Englishman.
“I had Joseph put one of your men on Westerbury, thinking we could find out more that way than by having him rot in a cell.”
“But by the time Old Joseph—”
“Yes,” Martin put up his hand, “but he could not have gone far, and I did keep his identification card.”
This precaution did not placate Franc, whose chest was still heaving with indignation. Martin decided to change the subject. “You searched the Vernet apartment?”
Franc shrugged. “This morning, while you were questioning our suspect. Nothing helpful, I’m afraid.” He was beginning to retreat into a more appropriate attitude.
“Did you speak to the maid?”
“Tried to. She whimpered half the time, wailed the other half.” Franc imitated a woman’s high whining voice: “‘Mme Solange, poor Mme Solange.’” He blew air out of his mouth in disgust. “Maybe after she gets over her hysteria—”
“Did she tell you that Mme Vernet received a note before going to the quarry?”
“No.” Franc straightened up. “Who told you that?”
“Westerbury.”
This small triumph was short-lived. “He could be lying.”
“I don’t think so,” said Martin, standing his ground. “Did you look through any papers?”
“Yes. Bills, calling cards, that’s about it.”
“The purse?”
“Only a few coins.”
“And the quarry?”
The inspector shook his head. “Me and the boys went over everything again. Found nothing. She was killed there, we know that. No trail of blood. But no knife either. And,” Franc raised his eyebrows in amusement, “no other works of ‘art.’”
“Very well,” Martin said. In spite of the doubts that Franc had just aroused, he had to show who was in charge. “I’ve telegraphed Paris to see if they have anything on Westerbury and Vernet. Tomorrow I’ll need to question the maid, and then Cézanne. If you or one of your boys could keep track of Westerbury. . . .” At least Franc refrained from delivering another reproach. “And” Martin reiterated, “let’s not forget the note. Westerbury said that the message was delivered by a boy. We must find him. He may be a key—”
“If there really was a note, and if the killer did not get to him first. . . .”
“But if it was, as you say, a crime of passion, on the spur of the moment—” Martin stammered. He hadn’t thought until that moment that an unknown child might be in danger.
“A murderer will do anything to cover his tracks.”
And Martin had let Westerbury go. Cézanne was still out there. Martin’s mouth ran dry. His mind raced. If the killer had argued with Solange Vernet in the quarry, if she had rebuffed him, surely she would be his only victim.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I was only suggesting a possibility.” Franc must have read the distress on Martin’s face. “Like I said before, all my experience tells me it’s a simple crime of passion. Nothing more. Committed by some weakling like your Englishman.”
A possibility . A possibility that Martin needed to put out of his mind for the moment. He needed to stick to his plan. He fingered the medical report. At least Dr. Riquel’s findings seemed to confirm the hypothesis that Solange Vernet had been killed in a moment of rage. She had also been raped.
“Did you tell Westerbury that Mme Vernet may have been violated?” Martin asked quietly. He was sure that Riquel had discussed the torn undergarments and traces of semen with Franc.
“No, I just question suspects to find out what they know. I don’t give information unless I think it will get something out of them. As soon as he saw the body, he blubbered like a woman, and then he would not talk. Besides, who knows if it was really rape , considering the kind of woman she was?”
Martin had considered the kind of woman Solange Vernet had been and had come to different conclusions than his inspector. “Nevertheless, before you go home,” Martin handed Franc a note, “could one of your men
“I had Joseph put one of your men on Westerbury, thinking we could find out more that way than by having him rot in a cell.”
“But by the time Old Joseph—”
“Yes,” Martin put up his hand, “but he could not have gone far, and I did keep his identification card.”
This precaution did not placate Franc, whose chest was still heaving with indignation. Martin decided to change the subject. “You searched the Vernet apartment?”
Franc shrugged. “This morning, while you were questioning our suspect. Nothing helpful, I’m afraid.” He was beginning to retreat into a more appropriate attitude.
“Did you speak to the maid?”
“Tried to. She whimpered half the time, wailed the other half.” Franc imitated a woman’s high whining voice: “‘Mme Solange, poor Mme Solange.’” He blew air out of his mouth in disgust. “Maybe after she gets over her hysteria—”
“Did she tell you that Mme Vernet received a note before going to the quarry?”
“No.” Franc straightened up. “Who told you that?”
“Westerbury.”
This small triumph was short-lived. “He could be lying.”
“I don’t think so,” said Martin, standing his ground. “Did you look through any papers?”
“Yes. Bills, calling cards, that’s about it.”
“The purse?”
“Only a few coins.”
“And the quarry?”
The inspector shook his head. “Me and the boys went over everything again. Found nothing. She was killed there, we know that. No trail of blood. But no knife either. And,” Franc raised his eyebrows in amusement, “no other works of ‘art.’”
“Very well,” Martin said. In spite of the doubts that Franc had just aroused, he had to show who was in charge. “I’ve telegraphed Paris to see if they have anything on Westerbury and Vernet. Tomorrow I’ll need to question the maid, and then Cézanne. If you or one of your boys could keep track of Westerbury. . . .” At least Franc refrained from delivering another reproach. “And” Martin reiterated, “let’s not forget the note. Westerbury said that the message was delivered by a boy. We must find him. He may be a key—”
“If there really was a note, and if the killer did not get to him first. . . .”
“But if it was, as you say, a crime of passion, on the spur of the moment—” Martin stammered. He hadn’t thought until that moment that an unknown child might be in danger.
“A murderer will do anything to cover his tracks.”
And Martin had let Westerbury go. Cézanne was still out there. Martin’s mouth ran dry. His mind raced. If the killer had argued with Solange Vernet in the quarry, if she had rebuffed him, surely she would be his only victim.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I was only suggesting a possibility.” Franc must have read the distress on Martin’s face. “Like I said before, all my experience tells me it’s a simple crime of passion. Nothing more. Committed by some weakling like your Englishman.”
A possibility . A possibility that Martin needed to put out of his mind for the moment. He needed to stick to his plan. He fingered the medical report. At least Dr. Riquel’s findings seemed to confirm the hypothesis that Solange Vernet had been killed in a moment of rage. She had also been raped.
“Did you tell Westerbury that Mme Vernet may have been violated?” Martin asked quietly. He was sure that Riquel had discussed the torn undergarments and traces of semen with Franc.
“No, I just question suspects to find out what they know. I don’t give information unless I think it will get something out of them. As soon as he saw the body, he blubbered like a woman, and then he would not talk. Besides, who knows if it was really rape , considering the kind of woman she was?”
Martin had considered the kind of woman Solange Vernet had been and had come to different conclusions than his inspector. “Nevertheless, before you go home,” Martin handed Franc a note, “could one of your men
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