Page 27

FOURTEEN

T hey walked towards the Galerie Werner-Waysmith, threading their way through a series of backstreets until they reached the Avenue Jean Médecin, a wide and empty thoroughfare that drew a straight line almost from one end of Nice to the other. Pünd was keen to examine the path that Elmer Waysmith might have followed – if it had been he who had rented a room at the H?tel Lafayette – and to work out how long it would have taken him. It was hard to judge. Voltaire could only make slow progress and it was always possible that Waysmith had found a different route. He might even have flagged down a taxi.

The gallery was not immediately apparent, half concealed by the pillars that separated it from the main square. Even Voltaire, who had visited Nice many times, was unaware of its existence. They stopped in front of the door and glanced at the two paintings in the windows: views of the French countryside. They were beautiful but somehow unappealing, trapped behind thick glass in two tiny pools of light.

The door was locked. He rang the bell and a moment later an unsmiling woman appeared, dressed in black.

‘I am a police officer,’ Voltaire told her. ‘I am here to see Monsieur Waysmith.’

She didn’t show any surprise. Clearly, she had heard of the death at the Chateau Belmar and the suspicious circumstances that surrounded it. ‘If you are referring to Monsieur Waysmith senior, I am afraid he is not here,’ she said, speaking in French. ‘He left a short while ago.’

‘You are?’

‘My name is Estelle Dubois. I am the gallery director.’

‘Is Monsieur Robert Waysmith here?’ Pünd asked.

He had spoken in English and Madame Dubois changed language effortlessly. ‘He is in his office, monsieur.’

‘Then perhaps we can speak with him.’

‘Of course.’ She stepped aside to let them in.

They entered the sombre surroundings of the front office with its artworks hanging in frames, like so many prison windows offering glimpses of imagined worlds. Madame Dubois moved towards her desk, intending to call the office, but Voltaire stopped her.

‘I wish to ask you a few questions relating to the death of Lady Chalfont, madame,’ he said, also switching to English for Pünd’s benefit.

‘I hardly knew Lady Chalfont, monsieur. She did not visit often.’

‘Nonetheless, can you tell me if you were here last Friday at around lunchtime?’

‘I was here all day.’

‘You were alone?’

‘No. Monsieur Robert came early in the morning. He stayed for about an hour and then drove to see a client in Antibes. I did not see him again until his father arrived at twenty-five minutes past twelve and they left together shortly afterwards. I had reserved a table for them at Le Poisson d’Or at half past twelve. The senior Monsieur Waysmith is always very punctual.’

‘Can you tell me what he was wearing?’ Voltaire continued with the interrogation, but his questions were exactly those Pünd would have asked.

Madame Dubois had to think for a moment. ‘He was in a white suit and waistcoat,’ she said. ‘He was wearing saddle shoes in two colours: white and beige.’

‘Did he seem exercised? Had he walked or come here by car?’

‘Why are you asking this?’

‘Please answer the question, madame.’

‘I do not know how he had come here. He usually parks his car in the square. He was not in any way exercised. He seemed completely relaxed.’

‘And how is Mr Robert Waysmith today?’ Pünd asked.

‘It is a great tragedy, what has occurred.’

‘But not such a tragedy that he has stayed away from work,’ Voltaire muttered. He glanced at Pünd, who signalled that he had nothing more to add. ‘We will see him now,’ he said.

Madame Dubois picked up the telephone and pressed a button. ‘There are three gentlemen to see you,’ she said in a low voice.

The door to the inner office opened almost before she had put down the phone.

Robert Waysmith walked out with the confidence and poise of a man about to sell an expensive painting to a new client, a look that vanished when he saw Pünd and Voltaire. At once, he seemed to shrink back into himself, as if he had forgotten that his stepmother had been murdered just a few days ago and was hoping that the detectives had gone away.

‘Mr Voltaire …’ he said. ‘If you’ve come to see my father, I’m afraid he’s not here.’

‘I told them that,’ Madame Dubois intoned.

‘We would have liked to have spoken to him,’ Voltaire admitted. ‘But in his absence, perhaps we could have a few words with you.’

‘Me?’ Robert was alarmed. ‘There’s not very much I can tell you …’

‘Please do not concern yourself.’ Pünd smiled, reassuring him. ‘In a murder investigation, it is necessary to speak to everyone who is involved. Often it is the case that they will remember something even they did not realise they knew.’

‘Well … of course. Come into the office.’ Robert glanced briefly at the directrice , then led the way into the back room where he and his father worked. He chose not to sit in his chair. Instead, he remained half standing, perched on the corner of his desk while the three visitors sat around him.

‘Have you made any progress?’ Robert asked.

‘We have made a great deal of progress,’ Voltaire assured him. ‘I would be grateful if you could inform us of your movements on the morning of last Friday, the day your stepmother died.’

‘Starting from what time, Mr Voltaire? Do you want to know what I had for breakfast?’

