The First Day
“A piece of the Brillat-Savarin, please.”
For a fraction of a second, he had hesitated. But Commissaire Georges Dupin from the Commissariat de Police Concarneau couldn’t help it. He was salivating. It was one of his favorite cheeses. A rare, heavenly soft cheese. Triple crème. It tasted best on a fresh, crusty baguette, still warm from the oven.
To Dupin, cheese was a basic foodstuff—he could forgo many things, if it really came down to it, but not cheese. It probably ranked straight after coffee. And was followed by other unrelinquishable things, like baguettes and wine. Good charcuterie. And entrecôte, of course. Langoustines. On closer consideration, there was honestly so much that it made the definition of “unrelinquishable” seem absurd.
Dupin wandered up and down in front of the cheese stall in the phenomenal market halls of Saint-Servan, a neighborhood to the west of Saint-Malo: “And a piece of the Langres too, please.”
The market was lively but not hectic. It had that particular atmosphere of a week just beginning: the people had energy, and what lay ahead seemed conquerable. The Langres was another of Dupin’s favorite cheeses, an orange-red-toned soft variety made from the raw milk of Champagne-Ardenne cows. It was refined with Calvados for several weeks and had an intense, spicily piquant taste.
“And also,” he feigned hesitation, “a piece of the Rouelle du Tarn,” a goat cheese from the south, aromatically well-balanced, with subtle notes of hazelnut.
Dozens of cheese varieties were displayed here, piled alongside and on top of one another. Cheese from goat, sheep, or cow milk, with a multitude of sizes, shapes, surfaces, and colors. Pure happiness.
The sign above the stand read “Les Fromages de Sophie.” All kinds of cheese aromas hung in the air, mingling with the promising scents from the surrounding stands: fresh herbs, local and exotic spices, hard-cured sausage and pâtés, thick-bellied cœur-de-bœuf tomatoes, raspberries and strawberries, dried and candied fruits, irresistible pastries. An aromatic orchestra of savory and sweet. It made one hungry—for everything.
“Try some of this, monsieur: the Ferme de la Moltais, a Breton Tomme. It’s from the Rennes region, also a cow milk cheese, with astonishingly fruity nuances. It has a slightly firmer, gorgeous texture. You’ll see.”
The friendly young woman with short dark hair, glasses, and a sky-blue scarf knotted around her neck proffered a piece of the cheese. Dupin had wanted to try it even before the cheesemonger’s persuasive efforts—the sight of it alone was enough—but her description made it all the more enticing.
“Take it,” commanded an elderly, impressively white-haired woman who stood behind him in the queue, raising her eyebrows. “You’re standing at one of the best cheese stands in town, young man! And we have a lot of them! Obviously you’re not from around here.” It sounded like an accusation.
The woman had accurately identified Dupin as an outsider, even though the commissaire didn’t have the faintest idea why. Admittedly he was “far up north” here, to the east of the Canal d’Ille-et-Rance, not far from the Normandy border; but Saint-Malo in its entirety belonged to Brittany. However, he had already noted from Nolwenn’s and Riwal’s initial reaction to the news he would be attending a police seminar in Saint-Malo for a few days that the matter was apparently more complicated. The city must have some kind of special status, because both of them—his wonderful assistant and his first inspector—had only visited once, while they’d been to every other place in Brittany, or so it seemed to Dupin, countless times.
In addition, and this was also rather suspicious, the encyclopedic instructions they usually inflicted on him as soon as he had to leave Concarneau for any other location in Brittany had never appeared. Instead, Nolwenn and Riwal had instantly begun to talk about the Creed of Saint-Malo, which had shaped the self-assured city for centuries. Ni Français, ni Breton: Malouin suis! Neither Frenchman nor Breton; inhabitant of Saint-Malo am I!
