Chapter Forty-Eight
The next morning, Monsieur Marcel Lapin-Défunt strode into the interview room.
Pluck looked up from his notes. “What are you doing here?”
“I was sent for.”
“I don’t want to see you.”
“Then I shall retire to my room.” He bowed to Enid and Bartoff, and left.
After a few minutes, Pluck rang his bell. Larry entered.
“Bring me Monsieur Lapin-Défunt,” he demanded.
“Yes, monsieur.” Larry went out.
“But he was just here,” said Enid.
“Eh? What’s that?”
“You just sent him away.”
“Well, I don’t for a moment, Miss Trojczakowski, concede that I did, but if, as you claim, that is what happened—well then, I must have had a reason for it.”
Monsieur Lapin-Défunt returned. “Well?”
“Well what?” asked Pluck.
“You asked to see me?”
Pluck looked behind him, then back to the diplomat. “Are you speaking to me, sir?”
“Did you not send for me?”
“He did,” said Enid.
Pluck looked at her coolly. “I did not,” he maintained.
“Then I shall go,” the Frenchman said, and turned to do just that, when Pluck halted him with:
“Now, now, don’t be so hasty, monsieur. Since you’re in the neighbourhood, as they say, why not pull up a chair and stay awhile?”
“No thank you.”
“Ah! But I insist.” Pluck gestured to the seat.
“Sit the fuck down!” Bartoff screamed; even Sam was shaken by the volume.
“Please, Mister Bartoff!” begged Enid.
Monsieur Lapin-Défunt looked to Enid. “I will be happy to remain, if mademoiselle wishes it, as she seems to be the sole rational person in this room.”
“Yourself included?” Pluck asked him.
“Please stay,” said Enid.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Pluck.
“I was speaking to monsieur,” Enid explained.
“I am a ‘monsieur’,” Pluck pointed out.
Lapin-Défunt sat, brushed off a hint of dust from his slacks with his hand, straightened his coat, and waited.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said Pluck.
“Yes, thank you.”
The firelight danced around his features, encroaching and withdrawing, seeping and fleeing, as if not knowing what to make of him. None of it made contact with his person, but only watched tentatively from the hearth. He waited, stiff and patient.
“Would you be so kind as to provide us with your full name, monsieur?”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
Pluck nodded, and checked it against his records. Then he shook his head.
“That’s not what’s written here.”
“And what do you have written there?”
“Pardon?”
“What do you have written there?”
“Oh. I thought that was what you said.”
“And the answer?”
“Monsieur?”
Lapin-Défunt sighed. “What name do you have written there?”
“Oh, that!” Pluck chuckled. “It says here that your name is ‘Deirdre Laoghaire’.”
“That was the previous interviewee,” Enid explained.
“I cannot imagine why you persist in apologising for this man,” Pluck growled at her.
“I’m just trying to explain about his name, so we might proceed with the interview.”
Although it had been Enid who’d said it, Pluck now looked at Lapin-Défunt and demanded: “Do you have somewhere more pressing to go, monsieur?”
“Not really, seeing as we’re all snowed in.”
“And what is that supposed to mean, eh?”
“What does it mean?!” Bartoff thundered.
“It means precisely what I say, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say of you gentlemen.” He turned to Enid. “Apologies for my language, mademoiselle.”
She smiled that no apology was necessary.
Pluck looked down to his papers, then back to Lapin-Défunt. “What was your name again, monsieur? Kindly repeat your variation on it.”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
“That doesn’t sound remotely like ‘Deirdre Laoghaire’, I must say.”
“Perhaps it is because that is not my name.”
“What isn’t?” Pluck asked quickly. “‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’?” He’d got him!
“No, that lady’s name, ‘Deirdre’ something-or-other.”
“Don’t you mean, ‘Lapin-Défunt’?”
“No, I do not; for ‘Lapin-Défunt’ is my name.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is.”
Pluck looked him up and down. “You seem a mite unsure of that, Miss Laoghaire.”
“You mean, ‘Monsieur Lapin-Défunt’.”
“Whatever—you seem a mite unsure.”
“Do I?”
Pluck nodded, authoritatively. “You do. And you’re sure that ‘Lapin. . .’ ‘Lapin. . .’”
“‘Lapin-Défunt’.”
