The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [113]
With Di as my accomplice, we walked along in search of number 47, third floor. We found 21, then 33, then 43, and then a large gap where a building had obviously been until recently. A chain-link fence surrounded the cellar hole where bits of charred debris were still in evidence. On the other side the numbers continued with 73.
There we entered a gift shop calling itself The Wretched Stalk. It proved to be an emporium specializing in local artisanal items with dazzling price tags. The keeper, a woman in a painter’s smock, told us she had known Mr. LeBlanc only casually, but that Jed and Glad in the Donut Hole next door knew him well.
“Well, not well,” Jed explained, as we ordered coffees to go. “He was a nice enough guy. Very polite. He was French …”
“French Swiss,” Glad corrected him.
“I guess. He came in here every morning for espresso and orange juice to go.”
“He really liked our maple cakes.”
“But then the building burned. Just like that. We’re lucky we’re stone. Hard to burn granite.”
“How long was he here?” I asked. “In Shetland Falls.”
“Couple of years. Not long after we started.”
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“Not with us. You could check the post office. Or the chief of police. He knows everything about that sort of thing.”
“How did the fire start?”
“No one knows.”
We thanked them and, sipping our brews of coffee, walked a few doors down to the Shetland Falls Police Department. Chief Russell Ballard remained seated in a comfortable, worn swivel chair but seemed relieved to see us, to have something to do.
“Yeah, Mr. LeBlanc. He was a real foreigner. But a regular gentleman. He could make just about anything new again. Earl Mason took him an old samurai sword, the real thing. It was about two hundred years old but a bit tarnished. He got it back good as new.”
“Tell me about the fire,” I asked. “How did it happen?”
“Don’t rightly know. The state fire marshal told me privately he smelled a rat, but he also couldn’t prove anything. If it was arson, then they had a professional do it.”
“When did it happen?”
The chief squinched his mild round face. “Let’s see … late April? No, come to think of it, second of May. I got a call about four in the morning. When I got there they were just trying to save the building on the right side. The other one’s granite with a slate roof.”
“Was LeBlanc’s business still there at the time?”
“No. That’s why the fire marshal thinks there ought to be an investigation. Mr. LeBlanc cleared out about a week before. Told people he had to go back to Switzerland and take care of the family business.” He shot me a searching look. “You know, you’re the second person from Seaboard who’s been here poking around about Mr. LeBlanc.”
“Really?”
“Eyah … Not long after the fire, a fellow came through asking pretty much the same questions.”
“Did he give his name?”
“He did, but I didn’t write it down. Phil somebody. It sounded foreign in a fakey kind of way.”
Though I had a pretty good idea he was talking about de Buitliér, I asked if he could describe him.
“I can and I will. He was on the short side, beard, and a tweed jacket and tie even though the day was hot and humid.” He paused. “You know of him?”
“As a matter of fact, he works for me.”
He glanced at me sharply. “Tell me, how do you spell his name?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I ain’t simple.”
So I spelled it out as best I could remember. I wondered what he had been doing here. I asked, “What was LeBlanc’s shop like?”
“Never was in it. Wally Marsden did odd jobs for him. He helped him pack up. I heard around town that there was some pretty high-tech stuff in there.”
“Such as?”
“Computers. Laser-guided lathes. Gas-fired smelters. Drills. Presses. All kinds of