“I have the will here,” Maître Fabre said as he opened the file with his aged, spotted, shaking hands.
“You were childhood friends with Dr. Moutte?” Paulik asked.
Fabre looked at the commissioner with yellowed, sad eyes. “Yes. We grew up in this neighborhood together. This was my family’s apartment…my father ran the pharmacy downstairs. Georges grew up on the rue Batignolles. We were altar boys at the church and, when we were sixteen, were both accepted at Louis le Grand.”
Verlaque smiled. “I went there too.” Maître Fabre looked at the judge and tried to smile, but it seemed as if the effort to smile hurt. Paulik looked over at the judge and he smiled in place of the lawyer. He hadn’t known that Verlaque went to the most prestigious prépa in France.
“Who killed Georges?” Maître Fabre asked, looking at Verlaque.
“We don’t know yet,” Verlaque answered. “Do you have any ideas?”
Fabre shrugged. “No. I hadn’t seen Georges for quite some time. We used to dine together when he would come to visit, once a year or so. But my wife died last year, and I haven’t been too well since.”
Verlaque nodded and said nothing. Maître Fabre seemed to be grieving and it made a knot in Verlaque’s stomach that surprised him.
“Well, his will is very straightforward,” Fabre said, pulling out the first of the typed papers. “Georges has donated all of his assets to the theology school in Aix. He has requested that the scholarships continue but that the name be changed to the Dumas-Moutte Foundation. I don’t yet have all of the financial information, as my old friend seemed to have bank accounts in Paris, Aix, Geneva, and Boston, and various investments, but in his accounts in Paris alone there are over two hundred fifty thousand euros.”
“Thank you,” Verlaque said. “Two hundred fifty thousand euros sounds like a lot of money for a college doyen to have in a Parisian bank account.”
“So it would seem,” Fabre answered. “But Georges had been the doyen for a long time, and he told me that his rent was paid for by the foundation. He never was a spendthrift, so if a man of seventy-two puts his earnings in a bank account, or invests them, over a fifty-year career, it would easily add up to even more than that amount.”
Verlaque frowned and said nothing, forcing the maître to add, “You seem to believe that Georges was up to no good.”
“I’m trying to understand why he was murdered,” Verlaque answered, leaning forward. “He must have spent a lot of money on his glass collection. What do you think? Did he buy his glass legally, to your knowledge?”
Fabre paused. “I couldn’t say.”
Verlaque couldn’t tell if the lawyer was protecting his boyhood friend, or he really didn’t know.
“He told me over dinner once that he bought some glass at auction houses here in Paris, and that he often sold it to Americans, where a revival of French art nouveau glass has emerged,” Fabre said. “It seems like an awful lot of money to spend on flowered vases, but there you are.”
“Do you know if Dr. Moutte made trips to Italy, perhaps to buy glass? Near Perugia?” Paulik asked.
“That I can answer in the affirmative. Georges spoke specifically of Perugia, and Umbria in general. He loved a small town that makes majolica…”
“Deruta,” Verlaque offered.
“Yes, that’s it. And he mentioned another town, specifically with a glassworks. I remember at the time thinking it odd that he would visit a modern glassworks, but he said that an Italian colleague did business there and once took Georges along with him.”
“Can you remember the name of that town?” Paulik asked.
Fabre frowned and rubbed his long hands together. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to say that it begins with an ‘F,’ but I’m just not sure.” Fabre leaned back and closed his eyes, clearly exhausted from his first meeting of the day. As there was no secretary in the front office and the place was deadly still, Verlaque imagined that Georges Moutte may have been Fabre’s last client.
Fabre suddenly opened his eyes and slowly leaned forward, handing Verlaque a photocopy of the doyen’s will. “I’ll let you know as soon as the rest of Georges’s financial holdings have been released to me.”
“Thank you,” Verlaque and Paulik said in unison as they got up to leave.
“We’ll let ourselves out,” Paulik added, handing the lawyer their business cards.
