Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

The burden of frequent house visits did not, after all, come to test the doctor. Henri died of heart failure one night in his sleep, five weeks after he had arrived in England. This poignant event, predicted but deeply sorrowful, in the end came as a relief for Henri as well as for the rest of us. Helen, in particular, had grown immensely fond of him, and the feeling had been mutual. The funeral was a quiet one, attended only by Helen, Michelle, the doctor, and his wife. The body was cremated. Helen kept me informed by telephone at the small Ashley Hotel where I was currently staying, in the inland town of Boddlestone. As a general precaution, I had been changing locations and hotels a good deal since our arrival. I had moved to this one just before the cremation. I missed the service. Apart from the reason that had kept me away to date, I had persuaded myself it wouldn’t have been fitting for me to be present, since I was shortly to make off with the deceased’s wife. Also, to be honest, I didn’t fancy attending my own funeral. After a copy of the registered death certificate had been received by the insurance company, they sent a representative named Plum-ridge to call on Helen by appointment. She described him as a quiet person with the demeanour of a senior clergyman. He also called on Dr. Egbert, but this, he explained with a touch of embarrassment, was normal practice, the sum insured being relatively large. Indeed, he went out of his way to assure Helen that his company had no reservations about the nature of her husband’s sad and untimely demise. It had certainly been untimely for the company.

Before the policy had been issued, nearly four years before, I had been subjected to an extensive medical examination. There had been no suspicion of a rare and terminal blood condition then. Plumridge had earnestly observed as much to Helen, something he combined with his renewed condolences, and the information that the two million pounds would be paid in seven days — which it was.

Shortly after this, Helen had arranged for the second hundred thousand pounds to be transferred electronically to Michelle’s new bank account in Lyons, which Henri’s true widow had set up under Boulanger’s instructions. He had stressed that it would be less noticeable for her to be with a branch of a large bank in a regional French capital.

It was the day before the money was due to be transferred that Pierre Boulanger turned up at Boddlestone. I had discreetly kept in touch with him during our time in England, so he knew where I was staying, as well as about the progress on the insurance payout. We were relying on him to guide Michelle on how to look after her money, as he had done with the first installment when her husband had been alive — and very competently, according to both of them, particularly Michelle. He was hardly a professional “money man,” but was proving a prudent, honest, down-to-earth advisor, which is what Michelle testified he had been to them from the start. He had told us, in his modest way, that he handled his mother’s financial affairs in the same practical fashion.

It was good to know that Boulanger stood so high in Michelle’s esteem, particularly as she had no near relation or friend in business to turn to otherwise. I certainly didn’t wish to become too closely involved in her affairs, since she would shortly be divorcing me.

I hadn’t expected Boulanger to come over from France unannounced. Unfortunately, I had been out when he had telephoned from Dover at nine o’clock in the morning and left a message with Shirley, the Ashley Hotel’s not very bright but curvaceous and leggy receptionist. He had come by car, a new one, he had said, and he estimated he’d be in Boddlestone by one o’clock for lunch.

“Must be a really fast car,” Shirley offered in an awe-struck way — fast cars probably equating with rich and equally fast owners in her estimation.

“It won’t be,” I answered, unconvinced that the thrifty, minor civil servant had treated himself to something capable of covering the distance in the time.

In fact, Boulanger arrived at twelve-thirty in a new beret and a not quite so new, but dashing, open white Porsche, looking flushed and shyly pleased with himself. It went through my mind that the car, though two or three years old, must have cost him a lot more than I would have expected him to spend on a replacement for the Citroen. But then, to my knowledge, he had never overindulged himself before. It occurred to me, also, that I might offer to pay for the car as a present, in lieu of the finder’s fee he had rejected. Indeed, it seemed possible that he now regretted this piece of self-denial, was too meek to say so, but had come in the new car naively hoping I’d take the hint and offer to defray the cost.