Another Sun by Timothy Williams Page B

Bray did not kill himself.”
    “Please sit down, Madame Laveaud.”
    “No reason at all for suicide.”
    “Evidently Hégésippe Bray thought otherwise.” The procureur shrugged. “He told the guard he didn’t want to return to French Guyana.”
    “I had made it quite clear there was no question of his being sent back.” She nodded to where Trousseau sat on a folding wooden chair. “My greffier is a witness.”
    Trousseau remained immobile, staring at the wall and at the calendar that had been pinned there.
    Maître Legrand sat in a low armchair, her legs crossed and her chin tucked against her neck. Her eyes remained on the procureur. “Perhaps he didn’t believe you, madame le juge.”
    The procureur had taken the comfortable armchair behind the desk. The dead cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth like a morbid excrescence. “Please sit down, madame le juge.”
    “Hégésippe Bray believed me. I explained he’d soon be set free.”
    “The old man hanged himself.”
    Everybody—including Trousseau—turned to look at Dr. Bouton. “Hégésippe Bray hanged himself, madame le juge,” the bloodless lips repeated with precise conviction.
    “I know he didn’t.”
    “Can you explain how Hégésippe Bray was found hanging from the bars of his cell?”
    “He was put there.”
    Maître Legrand sighed.
    “That is a very serious accusation.” Dr. Bouton spoke softly—like a professor at the faculty of medicine.
    “The only possible explanation.”
    “Hégésippe Bray wanted to die. Psychologically, it makes sense. You may have explained the temporary nature of his incarceration. You may have made it clear he’d never be sent to French Guyana. But that is not the point.” Dr. Bouton tapped a pen against the side of his nose. “How old was Bray? Eighty-two, eighty-three? Clearly no longer in his prime. Clearly debilitated by the rigors of French Guyana. And totally unprepared for the new Guadeloupe.” The voice was calm, reasonable, persuasive. “Social, psychological changes—all the changes that have taken place here since his departure for South America. Hégésippe Bray was lost. It was only normal he should feel.…”
    “Hégésippe Bray had a place in the country—at Sainte Marthe—and he was happy there.”
    “Then who killed him?” Maître Legrand asked. Her sweet perfume mixed with the bitter odor of the cigar.
    Anne Marie said, “I could make a guess.”
    The procureur placed his hand on the desk. “I’m pleased to see your reaction, madame le juge. I admire you. You show you’re a warm person.”
    Maître Legrand gave a small nod.
    “But are you not allowing yourself to be too emotional?”
    Anne Marie remained silent.
    “Please sit down.” He gestured, then with the same hand, heput the cigar in the ashtray. “This death is very embarrassing.” The procureur leaned back in the leather armchair and ran two podgy hands though his hair. A button on his shirt was missing, and the fabric had drawn back to reveal pale flesh. “What we need is a drink.” He thumped the desk. “Platon!” he shouted.
    A man opened the door and stuck his head through the crack. “Monsieur?”
    “Drinks—and fast.” The procureur raised his hands, hospitable but slightly bewildered. “Bring us something. I don’t know.” He looked at Maître Legrand, who nodded. “A bottle of mineral water and some fruit juice, perhaps, if there is any—but none of that awful imported stuff. And for me a cup of coffee, Platon. A cup of very strong coffee.”
    The head nodded obediently and disappeared.
    “Poor Platon’s filling in while the prison director is in France, and he’s not too happy to be chased out of his office—and it’s air conditioned.” The smile faded as the procureur took another cigar from the small packet. “You really must sit down, madame le juge. You seem to think this is a confrontation. We’re not in a court of law, I assure you.” He placed the cigar in his mouth and lit