Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries)

by Longworth, M. l.

  Donadio flashed a look of surprise. “Really? We just looked over everything in the studio yesterday. We found no such thing.”

  “It could have been written down today,” Marine replied in Italian. “At first it looked like a…” She searched for the word in Italian. “A doodle.”

  Verlaque handed Donadio the folded calendar page and the policeman unfolded it and looked at it, smiling. “This is the number of one of Rocchia’s cell phones,” he said. “While we’re waiting for my partner to return, perhaps we could sit down and you can tell me why you thought it necessary to come to Umbria, unannounced, and break and enter where you see fit.”

  “I’m working on a murder case,” Verlaque said. He was beginning to get angry over the policeman’s tone of voice. “Two murder cases, in fact,” he added. “Rocchia is one of my chief suspects, and he’s lied about his alibi for the night of the first murder. He said that he was at home with his wife in Perugia, but she has just told me that she was in fact not even there.”

  Dottore Donadio raised his eyebrows. “Signora Rocchia told you this?”

  “Yes. She’s willing to testify.”

  “I’m happy that she has, how do you say…‘seen the light’? But that doesn’t mean that he is guilty of murder,” Donadio replied. “When Sergeant Tramenti returns we’ll check Rocchia’s movements and whereabouts on our computer. What night was it?”

  “Last Friday,” Verlaque replied. “The murder happened in the middle of the night, the victim was a professor but also a specialist in the glass of Gallé.”

  “Ah, art nouveau glass from Nancy,” Dottore Camorro said. “What was the victim’s name? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Georges Moutte,” Verlaque replied. “Does it mean anything to you, Dottore Donadio?”

  Donadio looked as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. “Dottore Moutte? The theologian?”

  Verlaque and Marine said yes in unison and Donadio began quickly whispering to Camorro in Italian. Verlaque nudged Marine forward so that she could listen and she brushed his hand aside, annoyed. Of course she was going to try and listen! What did he think? After a few seconds she gasped, looking at Dottore Donadio. “What?” she asked. “You knew him? You used the word ‘informant.’”

  “Yes, he was our informant,” Donadio answered. “As one of Europe’s glass experts, and as a colleague of Giuseppe Rocchia, he provided us with expert advice.”

  Verlaque was now the one to raise his voice. “If he was your informant, why didn’t you even realize that he was murdered?!”

  “We had phone interviews with Dr. Moutte set up only once a week, every Friday night. We were going to call him later. We had no reason to suspect anything since last week.”

  “It seems to me that you could have called us, as you suggested we should have done,” Verlaque said. He remembered Paulik telling him that the call Moutte had received a week ago Friday came from Italy but couldn’t be traced. Now he knew why—it was an unlisted number.

  Donadio smiled weakly and then his shoulders relaxed. “You’re right; we both should have called each other’s local police. Please, let’s sit down.”

  Sitting on opposite pews, with Marine and Verlaque turned around to face the Italians, Verlaque continued speaking. “Your investigation is very extensive for some forged early twentieth-century glass.”

  Donadio looked at Verlaque and answered, “It’s more than glass, Judge Verlaque.”

  Verlaque leaned forward over the back of the pew and asked, “They deal in other antiquities as well?”

  “Yes, they’ve begun stealing and selling, or forging and selling, precious religious objects from our churches and museums. This chapel itself was broken into several years ago. We lost many of the ex-votos, and thanks to our investigations, with the help of Dottore Camorro, almost half of the artworks have been recovered, while some others have been expertly reproduced. Rocchia’s name keeps popping up, but we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. We take these crimes against our heritage very seriously, Judge.”

  “As you should,” Verlaque replied. “Dr. Moutte was killed, hit over the head, by an object that my pathologist tells me is wooden, and over seven hundred years old. Does this mean anything to you?”

  “The Pisano,” Sergeant Tramenti, who had just walked into the chapel and overheard Verlaque’s question, said.