Malouin. Riwal had briefly explained that the city had been bestowed with fairy-tale wealth between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, initially through the textile trade, and then predominantly through piracy—the corsairs, who were legalized by the French kings. Rich, powerful, and independent. The small city had become a bold maritime power that acted on an equal footing with the other maritime powers of the era. And so the malouinière character had formed: victory-assured, sovereign, proud. To some—like Nolwenn and Riwal—it was more like: arrogant, superior, cocky. What’s more, the willful—scandalous, even—claim of not being Breton was deeply provocative. And yet the flip side, not belonging to the French, prompted the warmest Breton sympathies. The rebellion against all “foreign rule,” the unconditional love of freedom and the defiant will to risk life and limb protecting it, all of this was, of course, deeply ingrained in the Breton spirit, with the result that Riwal, by the end of his uncharacteristically short explanation, had arrived at a bold paradox: that Saint-Malo, precisely because it didn’t want to be Breton, was a “uniquely Breton, downright ur-Breton city.” He had even expressed considerable praise: that the region was—“one has to give it fair recognition”—the culinary heart of Brittany. “A singular epicurean feast! The whole region, that is, including Dinard and Cancale, not just Saint-Malo.”
“This Tomme is aged for ten weeks with secret ingredients!” The cheesemonger interrupted Dupin’s train of thought. “Breton cheese has swiftly gained popularity over the last few years, monsieur. The young affineurs in particular are producing some fantastic creations.”
Dupin really liked trying the offerings at market stands. It was an essential part of visiting the market. By the time he left the Concarneau halls on Saturday mornings, he was always full. Dupin loved markets in general—culinary paradises, which, through the sheer variety of their offerings, the abundance and overabundance, were capable of unleashing a sweet rapture. Stands with kitchen utensils, especially pots and knives, were also an integral component of the rich market culture; Dupin had a penchant for good knives.
The Marché de Saint-Servan in Saint-Malo was a particularly noteworthy market. Not just for its location in the heart of this atmospheric part of the town, but also the exceptionally beautiful building. Dating from the 1920s, Dupin presumed. The floor was laid with large beige tiles, the walkways lined with rust-colored columns. The most impressive feature was that glass had been integrated wherever possible, letting light flood in from all around. The window and door frames were a maritime turquoise green, and there were decorative metal arches in the aisles, including above Sophie’s cheese stall.
“I’ll take a big piece, please.” Dupin was blown away by it.
“Anything else, monsieur?” The saleswoman smiled expectantly. “I also have a…”
Now it was time for the voice of reason.
“No, thank you. That’s it for today.”
She weighed the pieces at an impressive speed and packed them, no less swiftly, into a light blue paper bag with the inscription “Les Fromages de Sophie,” which Dupin took from her contentedly.
He was fully aware it hadn’t been a good idea to buy so much cheese, or to buy any cheese at all, for that matter. They would undoubtedly be given plenty to eat over the coming days. The packed seminar schedule—four pages in landscape format—included a restaurant visit every evening.
Dupin’s mood had brightened significantly while he was in the market; he had begun with two petits cafés in the Café du Théâtre, on the corner of the tree-lined square in front of the market halls. On his arrival at the police school campus at 7:58 that morning, his mood had seemed low, only to sink even further, all the way through to lunch. Still: it was a beautiful summer’s day. Everyone in Concarneau had warned the commissaire of the cold and rain “up north,” even now, in early June, but currently it was twenty-eight degrees, the sun was blazing, and the sky a brilliant, shining blue.
His good mood unfortunately wouldn’t last long. In twenty minutes, he had to be back in the police school. While conferences of this kind were essentially a nightmare for Dupin, this one was sure to be even worse than any that had preceded it. A month before, the prefect had turned up unannounced in Concarneau, and with a beaming smile, had declared to Dupin: “I have news, a great honor for you, Commissaire.” Dupin hadn’t been able to imagine—hadn’t wanted to imagine—what the prefect meant, but had instantly feared the worst. And of course, he’d been right to. In the first week of June, at the École de Police de Saint-Malo, one of the most revered police schools in the country, there would be a “unique seminar.” Every prefect from the four Breton départements—three women and one man—had been asked to select a commissaire to participate alongside them. It really couldn’t get any worse. The unbearable thought of he and Locmariaquer, together, for four whole days, Monday morning to Thursday evening. That was many, many hours. Longer than ever before. Dupin usually managed to keep his encounters with the prefect drastically short. The comfortable special status that Dupin had commanded for a long time, due to an attractive job offer from Paris, had been forfeited last autumn when he’d definitively turned it down—ending, in the process, the prefect’s moratorium on attacks. Their exhausting feud had long since resumed. Locmariaquer’s final sentence sealed the deal: “You should know that this extraordinary seminar is also a recognition of your team’s untiring engagement. Our colleagues in Saint-Malo have created an incredibly appealing accompanying program, you’ll see.”
