Old Bones by Aaron Elkins Page A

would be possible, but four days’ masonry work had been contracted to begin
today,
and the equipment had been brought all the way from St. Brieuc. He had no choice, he was sorry to say, but to bill them for the contracted labor and equipment costs, whether or not the work was done. They would be happy to come back later, but they would have to charge all over again. It made little difference to him, he explained, and the toothpick moved back to the left. It was up to madame.
    But it was monsieur who resolved the matter. René, aware that he was responsible for the
domaine
’s outlay as well as its income, came to the doorway and suggested that it might be best to permit the work, inasmuch as it was being paid for anyway. The men would be out of sight in the cellar, after all, and if they kept their noise to a minimum, used the back entrances, and were generally discreet, why, no impropriety would be done.
    Beatrice deferred and led the workmen around the kitchen entrance. René was well-pleased with the results of his timely and authoritative intercession, but before his second cup of coffee had been drunk the foreman was back. His trousers and sleeves were powdered with fine gray dust.
    "Monsieur?" He approached, a great deal more diffident than he’d been before; actually wringing his hands, in fact. Had he not left his beret in the cellar he would certainly have been twisting it. The toothpick was not to be seen.
    "Monsieur…we’ve found…in the cellar …we’ve found…"
    "What, what?" asked René, alarmed.
    The foreman swallowed and took another step forward. "In the cellar …there’s a…a…"
     
     
     

SIX
     
     
       "A skeleton?" Sergeant Denis stopped doodling. He sat straight up in his hard plastic chair and pressed the telephone closer to his ear with his shoulder. "Did you say a skeleton?"
    "Yes…Well, that is, not a whole one. There’s no… no head."
    "No head. I see. Monsieur du Rocher, is it?"
    "Yes, René du Rocher." This time Denis wrote it down. "And you found it in the cellar?"
    "Yes. That is, the workmen did. It was buried in the floor, under the stones. It’s been, er, wrapped in paper."
    "And you’re certain it’s human?"
    A pause. "Well, we
think
so. Mr. Fougeray, my—one of my guests—said it was."
    "A doctor, this Mr. Fougeray?"
    "Oh, no. He owns—er, he’s a butcher." "A butcher," Denis said, writing dutifully.
    "He said if it wasn’t a person, then it might be a large monkey of some kind, perhaps a gorilla."
    Oh, yes, Denis thought. A gorilla buried in the cellar of the Manoir de Rochebonne. Wrapped in paper. Well, it had been a foolish question.
    "Monsieur du Rocher, please touch nothing—"
    "Oh, no, of course not."
    "—and lock up the cellar."
    "Lock it up? I’m not sure there’s a lock."
    "Close the door, then." Denis paused. "There is a door?"
    "Yes. Well, I’m sure there must be."
    "Close it then, and don’t allow anyone in. I’ll have someone there shortly."
    "Fleury," Denis said when he replaced the receiver, "go on out to the Manoir de Rochebonne—you know the place?"
    Fleury looked up from the well-thumbed office copy of
Lui.
"Near Ploujean?"
    "Yes. Someone’s found a skeleton in the cellar. I want you to keep it secure until the chief gets there. And take some statements."
    "Fine," Fleury said, rolling up the magazine and wedging it into its place behind the A-G file cabinet. He stretched. Nothing ever surprised Fleury very much. "You’re really going to call Monsieur Giscard on this? It’s probably just a goat."
    Denis looked up. "A goat? Why a goat?"
    Fleury shrugged. "Why a person?"
    Sergeant Denis eyed him. He had never understood Fleury very well. "People don’t bury goats in cellars." Or gorillas either.
    Fleury shrugged. "Isn’t Monsieur Giscard at his convention in St. Malo all week?"
    "It’s not a convention, it’s an institute, very scientific, with professors giving lectures. But he’ll have to be interrupted."
    Fleury grinned. "He’ll