“The strange thing is,” Verlaque said as they walked through the square, “I don’t even know why Marine’s angry with me.”
“Oh, I know what’s bugging Magali,” Jules said. “And it’s always the same argument we have. She hated being with my folks at Christmas and I hated being with hers at New Year’s.”
“Oddball families?” Verlaque asked. “Sounds familiar. I sometimes think that Marine’s mother wants to drive a dagger through my chest.”
Jules laughed. “Magali sees my family as uptight Germanic Catholics. But you should see hers! I hate to say this, but . . . ils sont ploucs!”
“Low-class?”
“Oh my God,” Jules went on. “Marseillais but not the fun-loving Marseillais that you see in old Pagnol movies, or see in restaurants having a great, loud time. Her brother has been in prison for theft, her father drinks too much and is a domineering lout, and her mother just sits there chain-smoking, wringing her hands . . .”
“That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, and I have so much respect for Magali, that she got out of that family and is here in Aix. She loves her job, and she paints these amazing still lifes—”
“ ‘I will astonish Paris with an apple,’ ” Verlaque said. “Was it Magali who taught you that?”
“Of course,” Jules said. “Magali’s still lifes are more a cross between Cézanne’s and Frida Kahlo’s—but still, they’re amazing.”
Verlaque tried to imagine what a Cézanne/Frida Kahlo still life would look like.
“It was such a stupid fight—” Schoelcher stopped there, thinking maybe he was talking too much about his own problems. But he figured that the judge would speak up if he wanted to divulge information on his fight with Marine Bonnet, whom Schoelcher knew—thanks to blabbermouth officer Roger Caromb—was a well-known law professor whose classes were year after year full, not because of her beauty but because of her fascinating lectures. Two of his fellow policeman had even snuck into one of her classes when it was found out that she was dating Verlaque. “Riveting,” one had said, while the other had made a sweeping motion with his hand over his head. That had been Roger.
Verlaque stopped in front of the Bar Zola, which he realized he had wanted to go to all along, with or without company. “Care for a Guinness?”
“A decent beer sounds perfect.”
“I have an ulterior motive for coming here,” Verlaque explained, opening the door to allow wafts of smoke and loud Rolling Stones music to pour out. “This was René Rouquet’s favorite spot to come and tie one on.”
“After you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Commissioner Paulik, Charmed
Jules led the way, pushing through the crowd. He looked over his shoulder and Verlaque signaled to the bar. The tall blond policeman gently excused himself as he squeezed through the patrons, finally finding a spot at the bar big enough for the two men to stand. “Deux Guinness, s’il vous plaît,” Jules told the barman as Verlaque arrived beside him.
The barman, who wore a long beard and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, looked twice at Verlaque before saying, in a mock posh accent, “Bonsoir, Monsieur le juge.”
“Hey, you got your hair cut,” Verlaque said, his hand motioning a chop just below his ear.
Jules Schoelcher tried not to look surprised.
“It looks really good,” Verlaque said, giving the barman a thumbs-up.
The barman rolled his eyes but finally smiled. “Wife’s orders,” he said while slowly pouring out the Guinness. “Apparently classical music concerts and long hair don’t jibe.”
“Bruno told me that your son plays piano wonderfully,” Verlaque said. He looked at Jules and said, “Léa and—”
“Matthieu,” the barman said.
“Léa Paulik and Matthieu are at the conservatoire together,” Verlaque explained. Schoelcher took a sip of his beer, looking from his boss to the barman, trying to block out the noise from the music and the bar’s patrons to understand just how these two very different people seemed to know each other.
“Patrick,” the barman said, reaching across the bar.
“Antoine,” Verlaque said, taking the barman’s hand that was adorned with three or four skull rings. “And this is my colleague Jules.” Verlaque took a sip of beer, smiled, gave the barman another thumbs-up, and said, “Have you heard Léa sing Fauré’s ‘In Prayer’?”
