Murder in the Rue Dumas : A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (9781101603185)

by Longworth, M. l.

  Verlaque ventured a guess. “Giuseppe Rocchia?”

  “Yep. I stayed on when it was obvious to me that Rocchia didn’t have any more of a reason to be there than I did. He made up some weak excuse about wanting to discuss the Cistercians with Rodier that even Rodier seemed confused about. It became a farce, with me sitting in a corner and Rocchia walking around the office glancing at the bookshelves and tables, both of us pretending to be listening to Dr. Rodier. Rocchia seemed panicked that I wouldn’t leave and he finally left, mumbling something about being late for a meeting, and I left about three minutes after. I’m going to hang out at the snack shop across the street and have a coffee and see if Rocchia comes back to ask Bernard Rodier about the sculpture, but it’s already 3:30 and my appointment at the Bar Zola is at 4:00 p.m.”

  Verlaque smiled at the thought of Bruno Paulik sitting in one of Dr. Rodier’s armchairs, not budging, watching the panicked Italian take fleeting glances around the room. “Well done,” he said. “Call me after your barman friend sees the photographs. We should be in Aix by 5:00 p.m.”

  Verlaque hung up and his cell phone rang again; this time it was Officer Flamant. “Sorry, Judge. Can you talk?”

  “Yes, Alain. I have a driver,” Verlaque replied, smiling at Marine. “Did you meet with the accountant?”

  “Yes. Those first five-thousand-euro deposits all came from the university, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Mlle Zacharie was embezzling; the funds came from a fellowship, the…”

  “Dumas,” Verlaque answered. Marine shot a look sideways at Verlaque, her mouth open.

  “Affirmative, sir. This is a new accountant, and he’s just caught up with all the books. The previous accountant has just retired, and didn’t do much when on the job, apparently.”

  “And the bigger deposit, made on the day she died?”

  “We don’t know,” Flamant answered. “But it wasn’t from the Dumas, and it was cash.”

  Marine drove the rest of the way, nervous at first, but by the time they reached the French border she was passing cars and trucks in the tunnels as if she had driven this route hundreds of times. Verlaque had fallen asleep for about a half hour, and she envied his ability to sleep anywhere at any time. When he awoke he asked her about her family, which surprised her. He had never asked her about the Bonnets, and she thought that this may be a sign that he was ready to be asked about his own family, and the mysterious Monique of his dreams. Marine enjoyed the precision needed to drive on the coastal highway, and once they got past Nice and Cannes the highway evened out and became an easy drive past the rolling green vineyards of the Var, she relaxed, and during the last hour of the drive she told Verlaque all that she knew about baby Thomas. When she had finished Verlaque was silent, and she joked, “Do you have dark family secrets?”

  “Yes,” Verlaque answered. “I’ll tell you about them sometime, maybe even tonight.” They came to the last toll and slowed down. “Fifteen minutes and we’ll be back in Aix,” Verlaque said. The toll, Verlaque thought to himself, had mercifully cut off their conversation about families.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Bruno Paulik Tries Bicycling Too

  At the Palais de Justice, Bruno Paulik found the case file, immediately dropped it on the floor, then shoved the photographs back in and ran out of the office and out the front doors, heading to the Bar Zola. The streets were crowded with people of all ages, doing what Aixois do best on a Saturday—shop. He weaved his way in and out through the crowds, angered when more than one person stopped smack in the middle of the pedestrian streets to check a message on their cell phones.

  The barman nodded when he saw the commissioner, said something to his coworker, and walked toward the cellar door, Paulik following. “Since when have we let cell phones rule our lives?” Paulik asked as they walked down the stone stairs.

  Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I still don’t have one. Let’s have a look at those photographs,” he said.

  They stood under the bare lightbulb, placing the file on top of a pile of wine cartons. Paulik intentionally showed the barman photographs of Thierry Marchive and Yann Falquerho, the barman carefully looking at each and then shaking his head back and forth. “No, sorry.”

  “There’s one more,” Paulik replied, handing the barman the photograph of Claude Ossart.

