Page 70 of Marble Hall Murders

‘There are many clever men who make clumsy murderers,’ Voltaire remarked.

‘Yes. But what we have here is a clever murderer who seems to have been almost deliberately clumsy.’

The two men stood silently for a moment. Neither of them needed to ask where they were going next. Voltaire took the case from Fraser and the three of them set off.

FOURTEEN

They 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 Hôtel 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 heardof 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’Orat 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.’

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