  Donadio nodded. “Yes. A rare Andrea Pisano sculpture in ivory, but it has a large wooden base; it’s a Madonna and child that stands about a foot high, stolen from a monastery in Sicily last year. It’s priceless; Andrea Pisano sculpted the doors of Florence’s cathedral. Marco, could you look up Rocchia’s whereabouts a week ago, last Friday night?” Sergeant Tramenti went back to the car and brought with him a tiny computer and opened it and turned it on. While they were waiting for the computer to start up, Donadio told his sergeant of Moutte’s death. Within a few minutes Tramenti had the information they needed. “He was at home, in Perugia,” he said.

  “How do you know? Are you watching the house?” Verlaque asked.

  Tramenti answered, “We’re watching the outside, yes, but the inside is being covered by someone working for us. She’s the new maid. Rocchia was there all night, she reports.”

  Donadio turned to Verlaque and Bonnet. “That gets Rocchia off the hook.”

  There was silence, then Donadio continued, almost whispering. “We are certain that Rocchia was behind the theft. The statue belonged to an elderly priest in Ragusa, and Rocchia had visited him the same week that the statue went missing. Giuseppe Rocchia operated in this way, visiting the faithful elderly. Since the victims were old they often didn’t notice the theft until days or weeks after, giving Rocchia plenty of time to sell the artwork. With that theft we do have a weak link to France, however.” Donadio turned to Tremanti and asked, “Marco, could you look up that phone call we listened to just after Rocchia came back from Sicily?” Verlaque and Marine exchanged glances. Although as examining magistrate Verlaque was permitted to wiretap, he seldom did.

  Tramenti pressed a few keys on his computer and waited. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging. “This church has a lousy connection.” The group, fatigued and stressed, all laughed. “Here we go,” he continued, squinting at the screen. “The call was made to a number in Aix-en-Provence, belonging to Signor Bernard Rodier. In their conversation, which mainly involved Rocchia complaining about the food at the conference, Rocchia asks, quote, ‘Is the item I gave you at the conference in Turin safe?’ unquote. This Bernard Rodier answered, quote, ‘Yes, it’s in my office,’ unquote.”

  There was now a touch of impatience in Verlaque’s voice. “Why didn’t you call us in Aix?”

  It was Tramenti who spoke up. “The call was made on Rocchia’s cell phone, and there was traffic in the background. We could hardly make out what either man was saying. The recording has only just been cleaned up by our guys in the tech lab in Rome. They were supposed to call your police headquarters in Aix, in fact, this afternoon. They may have, and you just haven’t been told yet; or they may not have, given they’re Roman…”

  “Even so,” Marine said. “As you said, it’s a weak link, this telephone conversation linked to the stolen Pisano.” She somehow felt an urge to protect Dr. Rodier, or any of her mother’s other colleagues, although the pain in her stomach told her that one of them may be guilty.

  Dottore Donadio raised an eyebrow. “I agree, but passing a stolen sculpture off on an unsuspecting colleague at a conference where he’ll have to cross a border would have been highly convenient for Rocchia. Not that there are customs officials at the border between Italy and France anymore, but there could have been. Do you know this Rodier?”

  “Yes,” Verlaque answered, looking at Donadio and then Marine.

  “I do too,” Marine said. “He works with my mother in the Theology Department.”

  “Trustworthy?” Donadio asked.

  Marine nodded. “Yes. If I had something to hide or get rid of quickly, I would g
ive it to Bernard Rodier. He’s dependable, quiet, and…”

  Donadio leaned in and waited for Marine to finish her sentence.

  “And just a tiny bit naive. He’s also a devoted follower of the Cistercians, who as you know reject wealth, so a sculpture of value would be of no interest to him. Rocchia would have been leaving the Pisano in safe hands. But what Rocchia probably didn’t know is that people are in and out of the Theology Department daily. The buildings are in dire condition, and the facultés, including my Department of Law, are understaffed. Anyone could have taken the statue from Bernard’s office.”

  Verlaque thought to himself that what Marine said was very true. Thierry and Yann had easily broken into the humanities building. However, he wasn’t quite ready to let Bernard Rodier off the hook. People change, especially when in possession of priceless art. Rodier could have since sold the statue; he’d call Paulik this evening and have him demand a search of Rodier’s bank account. And was this the murder weapon? Why kill someone with a Pisano statue? He finally said, “We’ll head back to Aix tomorrow morning and arrange to meet Dr. Rodier in his office at the end of the day. We’ll call you as soon as we have any information on the statue’s whereabouts.”