  “That’s him,” the barman said, tapping the photograph. “No doubt about it.”

  “Thanks,” Paulik said, trying to imagine how someone like Claude Ossart could possibly be mixed up in art fraud. He was a nut about the Cistercians, wasn’t he? Weren’t they anti-art? “How about this guy?” Paulik asked. “Is he the one in the wheelchair?”

  Patrick took the photo, held it to the light, and nodded. “That’s him.”

  “You’ve been a huge help. Do you mind if I use your cellar as an office for a few minutes?” Paulik asked.

  “No problem. Would you like me to bring you a beer? It’s on the house.”

  “No thanks, but I’ll take a rain check, with pleasure,” Paulik replied, shaking Patrick’s hand. The commissioner sat down on a wooden chair and dialed Verlaque’s number, which went straight to the message service. He hung up and went through the file until he saw the list of names and addresses. Ossart lived at 8 rue Constantin, not far from where Paulik was now. He got up and called the Palais de Justice, asking them to send another officer to meet him on the rue Constantin. Claude Ossart could have been friends with Mlle Zacharie—they were almost the same age—so the gnawing in his gut could be for nothing. But Patrick had said that Audrey Zacharie was uncharacteristically nervous around Ossart. What did he have on her? Or vice versa? And where did Lémoine fit in?

  Paulik left the bar, saying “salut” on his way out, and walked north, turning right on the rue Chabier and then left on rue Matheron, a street with some fantastically run-down seventeenth-century mansions. He turned right on Constantin and saw Officer Cazal standing under a lamppost. “Does one of the students live on this street?” Cazal asked the commissioner. “I remember from when I took down their names.”

  “Salut. I’m glad it’s you they sent. Yes, Claude Ossart lives at number 8. Let’s see if he’s at home and then I’ll fill you in after. Sorry, but I’m eager to talk to him right now.”

  Officer Cazal nodded. “That’s fine,” she answered. “I’ll follow your cues.”

  They rang Ossart’s apartment buzzer but there was no answer. Impatient, Paulik leaned into it and rang again. A window opened from an upper-floor apartment and a young man, heavily studded, stuck his head out. “Ring any more and I’ll come down and…”

  Paulik cut him off. “Police. Do you know where Claude Ossart might be?”

  “If I did I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Could you buzz us in, please?” Paulik yelled up. He made for the front door—he was suddenly desperate to look in Ossart’s apartment but he wasn’t sure why—and the pierced youth leaned further out the window and said, “I assume you have a warrant.”

  “I’m the commissioner of Aix and am working with the examining magistrate,” Paulik hollered up.

  “Oh, great. Congratulations. Now show me the warrant, because I know that while your boss doesn’t need one, you still do.”

  Paulik turned around and looked at Officer Cazal, who had her hands on her hips and was sighing. “Does this kid read law procedure manuals for fun?” he asked.

  “So it would seem. Let’s go,” she answered.

  They had walked down the street and turned left toward the Palais de Justice when Paulik asked, “Since when did everyone begin to hate us?”

  Officer Cazal shrugged. “It’s been slowly happening over the past few years. I used to dread pulling over cars. Drivers, even when they’re at fault, have become more and more insulting and belligerent. And kids, like that one, aren’t afraid of anyone. My sister teaches math at a junior high and says the same thing. They have no respect for anyone with authority.”

&nbs
p; “Bring back the cane,” Paulik joked. “Let’s phone Dr. Rodier and see if he knows where Claude hangs out on Saturdays.” Cazal opened the file and read off the professor’s phone number and Paulik dialed. This time his call was answered on the first ring.

  “I was hoping you might be Claude,” Rodier said as a greeting. “I’ve been sitting next to the phone, waiting.”

  Paulik stopped walking. “Go on, Professor. Have you heard from him recently?”

  “Yes. He called here about two hours ago, ranting and raving against the other professors, the other students, the Cluniac order, almost everything under the sun. Claude even blasphemed that poor dead girl, Audrey Zacharie. His mother even called me, so he must have called them too. They’ve been estranged for years.”

