Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope Read Free Book Online Page B

quarry. Do you know if she was violated? If she struggled?”
    Martin shook his head, painfully aware of the unread medical report on his desk. As the Englishman began to weep uncontrollably, Martin considered what to do with him. Sweat was tickling Martin under his beard and collar, as much from anxiety as from the heat. Never before had he felt his own lack of experience and imagination more keenly. He had run out of questions, and he had not come close to proving anything. At least he did know some things about the Englishman, and that he had two classic motives for murder: money and jealousy. And yet, without prompting or a struggle, Westerbury had revealed the existence of a possible witness, the little messenger. Would a guilty man have done that?
    Martin could, as he had threatened, throw Westerbury into prison. But that was Albert Franc’s world. A world where the inspector would feel free to beat a confession out of a foreigner without a family to stand by and protect him. That was not what Martin wanted. He wanted a valid confession and the real killer, who could easily be the artist who was the banker’s son. Since the man sniveling before him hardly seemed a danger to anyone, Martin decided to demonstrate that France was every bit as civilized as England.
    When Westerbury regained his composure, Martin asked, “What was Mme Vernet’s parish?”
    “Madeleine,” Westerbury whispered.
    “Then you will want to send a priest to arrange a burial. You may also want to bring some fresh clothes to the morgue.”
    The Englishman nodded.
    “You may go now.”
    Dazed, Westerbury pushed himself up from the chair and put his hat on his head. “That’s all?”
    “No, I can assure you that this is only the beginning,” Martin said, trying to sound cool and in command, while desperately hoping that he would do better in his next encounter with the Englishman. “Of course, you realize that if you leave town it will be taken as a sign of your guilt or complicity. And,” he added, “I also expect that you will not threaten your maid in any way.”
    Westerbury backed slowly into the foyer. When he reached the door, he gave a little bow to Martin and Joseph before opening it and rushing out into the hallway.
    Martin watched as the door swung shut. The next minute, Old Joseph was beside him, meekly offering his notes, pages and pages covered with spidery handwriting as wispy as the hairs on the old man’s head. Martin took them with a sigh. It would take him all afternoon to decipher and analyze them.
    “Would you like me to open the window, sir?” There was always a look of longing in the clerk’s yellowing brown eyes, as if he wanted to prove that he was still useful.
    “No, thank you, Joseph. I’d like you to go find Franc and tell him to have the Englishman followed. Then you can take the rest of the day off.” When his clerk retreated and began to put away his things, Martin pushed out the window that overlooked the Palais square, letting in the voices of those going home for their midday meal. He watched until he saw the erect figure of Charles Westerbury emerge from the narrow street at the side of the courthouse, walking slowly and stiffly, as if he were putting his innocence and dignity on display for all to see.

3
    W ESTERBURY WAS, INDEED, CONSCIOUS OF the deliberateness of his movements. Just one foot in front of the other, old boy, he kept repeating to himself, and soon you’ll be out of sight. Despite the wild pounding of his heart, he was not about to let them detect any signs of weakness. Especially not that brute of a detective. Nor that intolerable prig of a judge, always tugging at his neat little beard as if he fashioned himself to be some young Solomon. That clever glint in his eyes. Those little inquisitorial tricks up his sleeve. Well, monsieur le juge, monsieur le petit juge, has a lot to learn before he can drag anything out of me.
    So concentrated was Westerbury on walking a straight line