Son of Holmes by John Lescroart

just yelled in through the kitchen for Fritz to bring more than one more, when Marcel stood up straight, grabbing his throat. He croaked out, “I feel . . .” but before he could finish, he reeled forward over the small table onto his face. Lupa was to him in a flash, rolling him over and lifting his eyelids. Georges came back to the door in time to hear him say, “He’s dead.”

    The events of the next moments were confused and rapid, though they seemed to me to follow one another with agonizing slowness. Tania, sitting next to me, put down her glass and stared, then covering her face with her hands cried, “Oh God, no!” and leaned back. I was aware of Georges stopping in the doorway, gauze over his recent cut, turning pale and being the second one to reach Marcel’s side. Lupa had turned him over onto his back and undone his collar, but it was too late. Georges slapped the corpse several times, saying, “Marcel!” over and over in a scolding tone, then looked over to me as Lupa finally stopped him.
    “What happened?” he asked.
    Fritz came to the door as I stood to cross the room, and I told him to take the car to town and get the police. Paul and Henri stood where they had been sitting and watched in stunned silence. I walked to where Marcel lay and felt for his pulse. There was none.
    “Get back! Get away!” I yelled at Lupa and Georges. Paul had gone out to the hall for his coat, and he returned, placing it over Marcel’s head. Georges limped back and forth across the room, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Tania had stopped crying and stood by the settee. Everything began moving at normal speed again, and everyone began talking at once. I went back to Tania and sat next to her, watching the others. Finally Lupa, who had been sitting, stood again and bellowed out, “Silence!” and we obeyed. “Let us sit,” he said, “and wait for the police.”
    “Who are you to tell us what to do?” demanded Henri, who seemed quite shaken. Georges, standing next to him, put his arm around his shoulder. Paul sat alone by the fire, looking at the flames.

4

    I had supposed that Jacques Magiot, an old acquaintance of mine and the chief of police, would have come out for the investigation, but he sent a young inspector and two gendarmes, who made it clear that their chief’s appearance was by no means necessary for the gathering of evidence. The flics stationed themselves by the door while the inspector walked around inspecting. He leaned down and sniffed the rug where the beer had spilled.
    “Prussic acid,” he said.
    “Some form of cyanide, at any rate,” I answered.
    He nodded. “Are you familiar with poisons?”
    “Oh come. The almond smell is distinctive.”
    He noted something in his book.
    The others stood about nervously. The inspector spent a bit of time looking at a spiderweblike impression on the coffee table and after a series of “ahems” said that he’d like to question each of us separately.
    “But before I do, I will say that while you are all free to move about in town, no one is to leave Valence for any period of time without checking with the authorities.”
    “But I don’t live in Valence,” said Paul. “I’m from St. Etienne.”
    “In that case, monsieur, we will escort you to your home by way of the St. Etienne constabulatory, and you will report to them.”
    While we waited to be called to the kitchen for questioning, Tania and I sat without a word on the divan, her arm linked into mine. She seemed too calm, almost to the point of breaking, as though she were under some unbearable pressure. Undoubtedly this local tragedy had turned her thoughts to her sons at the front.
    The inspector first called Lupa, then Georges, Paul, Henri, Tania, and Fritz. The first four were led to the back door and excused, while Tania and Fritz waited in the kitchen after their questioning. The inspector interrogated me in the front room.
    “Monsieur Magiot sends his compliments.”
    I