“And then I... I ... I heard Madame Poutine scream and I ran out the door.”
Chapter Eleven
The matron, a squat woman with hard eyes, came to take Claire away. When Claire saw her jailer, her body seemed to fold in on itself again, the mantle of fatigue settling once more on her narrow shoulders, the light of interest gone from her eyes.
She’d been questioned on Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday the police had taken her in again, and this time they’d kept her. In France, the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours of custody are called
garde à vue,
which means to “keep an eye on” someone while an investigation is proceeding. On Friday morning Claire had been brought before a magistrate who determined that sufficient evidence existed to charge her. When I saw her, she was under
détention préventive.
and because of the nature of the crime she was accused of, she would remain in jail until her trial.
I’d been with Claire for twenty minutes, all that was allowed, and promised to return another time. I was concerned that the conditions in the jail would have an impact on her health. She appeared much thinner than I remembered. She was worried about what would happen to her, of course, but she was also in mourning for the man she loved and who, she was certain, had returned her affection.
Her story sounded convincing. Of course, many murderers lied convincingly. If she’d killed Bertrand, it had probably not been a premeditated act. It could have been an act of passion; people thwarted in love have been known to react violently. Whether or not she had wielded the weapon, however, Claire held the key to the identity of the murderer. Of this I was certain.
She claimed to have overheard an argument between Bertrand and one or possibly two others. The Thomases had heard Bertrand reprimanding Guy when they’d climbed the stairs leading from the cooking school to the lobby. Could that argument have escalated enough for the sous chef to kill his former boss and mentor? Or had another man assaulted Bertrand, perhaps the husband of a lover, or a jealous competitor? There was much to investigate, and the day was already half gone.
I walked quickly down the corridor, past the security desk, toward the front entrance of the police station. My mind was occupied with what to do next when a voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Madame Fletcher, what brings you here?”
“Captain LeClerq. I was just on my way out.”
“I can see that,” he said. He pulled on one end of a maroon cashmere scarf thrown casually around his neck over the jacket of his suit. “Were you looking for me?”
“I was hoping to retrieve our passports,” I replied, “if you no longer need them.”
He looked at me carefully, waiting for more, and when I simply returned his stare, he said, “If you will guarantee not to leave Provence—you and the young lady—for the next week or so, until I give you permission, I have no objection to returning your passports.”
“You have my word. May I get them now?”
“Of course. Please accompany me to my office.” He guided me to a stairwell and we climbed one flight to the next floor.
The police station was a post-World War II building set outside the city’s ancient walls. It had the same institutional decor that can be found in similar establishments the world over, walls a drab beige, scuffed and dingy, gray concrete floor. I followed LeClerq to a windowless room crammed with a desk, file cabinet, computer table, and two chairs. He squeezed behind his desk and indicated the other chair for me, tugged off his muffler, folded it carefully, and placed it in a drawer. He was meticulous about his appearance, and I presumed he’d be just as scrupulous following up on the details of a case. He removed a set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocked his file cabinet. It was filled with folders neatly organized in hanging files. He removed one, laid it on the desk, and opened the cover to reveal a pair of passports on top of other papers.
“Madame Fletcher,” he started, as he picked up one passport and checked the photograph. “There is an attraction, I’m sure, for you to follow the investigations of the police, especially for one so interested in crime. But I feel I must caution you not to interfere with our handling of this case.”
“I have no intention of interfering,” I said.
“Then we understand each other?”
“But I could be helpful to you.”
“Please do not misunderstand, madame, but we do not need your help.”
“Are you making progress in finding the killer?”
“We believe we have the killer in custody.”
“It’s possible, of course, but she’s not very strong, and it takes a lot of muscle to force a knife through fabric and flesh.”
He winced at my description and began to tap his fingers impatiently on his desk. “When one is in the throes of murderous passion, madame, one often finds a strength unknown before.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Intense emotion releases hormones that can increase your body’s muscle power. I’m aware of the effect.”
“So, you see?” He put out his hands, palms up, as if I’d proved his case.
“And you think that’s what happened with Claire?”
He shrugged.
“At the hotel, Madame Poutine told Claire that Bertrand was unfaithful.”
“We know this.”
“When Claire ran away she was crying. She wasn’t angry; she was sad, hurt.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that crying is cathartic, Captain. It releases the tensions of grief, and could have made her less prone to violence, not more.”
“Grief can easily turn to rage,” he said, tapping his fingers again. “I do not find it profitable to psychoanalyze the criminal mind. It is the action we address.”
“And a motive.”
“Are we finished, madame?”
“What about Bertrand? He was a volatile man. He could have made many enemies.”
“Now, madame—”
“Have you looked into his business practices?”
“Madame, I lose patience.”
“I hope you haven’t concluded your investigation. It doesn’t sound to me as if you have very much to go on.”
“To you, it may look that way. You have a very active imagination. It must serve you well in your profession.”
“You’re patronizing me, Captain. What other evidence do you have against Claire? Madame Poutine didn’t actually see her kill him, did she? Have you found the murder weapon? Were her fingerprints on it?”
I had reached the end of Captain LeClerq’s tether. “I cannot comment on specifics of the case,” he said in clipped tones. He laid the passports on his desk, returned the folder to the drawer, and pressed his fingers on the handle, sliding it closed very carefully. I had the impression he was restraining himself to keep from slamming the drawer shut.
“I understand,” I said.
“I hope you do.” He slid the two passports into a white envelope, handed them to me across the desk, and stood. “I believe these are what you came for.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, I have a great deal to do, madame.” He came around the desk and placed a hand on the back of my chair. “You must excuse me. I will be happy to show you out.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, putting the envelope in my bag.
“Oh, but it is.”