  “Ah bon?” Paulik asked, the knot in his stomach tightening. “Why don’t they speak? Do you know?”

  “Their wealth, of course,” Rodier replied. “Claude had forsaken his inheritance, calling it dirty money…the father is an industrialist in Paris, and they have a château in the Loire somewhere. Mme Ossart told me that Claude asked them for money recently, and he dipped into his inheritance, a rather large amount I’m told, which he has never done before.”

  Paulik asked, “Do you know where Claude could be?”

  “You could try the library or the gym. He goes to the gym next to the parc Jourdan. I’ll wait here in case he phones back.”

  Paulik thought of Lémoine…the parc Jourdan was one of Lémoine’s favorite stalking grounds. He thanked the professor and hung up, then filled Officer Cazal in on his suspicions.

  “The parc Jourdan overlooks the humanities building, at least part of it does, the hilly part, next to the swings,” Cazal said. “I noticed that from Dr. Moutte’s office you have a clear view of the park.”

  “And from the park you would have a view right into Moutte’s office,” Paulik added.

  “Especially at night.”

  “Let’s get an unmarked squad car and take it to the park,” Paulik said.

  “Bikes would be faster today,” Cazal said. “That way we could ride right into the park and we’d be more inconspicuous.” They ran to the Palais de Justice, signed two bikes out, putting the file folder into one of the saddlebags, and rode off down the rue Thiers toward the park.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Sympathy for the Guilty

  “You know,” Marine said as she exited the highway and drove around Aix’s first roundabout, “I think I could drink rosolio all the time. All day long, I mean, straight out of a flask that I could keep in my purse.”

  Verlaque laughed. “I know what you mean. I’ve never had any liquor quite like it. It was incredibly delicate, but at the same time, even with my cigar, I could taste roses.”

  “I don’t envy that wine bar owner having to pack up everything to renovate this winter,” Marine went on. “It’s why I keep avoiding repainting my apartment…it would be like packing up in order to move, wouldn’t it?”

  “You could have offered to keep his rosolio for him,” Verlaque said, glancing at Marine. He then slapped the dashboard and said, “Packing up. Someone packed up for Bernard Rodier, he told us during our first interview with him. Bruno told me that two of the shelves in Rodier’s office were already empty.”

  “Why? He’s moving offices?”

  “No, but he was hoping to. Rodier told me that Moutte had promised him the doyen position, and on Friday afternoon, prematurely as it would happen, he had his assistant—now I remember—Claude begin filing and sorting through his office, getting ready for the big move down the hall.”

  “Claude? Do you think he could have taken the statue?” Marine asked as they stopped for a red light on the avenue Gambetta. “It’s probably the murder weapon, right?”

  “I think so. And you said that Claude was losing his temper at that conference you attended.”

  Verlaque grabbed his phone and called Paulik, getting no answer. He then called Flamant, who replied on the first ring. Verlaque ordered a search of Claude Ossart’s apartment, describing the statue to Flamant.

  “Yes, now that I think about it, Claude really was quite hysterical that day,” Marine whispered to herself. The light finally changed and she put the car in first gear, going a little faster than she normally would on a city street.

  They double-parked in front of Marine’s apartment. Verlaque was helping unload Marine’s suitcase and purchases into the building’s front hall when his telephone rang. “Are you sure you don’t need help with this?” he joked as he handed Marine the oversize jar of Nutella.

  “No, I’ll make two trips up the stairs…but thanks. See you tonight?”

  Verlaque nodded in the affirmative and waved. He got back into the car and drove slowly down Marine’s street and answered his phone on what must have been the tenth ring. Whoever it was, he or she was patient.

  “Sir?” the caller asked.

  “Bruno? I’m on my way to the Palais de Justice. Listen, I’ve ordered a search of Claude Ossart’s apartment…that statue I told you about…”

  “Great. I have to cut you off, sorry. Meet us in the parc Jourdan, near the swings. I’m on my way there by bike. I think that Ossart is there too, and he’s somehow tied up with Lémoine.”