  The group exchanged business cards and Marine was wondering where they would get a warm shower and clean bed that evening. As if reading her thoughts, Dottore Camorro spoke up. “There is a very nice enoteca in Foligno that rents out a few rooms upstairs. Would you like me to call them and see if any rooms are available? We can leave the bicycles here and deal with them tomorrow.”

  Marine looked at Verlaque. “A wine bar that rents out rooms sounds perfect. And your wines are so hard for us to buy in France,” Verlaque answered.

  “Ah, the French protect their wines as the Italians do. It’s hard for us to buy French wines as well, except for champagne,” Camorro said, smiling.

  “This statue,” Verlaque said, turning back to the policemen, “how old is it? Will I know it when I see it?”

  Tramenti turned his computer toward Marine and Verlaque. “Here’s a poor-quality photograph of it that Father Rossellino had taken last year. You’ll recognize it, yes.”

  “It’s magnificent,” Marine said, looking at the color photograph on Tramenti’s screen.

  “Did Georges Moutte know about this statue?” Verlaque asked.

  “Yes,” Donadio answered. “In fact, we told him about it late last Friday night, the night you now tell me he died. He said that he would look for it, but obviously didn’t get the chance.”

  The group looked at the photograph and Tramenti spoke up. “There’s a wonderful quiet elegance to this statue that we later see on the cathedral doors. And the amplitude of his forms points to the influence of his contemporary, the painter Giotto.” Verlaque looked up at the young policeman, who was looking at his computer screen, now lost in thought. Verlaque was sorry he didn’t have more time to spend in the company of these men. Tramenti briefly closed his eyes and Verlaque thought of the painter Paul Gauguin’s quote on the creation of art, one that Emmeline had painted on the south wall of her studio in Normandy: “I shut my eyes in order to see.”

  “Look at how she leans back,” Marine said. “How she adores her baby.”

  “Yes,” Tramenti said. “It’s a proud mama’s pose, not a queen’s.”

  “We think that the statue was made in Florence before Pisano began the doors to the cathedral, so before 1330,” Donadio said, breaking the silence. “That would make it roughly seven hundred years old.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Empty Bookshelves

  Bruno Paulik wished he had been able to return to the Bar Zola with photographs of the students on Friday night, but Léa had started throwing up as soon as she and Hélène got back to Pertuis. When he and Hélène had changed Léa’s sheets for a second time and he was getting undressed for bed, Verlaque, who sounded like he was in a restaurant, called his cell phone, explaining the connection Georges Moutte had with both Giuseppe Rocchia and the Guardia di Finanza. They agreed that fingers pointed at Rocchia, and Paulik told Verlaque that he would go into Aix on Saturday and go over the files again. Perhaps Rocchia was working with someone in Aix? They needed to find out whom, and quickly. “I have more to tell you,” Verlaque had said. “But as it’s late and you have a sick child, I’ll call you back tomorrow.”

  Hélène needed to rush to the vineyard in the morning, so it was agreed that Bruno would stay and nurse Léa until Hélène got back. He kept his cell phone by his side as they watched The Sound of Music, Léa complaining that she didn’t like the songs and, despite her weakness, was alert enough to grab the remote control and fast forward every time a Von Trapp family member began singing. “Léa, this is a musical!” Bruno complained. “The songs are a big part of the movie; and besides, they’re great songs!”

  Léa shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. “I hate the songs. They’re stupid. I only like the story part.”

  “But you’re a singer!”

  “Not like that I’m not.”

  Paulik sighed, worried that they had created an eight-year-old snob. Léa fell asleep just before the wedding scene, and Paulik was able to finish watching the movie, humming along, before Hélène walked in just around 1:00 p.m.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, sitting down to take off her running shoes. “I thought I’d be back hours ago. It always takes longer to move soil around and spread manure. I left my rubber boots at the winery, don’t worry.”

