Cezanne's Quarry (29 page)

False modesty. Even so, she was surprised that they were moving so easily past the other passengers, when Zola came to a full stop, staring ahead of him. Her eyes followed his. There stood Paul in his cap, wrinkled pants, and worn-out jacket. That morning he had sworn he was returning to the Jas and would have no part of “this business.” She should have known that he would not be able to resist seeing Émile. The two men stood stock-still for a moment. Then they stepped forward and hugged each other. When Paul leaned back to look at Émile, she saw tears in his eyes. “At last I’ve got you back here,” he said.

“Yes,” Émile nodded, “at last.”And then they hugged each other again.

“Well, we must make the most of it. Did you bring some tramping clothes?”

Hortense’s heart sank. Would the two of them be at it again, and leave her out as usual? “But Émile,” she interrupted, “we don’t have much time.”

Émile slapped Paul on the back and shrugged. “Neither, my dear, do we. Wouldn’t it be possible to say all we have to say at supper? Or,” he glanced at the boy, “afterwards?” As she began shaking her head, Émile took her hand. “I promise I will find out everything I can while we are visiting the old haunts.”

Hortense shot Paul an angry look. After everything he had said last night! It was bad enough that Émile announced he was only staying the day. She had to get him into the courthouse to show the judge once and for all how important their connections were.

“Come on, Hortense,” Paul stepped forward and put his finger under her chin, directing her eyes toward his. “Émile has not been back here for years, and he doesn’t have much time.” How, Hortense wondered, did he know that? Émile must have sent a longer message to the Jas. Before she could say anything, Paul had turned toward his old friend. “I’ve hired us a donkey cart. We’ll go to the river, tramp around, and be in town by supper. And I’ll tell you everything that’s been going on,” he looked back toward Hortense, “I promise.”

Hortense found Cézanne’s drawling Provençal accent, which seemed to grow stronger with each passing day, especially irritating when he was attempting to mollify her. Even though she was bursting with things to say, she was speechless with fury.

“Can I come too?” Paul Jr. finally piped in.

“No, young man, no. This afternoon is for your father and his old friend. But, as soon as I get somewhere I can change, I think I’ve got something in that pack for you.” Émile pointed to the bag by the boy’s side.

“Well,” said Hortense, “since the daily train doesn’t leave until noon, at least you’ll have time.”

“Time for—”

She tilted her head toward the boy.

“Yes, yes,” Émile coughed. “I’ll find the time to do what needs to be done.”

“Excuse me, could you be—” a young man who had been selling oranges was standing before Émile, cap in hand. The station was rapidly emptying out around them.

“Zola? Yes.” Émile stretched out his hand. He never ignored a working man.

“Thank you,” the young man said as he shyly reached for Zola’s hand. “My family read parts of
Germinal
in the papers. My father was a miner near Gardanne. You told the truth. That’s what it’s like for us. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank
you
.” Émile reacted in a way that was meant to be modest and gracious, although Hortense, having observed this scene before, knew that deep down Zola had great pride in what he had accomplished.

“Come, come.” Paul clapped his friend on the back. “We must be going! Get you out of town.” He smiled at the orange seller in mock apology as he led Zola away. The man stood back, still in awe. With his arm on Zola’s shoulder, Paul led him out of the station. Gesticulating with his other hand, he probably was detailing the plans for their outing. It was so irritating to watch the two of them carry on. No wonder Paul did not dare look back at her. He knew she had every reason to be angry with him.

Hortense was left to trail the two men to the donkey cart. She’d have to find some way to amuse her disappointed son, to shop and cook their dinner. She was left to stew all day, and to figure out what the great Zola could do to help them.

M
ARTIN WENT BACK TO HIS ROOM
to change for the courthouse. He had to hurry, before Franc began to ask questions. He slung his vest over the chair, unbuttoned his shirt, and wiped his face, chest, and neck with the towel hanging by his basin. He pulled his frock coat, top hat, and cravat from the armoire and threw them on the bed. How ridiculous these expensive clothes looked, flung about in his shabby little room. Ridiculous and utterly necessary. These, Martin thought as he slipped on the jacket, are the signs of my rank, my coat of arms, my only protection. He needed to look every bit a judge if he were going to prevail in the inevitable confrontation with his inspector.