Patrick pretended to wipe tears from his eyes.
“I have the same reaction,” Verlaque said. He took another sip, then looked around him and said, “Zola gets a young crowd in, no?”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders. “Mostly,” he said. “Except at the bar,” he added, winking.
Jules said, “Don’t look at me.”
Verlaque laughed. “Thanks, Jules.” He then leaned across the bar and asked, “But older guys do come here, don’t they? Did you know a retired postman named René?”
Patrick leaned his muscular forearms on the bar. “Why the past tense?”
“He’s dead,” Verlaque said.
“Why is it every time you come in here,” Patrick asked, “I lose a valued customer?”
Verlaque shrugged. “When was the last time he came in?”
“That’s easy,” Patrick said as he wiped down the counter with a small towel. “Last night.”
“Did he chat with anyone?” Schoelcher asked.
“Yeah, me,” Patrick said.
“That’s all?”
A girl bumped into Jules and they both said “Pardon” in unison.
“But you can see that if you’re standing at the bar—” Patrick said.
“Anyone can hear,” Jules said, looking over at the girl and smiling.
Verlaque sipped more of the Guinness and asked, “What did you talk about?”
“It was René doing the talking,” Patrick said. “He got more and more incoherent as the evening went on. I finally cut him off around ten o’clock.”
Verlaque said nothing and waited for the barman to go on.
“It’s a little weird,” Patrick said. “Okay, he’s bragged before that he lives in Cézanne’s old apartment, but this time he was saying that he found something in the apartment. Something that was once Cézanne’s.”
“Pauvre gars,” Verlaque said. “He should have kept his mouth shut. Was he specific?”
“Well, I took it to be a painting,” Patrick said, “because he was talking how valuable it must be.” Patrick laughed and then said, “He was going on about Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Did he really find a Cézanne painting?”
Verlaque looked around him and closed his eyes slowly, then opened them. “We’re not sure what it is,” he said. “But if it is—”
Patrick whistled. “So I see what direction you’re going with these questions,” he said. “Should we step outside?”
Verlaque and Jules put their coats back on and made their way through the crowd carrying their half-finished beers. Patrick followed, having poured himself a whiskey. “Let’s walk around the square,” he said, closing the bar’s door behind him.
Verlaque relit his Churchill and they strolled toward a statue of a wild boar that sat in the middle of the square. “Was René murdered?” Patrick asked as they stopped beside the statue.
“Yes, last night or early this morning,” Verlaque said. “He called a former neighbor, worried that he had been followed home.”
“Oh merde,” Patrick said. “I feel like it’s my fault. I should have cut him off earlier.”
“It could have been a break and enter,” Jules said. “Unrelated to your conversation in the bar.”
“But it is important that you remember who was standing at the bar next to M. Rouquet,” Verlaque said. “Any short, thick, bald men?”
Patrick took out a cigarette and lit it. “One or two,” he said. “But of all the stu
dents, riffraff, and lonely hearts in here last night, that’s not who I remember best.”
“Oh really?” Verlaque asked.
“There was this Amazon,” Patrick said, shaking his head back and forth. “One of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.”
Verlaque and Schoelcher exchanged looks. “What did she look like?” Jules asked.
“Tall, black, striking in an original way,” Patrick said. “Like she had just walked off the fashion runway, but circa 1972.”
• • •
Bruno Paulik sipped his vin chaud, watching people walk up and down the Cours. The more he tried to think of his wife, Hélène, the more the image of Rebecca Schultz popped into his head. He hadn’t meant to stay so long at the Hôtel Fleurie, but the hotel owner had put on an opera CD and he and Rebecca—as she had insisted he call her—chatted about the music for longer than he realized. It was Bizet’s Pearl Fishers, an old recording sung by Enrico Caruso and Giuseppe De Luca, the men’s voices in perfect harmony.
“Have you seen the film Gallipoli?” Rebecca asked.
“Only about a million times,” Paulik replied.
