Edward Hoch: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 111, No. 1. Whole No. 677, January 1998

The state policeman nodded. “I think I can handle a middle-aged French sex-kitten — even with a crowbar in her hands.”

But two kilometers later Alexandre Tama found the former sex-goddess at the second wooden bridge he came to along the mud-churned road. A raging torrent of white and brown water surged through the crossing where late yesterday afternoon a bridge had stood. Just this side of the flood waters was a light blue rental car. Lips pursed, the Commissaire de Police peered through its side window. Inside, mouth half open, huddled up against herself in the rear seat, was Valérie Valescu, sound asleep.

“That was quick,” said Colonel Yashimoto admiringly as Tama dropped down from the driver’s seat. The Hawaiian’s eyebrows shot nearly to his hairline as he watched a badly disheveled Valérie Valescu climb down from the other side of the car. Her clothes and hair were caked with dried mud. “And you’ve already caught the perp — I can see why you don’t bother with fingerprints in Tahiti!”

Tama grimaced as he took V. V.’s elbow and guided her towards the front door of the inn. Her head was bowed and her eyes downcast. “I’m afraid it isn’t going to be as simple as that. Where’s Madame LaRochelle?”

“Asleep, I think. We cleaned her up and found her some sleeping pills and got her to bed.”

“And the boy? Has he got the generator going yet?”

“No. Now he thinks it’s probably the fuel pump. His name’s Dominique, by the way, and he seems like a nice little fellow even if LaRochelle didn’t like him.”

Tama grunted. “All right, let’s see if we can find something to eat — it may be a long time before we get out of here. In the meantime I’ll tell you what’s happening.”

Valérie Valescu sat sullenly between Tama and Colonel Yashimoto at a small table in the unlighted kitchen and poked listlessly at the golden brown omelet Tama had cooked for her with a few deft turns of a blackened skillet. The Commissaire swirled a piece of bread into the last creamy remains of his own six-egg omelet and pushed it into his mouth. “The damned butter’s hard as a rock,” he grumbled. “Nothing ever works right in Tahiti for very long.”

Colonel Yashimoto took a cautious sip of his inky-black coffee and turned his eyes towards the silent actress. “And she says she didn’t do it?”

“Yes. She admits that she came back in the night to let the geese out of their pens — that’s the wrong word, she boasts that she came to let them out. For some reason, someone at the rental car place left a wrecker’s bar in the backseat and that’s what gave her the idea. By the time she got back the rain had stopped and all the lights were off. She started prying at the gate that led to the barn and the geese started honking. She got the gate opened and the geese running around like crazy, and then, she says, in the total darkness, she felt a hand fasten around her neck.”

“Scary,” muttered Colonel Yashimoto. “And then what happened?”

“She dropped the crowbar and tried to scream. By this time she knew it was LaRochelle, because he was yelling and cursing as he tried to strangle her. But then they slipped and fell down in the mud and she managed to pull herself loose and get away to the car. She says she expected LaRochelle to come running after her but for some reason he didn’t. She was too grateful to wonder why but just jumped in the car and drove away. By the time she got back to the bridge it had been washed away. So she climbed into the backseat and went to sleep.” Tama sighed heavily. “The sign, I suppose, of a clear conscience and a good digestion.”

The Hawaiian turned a dubious eye to the former movie star. “There’s something here that doesn’t make sense. She says she came back and did all this fighting and running in the dark? Where were the lights?”

“That is indeed the curious part. Let me go over this one more time with Mademoiselle Valescu to make sure I’ve understood her correctly, and then I’ll fill you in.”

For the next five minutes Tama prodded the actress with a series of softly spoken questions. As she replied, reluctantly at first, then with growing animation, her head snapped up and her voice became increasingly emphatic. Finally she rattled off a long string of machine-gun-like French, staring Tama squarely in the eye and pounding the table for emphasis.

Lips pursed, Tama nodded. “What it boils down to,” he said in English to Colonel Yashimoto, “is that Madame LaRochelle couldn’t possibly have seen Mademoiselle Valescu doing what she was supposed to have done because there simply weren’t any lights.”

“An’ I proof it!” interjected Valérie Valescu in heavily accented English.

“Well, maybe,” conceded Tama. “What she says is that when she came back in the night with just her parking lights on, she parked the car some distance away and made a careful reconnaissance around the entire inn. She was almost scared out of her wits when she came around the side of the inn and saw a light suddenly come on.”

“From where?” asked Colonel Yashimoto.

“From the kerosene lantern Monsieur LaRochelle was using inside the shed as he worked to repair the generator. She could see him clearly.”

“Ah. So she’s saying the generator was already broken and—”

“—that Madame LaRochelle was nowhere in sight and couldn’t have seen her even if she had been lurking in the darkness.”

“That’s a lie!” shouted Martine LaRochelle as she lurched with unsteady steps through a side door into the kitchen. She wore a fluffy white peignoir, her eyes were swollen and red, and she suddenly had to grip a countertop to keep her balance.

“Madame, you should be in bed!” exclaimed Tama, pushing his vast bulk to his feet and moving purposefully across the kitchen.

“But I tell you she’s lying!” The half-Chinese pointed a violently trembling finger at Valérie Valescu. “We’d turned the generator off for the night just the way we always do when we go to bed. Then when we heard the geese honking, we turned it back on; there’s a button right there beside the bed to switch it on. We turned on the lights in the inn and the courtyard and we came out and found her... found her at the pen. And... and...” She swayed against the counter, recovered her balance, and turned her enormous almond eyes to Tama. “Ask Dominique — he’ll tell you the generator was working when he woke up this morning and that it stopped just before I came to get you. Please,” she beseeched Tama, “that’s the truth!” Once again she swayed from side to side — and fell directly into the Commissaire’ s arms.

“Bah,” muttered Tama when he had returned to the kitchen from putting the semiconscious Martine LaRochelle back to bed, this time locking her door from the outside with the old-fashioned key he had found in its keyhole. “She says one thing, the other one says the opposite, and this wretched boy Dominique will probably say something entirely different. Where is la Valescu, anyway?”

“I took her upstairs for a shower in our bathroom — she could use a little soap and water, you know.”

Tama nodded. “And with the door locked, she can’t get in to scratch the eyes out of our skinny demi-Chinoise” He plopped himself down heavily in the plain wooden chair in which he had breakfasted and his eyes moved moodily across the table. “What do you think?” he asked, hefting a crusty piece of stale baguette and absently tapping it against the butter dish.

“It’s one word against the other’s. If they were in my jurisdiction, I guess I’d just try to sweat both of them until one of them broke.”