“Yes, that that is your real name? You insist on it?”
“I do, although I must say it isn’t something I’ve ever had to insist on before.”
“And why haven’t you?”
“Why haven’t I what?”
“Ever had to insist on it before?”
“Oh, I suppose because I’ve never been interviewed by such a cretin as yourself.”
“We’ll let my cretinness pass, for the moment, if you’ll be so kind, monsieur, and return to the matter at hand: namely, your name.”
“All right. What would you like to know about my name?”
“Well, firstly: what is it?”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
Pluck threw his papers into the air. “There you go again!”
“Scoundrel!” Bartoff shouted.
“If you would only be honest with us—”
“I am being honest, monsieur. It is you who is being stupid—that is all.”
“Come, come, Miss Laoghaire—do you really think that insulting the lead detective in a murder investigation is the wisest path to take?”
“I’m sorry—were you speaking to me?”
“I was indeed.”
“Oh, because I was certain I’d heard you address your remarks to a Miss Laoghaire.”
“So, you are suggesting that there are two guests in this hotel, each of whom is named ‘Deirdre Laoghaire’?”
“Not at all. I’m merely suggesting that you are an idiot.”
Pluck nodded. “I’ll make a note of your suggestion, and it will be entered as evidence. In the meantime, I must ask you to confirm your full name—”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
“That is not a name, monsieur, unless you are claiming to be God.”
“If there were a God, He would have struck you dead, if He’d any sense of justice at all!”
Pluck spoke slowly and precisely: “Monsieur: we will deal with your criminal blasphemy at a later date, but for the moment: what—is—your—name?”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
“And you are certain?”
“Yes.”
“The seeds of doubt I’ve ventured to plant in you have not, as yet, borne fruit?”
“They have not.”
“What is your name, monsieur?”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’. What’s yours?”
“Mine?”
“Yes—what is your name, Inspector?”
Pluck shrugged. “My name is ‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
Monsieur Lapin-Défunt switched which leg was resting over which knee. “Is it, now?”
“No, no, no, that’s not right, no!” Pluck shut his eyes and shook his head. “You’re getting me all muddled up, with your inane answers and groundless queries! My name is ‘Thaddeus Pluck’, and yours is not!”
“I agree with you there.”
“So, then—I’m glad we’re finally getting somewhere, you and I, mademoiselle—for if we’ve established that ‘Thaddeus Pluck’ is my name, and not yours, then. . .”
“Yes?”
“What is your name—if I may be so bold as to ask.”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I can think of several reasons, just off the top of my head.”
“Name one, please.”
“Well—that you are the murderer of Marcel Snip Williams.”
“And who is that, exactly?”
“He means Larry Bipp Williams,” Enid explained.
“Oh,” said Lapin-Défunt. “And who is that?”
“Yes, who is that?” asked Pluck.
“Sorry, sorry—now I’m getting confused,” Enid laughed. “The dead man is Charles Snede.”
“It is?” asked Pluck.
“Yes,” confirmed Monsieur Lapin-Défunt.
“Well, then.” Pluck cleared his throat. “The question now becomes, Miss Laoghaire—”
“‘Lapin-Défunt’,” Enid corrected.
Pluck sighed. “Whatever! The question becomes, monsieur: Why did you kill him?”
“I did not kill him,” Lapin-Défunt answered.
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly how it sounds, monsieur: Why did you not kill this man—if, as you say, you did not?”
“I did not know him, and had no reason to.”
Pluck raised an eyebrow, meaningfully. “Indeed?” No one said anything, so he raised his other eyebrow—they were now both raised, both eyebrows, and yet, still, no one spoke. “Indeed?” he said again, with no more effect. If he’d had a third eyebrow, that, too, no doubt, would have been raised. Alas, he had but the two.
After several—up to ten—minutes of silence, Monsieur Lapin-Défunt asked: “So are we through here?”
“Did you kill Deirdre Défunt?” Pluck shouted, taking the opportunity to finally lower his eyebrows.
“Murderer!” screamed Bartoff.
“‘Charles Snede’!” Enid corrected.
“Snede!” Bartoff screamed.
“No, none of them,” Lapin-Défunt answered.
“Please answer the question, monsieur,” Pluck demanded.
“I have,” Lapin-Défunt argued.