“If you would,” Fabre said, leaning back once more. A shaking hand reached for an engraved silver lighter and he lit up a cigarette.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Little Dog under Their Feet
“Fancy a short walk before lunch?” Verlaque asked Paulik when they were out on the street.
“Sure. It’s not yet noon. Where to?”
Verlaque pulled a cigar out of his leather holder and snipped the end off and then lit it. He began walking. “Just up the rue Brochant and then we’ll cross over Clichy and go see my grandparents’ place.”
“Sounds great,” Paulik said. He was curious to see a street on the other side of Clichy where the wealthy Verlaque grandparents had lived. He couldn’t imagine it in a neighborhood north of Clichy.
When they arrived at the avenue de Clichy, Verlaque pointed to an elegant café on their left. “Coffee here, €1.20. In the sixth, where my brother lives, €4.50.”
They crossed the busy avenue and it looked as Paulik thought it would: kebab shops, what seemed to be too many cheap luggage stores, a fruit and vegetable stand, and hairdressers that specialized in wigs and hair extensions. They walked along Clichy for a block, Verlaque happily puffing on his Cohiba, until they arrived at a small crepe restaurant.
“We turn right here,” Verlaque said. Paulik followed the judge and saw a large green metal gate, the center big enough to allow a car to pass through, which was closed, but on either side were smaller pedestrian gates, which were open.
“A private street!” Paulik exclaimed. “I’ve heard about these existing in Paris.”
Both men passed through the gate and looked up the cobblestoned street. It was lined on either side with elegant houses, each one fronted with mature trees and gardens. The street went on for what looked like two city blocks.
Paulik stood with his hands on his hips. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s an oasis, isn’t it? The land was given to the city of Paris in the mid-nineteenth century. The only stipulation from the land donor was that houses be built, not apartments, each one with a large front garden that would be planted with at least three trees.”
Paulik looked up and saw that most of the houses still had at least two trees. The small metal gates that fronted each house, and the antique street lanterns, made the street look like it belonged in a wealthy town in Normandy, or Poitou, at the turn of the century. “Sheer Marcel Proust,” Paulik said.
Verlaque smiled, took a puff of his cigar, and began walking. “Isn’t it? That’s why my grandmother wanted to live here so badly.”
The noisy avenue de Clichy was far behind them. Birds raced around their heads and cats chased each other from garden to garden. Verlaque stopped halfway up the street and smoked his cigar, reading a marble plaque before a small delicate white house. Paulik stopped beside him and read—the residents had been killed during World War II for forging passports.
“Notice how they specify that the men were shipped off to their deaths,” Verlaque said, “but that the sole female forger, Colette Heilbronner, was killed here, on the spot.”
They walked on a few meters and Verlaque stopped at what was so far the most beautiful house on the street. Made of a golden stone, the house was three stories with large multipaned windows and a simple front garden that sloped down to the front door.
They looked at the house for a few minutes, Verlaque hoping to see one of its current residents and Paulik pondering the fact that a wealthy Parisian couple—who could have lived in the sixth or seventh arrondissement—would choose to live in an unfashionable neighbo
rhood in northwest Paris, albeit on a street with distinction and cachet. It made him understand the judge a little more.
“Lunch?” Verlaque asked, smiling.
“Starving. Breakfast was a long time ago.”
They walked back down the street and through its green gates, out onto the avenue de Clichy. Crossing where they had crossed before, they entered the Batignolles neighborhood where the shops and cafés became chic at once. After a block Verlaque walked into a small restaurant with freshly painted glossy black trim. Inside a fire was burning in the fireplace, something Paulik had never seen in a city restaurant. The owner, a slim man their age wearing designer eyeglasses, grabbed Verlaque by the shoulders and gave him a bise. “Antoine!” he hollered. “It’s about time!”
Verlaque laughed and introduced Paulik, and they were given a table for two beside the fireplace. Both men chose an entrée of a duo of rillettes—one pork and the other duck—served with a mustard sauce and caramelized tomatoes. “I’m tempted by your vegetable mille-feuille, though,” Verlaque said, stubbing out his cigar.