For the purposes of “intensive team building,” the idea had been to have shared accommodation in the police school. A horror scenario had shot into Dupin’s mind: prefects and commissaires in double rooms or dormitories, certainly with shared bathrooms. After first pondering falling victim to a severe flu-like infection in the coming month—which would have meant house arrest—he had taken immediate action, searching online for a nice, small hotel. It hadn’t taken him long to find one: the Villa Saint Raphaël, a pretty maison d’hôtes in the center of Saint-Servan. Sure, Locmariaquer had been far from happy when he got wind of it, but Dupin accepted that.
He had arrived in Saint-Malo the previous evening, after a relaxing drive through the deserted Breton inland, and had established he couldn’t have chosen better lodgings; his room—directly below the roof—was wonderful, just like the entire Villa Saint Raphaël and its expansive garden. Dupin still wasn’t sure what the “unique seminar” was actually about. Neither the documents sent out in advance nor the truly impassioned introductory words from the host prefect of Département Ille-et-Vilaine that morning had been able to shed any light. The prefect had said something about “improving operative, practical working alliances” between the four départements, adding with a smile that “the most important thing, however, was to get to know one another better in the relaxed atmosphere of Saint-Malo” and to “spend a few enjoyable and constructive days together.” She had meant it seriously. And it fit the genuinely impressive accompanying program, from which Nolwenn and Riwal had surmised that a large part of this, for the proud Malouins, was self-promotion. “They even make a police seminar into a PR show…” A malicious interpretation, in Dupin’s opinion. If Concarneau were the host location, they too would call upon everything the region had to offer. The eternal battle of the Breton tribes: Who was the best, the most Breton of them all? An ancient tradition.
Either way, it was a curious concept: all the prefects and commissaires crowded together in one place. Dupin couldn’t help but think of the Druids’ gathering in Asterix and Obelix.
Sighing deeply, Dupin made his way toward the market exit. “We’ll recommence at two o’clock on the dot!” Locmariaquer had warned him as he left the seminar room. At least it wasn’t far to the police school, whose grounds were as sprawling as a small village. Four hectares, the prefect had explained, in the best of locations, not far from the world-famous old town of Saint-Malo—intra muros—and its equally famous beach.
Dupin’s gaze rested on a stall selling delectable-looking sausage meats. Breton sausages, entire hams, raw, cooked, smoked.
“How can I help you?” asked the tall stall owner.
“I…”
Dupin was interrupted by high, shrill screaming.
It came from nearby, perhaps just a few meters away.
Terrible screams. Screams of pain. Dupin whipped around to look. To his right was an imposing spice stall.
Something was happening toward the back of the stall, next to one of the columns.
The screams of pain stopped suddenly, but were replaced by different ones, of panic. And agitated voices.
Dupin darted toward the scene, ready to intervene. His muscles tensed.
The panicked cries came from two women who had terror etched on their faces. Other market visitors backed away in shock or began to run. Chaos broke out.
All at once, the screams stopped.
On the sparkling tiles—Dupin only saw her now—a woman lay on her right side, contorted, unmoving. Her white linen shirt was stained a deep red at chest height. There were several punctures in the fabric. And the most macabre detail: plunged right into where her heart was, there was a knife.
Dupin was beside her in a flash, crouching down, putting his ear to her mouth, checking her wrist, then her neck, for a pulse.
He pulled his cell phone out of his jeans pocket.
“Commissaire Dupin. I need an ambulance right away, Marché de Saint-Servan, by the big spice stall, close to the exit. A woman’s been stabbed, she’s unresponsive,” he said professionally, “stabbed in the heart.” He glanced around and noticed the stand selling knives, which he had just walked past, right next to the spice stall. “A kitchen knife, it’s still in her body. And,” he hesitated briefly, “send the police.”
* * *
Dupin had great difficulty finding a pulse—it was incredibly weak.
“A doctor? Is there a doctor here?” called Dupin—still crouched down—as loudly as he could. “I’m a policeman. This woman is seriously injured.”
A few of the market visitors had gathered curiously around him, but no one made any move to help.
Dupin had an ominous feeling. The woman was in critical condition. She wasn’t making a sound.
“She ran out over there. The woman who did it.” A girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, had come over to Dupin and was pointing toward the exit. “She went out there, just now. Then she turned left.”
