Death in Darkness

Chapter 2

2Ben Dufort was up early as usual, and had gone for a run and showered before most of Castillac had opened one eye. He was not a tall man but quite fit, with a brush-cut Molly liked to run her hands through, with faint crow’s-feet on his perennially tanned face. Ben was often one of the first at the Saturday market, and this week was no different. He had bought a few things he knew Molly would like: prunes stuffed with foie gras never failed to make her whoop and dance around the room, and a new vendor had sold him a collection of flavored salts in small glass containers that he was pretty sure would be a hit. He was meeting a potential new client at the Café de la Place, and took a seat at an outdoor table, looking around for Pascal, the exceptionally good-looking waiter whose mother did the café’s cooking.

The café was packed as it usually was at the tail end of market day. Ben recognized most of the other diners and noted a few strangers, always glad to see Castillac graced by some tourists since they brought much-needed cash to the small village. Pascal was laughing with a table of teenage girls celebrating something over bowls of ice cream. A large family was finishing a late breakfast at the next table, the children well-behaved and in their seats.

Leaning back in his chair and staring into the middle distance, Ben mentally reviewed his notes on the potential client. Bernard Petit was from Bergerac. He’d agreed to the fee without hesitation, but refused to provide any detail on what the job in question actually entailed. Ben wasn’t sure whether he was encouraged by this display of discretion or worried about what he and Molly might be asked to do.

No point worrying about it either way, as the man was due to arrive any minute and would surely fill in the blanks. Ben’s mind jumped next to his dwindling bank account and he felt a slight chill, though the day was sunny and warm. Molly was kind-hearted to a fault, so the chill was not so much about fearing he would go hungry as about pride. It is not a foolish kind of pride that propels a man to want to be not only self-sufficient but able to provide for a wife, he said to himself, watching a large man make his way down the sidewalk and guessing correctly that he was the mysterious prospective client.

Ben stood up as the man headed to the terrace of the Café. “Monsieur Petit?” he said, and when the man nodded, Ben introduced himself and stuck out his hand. But Monsieur Petit ignored the hand and Ben let it drop, wondering what the man could possibly be offended about.

“This is terribly…public,” Monsieur Petit said. “Is this any kind of place for a personal conversation?” It was true that the Castillaçois were renowned busybodies, and Ben acknowledged to himself that Petit had a point.

“Let’s enjoy lunch,” Ben said, “and afterwards we can take a stroll together and discuss whatever it is you would like me to do. We certainly don’t want to ruin Madame Longhale’s delicious cooking with any talk of work.”

Monsieur Petit shrugged. He pulled out a cigar and proceeded to go through the elaborate process of trimming and lighting it. Taking a few deep puffs, he plumed the bluish smoke over the heads of the large family at the next table. The mother shot Petit a dirty look, gathered up her children, and left.

The man chuckled. “Works like a charm,” Petit said.

Ben kept a poker face but internally was grimacing. There’s no rule about having to like the client, he said to himself, though it didn’t make him feel any better.

Pascal made it over to the table and took their drink orders, but had too many tables to stop for much of a chat.

“Is anything good here?” Petit asked.

Ben took a deep breath.

“Madame Longhale is quite accomplished in the kitchen. Her confit is excellent, as is the cassoulet—”

“It’s far too warm to eat anything like that. It may be September but there is no chill in the air whatsoever. It would be ridiculous to eat a hot stew on a day such as this.”

Ben took another deep breath, trying to disguise his irritation by briefly holding the menu in front of his face. “Obviously, order whatever you like. I’m going to have the cassoulet followed by salad and cheese.” He hadn’t had a thought of ordering the cassoulet—and indeed, he would have agreed that the weather wasn’t especially suited for it—but Monsieur Petit had been so smug in his dismissal of Madame Longhale’s dish that now he was determined to have it.

“So how did you hook up with the American, anyhow?” asked Petit.

“In Castillac, as you might imagine, it is easy to meet the people who live here. Eventually everyone crosses paths.”

“I heard she showed you up. Solved a case right under your nose, and when she could barely speak French on top of it.”

He was not usually so easily ruffled, but Ben had to hold himself back from leaping up and punching Petit right in the nose.

“Molly is a very skilled detective,” he said, using a lot of will to keep his teeth from clenching. “I am very lucky that we are on the same team.”

“How’s her French now? Gotten any better?”

“I should say so. She’s been here almost exactly two years.”

“Eh, we both know people who’ve come over and gotten nowhere in that amount of time. They stick to their own kind, watch English television shows, make no effort at all.”