“It’s cold out,” Paulik reminded him.
Verlaque laughed. “All right, the rillettes followed by the roasted veal with the garam masala crust and lentils…”
“And spinach,” the owner, Didier, answered.
Paulik ordered the steak, which the chef had marinated in Indian spices. He sat back, happy that they had ordered and that a bottle of one of his favorite reds, a Pic Saint-Loup, was on its way. “The lawyer was sad, wasn’t he?” he said. “He seemed to be grieving, and not at all well himself. And he was protecting his old friend. No university professor has bank accounts all over Europe and one in the States.”
Didier came back with the wine and showed the label to Paulik, who nodded, smiling.
“Hey Didier, we just visited Maître Fabre, who works, and I think lives, around the corner. Do you know him?” Verlaque asked.
“Of course,” Didier answered, about to pour a little wine in Verlaque’s glass but halting when the judge quickly motioned that Paulik should be the taster. Without flinching, Didier poured a small amount into Paulik’s glass and continued speaking. “He came at least twice a week for years. He and his wife would sit at this table every Friday night with their little dog. They had no kids.”
Paulik sniffed the wine. “It’s fine.” Didier smiled and poured, impressed to have someone who looked like a rugby player, complete with scars on his bald head, who sniffed a wine, without tasting it, to see if it was corked.
“His wife died recently, non?” Verlaque asked.
“Yes, she died early in the year, of breast cancer. And now he has cancer too.”
Verlaque gave Paulik a “you were right” look. “Lung cancer?”
“Ah, no, believe it or not. Cancer of the pancreas. They were as thick as thieves…it was always a pleasure to see them. She was real bubbly, and he was too, back then. Soon they’ll be side by side.” Didier finished pouring the wine and left just as a young waiter brought the first courses.
Verlaque and Paulik began to eat, spreading their rillettes on thinly sliced brown bread, neither talking. Paulik was thinking of Hélène and Léa, neither of whom he could live without. Verlaque was thinking of Didier’s words “soon they’ll be side by side.” He thought of one of Larkin’s most well-known poems, “An Arundel Tomb,” whose opening stanza was,
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone.
A faithful dog lies at the countess’s feet, much like Mme Fabre’s dog, whom Verlaque pictured sitting, patiently, under the restaurant’s table. And the poem had one of his favorite last lines, “What will survive of us is love.” He looked over at Paulik, who was quietly eating his rillettes without his usual excitement. Verlaque imagined that the commissioner was thinking of his wife and daughter, but perhaps married men no longer thought of their spouses in that way. He would go home this evening, make a surprise call on Marine, and apologize for his idiotic remarks.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Black and the White
Thierry Marchive was a good twenty minutes into his presentation and feeling more confident with each passing minute. He had secretly worried that using visuals in a theology lecture might be seen as cheating by some of his peers, but he had been invited to speak on the Cluny order’s contribution to art history and that could hardly be done without slides. Having Yann sitting in the front row, giving him the occasional grin or thumbs-up, helped enormously as well. Yann had beamed, looking to his right and left, when Thierry had referred to the Cluniac order’s eleventh- and twelfth-century building craze as “the boom to end all booms,” and Thierry had backed that declaration up with a quick succession of slides showing only a small sampling of the eighty cathedrals and five hundred churches—from large to small—the order had built. It was a subject that Thierry was comfortable with—he loved ecclesiastical art and Cluny had given Europe some of its greatest treasures. He was particularly excited to have found slides showing the clever medieval reuse of Roman bricks—long, thin, and red—in the facades of their churches, one church even using Roman columns, now sunk into its thick outer medieval walls.