After yanking his cravat into place, he was almost ready. Only the most important task remained: concealing Solange Vernet’s letter. He carefully stuffed the delicate envelope into the inside pocket of his frock coat and ran his hand over its front, smoothing away the bulge.

When he got to the Palais, he was not surprised to meet Franc halfway up the grand staircase.

“Where have you been, sir?”

Martin detected an accusatory tone in Franc’s voice. “On a wildgoose chase,” he answered as he leaned against the polished wooden railing, in a pose of equanimity.

“Sir?”

“Our prisoner, in his ravings yesterday, mentioned a hidden letter. Something Mme Vernet wrote just before she died. I went looking for it. It didn’t say much that was relevant to our case.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about it? I could have sent one of the boys.”

“I wanted to see it myself first.” Martin kept his voice even, and goaded himself to keep looking Franc in the eye, searching for any sign that the inspector knew more about Merckx’s visit to Aix than he was saying.

“So what’s in the letter? Can I see it?” Franc moved a step closer to Martin.

“All it said was that she loved Westerbury and planned to break off with Cézanne.” This was, of course, far from all that had been revealed. Who, Martin wondered, was playing the more deceitful role—him or his inspector?

“A whore, just like I thought she was. Still, I should read it. Maybe I’d see something else in it.” Franc was as aggressive as ever.

Martin shook his head, acting out the scene that he had imagined all the way to the Palais. “Westerbury told me where to find the letter only on the condition that I would not show it to anyone until absolutely necessary. I have to keep that pledge, at least for the time being, if I am going to get anything out of the Englishman the next time we talk.” Martin expected his inspector to complain about this agreement, but he was not about to give in. It was less a matter of the Englishman’s sensibilities than his own. For he realized at that moment that
he
did not want Franc poring over Solange Vernet’s confessions. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. If he hadn’t caught himself, his hand would have gone up to his chest in a protective gesture. Instead, he gave his frock coat a little tug while he watched Franc trying to contain his impatience.

Martin broke the silence first. “I understand you found the note.”

“Yes, I left it on your desk.”

When? Martin wondered. But he did not ask. Not when he was about to stir up a hornet’s nest. “I’d like to see Westerbury right away. I need to clear a few things up.”

“And then?” Franc’s terseness spoke louder than his words ever had.

“I’ll need to see Cézanne, first thing in the morning.”

“Why? You’re not thinking of letting the Englishman go again, are you?”

“I’ll decide after I talk to him. In any case, you can keep someone on him.”

Franc clapped his hand to the side of his leg in exasperation. “Don’t you understand? You’ve got your man. This case should be easy.”

“I want to make sure I have the
right
man.”

“Look,” Franc pointed up toward Martin’s chambers. “When you see that note, you’ll see it’s in the Englishman’s hand.”
The hand that anyone could have copied from Westerbury’s posters.

“You’ve got him! Unless there was something in that letter—”

“Only as I told you. She was going to break it off with the artist. That makes him the more likely suspect.” Martin still did not understand why Franc so adamantly preferred the charlatan geologist to the failed artist as a suspect. Unless it was because a foreigner would be so much easier to prosecute. “Let me talk to the Englishman again,” Martin continued, “and I’ll decide what to do with him.”

Franc’s mouth and mustache hardened into a straight, grim line.

“Westerbury?” Martin’s heart began to pound, but he kept his voice calm.

Still, Franc did not move.

“I think,” Martin was trying desperately to maintain the upper hand, “that you have to trust me to know what to do with the suspects. At this critical point in the case, it is best if we each concentrate on our own jobs.”

“I have been doing
my
job.”

“I know you have. But what about the boy?”

“What about the boy?” This came out almost as a growl, as if Franc were making a monumental effort to keep his emotions under control.

“Do we have any idea who the boy was? Do we know what part of town he was from? Hasn’t anyone come to you about a missing child?” These questions were so obvious that, despite his own efforts to remain calm, Martin’s voice kept rising. “Surely, if we know who he was and where he was from, we might be able to track down an important witness, someone who saw him getting paid to take a message.”
Someone who saw the real murdering rapist
.

“And you probably think that there is some poor, sobbing mother out there looking for him?”

“Yes, that too.”