There was something almost insolent in the way Robert Waysmith spoke. At the Chateau Belmar, in Elmer’s study, he had seemed strangely vulnerable, younger than his thirty-two years and dependent on the father who had looked after him all his life. Later, just before the reading of the will, he had been apologetic, dismayed by Elmer’s rudeness. But now he was on his own and, for the first time, Pünd felt that Robert had stepped out of the shadows and was prepared to stand up for himself. He had inherited more than his father’s good looks. Smartly dressed in a suit and tie with a gold clip, he looked very much like the owner of a successful art gallery. This is my domain, he seemed to say. You can ask me questions, but I refuse to be intimidated.

‘When did you arrive at the gallery?’ Voltaire asked.

‘I arrived a little before ten o’clock. I wasn’t here very long. I had to deliver a canvas to a client in Antibes. I drove over and we chatted for about thirty minutes. His name is Lucas Dorfman and Madame Dubois will provide you with his address if you want to confirm this. It took me a while to get back because of the traffic, and I was a little nervous because I didn’t want to be late. In fact, I was here by twelve fifteen.’

Pünd had noticed the second door. He nodded towards it. ‘You came in that way?’ he asked.

‘Yes. There’s an alleyway that leads round to the square. I always come in through the back to avoid meeting customers.’

‘Is meeting customers not the point of your business?’

‘I don’t meet anyone I don’t know, Mr Pünd. Do you really think I want to haggle over the price of one of the Henry Moret canvases you may have noticed in the window? I leave that to Madame Dubois.’

Robert stood there, his hands clasping the edge of the desk, poised for the next question. It came from Voltaire. ‘How was Monsieur Waysmith that day?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘His mood. His appearance.’

‘Do you mean, did he look like someone who was planning to murder his wife? No! He didn’t! And if he had somehow let slip that it was what he intended, do you think I’d tell you, Monsieur Voltaire? He’s my father.’

‘You would protect a killer?’

‘I would protect my family.’

‘If it was not your father who killed Lady Chalfont, who would you think might have done so?’ Pünd asked.

‘I haven’t got the faintest idea. Jeffrey has lost money at the casino. Harry needs help with his hotel. Lola wants to go back on the stage and Judith wants to preserve a monument in the middle of Peru. Finally, there’s my nephew, Cedric. He’s a creepy little kid with an interest in poisons. I suppose any one of them might be a suspect, except for the fact that they all loved Margaret, and as it turns out, there would have been no point bumping her off because they hardly got anything from the will.’

‘Where is your father now?’

‘I imagine he’s gone back to the chateau. He was in a bad mood this morning.’ Robert went behind the desk and sat down. He produced an art catalogue showing a series of blue squares and turned it round for the others to see. ‘These are by an artist called Yves Klein,’ he explained. ‘Pa was hoping to buy them. He’d been offered them at a very good price, but what with one thing and another, he was too slow putting in his offer and he missed out. He was very annoyed.’

‘By “one thing and another”, you mean the death of your stepmother.’

‘Yes.’

‘I am surprised he could think of anything else at a time like this.’

‘Then you don’t know him, Monsieur Voltaire.’ Robert weighed his words carefully. ‘Pa is incredibly single-minded. Buying and selling art is his life and it always has been. It’s not just the money. It’s the sense of being ahead, of knowing the game, of sniffing out the new talent. That doesn’t make him cold-hearted. Quite the opposite. But it puts everything else into second place. Margaret, my mother, me! When Ma killed herself, he was in Geneva, meeting with his partner, Erich Werner. He told you he was too upset to travel back to New York, but that wasn’t really true. He was in the middle of a sale and there was no way he would have got on a plane until the deal had gone through.’

‘What are your feelings about your father?’ Pünd asked.

‘I think he’s a great man – but that doesn’t mean he’s an easy one. He’s not afraid to speak his mind. When I was young, all I wanted to be was an artist. It’s hardly surprising. From the moment I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by great art. There was an Edgar Degas ballet dancer – a pastel – hanging in my nursery! All through my teens and into my twenties I was painting. It was all I ever wanted to do. I’d have been happy selling my work on the railings of Hyde Park – I didn’t need to be rich or famous. But it was Pa who persuaded me to give it up. He said that I didn’t have the talent for it and that I was wasting my time. He may have been right, but I’m not sure I wanted to hear it.

‘On the other hand, look at me now! It’s thanks to him that I’m working here and he’s training me. I’m learning from the very best. One day, maybe, I’ll be running this business and it won’t matter what’s happened in the past. So I’ve got plenty of feelings about my Pa, but the main one is gratitude.’

The telephone rang, diverting Robert’s attention. ‘That might be him now,’ he said and picked up the receiver. There was a brief pause as Robert listened to Madame Dubois, who had called from her desk in the front room. ‘Yes. Put him through.’

Another long silence. Then Robert spoke again. ‘Can you wait one moment, Ma?tre Lambert.’ He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at Voltaire. ‘It’s Jean Lambert, our solicitor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should speak to him. It seems that his assistant, Alice Carling, has disappeared.’