Cezanne's Quarry (37 page)

“I’ve done nothing wrong, I told you. I just tried to find the murderer, which is more than I can say for either you or that brute over there.” Westerbury’s eyes were glazed over. He had been drinking again.

“He claims he’s done nothing!” The inspector scoffed. “I told you that we saw him kicking the artist right in the middle of the street. Assault, disturbing the peace, disobeying the conditions of his release, and assaulting an officer of the law.”

“Just defending myself. Trying to hold you back by your greasy hair.” Westerbury held up his pomade-streaked hand for one and all to see.

“Why, I should—” Franc made a lunge for the Englishman.

“Stop! Enough!” They were like two children, the one the schoolyard bully, the other the weakling, driven by drink to challenge him. “Is Cézanne going to press charges?” Martin had to insert some rationality into the proceedings and get them away from him.

“No! He wouldn’t dare.” This was Westerbury.

“That,” Martin said coldly to the Englishman, “is most certainly not for you to decide.”

Martin turned to his inspector. “Did you talk to him? Does he want to press charges?”

“No, he’s just as cowardly as this one. Maybe getting a bloody nose scared him. Give him time to think it over, though. I bet he’ll come running to you, complaining.” Franc’s legs were set in an open stance, ready to pounce and pound.

No complaint, then. Martin sighed. He had a number of choices. He could fine Westerbury on the spot, throw him in jail, or wait for someone to file charges.

Martin reached for his pen, still not sure what to write on the order, when Westerbury decided his own fate.

“You know as well as I do that he did it,” he pleaded with Martin. “You read the letter. She hated him. She hated him for what he saw twenty years ago. He watched her being raped and—”

Suddenly there was silence. Westerbury stopped short, no doubt realizing his blunder. Martin gripped his pen. He had kept his word to the Englishman by downplaying the importance of the letter in his conversation with his inspector, and the idiot had let the cat out of the bag. Without even looking up, he knew that Franc was staring down at him. Keeping his hand as steady as he could, Martin began writing. “Mr. Westerbury, we’ll keep you in prison for forty-eight hours, which should give you a nice long time to reconsider your actions. The next time it will be for much longer, at least a week, I guarantee you.” All he could think about was what he was going to say to Franc once they were alone.

Westerbury was on his feet. “I will die for her if I have to.” The chivalrous knight’s last stand—and a feeble one at that, considering his ineptitude.

“There’s a gendarme outside?” Martin’s mouth had run dry. He had to get Franc out of the room.

“Yes.” The inspector’s gaze had never let up.

“Tell him to take the prisoner away. We can catch up when you are done.”

The inspector nodded. He stood stock still for another moment, making sure he communicated the full depth of his displeasure. Then he grabbed Westerbury by the shoulder and began shoving him out the door.

As soon as they were outside of his chambers, Martin opened his cabinet and searched frantically in the folds of Solange Vernet’s dress for her letter. When he found it, he grabbed the envelope and placed it on top. He slammed the door closed and replaced the key in his desk, beating Franc’s return only by an instant.

The inspector returned, eyes narrowed, fists slightly clenched, as if he were about to “soften up” some petty criminal. It took a supreme act of will for Martin to remind himself that he was not charged with anything. Yet. He rose to speak first.

“As I told you, I promised Westerbury that I’d try to keep the contents of the letter confidential for as long as possible.” His heart was pounding so hard that he was sure that Franc could hear it.

“And you also told
me
that it contained nothing important, no new information.”

“I am not sure it does.”

“Well, Westerbury thinks so. And it seems like you trust a criminal more than you trust me.” The inspector was so enraged that bits of spittle were flying onto his chin.

“That is not so. I was trying to keep my word. And I am not sure the Englishman is a criminal. Being a pompous ass is not yet a crime, as far as I know.”

“Being a murderer is.”

“I am not convinced he did it.”

“Then who did?” Franc shouted.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. It was one of them.”

“And your proof is?” In the midst of battle, Martin somehow was finding the nerve to hold his own.

“Let me see that letter.” This was more than a demand, it was a threat.