“Thanks to Burgundy’s excellent river connections—long before the canals were built—materials were easily transported from neighboring countries,” Thierry said, clicking to a map of then-Burgundy. He had added, spontaneously, the bit about the canals, and was feeling very pleased. “This formidable location allowed droves of artisans to come to Burgundy,” he continued. “Bands of masons, glassmakers, and painters came across from Italy to work here.” He then moved on to his best set of slides—the tympanum at Autun. “Such were the frequent and well-paid commissions coming from Cluny, that artisans began to sign their works almost for the first time, save for this sculpted bronze chest from the fourth century BC, which is signed, ‘Made by Novius Plautius in Rome.’ The carved tympanum at Autun’s cathedral is signed, we can clearly see, ‘Gislebertus.’ That one signature alone could be significant enough to warrant us studying, and praising, the Cluniac order for centuries to come. It encouraged a free-flowing exchange of ideas from all neighboring countries, which would be lost during the French Revolution and only found again in the twentieth century. Thank you.”
Polite applause filled the small room as Garrigue Druon quickly jumped up, knocking over an empty chair, and turned on the room’s lights. She had agreed to help Annie Leonetti with the technicalities of this symposium only because her own paper hadn’t been ready for today’s lectures—she still had a few more weeks’ work on it before she would send it off to Perugia in hopes of being published in their quarterly journal and perhaps being invited to present, which she dreaded, at their own upcoming symposium in February.
Thierry collected his notes off of the lectern and Annie Leonetti came and took the microphone—hardly needed as there were only two dozen people in the room—and announced that there would be a short coffee break before the open discussion would take place.
“That was great,” Yann said as he patted Thierry’s back.
“Was I good? Did you like it?”
“It was great,” Yann repeated. He lowered his voice and said, “Claude and Garrigue aren’t even giving papers today. We were right to submit ours.”
Thierry took off his wool sweater—he had sweated throughout his entire talk. He then said to Yann, “Your talk on Cluny’s contribution to wine making was fantastic.”
Yann smiled. “You really think so? That stuff about the monks giving France the concept of terroir wasn’t too much?”
Thierry shook his head back and forth. “No, no! I had no idea that a wine that comes from one section of a vineyard can taste dramatically different from wine made from grapes grown on another parcel of that same vineyard. So it was the monks who taught us that? Cool. Dr. Leonetti and that beautiful law professor were nodding up and down in agreement.”
“Marine Bonnet?”
�
�Yeah, her. Come on, let’s get some food. I’m starving.”
The students had just helped themselves to the remaining Petit Lu cookies when Claude Ossart strode past them and said, “Ah, who better to extol the frivolities of Cluny than you two.”
Yann rolled his eyes. “Get a life, Ossart.”
They walked back into the lecture hall and Dr. Leonetti was at the microphone, smiling her acre-wide smile. “She’s so at ease up there,” Thierry whispered to Yann.
“I know. I was so nervous, but she doesn’t even flinch. She’d make a great politician.”
Thierry laughed. “Yeah, in Corsica.”
“Before we open up the discussion, I’d like to thank you all for coming today, and thank especially our participants: Dr. Rodier for his fine paper on Saint Bernard’s contribution to the spiritual work of the Templar monks, Dr. Kahn from Toulouse for his study of Cluny’s revitalization of the Norman church, and our graduate students, who bravely delivered their first papers in the presence of kind, but very knowledgeable, peers and colleagues.”
Applause filled the room and Yann poked Thierry in the ribs.
“I’d now like us to pause for a minute’s silence in remembrance of Dr. Georges Moutte, our beloved doyen, and his secretary, Mlle Zacharie,” Leonetti said. Heads were bowed and silence filled the room, but only a few of the conference attendees were thinking of the recently departed. Thierry was concentrating on keeping his stomach from rumbling; Yann was going over, word for word, his interview with the judge and commissioner, worried that he and Thierry still might be expelled from school; Annie Leonetti forced herself to think of Georges and Audrey because she was at the podium, as if the audience could read her thoughts; Claude Ossart was still fuming over the excesses of Cluny and Yann Falquerho’s conceit; Bernard Rodier had begun making a mental list of tonight’s Picard shopping, then, ashamed of himself, he began silently reciting the Hail Mary; and Garrigue Druon was musing on the generous offer that had just come her way.
Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) Page 15