Dupin quickly got to his feet.
“That’s right.” A short-haired woman appeared next to the girl, perhaps in her forties, presumably the mother. “Two women were yelling at each other. Then one suddenly stabbed the other one. It happened so quickly. She just grabbed a knife from that stall. They were standing here by the column, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. What’re you waiting for, follow them!”
Dupin hesitated; he couldn’t just leave the severely injured victim lying here.
“I’ll take care of her. I’m a teacher and a first-aid helper at our school.”
She was already leaning over the woman.
Dupin rushed off. The police and paramedics were sure to arrive any moment.
He didn’t have a gun. A mistake, but he ran on regardless.
Reaching the exit, he headed left along Rue Georges Clemenceau.
And there, up ahead—a woman, running away frantically.
Dupin quickened his pace.
By the end of the street, he had already gained a few meters on her.
Once again, the woman turned left. Rue de Siam.
Annoyingly Dupin had only a rough orientation of the town, but his gut told him they weren’t far from the sea; the port de plaisance had to be nearby, he had driven past it the previous evening.
The fugitive switched sides of the street. She had noticed her pursuer, and was glancing over her shoulder at regular intervals, all without slowing down.
Now she turned in to a long, straight road.
The distance between them continued to shrink. Dupin had a good chance. He mobilized all his strength. Suddenly, a gap appeared between the rows of houses, giving a broad view of the ocean and marina.
Now Dupin realized what she was heading toward. A parking lot. The road forked and created a long, drawn-out strip, big enough for two lanes of traffic.
The woman ran another few meters, then squeezed into a gap between two cars. The taillights of one of the vehicles briefly illuminated twice.
Another twenty meters. Dupin would have to hurry.
She was in her car already. The engine roared into life.
Ten meters.
The car reversed abruptly. The woman steered sharply to the right. Braked violently. Within seconds, she would switch into first gear.
Dupin had reached the car, a smaller-model Land Rover, dark blue. He knew he only had a fraction of a second. Without hesitating, Dupin reached for the handle of the left rear door.
At that moment, the car lurched forward. Dupin lost his balance and had to let go of the handle; the force of the acceleration pulled him to the ground. As he rolled away to the left, the car tore along the row of parked vehicles.
Dupin immediately got back on his feet, sprinting after it.
At the end of the parking lot, the fugitive would file left into the traffic—and perhaps have to slow down, he hoped.
But it was in vain. The blue Land Rover accelerated and drove straight out onto the street. Now the parked cars blocked his view. He heard a revving engine and, a moment later, loud beeping accompanied by a deafening metallic bang, swiftly followed by another.
Dupin had reached the end of the parking lot and ran onto the street.
All that could be seen of the Land Rover were the taillights. It turned sharply left at the end of the street.
He looked around: there had been a serious crash. One car had clearly tried to swerve around the Land Rover and had driven into the side of the parked cars; another vehicle—this collision didn’t look as bad—had gone into the back of it.
Dupin ran toward the first car. The driver, a man in his mid-thirties, opened the door.
“Are you injured?”
“I—yes—I mean, no. Not injured.”
The man seemed shaken, but unharmed.
A pedestrian, who must’ve seen the whole thing, hurried over and pulled out his cell phone.
“I’ll call an ambulance.”
The cars coming from the opposite direction had stopped too; a few of the drivers got out, ready to help.
Dupin headed straight toward a small Peugeot with promising rally stripes on its side. A young man with closely shaven hair, who had stayed in his car and now rolled down the window, stared up at him.
“Commissaire Georges Dupin,” Dupin informed him without any further explanation. “I need to borrow your car briefly.”
It took the driver a moment to grasp what he was saying. The commissaire’s posture, expression, and tone made it abundantly clear that this wasn’t a joke.
“I…”
“Please get out.” A command, not a request.
The young man looked hesitant, but then did as he was told. Dupin pushed past him into the Peugeot.
“And how do I get my car back?”
Dupin was already at the wheel.
“Pick it up later from the police school.”
He slammed the door shut, started the engine, and floored the gas pedal. A deafening screech pounded his eardrums as the car leaped forward. The police didn’t call these cars “boy racers” for nothing.
Copyright © 2020 by Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch
Translation copyright © 2024 Jamie Lee Searle