“This is the song that the officer is listening to,” Rebecca said.
“Yeah. He knows that the next morning his soldiers will be going over the top,” Paulik said. “And he with them.”
“He’s drinking champagne—”
“It’s his wedding anniversary. It kills me to watch that scene,” Paulik said. “It proves that there’s no need for violence and gore in a war movie.”
“I agree,” Rebecca said. “Just some opera and a man staring at his wife’s photograph.”
Paulik was brought out of his reverie by his cell phone ringing. “Bruno? Verlaque here.”
“Yes?”
“Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Paulik answered, embarrassed that he had been thinking of Dr. Schultz.
“Schultz has been bullshitting us,” Verlaque said. “She was in the Bar Zola last night.”
“You’re kidding.” Paulik quickly finished his hot wine and motioned for the bill.
“Beauty is a complex subject.”
“I’m not following,” Paulik said.
“Cézanne said that,” Verlaque said. “But it fits our Yale professor. Listen, I’m going to try to get some sleep now, and then I’ll go into the Palais de Justice tomorrow and also speak to Dr. Schultz. I don’t expect to see you because tomorrow’s Sunday. Okay?”
“Right,” Paulik said.
“You’re extra chatty tonight, Bruno. Is everything all right?”
“Sorry, the fatigue seems to be catching up with me,” Paulik said. “I’ll see you Monday. Feel free to call me with any updates.” He hung up and set some coins down on the table.
On the way to get his car out of the underground parking garage under the Palais de Justice, Bruno Paulik found himself looking into the windows of some of Aix’s finest clothing stores. He had never bought clothes for his wife; besides, Hélène’s daily work gear was blue jeans or coveralls and a wool sweater if she was working in the cellar. She looked fantastic dressed up—Bruno loved a short, sparkly gold dress she wore for wine-tasting and publicity events—and he couldn’t remember her ever talking about fashion. She certainly didn’t read fashion magazines; she subscribed to La Revue du Vin and Vinum. And so why, he asked himself, when five minutes earlier he had so desperately wanted to see his wife, was he wasting his time looking at a two-thousand-euro Sonia Rykiel dress? Research, he answered. He was trying to understand what kind of money their top suspect, Rebecca Schultz, spent on clothing. No, Bruno, stop trying to imagine what Rebecca Schultz would look like in the Rykiel pink knit dress. But even with his untrained eye, Bruno Paulik knew that Dr. Schultz wore a lot of money on her back. And on her long legs.
Paulik sighed and moved on to another shop, this one full of designer shoes. Did university professors make that much money in the States? He knew in France that professors, as civil servants, made about the same salary as he did, and that wasn’t much. How could Dr. Schultz afford such clothes? Perhaps Marine Bonnet, who had colleagues who worked for American universities, could fill him in? He pressed his nose up against the glass. The January sales hadn’t yet started, but the shiny black Prada shoes, with their transparent, glass-like heels, would be still be more than three-hundred euros on sale.
His phone rang.
“Are you busy, sir?” Alain Flamant asked.
“No,” Paulik said, staring at a pair of knee-high green and purple Italian leather boots, fascinated by the intricate stitching running up their sides. “Not really.”
“If you’re still in Aix, sir, I think you should come in to the precinct. A body has been found,” Flamant went on. “Shot. We’ve identified him as Guy Maneval, small-time crook twice jailed for burglary. But he was found with—”
“Yes?”
“Well, a landscape around his neck. I mean, someone slammed a painting over his head.”
“Seriously?”
“Um, yeah. But probably after he was killed.”
Paulik was suddenly desperate to get home and see Hélène, who at five foot two would never make a fashion model but who was the most beautiful woman in the world to Bruno. But instead of walking underground to fetch his car out of the Palais de Justice’s parking lot, he walked through the front door, nodded to the policeman on guard, and walked upstairs to see what Alain Flamant had to tell him.
