Dr. Pierre Renoir & The Murder Game Murder!
Bonjour! I am Dr. Pierre Renoir, world-renowned criminologist, working with international agencies to solve hundreds of crime cases, and this… would have been the case of The Murder Game Murder. I say “would have been” due to the interference of one blundering Irish taxi driver; Bucky O’Shea.
Our unfortunate meeting occurred on the evening of November the second. I had just landed at Dublin Airport from Charles De Gaulle, en route for a private event held at a manor estate in Kildare; a murder-mystery dinner meant to fundraise for the manor’s upkeep. My work, though fulfilling, is supplemented by my celebrity. I write mystery novels, consult on movies, and yes, appear at private functions… for a nominal fee, of course.
“Lashing out isn’t it now, ‘ey?” was Bucky’s idea of conversation.
I have known the Irish to be friendly people, but Bucky was, as we say, ennuyeux! A man in his fifties, with powdering, frothy white hair crowning the sides of his reddened, smiling face, he was unable to deduce from my short responses that I wasn’t interested in mundane small talk. I found him hardly rewarding in the social arts.
“How long are you back for, so?” Bucky enquired.
I paused for a second, unsure I had parsed his accent right. He repeated himself.
“How long are you back for? Was it just for the holidays you were gone? You get great prices if you go off peak, I heard.”
Quoi! I now questioned him as to what he meant.
“Sure you’re a local yourself, aren’t you? I can hear a Dundalk twang.”
In all my life I have never been so insulted! I said he was wrong, but the lourdaud continued.
“Nah, you are. I hear it. You’re doing the French thing, but you’re stretching your O’s. Long O’s. How, town, now. And you said back there ‘go up the M50’. But the M50 goes South for Kildare. That’s a real Dundalk saying. Down the North, Up the South. Anyway, are you back for long?”
La vache! Who does he think he is making wild accusations? Moi! Not that it matters, but there is no shame in being from Dundalk, now wanting to reinvent yourself from a bored Irish criminologist to an international crime fighter! Not that I would know about that. Surely this taxi driver, I thought, musn’t know who I am. I introduced myself, listing my credentials, my solved cases, my genius intellect.
“That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense there, buddy. Criminology is a social science. It doesn’t mean you’re good at solving crimes.”
I was silent for the remainder of the journey. Bucky talked the entire way.
Thankfully, we soon arrived at the manor estate, a sprawling bastion on the outskirts of Maynooth. Ah, it was magnifique! Being the refined gentleman I am, I was accustomed to the luxuries of high society. Bucky had his face pressed against the glass as we pulled up the drive, gawking, I believe you say, at the manicured and preserved grounds and manor house.
“Jumping Jehovah! You wouldn’t want to see the bill on this place, would you?” Bucky exclaimed, as we pulled up to the front of the house.
Despite the rain, a welcome carpet had been unrolled, with valets waiting by the doors under umbrellas.
“Speaking of bills, that’ll be… €64.60 when you’re ready there.” Bucky said.
I must admit I was… a little embarrassed that I didn’t have the funds to pay him in full. Bucky, I noticed, was eyeing a small bat of sorts, a Hurl I believe it’s called, peaking out from under his seat.
Quickly, I explained my predicament. I was invited to this Murder Mystery Night as both an honoured guest and a, how you say, performer. My presence was to add an air of legitimacy. After the dinner we were to play a Murder Game; a guest would be “killed”, and attendees would search the manor to solve the mystery of who did it. I was to be paid for my services at the end. Of course, I would also be the one to solve the mystery, given my professional experience.
Bucky sighed and then sent shivers down my spine.
“Alright. Well, I guess I’m going in with you until you get paid.”
Bon Dieu! I tried pleading with him. I tried explaining these weren’t average people; they wouldn’t be used to his… homeliness. I begged to him to use the hurl on me instead. It was no use. He was determined to accompany me until our business was complete.
“If you’re worried about the meter, I’ll stop it here, but I’m rounding up to €65. That’s more than fair.”
Bucky and I have diverging ideas of fairness.
We were sheltered by the umbrella wielding valets, then further escorted to the main drawing room, where drinks and discussions were happening. Regrettably, we missed dinner. I was looking forward to the main course of roast rabbit on a bed of riced potatoes and carrot matchsticks. Then again, I may have died of embarrassment as Bucky would have ordered a… what was it called again… Ah! A spice bag.
We stood at the entrance of the drawing room, looking at guests ranging from heirs of nobility, representatives of elite societies, and, of course, our hosts for the evening, current owners of the manor, Madame Natalie Utlagh-Kyteller, her daughter, Francesca, and a young gentleman I would later be introduced to as one Michael Chomondeley, Natalie’s second and current husband.
The valet announced our arrival.
“Presenting famed criminologist, investigator, and author, Dr. Pierre Renoir of Chamblet!”
The applause was much appreciated but did little to stifle my annoyance as Bucky leaned over and whispered in the valet’s ear, before he then continued.
“Presenting the 2013 Taxi Times Driver of The Year Nominee, Bucky O’Shea of Tallaght!”
