaire, I must say that you are wrong when you state that we were on opposite sides. I was born in Germany, but I come from a family of Greek Jews. I was, like you, a police officer in the thirties, but I made the mistake of speaking out against the Nazis. As a result, I spent the war in a prison camp.’

‘Then our experiences were similar.’

‘The camp where I was held may have had a different clientèle, but I would imagine the living conditions were equally unpleasant.’

‘Then I apologise. I have perhaps allowed my experiences to have informed the way I have behaved towards you.’

‘There is no need for an apology, Monsieur Voltaire. The war has cast a long shadow and its darkness reaches us even now.’

The coffee had taken a long time to arrive, but finally the waiter reappeared, balancing a silver tray with cups and saucers on the flat of his hand. Pünd waited until he had gone before he began again. ‘What did you make of the story told by our friend le pharmacien ?’ he asked. ‘The man with the white hair.’

‘The only man with white hair who is known to me is Elmer Waysmith,’ Voltaire replied.

‘He also has an American accent,’ Fraser chipped in.

‘Indeed so. I have not, however, seen Monsieur Waysmith make use of a walking stick.’

‘Well, perhaps he was trying to disguise himself,’ Fraser said. ‘The straw hat, the dark glasses, the way he tried to hide his face …’

‘That is certainly one interpretation,’ Pünd muttered. ‘I would ask myself, though, why Mr Waysmith should have carried with him the scent of surgical spirit.’

‘And then there is the question of timing,’ Voltaire said. ‘We know that he had lunch with his son on the same day that the aconitine was purchased. We are at least fifteen minutes from the Place Masséna, even at a brisk pace. It would be interesting to know at what time he arrived at the restaurant …’

‘And what he was wearing,’ Pünd added.

‘It is interesting, do you not think, how the finger of suspicion points directly at just one man? Monsieur Waysmith alone had the motive to kill Lady Chalfont.’

‘She had discovered something about him that might have persuaded her to change her will.’

‘So it would appear. Why else would she have arranged to meet with Jean Lambert on the day of her death?’

‘And it would seem almost certain that it was he who visited the pharmacy,’ Pünd concluded. ‘There is even the matter of the signature in the register.’

‘Yes. I saw that too.’

‘But there was no signature!’ Fraser exclaimed. ‘It was just a scribble.’

‘You did not remark upon the colour of the ink?’ Pünd asked.

‘Turquoise.’ Voltaire nodded in agreement.

‘Exactly. The papers on the desk in Mr Waysmith’s office were written in that same colour, James. I have no doubt that the same pen was used in both cases.’

‘So it must have been him, then!’

‘I do not know.’ Voltaire finished his coffee and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘There is something about this business that I find disturbing.’

‘It is not as straightforward as it might appear,’ Pünd agreed. ‘I noticed a hotel at the end of this street. I would suggest that we look in and pay it a visit before we leave the area.’

‘And why is that, Monsieur Pünd?’ Voltaire asked.

‘Because I saw its name when we were at the Chateau Belmar. There are some who would say that this is just a coincidence, but …’

‘Mr Pünd doesn’t believe in coincidences.’ Fraser finished the sentence for him.

‘Where did you see it?’

‘Right here!’ Pünd leaned forward and picked up the book of matches that Voltaire had used to light his cigarette. He turned it over and there, in red letters, were the two words: H?TEL LAFAYETTE . ‘I hope you will not mind my asking where you found this, Monsieur Voltaire.’

Briefly, Voltaire’s face clouded over, but then the moment passed. ‘I believe I picked it up in the vestibule as we left the Chateau Belmar after the reading of the will,’ he said. ‘It was lying on a table and after the unpleasant scene we had witnessed, I had a desire to smoke a cigarette in the garden.’ He glanced down the narrow street towards the hotel. ‘I agree with you again, Monsieur Pünd. It cannot be a coincidence. Did Elmer Waysmith also visit the hotel?’

Pünd stood up. ‘Let us find out,’ he said.