“I’m not sure I know anyone like that. But you are certainly not describing Molly. She has thrown herself into village life with much enthusiasm.”

Petit squinted his eyes in what Ben took to be a skeptical manner. The prospective client had not quite insulted Molly, not enough to excuse storming off from the table. But he was right on the edge, and Ben waited, perversely hoping Petit would say something so awful it would put Ben completely in the right for telling him to shove it and walking away.

At that moment, Pascal appeared with a plate of crudités, small toasts, and a generous pot of his mother’s pâté.

“Thank you very much, Pascal,” said Ben. “I could eat your mother’s pâté for lunch every single day and be a happy man.”

Pascal grinned and made a graceful bow. “I’ll tell her. Sorry to rush off, but we are packed today and the new waitress hasn’t shown up—”

Petit, as Ben knew he would, hmphed his disapproval of the missing waitress. Then he dipped the short knife into the pâté and spread a thick layer on a piece of toast.

Ben busied himself with a stalk of celery while waiting for his turn with the knife, making a point of not asking Petit what he thought of the pâté. The two irritated men did not even try to make polite conversation.

“Oh the hell with it,” said Petit with his mouth full. “I’ll just speak low enough that those people over there can’t hear me.”

Ben leaned towards him, curious in spite of himself.

“I have quite a nice house in Bergerac. Just a block from the church. Expansive backyard with a garden and a small pool. One of the best—if not the best—houses in town, if I do say so.”

Ben barely succeeded in not rolling his eyes.

“Someone is stealing from my house. Pilfering, I should say, if that word connotes stealing of a smaller monetary value.”

Ben needed to finish chewing before asking, “What kinds of things have been stolen, and how long has this been going on?”

“The first time was about six months ago. I noticed the shoe trees in my closet were missing. I have some expensive pairs of shoes and I take very good care of them. No point paying all that money and then simply tossing them down and allowing them to become misshapen and unsightly. It only takes a little bit of care and attention, you understand, to put them away with trees inserted.

It would be impossible to dislike this man any more than I do, thought Ben. “And how many shoe trees are missing?”

“Seven pairs.”

“All right, and then? When did the next theft take place?” Ben had pulled out a small notebook and was taking down the information with a fountain pen.

“I failed to write down the exact dates of any of this, which I realize was a mistake. But I had no idea it would come to this, that an actual investigation by a professional would be necessary. I suppose I thought once I fired the old hag who cleaned the house and got someone new, with impeccable references, things would go back to normal.”

“But they did not?”

“No. Probably three weeks later, I went to get in bed and found my pillowcase missing. When I looked around in other bedrooms, the pillowcases on the guest beds were missing as well. They were not in the laundry or anywhere to be found.”

“Odd.”

“I’ll say it’s odd!”

“Does anyone live at the house with you?”

“I have two children, a son and a daughter. They are grown now, attending universities far from Bergerac.”

“And their mother?”

“Must you pry so dreadfully? Their mother and I divorced long ago. I don’t keep up with her movements any longer.”

“Do you know if she lives in Bergerac?”

“No, she does not. Last I heard she was finding herself in Tibet, or some such nonsense. If anyone wanted to find her, just follow the scent of incense when it rolls by, and eventually it’ll lead to her. Last place I saw her reeked of the stuff.”

Ben nodded his head slowly, looking carefully at Petit. He had a big head, big nose, wide mouth, and ears that were nearly half as long as his head. Everything about the man was oversized, like a cartoon drawing. His eyebrows were dark and thick, his lips fleshy…only his eyes were on the small side, though that may have only been the effect of being swamped by such large features.

Ben tried to imagine this man at home, with a wife and children, but struggled to make the image come alive.

“All right,” the detective said, flashing a sudden smile at the sight of Pascal headed their way with a heavy tray. He waited to finish his thought until Pascal had served them and gone off to deal with the teenage girls. “All right, so am I to understand that you want us to find who is stealing from you, and if possible to recover the items?”

“Yes. Brilliant conclusion,” said Petit, tearing a leaf from an artichoke with a degree of savagery. “I would like your full attention on the matter, and will pay accordingly.”

Dufort allowed himself an inward smile at that news, though the prospect of working with Monsieur Petit was unappealing to say the least.

I’ll probably smell like cigars until the case is over, he thought. But at least I’ll be motivated to wrap it up as quickly as possible, and hopefully other cases will soon come along.

And with a mostly satisfied sigh, he dug into the bowl of steaming hot cassoulet, his mouth watering at the sight of several nuggets of confit de canard and the whole thing covered with a thin and delectable layer of goose fat.