“I am not sure it will tell you anything.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“No, I will.”

“When the Proc returns—”

“When the Proc returns, what?”

“I’ll tell him not only about how many qualms you, supposedly a judge, had about jailing a murder suspect. I’ll also tell him about a certain deserter that we found in the woods.”

So there it was, out in the open. Franc knew, or at least suspected, that Martin had helped Merckx to escape, and was quite willing to use this information against him. In the days since Merckx’s death, when Martin had allowed himself to face up to the worst that could happen to him, he had known this. Still, hearing Franc say it sent a cold wave of fear through his chest into his stomach.

“That is an entirely different matter.” Martin was hanging on to his desk to keep his hands from trembling. He had to make a show of not backing down.

“I think whether or not one is worthy of being a judge is all one matter. And,” Franc lowered his voice, “one of the ways to be a successful judge is to cooperate with the police, not fight them, not try to solve the case on your own. You still have a lot to learn. Wasn’t that our deal, that we would work together?”

Martin could almost breathe again. They were both stepping back. In the last few days, ever since they had killed poor Merckx, he had found that he much preferred the cajoling Franc to the threatening one. He let go of his desk.

“You’re right, of course. You’re right. I was just trying to keep my word. There are things in the letter that Westerbury found humiliating. Very personal things. We had made a deal. He would tell me where the letter was, if I kept the promise to him not to tell anyone about it unless I had to. I trust that you will not reveal the contents unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He did not even wait for any response from Franc, before continuing. “Trying to keep it to myself just shows my lack of experience. Again. My first murder case, all that.” He had to stop babbling. It made him seem too desperate. Martin moistened his lips with his tongue. “It should be right here with the other evidence.” For the second time in less than five minutes, he retrieved the key from his drawer and opened the cabinet. Martin reached for the envelope, and willing his hand not to shake, gave it to Franc.

“As you’ll see,” Martin said, “it explains why Solange Vernet never had any real interest in Cézanne. It is fairly clear that they were never lovers, although he was infatuated with her. You can tell me if you see something in it that I may have missed.” Martin winced when Franc yanked the letter out of the envelope. Both were composed of thin lavender-scented paper. Neither would last long under such rough scrutiny.

Franc took one look and stuffed the pages back into the envelope. “May I take it with me down to my office?”

Martin was stunned. He had never expected Franc to ask such a thing. He felt caught between what Merckx had gotten him into and his duty to Solange Vernet. Letting the letter go, even for an afternoon, felt like a violation.

“I’m a slow reader. You know, I don’t have your learning.” Franc opened his arms as if he were pleading. “Other judges, those I consider my friends, take this into account.” The humble pose. Which Franc was he to believe? The bully, the tutor in the methods of crimes and misdemeanors, or the man of the people working his way up to a position of respect? Martin had witnessed the appearance of all three during their short, heated confrontation.

“I’ve handled other evidence, you know.” Franc was relentless. “From judges that know and trust me. Judges who are not always on their high horse.”

“You know I’m not like that.” This came out before Martin could stop himself. Sometimes it felt like Franc had him on a string, as if he were some limp marionette jumping to orders.

Franc waited for an answer. Martin cleared his throat. He stared at the letter, filled with Solange Vernet’s delicate script, encased in Franc’s thick, hardened hands. He could not let the letter out of his chambers. He could barely let it out of his sight. Yet he had just handed it over. He had to figure out a way to get it back.

“Well?”

“I’ve an idea.” For a moment Martin feared that, in his panic, his mind had stopped. “The paper is rather flimsy and wearing down. It would be safer to keep it here. Joseph is due back any minute. You know how fastidious he is. He’s just the right person to handle it. I’ll have him copy the entire thing for you. That way, we’ll both have more time to go over it. Then we can put our heads together and see what we come up with.”

This was such a reasonable solution that he could not imagine how Franc could reject it. And yet the inspector hesitated.

“I’ll send Joseph down as soon as he is done. You should have your copy well before supper time.”

Martin swallowed hard and held out his hand. He was sweating from every pore in his body.

