Read Online The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth - Free Book Online Page A

can’t think I did
that
,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the body.
    â€œThen perhaps you should tell me what you were doing in an old man’s apartment after midnight. And we’ll speak in English, if you don’t mind.” He wanted to hear her side of the story in her native tongue. He immediately thought of Beckett.
    â€œMy French is fine.”
    â€œI know.”
    She sighed. “I’m an authority on Cézanne’s works,” she began. “And I’ve spent the past five years researching his life.”
    â€œHis life?” Verlaque asked. “And not his work? You’re an art historian.”
    â€œI’m interested in both, naturally,” she replied. “But I’ve been commissioned to write his biography. Biographies are hot right now. They sell much better than art history books.”
    Verlaque smiled slightly, as he was a lover of biographies. “And so you know that twenty-three rue Boulegon was the artist’s last residence.”
    She nodded and sipped some tea. “I booked into my hotel, on the rue Cardinale, at around five p.m. I showered, then walked around Aix, following those bronze Cs embedded into Aix’s sidewalks. There are quite a few missing, by the way.”
    â€œThey get stolen.”
    Rebecca Schultz sighed again. “Incredible.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t come to Boulegon straightaway?” Verlaque asked. “Given that Cézanne died here.”
    â€œI was saving it for last,” she replied. “Like the best candies, when you’re a kid. Do you understand?”
    Veralaque nodded.
    She went on, “After strolling through Aix, I stopped for a Moroccan dinner on the rue Van Loo. It was just before eight p.m.”
    â€œVan Loo?” Verlaque asked. “That’s off the beaten track,isn’t it?” He knew the restaurant and it wasn’t one tourists could easily find, or would choose.
    â€œCézanne was married in the church on Sextius,” she answered. “I wanted to go in, but it was locked, no doubt due to theft.” She looked at Verlaque as if he were to blame for his countrymen’s faults. “And then I spotted what looked like a very quaint North African restaurant. Small interior, handwritten menu, with beautiful Moroccan pottery on the tables. I’ve been in Aix enough times to know that it’s hard to find a good restaurant here.”
    â€œWould the restaurant staff remember you?”
    â€œYes, certainly.”
    Verlaque stayed silent, waiting for her to explain why. They might remember her for her exotic beauty alone, which she was no doubt aware of.
    â€œThey’d remember, because the restaurant was run by a couple, and we spoke in some detail of the food, especially the desserts. There was one—I can’t remember its name—made from dates. The woman—she was the one who cooked—was in the middle of making another batch in their tiny kitchen and led me back there to show me.”
    â€œWhat time did you leave?”
    â€œI left just after nine p.m., then walked back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed. But I awoke around midnight—the people next door had just come back and were banging around in their room—and so I got dressed and went out for a walk. I naturally came up to Boulegon, as if my feet were leading me here. I knew that I should be seeing it in the daylight, but I couldn’t stay away.”
    â€œDid you ring downstairs?” he asked.
    Dr. Schultz raised her eyebrows. “No, of course not. I wasleaning against a shop opposite, staring up at the building, trying to imagine Cézanne’s life on this street, in these rooms. I was about to go back to the hotel when I saw him.”
    â€œThe deceased?”
    â€œNo. A guy—he was short and bald—running out of the building, carrying something, a painting, or a mirror, in his arms, wrapped up in a throw.”