  “Lémoine?” Verlaque asked. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and turned left on the rue du 4 Septembre, glancing up at Georges Moutte’s apartment as he passed by. He and Paulik had gone through the list of teachers and students capable of breaking in via the roof to Moutte’s apartment but had overlooked Ossart—his physique had been hidden under the bulky clothing he had worn every time they had spoken to him. Ossart went to the gym, and Verlaque now heard the voice of either Thierry or Yann when they had said of their fellow student, “Claude was coming home from the gym when we were leaving the party…” and “that’s all you ever get out of Claude, five seconds…,” which at the time had just sounded like nervous ramblings. He crossed over the ring road, turned right behind the Hotel Roi René, and stopped his car at the black gates of the park, putting his badge in the window. The gates were still open and Verlaque ran through, clutching his cell phone, he realized, as if it were a gun. He had no idea where the swings were, and so ran past the boules court on his left and ran up the wide steps to higher ground, where once at the top of them he stopped to get his bearings and catch his breath. Ahead he could see a bright red slide, and he took a step forward, about to run, and then stopped. To his right, coming from below, someone had moaned.

  He ran to a set of stairs that led down to a small concrete utility building, from which a humming sound came. Halfway down was a landing where the steps changed direction, and lying on the landing was Lémoine, his wheelchair on top of him. Verlaque ran down the stairs and lifted the wheelchair up, pushing it down the rest of the stairs. He knelt down and saw that Lémoine was conscious but very weak. “Don’t say anything, stay still,” Verlaque said. “I’m calling for an ambulance.” Lémoine hadn’t fallen far but it looked like it had been a quick, brutal fall. Blood leaked from the side of his head and Verlaque took out a cotton handkerchief from his jacket and pressed as firmly but as gently as he could to stop the bleeding. Verlaque quickly called the ambulance with his left hand and then sat down, resting his back against the wall and looking at his watch. He dialed Paulik’s number, but it was busy, and so he set his cell phone down on the concrete floor and looked up at a red anarchy sign that someone had spray-painted. He wondered how Lémoine got up the park’s wide flight of stairs but then remembered that the east side entrances were on flat ground. Lémoine moaned once more, closing his eyes in pain, and Verlaque looked down at him. A rush of sentiment came over him for this man who was a convicted sex offender and was now perhaps battling for his life. Verlaque reached out and put his hand on Lémoine’s upper arm and left it there, gently squeezing it now and again and whispering words of encouragement. It’s what Marine would do, he thought to himself. “Marine, Marine,” Verlaque
said aloud, and Lémoine opened his eyes. Verlaque went on to tell the dying man about Marine Bonnet, how she didn’t pay attention to what she was eating or drinking, but how she’d enthusiastically try anything new, infecting those around her with her joie de vivre and joyous laugh. He told Lémoine of Marine’s law lectures, rumored to elicit applause, her modesty and kindness, the way she would close her eyes and sway to her favorite Brazilian jazz songs. Verlaque was just about to tell Lémoine of Marine’s love of Italy when the ambulance attendants came. One of them saw Lémoine and whispered, “Not him,” and Verlaque said, “Be careful, he’s bleeding from the head and is in a lot of pain.” Verlaque watched them lift Lémoine quickly and deftly onto the stretcher and take him up the stairs, then down the wide stairs to their ambulance, which they had managed to park next to the boules court.

  Verlaque turned and ran toward the playground and soon saw a group of bystanders gathered in a semicircle around the building that faced the playground, a yellow-stoned, red-shuttered seventeenth-century bastide that belonged to the city and was the headquarters of the Provençal language association, the Oustau de Prouvènço. As he pushed his way through the crowd he looked up at the red-and-yellow striped flag waving and thought he saw someone on the roof, but he looked away as he heard his name whispered. Bruno Paulik grabbed Verlaque by the sleeve and said, “That’s Claude up there, on the roof.”

  Verlaque turned to Paulik. “How did he get up there?”

  “The building was open; it’s the language association’s Saturday night meeting. A police psychologist is on her way.”

  “Is that what we’re waiting for?” Verlaque asked. “I just found Lémoine lying at the bottom of some stairs.”

  “Is he…?”