“Yes, and then I can see if there is something you missed,” Franc said.

“Right, exactly.” Martin almost sighed with relief when Franc gave the letter back to him. His damp fingers stuck to the envelope as he gingerly placed it on his desk.

“All right, then.” Martin looked up at his inspector. It was time for Franc to go away.

“All right? Nothing else? What did Zola have to say?”

Why hadn’t Martin thought of that? Any account of the Zola interview might serve to placate his inspector. “Actually he said nothing, except that he
knew
Cézanne was innocent. He spent the whole time defending his friend. The reason
we
are supposed to believe both of them is that the artist swore to his innocence on the banks of the Arc, which is a kind of sacred place for them.” Martin had added that last little bit for effect, and it evoked the reaction he hoped for.

“Phffff.” Franc blew out a gust of contempt. “And who would believe either of them?”

“Yes, exactly,” Martin said, practically collapsing into his seat. He had not mentioned the telegram, and he hoped to God that his clerk wouldn’t either. “And the boy, the little messenger.” Martin at least had to try to play the role of a superior.

“Nothing.” Franc sounded so damned unconcerned. Martin did not have the will to ask him about the gloves or the knife.

“All right, then,” Martin said for the second time, desperate to be left alone. He did not want to wipe away the sweat on his face in front of Franc.

“Sir, I think I was out of line.”

“Yes?” Martin looked up.

“About the deserter. Just because he was your friend—” The threatening scowl had disappeared.

Martin put up his hand as an acceptance of the truce. “We both got a little heated. We’re both under a great deal of pressure. A double murder case.”

“That could make us or break us,” Franc said, echoing the words he had first uttered on the wagon carrying Solange Vernet’s swollen corpse back to Aix. The words that had sealed their partnership.

“Right, that could make us or break us.” Martin repeated Franc’s pledge with neither hope nor conviction.

“Well then, sir,” Franc said with a tip of his cap, “I’ll be off. Down with the boys waiting for the letter.”

“And keeping a man on Cézanne.”

“Oh yes, of course, a man on Cézanne.”

At least they agreed on something.

“LOOK,
M
AMAN, THERE ARE FLOWERS BY
the door.” Paul Jr. put the basket of fruit and vegetables on the step and picked up one of the blossoms.

“Let me see,” Hortense said as she searched in her bag for the key.

“Here’s a blue one.” He held it up to her. “There are white ones too. They’re really little.”

Hortense examined the four perfectly symmetrical, delicately colored petals. “This has fallen off a
hortensia
,” she told her son. “It’s actually a very large flower.” Had Paul brought her hortensias? She smiled to herself as she opened the door. He knew they were her favorites.

Once inside, Hortense and Paul Jr. discovered a trail of tiny blossoms leading to the kitchen, where they found Cézanne, sitting at the table pressing a bloody towel against one side of his face.

“Paul!” Hortense gasped. “What happened?”

“I got you some flowers,” he said, gesturing toward a vase that held a bedraggled bouquet.

“Papa!” their son ran over to peer into his father’s face. “Did you get into a fight?”

“You might say that.”

Paul’s sanguine air infuriated Hortense so much that she could hardly speak. Her son, on the other hand, was happily excited at the thought that his father had done something that he had been told not to do a thousand times.

“With whom, Papa? Who was it?”

“The Englishman. You know, the one who puts up all those posters about his lectures. The so-called science professor.”

Hortense shook her head as she tried to catch Paul’s eye. He shouldn’t be saying these things in front of their son.

“Why?” Paul Jr. persisted.

“A disagreement. Over whether he or my old friend Marion was a better geologist. And we both know the answer to that question, don’t we?” Cézanne winked at Hortense, proud that he had come up with such a clever story. What a fool he was.

“Let me look at you,” she stepped forward and removed the cloth from his face. “Oh, my God!” The flesh around his right eye was swollen and purple, and there was blood on his cheek. “Did he cut you?”

“No.” Cézanne wiped the cloth across his face. “It’s just from my nose.”

Just the nose? “And your hands?” Those precious hands. He couldn’t stop painting now.