“Well, I doubt it. I’ve spent enough time around beggars and whores to know that they don’t give a damn. They’re probably relieved not to have another mouth to feed.”

“Even so.” Martin bit his tongue, although he was confounded by Franc’s callous, nonchalant attitude. Not only was the boy’s identity crucial to the entire investigation, but the poor child himself had been the victim of a heinous crime. These were things a police inspector should care about.

Neither man had moved during the last few moments. They were still perched on the same two steps of the great staircase, as if poised for battle. “Even so,” Franc finally conceded, “so me and one of my men get to spend another night searching among the riffraff.”

“It might be important,” Martin said quietly. He had no intention of escalating their conflict. He just did not want to be the first to back down.

After another uncomfortable silence, Franc said, “I’ll get the Englishman.” With a bitter glance toward Martin, he started down the stairs.

Martin waited until the inspector reached the main floor before asking about Merckx.

“Franc?” The name reverberated throughout the empty atrium.

“Yes.” Franc turned to look up at him.

“Yesterday I was so taken aback to see my old friend on the table that I didn’t ask you about the circumstances. Were you there when he was shot?”

“Yes, sir. We don’t take deserters lightly.”

Martin had to swallow hard before getting the next question out. “Did you order the shooting?”

“What else could I do? Let him escape?”

“No, I suppose not.” Whether in the line of duty or not, Franc had killed Jean-Jacques.

“And his body?”

“Buried. You identified him. We took a photograph to send to the army. We had to get rid of all three of them as soon as possible. Riquel’s worried about the cholera.”

Just like that. Merckx, Solange Vernet, and the boy. Banished. Buried in unmarked ground.

“Do you know where, in case someone comes forward for the boy?”

“Yes.” Even in the shadows of the great hall, Martin could see the inspector pursing his lips as if irritated by the excessive delicacy of his superior. “Just in case.”

“Very well.” There was nothing more to say. Martin had made Westerbury powerless to bury his lover by throwing him in prison. Arlette, the devoted maid, had been born, and would forever remain, powerless. So all three bodies lay in a potter’s field. It wasn’t right. Not for Solange Vernet, with her medal and her saints. Nor for the boy. If his parents came forward, if Westerbury desired it, they could mark their graves later. Martin would do all in his power—if he still had any—to help them.

The inspector was still waiting. “Thank you, Franc. I will see you in a moment.” Then Martin headed up the stairs. When he reached his floor, he saw that the door to his chambers was open, and remembered that Franc said he had left the note on his desk. When and how had he gotten in?

“Oh, M. Martin, I heard your footsteps.” Old Joseph stepped out to greet him.

Martin pushed past his clerk to get to his desk. The quarry message sat folded on top of one of Martin’s notebooks. The message read, “I love you more than ever. Please meet me at the quarry. C.” Just as Westerbury had said, in printed block letters.

“M. Franc brought that in, sir.”

“When?”

“About two hours ago.”

“You let him in?”

“I. . . .” Joseph’s chin, with its few wispy white hairs, began to tremble.

Would the greffier of a more experienced, better connected judge have opened his office to an inspector? Martin doubted it.

“I wanted to open your office to give you some air when you came in. And I didn’t know when you were going to get here. I . . . I didn’t think. . . .”

“That’s right, you did not think.” Martin knew it was useless and cruel to be angry with the quivering old man, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Sir, I’m so sorry, so sorry. But M. Franc told me to. He assured me it would be all right.”

“Did he do anything while he was in the office?”

“No, sir. Just left that piece of paper. And sat on your chair, staring out at the square, waiting for you.” Joseph was wringing his hands, as he backed away from Martin. “I was here the whole time. Nothing happened. Why should it?”

Why should it indeed? Martin looked at his chair. It had been rather presumptuous of his inspector to take over his chambers. What had Franc been thinking while he was sitting there? That he had Martin over a barrel? That the case was his and his alone? Martin wished to God that he knew what game Franc was playing. And who was helping him. Martin turned his attention back to his clerk. He had observed him talking his way through his timidity on innumerable occasions. He could only imagine what Joseph might have blurted out to Franc. Martin sighed. He needed to state the obvious. “We must be extremely cautious, you know. This is a murder. Two murders. We may be accusing a member of an important family. We must make sure the evidence and our notes are protected at all times. You understand that?”