Aaron Elkins - Skeleton dance

In general, Inspector Joly had never been much taken with scientists. Most of them, he believed, could be accurately grouped into three classifications: superior and disparaging, like Grize; pompous and self-inflated, like Montfort; and (the largest class by far) well-meaning but muddle-headed, like Beaupierre. There were exceptions of course-Gideon, for example, at least most of the time-but not many in his experience.

He sat eyeing them with his hands folded for a few moments more before speaking again. "I am Inspector Joly. The officer seated behind you is Sergeant Peyrol, who will take notes. Later, I shall be interviewing each of you individually, so be good enough to keep yourselves available."

He stopped, anticipating objection, but they had suddenly become as docile as lambs, hanging on his next words. They sensed by now that something important was up and they were off-balance. Joly began feeling a little more benevolent. "I hope this will not inconvenience you," he offered by way of a small olive branch. "I shall try to disturb your daily activities as little as possible.

"Exactly what is this about, Inspector?" demanded Montfort, but now his tone was merely grumpy, not openly rude; presumably a matter more of constitution than intention. "Does it relate to Jean Bousquet?"

"It very well may," said Joly. "Dr. Oliver has now completed his analysis of the bones from the abri and reached his conclusions. I'm sorry to inform you that they are the remains of Dr. Carpenter."

It was as if someone had seized one end of the carpet on which their chairs rested and given it a snap. Everyone started. There were ejaculations of surprise, snorts of disbelief, gasps of incredulity; in Beaupierre's case, all of them from the same mouth.

"That can't be!" Audrey Godwin-Pope exclaimed. "His plane… he died in a plane crash… everybody knows that."

"Yes, yes," others cried, "that's true."

"Not so," said Joly.

"How horrible!" Beaupierre said into the abrupt silence, staring first at Joly, then around the circle of his colleagues, and then, every bit as fixedly, at empty air. "How horrible! I-"

His lips had gone dead white; he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. Joly, afraid he might be on the verge of a stroke, rose. "Monsieur-"

But Montfort cut in. "Jacques, get hold of yourself, for God's sake," he muttered, although he too looked a little gray.

To Joly's surprise it did the trick. Beaupierre nodded, drew in a long, shuddering breath through his mouth, and quieted down, one hand lifted to his closed eyes. The others began to talk excitedly among themselves, so that Joly had to rap on the desk for quiet.

"That is all I wish to say at this point. You are welcome to return to your offices for the present. Sergeant Peyrol will inform you when I wish to see you. We will-"

"Bousquet, it must have been Bousquet," Prudence McGinnis said to no one in particular. "Jean hated him."

"Which of us didn't he hate?" asked Montfort. "He might have murdered all of us in our beds."

"He didn't hate me," Grize said. "I had nothing against him, and he had nothing-"

But Joly didn't want a discussion of the subject at this time. "We will start in three-quarters of an hour, at ten-thirty," he resumed firmly. "I hope we can be finished by mid-afternoon. I think it would be best to begin with the director. Professor Beaupierre, is that acceptable to you?"

"What?" Blinking, Beaupierre floated back into this world. "Yes, of course-well, I… that is… yes, all right."

"Very good, ten-thirty, then. Madame, gentlemen, thank you."

They were slow in getting up-Joly could almost hear the gears spinning and grinding in their heads-and Prudence McGinnis paused at his desk on her way out.

"It was Bousquet, wasn't it?"

"We'll talk about it later, madame," replied Joly.

She stood her ground. "Well, who else could it have been?"

"Later, madame."

The interval before his first interview was put to good use. Sergeant Peyrol, having heard at length about his superior's wretched breakfast, went out and returned with two excellent croissants, a passable brioche, and a double cafe noir from the Cafe de la Mairie across the street, so that by ten minutes after ten Joly was once again feeling human.

"Thank you, Peyrol," he said, concluding his meal. He wrapped the remains in the newspaper on which he'd eaten so as not to sully Marielle's gorgeous desk and placed all in a wastepaper basket. The excellent Peyrol-not the most quick-witted sergeant he'd ever had, but an honest fellow-had even brought him a foil-wrapped towelette to wipe his hands and lips, which he did with satisfaction.

"Now then, Peyrol: what did you think of our cast of characters? Do you have any observations?" When he could, Joly liked to tutor his subordinates, generally employing the methods of Aristotle.

"Well, I know who didn't do it," Peyrol said. "The director, Beaupierre. He was shocked, all right. I thought he was going to drop dead in front of us."

"Shocked, yes," Joly said, "but at what?"

Peyrol was stumped. "Why…at the news of Carpenter's death, what else?"

"Might he not have been shocked only at the news that it had been found out?"

Once it sank in, Peyrol's simple face glowed with comprehension "You mean he himself was the-"

"Now, Peyrol, I offer it only as a possibility, one of many to be explored. You must learn-"

When the telephone sounded, Joly snatched it up on the first chirp. "Yes?"

"Inspector? It's Beaupierre. I… I'm not feeling very well, not well at all. I have a stomach condition… this has been a terrible, terrible shock, you have no idea…"

"I'm very sorry to hear it."

"Would it be possible… would you mind if I didn't come in until later? I need to lie down, to, to calm my system. I'm afraid I'm not really up to, to-"

"Of course," Joly said soothingly. "Go and rest. I won't bother you for a while."

Joly had no doubt about Beaupierre's being genuinely agitated, and postponing the interrogation was fine with him. His policeman's instinct told him-shouted at him-that while the director might not have murdered anyone, he wasn't being candid either. Joly smelt something-guilty knowledge, self-recrimination, remorse, pangs of conscience?-and letting Beaupierre simmer in his own juices for a few hours wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"Peyrol," he said, hanging up, "go and ask Dr. Montfort if he would be good enough to join me. Oh, and Peyrol?"

"Sir?"

"With my compliments," said Joly.

Enter at your own peril the bizarre, startling-but-true world of man-apes, cannibalistic rites, and long-lost primitive tribes, where a host of fascinating questions awaits the adventurous reader.

Does the fearsome and enigmatic giant yeti, an object of terror for two millennia, lie in wait for unwary travelers to the Himalayas even today?

Who-WHAT-was the Cardiff Giant, and why have scientists continued to deny this strange, frightening being's existence for more than 100 years?

What is the shocking true story of the Stone Age tribe discovered living deep in the Philippine jungles in 1972? What is behind their total, mysterious disappearance without a trace?

Does the legendary, elusive Abominable Snowman still stalk the misty forests of the Pacific Northwest? What is the true nature of the gruesome new evidence?

Find the answers to these and other mystifying puzzles of science in this revealing exploration by the man known to millions as the Skeleton Detec "Oh lordy." Gideon put the sheet down, shaking his head.

"Hm?" Julie said from her wicker lawn chair a few feet away. "Did you say something?"

"No, that was only a muffled cry of anguish. I was looking over Lester's suggestions for flap copy."