He escorted me to the front entrance, nodding at other staff members as he passed them in the hallway and on the stairs. We shook hands at the door.
“You have said you will not interfere, madame, and I expect you to keep your word,” he said. “I wish you a pleasant and uneventful stay for the rest of your time in Provence.”
It was threatening to rain when I crossed the ring road, what in medieval days had been a moat, and passed through one of more than a dozen
portes,
or gates, that pierce the fourteenth-century ramparts surrounding the old city of Avignon. With a good pair of shoes I could walk anywhere within the walls. But in the rain that prospect was less appealing. I consulted my map. Luck was with me. Bertrand’s restaurant, L’Homme Qui Court, the Running Man, was not far from the Hotel Melissande, and both were near Héllas, the restaurant where Daniel claimed to have met with his supplier on Wednesday. I found the main street, Rue de la République, and walked north toward the Palace of the Popes. The street was crowded with Saturday shoppers. Groups of teenagers flirted with each other as they hopped in and out of stores catering to a young clientele. Skateboarders hugged the curb and occasionally jumped onto the sidewalk in an ef fort to impress their peers. They were more successful in startling their elders.
I thought about my conversation with LeClerq. He hadn’t challenged my assertion that the murder weapon was a knife. Did he know I’d learned that information in my visit to Claire? His presence in the hallway when I was leaving certainly was fortuitous. I was disappointed that he wasn’t willing to listen to my thoughts on other possibilities in the case. But I’d encountered resistance by the police before. I understood their pride in their profession and their hesitation to work with “amateurs,” even if those amateurs could contribute valuable information. But there were practicalities to consider here. The investigation shouldn’t stop just because the police had made an arrest. What if they were wrong, as I believed they were? I’d have to talk with LeClerq again, and see if I could persuade him to listen to me. After all, I intended to continue looking into the murder anyway. Together we could make faster progress.
Walking swiftly, I reached the farthest end of the Rue de la République where it opened onto the Place de I’Horloge, or Clock Square, named for the gothic clock tower above the town hall. A row of cafés lined one side of the plaza, the outdoor tables occupied despite the damp weather. Tall plane trees, their leaves still green, softened the cityscape. In front of the Opéra Theatre, next to the town hall, was a beautiful antique carousel, its fanciful appearance out of place among the elegant stone facades of the municipal buildings. Beneath the blue-and-white tent top, colorful painted panels depicting country life were framed by scalloped rows of lightbulbs. Children skipped around the carousel, but the attraction was closed. The lights were off; no music played. Those who tried to climb aboard were shooed off by a burly guard in a navy blue uniform. He pointed to a placard leaning against one of the white horses that read,
Fermé pour Travaux,
“closed for repairs.”
“When will it be open?” I heard a father ask. “It’s been out all week.”
“Come back tomorrow. The man comes to fix it in the morning.”
“We go back home tomorrow.” The man picked up his daughter. “She wants to ride the horse. Can I take a picture? We’ll only be a minute.”
The guard looked exasperated—I imagined this wasn’t the first such request—but he unhooked a chain across two poles and allowed the pair to climb on the carousel deck. The father sat his little girl on the red saddle and coaxed her to grasp the horse’s wooden mane. “Just hold on. You won’t fall. I’m right here.” When he took his hand off her back, the child’s face screwed up and her bottom lip quivered. She looked over her shoulder for him and would have tumbled off if he hadn’t grabbed her quickly.
“Would you like me to take the picture for you?” I offered. “That way you can both be in it.”
“Would you do that?” His face lit up. “She’s a bit nervous being so far off the ground.” He handed me his camera and showed me the buttons to push.
I stepped back a few feet and focused on the child, who was clinging to her father’s arm. “Okay, now smile.” I clicked off two shots, and returned the camera to its owner.
“Merci, madame.
We are very grateful.” He pulled his daughter from the carousel horse, climbed down, and went off to tip the guard, who was talking to a tall man in a trench coat. The little one waved shyly to me from her father’s arms. I waved back, and was rewarded with a big smile.
On the other side of the town hall, I turned left onto a small street, which led to the Rue Racine. Bertrand’s restaurant was located in an old yellow stone building, set back on the street, allowing for a small patio in front. A pair of iron-filigree tables flanked the door. Above the entrance was an iron silhouette of a man running, his legs far apart in a wide stride. The figure wore a long coat and held on to his top hat as he ran. I tried the door and it was unlocked. Inside, the restaurant was open for business. A stylish brunette in her forties greeted me. She was a darker version of Mme Poutine, perfectly coifed, and with the same stony expression.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” I replied. “I wasn’t sure you would be open.”
“We are open, but only for lunch and with a limited menu today,” she said. “We have lost our chef, but the kitchen staff does very well with the new chef. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
She took my coat, led me past a small but active bar into the dining room, and pulled out a table near the front of the room to allow me to slide into the banquette. It was late for lunch—most of the diners were eating dessert—but I hadn’t had anything since the roll and coffee I’d consumed at the bakery. The hostess handed me the menu, wished me
bon appétit,
and returned to her post.
The restaurant was masculine, elegant and stark, not unlike Bertrand himself. Heavy white linen cloths covered the tables. Dark wood banquettes ran down both long walls and were fitted with thick cushions covered in a tapestry fabric. The chairs that were drawn up to the tables along the banquettes, and to another row of tables down the center of the room, had seats in the same fabric. Stone walls were bare except for arched niches containing alabaster urns spotlighted by halogen lamps suspended from wires.
I read the selections on the handwritten menu, which was clipped to a coated card. A short history of the restaurant and a biography of Emil Bertrand,
Maître Cuisinier de France,
Master Chef of France, were on the back of the card. I read them carefully.