“Please remove your hat and answer the question.”
“I’m not wearing any hat, and I’ve already answered the question.”
Pluck laughed. “I beg to differ, monsieur.”
“With which aspect?”
“With both of them, monsieur.”
“He isn’t wearing any hat. Can’t you see?” asked Enid.
“Take off your bloody hat!” Bartoff shouted.
“Kindly point it out to me, and I will remove it,” Lapin-Défunt offered.
At this challenge, Pluck stood up, walked around the table to the suspect, and slapped him lightly upon the top of his head. Lapin-Défunt knocked his arm away and rose, ready to defend himself. Pluck sprinted back around the table and sat down.
“Sit down, please, sir! We have not yet excused you!”
“Sit down!” screamed Bartoff.
Pluck watched himself pull his shirtsleeves further out from his jacket’s cuffs. “You may retrieve your hat at the close of the interview. In the meantime, would you kindly answer me one question.”
Monsieur Lapin-Défunt resumed his seat, proceeded to engage in all the dusting and coat-straightening business he’d done the first time, and said, “Go on.”
“What is your name?”
“‘Marcel Lapin-Défunt’.”
Pluck muttered something under his breath, and scribbled a note. “So be it. I will not argue with you, monsieur.”
“That is most gentlemanly of you.”
“I have been accused of being the consummate gentleman more than once, I can tell you, monsieur. Now then: I must ask you to provide a sample of your excrement.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Miss Trojczakowski? Kindly inspect the gentleman’s fingernails for evidence of the cleaning lady’s faeces.”
“What are you babbling about?” Lapin-Défunt wished to know.
Pluck pushed an empty water jug across the table—it squeaked, a little, on its journey.
“Kindly deposit said excrement therein.”
“Go hang yourself.”
“Shit in the jug!” Bartoff screamed.
“I said, ‘Go hang’!”
Pluck rose, magisterially. “I am warning you, sir!”
“He’s warning you!” Bartoff shouted.
“This is no time to be bashful!”
“This is no time to be bashful!” shouted Bartoff.
“If you refuse, you’re as good as guilty!”
“As good as guilty!” Bartoff shouted.
“Must Mister Bartoff continually parrot your remarks in so infuriatingly loud a manner?” wondered Monsieur Lapin-Défunt, aloud.
“I don’t see how he’s parroting my remarks,” Pluck protested.
“He is most certainly parroting your remarks!”
“He is not parroting my remarks!”
“I’m not parroting his remarks!” agreed Bartoff, in a shout.
“Shit in the jug!” Pluck resumed.
“Shit in the jug!” Bartoff screamed.
“Don’t be an ass!” Lapin-Défunt screamed.
“Don’t be an ass!” Bartoff shouted, then, realising what he’d done, swiftly covered his mouth with his hand, and uttered to Pluck: “Sorry, Inspector.”
Fists clenched, Pluck decided to appeal to the suspect’s reason. “Look here, Laoghaire: I’m giving you this chance to defecate in this jug. If you don’t take it, then I may be tempted to do so myself.”
“By all means, sir.” Lapin-Défunt gestured with a sweep of his arm that Pluck was welcome to it.
“Do you mean that?”
“Of course. If you wish to defecate in this jug, Inspector, far be it from me to seek to prevent you.”
Pluck, pleasantly surprised, lifted the jug and considered it for some time, then stopped, and looked to Enid. “. . .Miss Trojczakowski. . .”
“Yes?”
“What was I on about?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did I want to defecate in a jug?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, Inspector.”
He thought. “I will do so—indeed, I will do so—but in the privacy of my own suite, and entirely by my own impetus, as befits a gentleman—not in order to indulge the debased erotic fantasies of a such a degenerate as Monsieur Laoghaire here.” Pluck set down the jug, and looked to Lapin-Défunt, as one grandmaster might look to another, equally matched, across a stalemated table littered with the scorned corpses of pointlessly sacrificed pawns. “Although I know you to have been involved in the murder, sir, I cannot, as yet, prove it. And so you may go.”
Lapin-Défunt rose. “I’ve had nothing to do with it, but am happy to discontinue this enormously unpleasant conversation.”
Pluck bowed at the compliment. “I will see you again soon, monsieur—you can count on that.”