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Authors: Barbara Pope
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deliver this to Dr. Riquel? I am requesting that he not tell anyone about the rape. And I am asking the same from you. There is no reason why this has to be reported. It may only cause more panic, once the news of the murder gets out.”
He had prepared this speech. The truth was that he did not want Solange Vernet to suffer this final public indignity unless absolutely necessary.
“If you say so.” Franc paused for a moment, then said, “Sir, I was out of line—”
Martin held his hand up to signify that no apology was necessary.
“But,” Franc continued, “this is the case that could make your career and mine. And, no matter what I said before, I’m sure we can do it. Together, before the Proc comes back.”
“Yes, Franc, that’s my hope too. But we have to be sure we have the right man.”
The inspector hesitated before breaking the silence. “We’ll find him,” he said with quiet conviction, announcing an uneasy truce between them.
Franc had left the box of material evidence on Martin’s desk. Martin did not dig deep to look at Solange Vernet’s torn undergarments. That would have felt like another violation. Nor did he unfold the dress. He had already seen her blood. He only retrieved the medal that lay on top of the parasol. Wrapping the white cord around his hand, he took it over to the window to get a clearer look. It was the same one his mother wore, an emblem of the Virgin standing atop the world with the rays of the sun emanating from her hands. Under this image ran the familiar words “O Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” Had Solange called out to her Virgin for help in those last horrible moments? Or to God? Or had she just cried out in the pain and horror?
Martin clasped the medal hard in his hand, as if it could tell him what kind of woman Solange Vernet had really been. Had she been truly religious? Or a self-taught intellectual? Or, merely, a parvenu who had fashioned herself out of whole cloth, like one of the elegant hats she had made and sold to her wealthy customers? With a sigh, Martin dropped the medal into the evidence box and placed it in the wooden cabinet that stood against the wall across from his bookshelves. He closed the door, locked it, and carefully placed the key in his top drawer. He was done for the day. He had to find a way to forget for a while, to ignore the doubts that Franc had just aroused, about the boy and about Martin’s ability to see through the lies and be tough enough to face down a killer. He needed a respite and longed to be among people for a time before returning to his solitary room.
So he headed to La Bonne Ménagère, a place where every evening bachelors gathered to enjoy the solid bourgeois fare, while they read the newspapers provided by the proprietors. When he walked in, Martin was relieved to see that at least here nothing had changed. Most of the diners were lost in their own thoughts, although a few acknowledged Martin’s arrival with a silent nod. A top hat or bowler—and, for the older men, a walking stick and gloves—occupied the empty seats at the small tables. The couple who ran the restaurant never asked questions and never left their post, even in the most fearsome August heat. Most customers showed their appreciation by appearing several times a week. Although he could hardly afford it, Martin usually found comfort in the little restaurant’s sedate atmosphere.
Tonight, however, he could not concentrate on the narrow, austere columns of yesterday’s Le Temps . The case was stirring up his discontent. He was tired of being lonely and poor. He kept thinking about what “being among people” had meant only a few years ago in Paris, while he was studying at the Law Faculty.
It had been the only period in his life when he had given himself over to moments of pure frivolity and to previously unthinkable possibilities of pleasure. His fellow students, all richer and more sophisticated than he,
He had prepared this speech. The truth was that he did not want Solange Vernet to suffer this final public indignity unless absolutely necessary.
“If you say so.” Franc paused for a moment, then said, “Sir, I was out of line—”
Martin held his hand up to signify that no apology was necessary.
“But,” Franc continued, “this is the case that could make your career and mine. And, no matter what I said before, I’m sure we can do it. Together, before the Proc comes back.”
“Yes, Franc, that’s my hope too. But we have to be sure we have the right man.”
The inspector hesitated before breaking the silence. “We’ll find him,” he said with quiet conviction, announcing an uneasy truce between them.
Franc had left the box of material evidence on Martin’s desk. Martin did not dig deep to look at Solange Vernet’s torn undergarments. That would have felt like another violation. Nor did he unfold the dress. He had already seen her blood. He only retrieved the medal that lay on top of the parasol. Wrapping the white cord around his hand, he took it over to the window to get a clearer look. It was the same one his mother wore, an emblem of the Virgin standing atop the world with the rays of the sun emanating from her hands. Under this image ran the familiar words “O Mary conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.” Had Solange called out to her Virgin for help in those last horrible moments? Or to God? Or had she just cried out in the pain and horror?
Martin clasped the medal hard in his hand, as if it could tell him what kind of woman Solange Vernet had really been. Had she been truly religious? Or a self-taught intellectual? Or, merely, a parvenu who had fashioned herself out of whole cloth, like one of the elegant hats she had made and sold to her wealthy customers? With a sigh, Martin dropped the medal into the evidence box and placed it in the wooden cabinet that stood against the wall across from his bookshelves. He closed the door, locked it, and carefully placed the key in his top drawer. He was done for the day. He had to find a way to forget for a while, to ignore the doubts that Franc had just aroused, about the boy and about Martin’s ability to see through the lies and be tough enough to face down a killer. He needed a respite and longed to be among people for a time before returning to his solitary room.
So he headed to La Bonne Ménagère, a place where every evening bachelors gathered to enjoy the solid bourgeois fare, while they read the newspapers provided by the proprietors. When he walked in, Martin was relieved to see that at least here nothing had changed. Most of the diners were lost in their own thoughts, although a few acknowledged Martin’s arrival with a silent nod. A top hat or bowler—and, for the older men, a walking stick and gloves—occupied the empty seats at the small tables. The couple who ran the restaurant never asked questions and never left their post, even in the most fearsome August heat. Most customers showed their appreciation by appearing several times a week. Although he could hardly afford it, Martin usually found comfort in the little restaurant’s sedate atmosphere.
Tonight, however, he could not concentrate on the narrow, austere columns of yesterday’s Le Temps . The case was stirring up his discontent. He was tired of being lonely and poor. He kept thinking about what “being among people” had meant only a few years ago in Paris, while he was studying at the Law Faculty.
It had been the only period in his life when he had given himself over to moments of pure frivolity and to previously unthinkable possibilities of pleasure. His fellow students, all richer and more sophisticated than he,
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