  Bruno Paulik smiled and watched his wife kiss the sleeping Léa on the forehead. He sometimes forgot how physically demanding Hélène’s occupation was. She rarely complained about the corporeal strain of her job; only the cold. Compared to him she was tiny—just over five-three—and her wiry, muscular build looked great both in the overalls she wore when in the cellars or fields and in the glimmering evening dresses and high heels she wore for promotional events and dinners.

  He sighed, sorry he had to go into Aix but anxious to go over the files again and to show Patrick the photos.

  Verlaque and Marine were on the road back to Aix by 9:00 a.m. on Saturday, later than planned. They had spent an enjoyable evening dining with Donadio and Tramenti, who were staying in the wine bar’s two other guest rooms. A fair amount of wine had been drunk, Donadio wanting to show off the whites of his native Friuli and Tramenti the rich dark reds of his sun-drenched Calabria. The conversation, a smattering of English, Italian, and French, had ranged from art to World Cup soccer to jazz and, of course, food. At the end of the meal the wine bar’s owner, a fellow cigar aficionado, joined the group and brought out his uncle’s rosolio, a digestive made from rose petals.

  At their first rest stop, just south of Florence, they drank strong espressos and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Verlaque stepped outside onto the terrace, littered with cigarette butts and abandoned coffee cups, to call Paulik. “Salut, Bruno,” Verlaque said, watching Marine through the glass windows, who was buying an outrageously enormous glass jar of Nutella for Charlotte and a block of Parmesan for Sylvie. He filled Paulik in on their conversation with the Italian police in the chapel and asked him to visit Rodier in his office as soon as possible.

  “I’ll call him straightaway and arrange to meet him at the university,” Paulik said. “I’m running late because of Léa.”

  Verlaque described that statue to his commissioner, who would, they agreed, discreetly look around Rodier’s office for signs of the rare Pisano instead of asking him about it. Even if Verlaque and Marine had good traffic around Genoa, there was no way they could arrive in Aix before 5:00 p.m. “At 4:00 p.m. I have an appointment with the Zola’s barman, Patrick,” Paulik told Verlaque. “He told me that Audrey Zacharie went in a few times with someone he referred to as a nerd, but it was the barman’s impression that he scared her. I’m taking photos of the theology students to see if Patrick recognizes anyone, but it’s possible that the mystery nerd wasn’t even a student. I would have tried to
see Patrick this morning, but he’s in court; last month his oldest son was caught stealing a moped.”

  “How did you get all of this information out of the barman?” Verlaque asked. “I was under the impression that he didn’t like us.”

  “His youngest son is in the conservatoire with Léa,” Paulik answered with a partial truth. “I went back for a beer the other night and we recognized each other. There’s something else too. Patrick told me that Audrey Zacharie went to the bar a few times with a man in a wheelchair.”

  Verlaque almost dropped his phone. “Lémoine?”

  “I don’t know. I’m taking a picture of him as well. I’ll call you after I meet with Rodier and Patrick.”

  They drove on, Verlaque complaining about the other motorists. He signaled to pass an ancient Fiat 500 that was going along at about eighty kilometers per hour and as they passed, the elderly couple in the Fiat looked up at Marine and smiled, and she smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. It was one of the things Verlaque loved about her. She was unaffected by her beauty, and so very kind. “Marine,” he began, and pulled back over into the slow lane as a Ferrari raced up behind them, flashing its lights. To Marine’s surprise Verlaque didn’t give the Ferrari driver a hand gesture but instead continued speaking, “you’re wonderful.”

  Four hours later Marine and Verlaque were eating sandwiches of arugula and ham at a gas station rest stop just past Imperia. Verlaque was thrilled to find his favorite coffee, Illy, available for sale cold, in a can, as an iced coffee. He bought a bagful to put in his refrigerator back home, and Marine was taking a photograph of him with her cell phone, clutching his purchase, when Bruno Paulik called back. “I’m standing outside the humanities building right now,” Paulik said. “Rodier met me, no questions asked, and I made him go over his whereabouts the night of Audrey Zacharie’s murder while I looked around the office. The office is filled with bookshelves, two of the shelves have been cleared. There wasn’t a sculpture in sight. He seemed more nervous than before, but that could have been because he was troubled by my visit. I had been there for about twenty minutes when guess who walked in?”