Chapter Fourteen
A Family of Three
He’s been shot through the head, once, clean,” said Dr. Cohen as she looked down at the lifeless body that laid in Aix’s morgue. “Killed late last night or early this morning, so he’s been dead for ten hours or so. The killer, by the looks of it a professional, used a .22 caliber revolver. Head shot, up close; the bullet’s still in there. It spun and spun around,” she said, motioning with her hands, “inside the curved interior of the dead man’s skull, causing instant death.”
Paulik looked down at the dead man and took a deep breath, wishing the doctor would keep her narrative more scientific. “A .22 revolver makes noise,” Paulik said.
“Not the Russian ones,” Flamant said.
“Where was he found?” Paulik asked as he continued to look at the body.
“Down by Pont de l’Arc,” Flamant said.
“And if the killer didn’t have a Russian revolver?” Paulik asked. “Pont de l’Arc is quiet.”
“There’s a disco by the river,” Flamant said. “It would have been loud on Friday night.”
“You’re right,” Paulik answered, nodding. “At any rate, get some officers down to the river to ask joggers and the gypsies if they saw or heard anything. Are the gypsies still camped down there?”
“Yes,” Flamant said. “They were watching as we cordoned off the scene of the crime. Whoever shot Maneval didn’t care that he would be identified. But I recognized him anyway. Small-time thug. I think he’s a bouncer at La Fantasie.”
“I recognize him, too,” Paulik said. He thought of a six-month-old Guy Maneval, cradled by his mother; a nine-year-old Guy, chasing some kid in the school yard; then a fifteen-year-old Guy, smoking and already getting into trouble; and downhill from there.
“Do you still need me?” Dr. Cohen asked, covering the body with a sheet. “I got called away from a dinner party.”
No,” Paulik said. “I’m sorry about the dinner. Maybe you can still make the dessert.”
“I hate sweets,” the doctor answered. “Good evening.”
“Good-bye, and thanks,” Paulik said. He turned to Flamant and asked, “And this painting?”
Flamant pointed to a table behind the commissioner.
“There’s not much left of the painting,” Flamant said, “as it was pushed over the victim’s head. A warning?”
“If it’s the same painti
ng that’s missing out of René Rouquet’s apartment, then it’s a clue intentionally left by the killer, linking Guy Maneval to René Rouquet.”
“And the Cézanne mystery.”
“Did the same person kill the two men?” Paulik asked. “Or did Maneval kill Rouquet and then did someone kill Maneval? Maneval was killed by a professional.”
“And Rouquet wasn’t,” Flamant said. “Or that’s the way it appeared.”
“Well,” Paulik said, looking down at the painting, “it looks like there’s enough left in the corners for Pierre Millot to identify it as the painting that hung above his neighbor’s sofa. Let’s put it in a bag and take it to the Palais de Justice. There’s no reason to bring Pierre here.”
• • •
Marine sat in her childhood kitchen, holding her head in her hands as her father passed her a Kleenex. She looked around at the kitchen—vintage 1973—and although it was ugly and not functional, she knew that her parents would never change it. Her parents hated change, and loved routine. Since she had become a full-time professor in Aix, Marine made it a habit of having breakfast with her parents every Sunday morning, before they headed off to Mass at Saint Jean de Malte. It got her out of bed, and she enjoyed the early-morning walk when Aix’s streets were still empty. Both she and Antoine had been raised to be early risers, and she had recently read an interview with a three-star Michelin chef who, when asked to what he owed his success, answered, “My parents never letting me sleep in as a teenager.”
“This must be about something other than Pierre Soulages and the Pompidou,” Anatole Bonnet said, setting down his coffee. “Although I enjoyed that story.”
“I’m a law professor,” Marine said, blowing her nose. “I’ve published law articles, I pay my mortgage on time, my students and colleagues respect me. But—” She sighed and her father waited for her to finish her sentence. “It’s just that sometimes Antoine Verlaque makes me so damn mad,” she said.
The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Page 11