Greetings were quickly made to our hosts. My initial thoughts were Natalie, though a genial hostess, was a tad overbearing to her daughter, a lady nearing forty yet still dressed and styled exactly like her mother, who casually slapped the dandruff from Francesca’s dress, verbally scolding her. Michael had a sneering, pointed face, much like a rat, or, as we say, un rat.
Natalie gently rang her glass to announce the beginning of the game. Bucky, shamelessly, continued to stuff his face with Hors D’oeuevre.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Honoured guests.” Madame graciously bowed in my direction. “This evening at dinner, you were given discretionary notes detailing your role in tonight’s murder game. One of you is to be the murder victim, and one of you is to be the murderer. Everyone else is to solve the mystery. Understood? Good. The game will begin in three… two… one.”
The lights were cut. There was an exclamation of “Jaysus!” from Bucky, muffled by devilled eggs. I confess that I, like many in attendance, jumped with fright as we heard the sound of shattering glass. The lights burst with a flare, turning back on. At first, an amused chuckle rippled out, as poor Natalie lay motionless, having fallen through the once beautiful, frosted glass table. But then the room sobered as we all realised she was bleeding from the cuts. I knelt down and checked her pulse. She had died before falling forward.
The room filled with screams, quelled only by my raucous yell for calm. Fluidly, I ordered the valets to lock the front doors, retrieve the staff, and return here with a list of all names. Boldly, I stood upon a pouffe.
“Attention, Madames and Monsieurs! This was no accident! It is no mere coincidence that the Madame should perish at the moment a murder game was about to begin. Non! It is my professional opinion that someone here is responsible, but fear not, for I, Dr. Pierre Renoir, shall solve the case!”
“She did it.” Bucky interrupted.
I turned to Bucky, still hunched over the serving tray, pointing at Francesca. The drawing room gasped, murmuring, appalled, unable to fully appreciate my apologies for my companion.
“Nah, I mean it. I reckon she did it.” Bucky insisted.
Michael, understandably, took offense, demanding justification.
“Well, it’s always someone close to the victim that does it, you know. You see it in them there documentaries. Makes sense. In her case, she’s been bossed around by her mammy. Then look at this stuff. Fancy house. Fancy guests. Balls and Galas. Only Gala I’ve ever been had petrol pumps. Sounds like a win-win. Get rid of an overbearing mother and get paid.”
“For your information,” Francesca barked, “my mother left Michael everything in her will to him. Are you insinuating he and I are in cahoots?”
“Nah!” Bucky drawled. “No offence lad, but I don’t think you fluff bedsheets with biddies unless you’re into it.”
Michael, flustered, blushed.
“But here, Mick, I bet you your card said you were the killer.”
To our shock, Michael confirmed it did, produced the card from his pocket.
“There we go. Who here was supposed to be the victim?”
No one put up their hand.
“See. She didn’t put up her hand, because she’s dead. That’s what they call… what was it… Priming! If everyone learned Michael’s the ‘murderer’, then they’ll think he did it, especially since he’ll get the inheritance. Michael would get done for murder, and the inheritance would revert back to Franny or whatever.”
Francesca, though flustered, pointed out that doesn’t prove how she did it.
“What’s that on your dress?” Bucky asked, pointing at the dandruff on Francesca’s dress.
“Dandruff.” She said.
“Prove it. Brush it off then with your hand.”
The room became still, as all eyes slowly fell upon Francesca. Amazingly, she bolted from the room! She was caught by the returning valets and quartered in a closet until the police arrived. The “dandruff”, from a toxicology check, was ricin, a highly poisonous substance that can be absorbed through skin, like that of Natalie’s hand as she brushed her daughter’s dress; a belittling trait all too predictable for her not to expect.
The event was disbanded. Unfortunately, this meant I was not paid. The distraught widower was in no mood to haggle. In the taxi, on our way to a budget hotel, I was expecting the hurl at any moment, but Bucky simply smirked and pointed at his backseat, where I found a painting.
“I felt bad they wouldn’t pay up, so I nicked it to cover the fare.” I tried explaining he had an authentic J. C. Dahl in his back. I had to laugh at his next question.
“You reckon we’ll get fifty for it?”
We talked into the early morning until we arrived at the hotel. I briefly said my thanks, about to step out, until a thought struck me.
“Monsieur O’Shea,” I began, “I must ask… How is it you know these things? Have you always been a taxi driver?”
“Ah,” he said, “well it’s not rocket science. It’s only murder. I figure it’s a bit like driving. You just follow the path where it takes you. If you get it wrong, you just turn around and keep driving. Why?”
“I am to stay in the country for the next few months. Guest lecturing. Consultation work. Perhaps I can ask for your assistance. With pay, of course… or priceless paintings, if you prefer.”
Bucky smiled and agreed. We said our farewells, and he drove off, agreeing to meet in the morning. At first, I felt a warming sensation filling my body, a humbling sense of fraternité. But then I remembered the dumb oaf still had my suitcase in his truck!
#HI
