Murder in the Rue Dumas: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mystery (Verlaque and Bonnet Provencal Mysteries) (13 page)

Verlaque asked, “You weren’t at this party at Dr. Moutte’s. Why not? You were invited,
non
?”

“I was invited, yes, but why go to an event where you know no one will speak to you,” Ossart answered with a half question.

“Is that your usual experience at the university?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes.”

Paulik looked at Verlaque and then at Ossart. “Surely you speak to Professor Rodier, your adviser?”

“Our conversations are limited to our mutual studies—Saint Bernard and the Cistercians.”

“When did you find out about Dr. Rodier’s argument with the doyen?”

Claude Ossart paused for the briefest of seconds before replying. “The next day, Dr. Rodier phoned me. He told me about their argument and the doyen’s decision to postpone his retirement.”

“Even though your conversations are usually limited to Saint Bernard,” Paulik said.

Ossart smiled despite the severity of the commissioner’s tone. “I guess not all the time. Dr. Rodier is recently divorced, and I think he just wanted someone to talk to. I think he felt guilty too.”

“Guilty?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes. Guilty for secretly hoping that with Dr. Moutte dead, he might get the post of doyen.”

Verlaque noted the very mature way in which Claude Ossart spoke, so different from the shy mumbling of Garrigue and the nervous chatter of Thierry and Yann. “Are you hopeful as well?” he asked.

“Of course. I’ve worked hard to get where I am in my studies. I’ve recently coauthored a paper with Dr. Rodier. Dr. Rodier is by far the most qualified scholar to be the next doyen, and he deserves that post.”

“It would help your career too,” Paulik said.

“I can assure you that I had only Dr. Rodier in mind,” Ossart replied with a seriousness that both men noted. “But you’re right, it would help my career, and the continuation of the study and promotion of the Cistercian order.”

“Thierry Marchive told us that he and Yann ran across you late Friday evening.”

“Yes, I was coming home from the gym. I was just about to cross the cours Mirabeau and they were on their way to some pub. They were drunk, of course. They wanted me to go to a pub with them to pick up girls, but they weren’t being sincere. They know I don’t go in for that kind of thing, I don’t drink nor do I ‘pick up girls,’ as they call it. And I know they don’t even like me, so the invitation was hardly genuine.”

“Do you think that anyone saw you go home? A neighbor, perhaps?” Paulik asked.

Ossart shook his head back and forth. “No. I took the small back roads home and I live on the ground floor, so I rarely pass anyone in my building, unless we’re coming or leaving at the same time. There are a few restaurants on my street, but they were already closed for the evening.”

“I need to know more, Claude. Why
exactly
didn’t you go to Dr. Moutte’s party?” Verlaque asked. “And what did you do instead?”

Claude Ossart paused. “I was invited, as were the other grad students, but I don’t like those social events.” Again there was a brief silence, and then he continued. “I’m working on a paper with Dr. Rodier on the Cistercian order in Provence, and in the afternoon we had made an interesting discovery, and I was anxious to get to the library and look it up. That seemed a more pleasant way for me to spend a Friday evening, than to pretend to like my fellow students.”

“What about the professors?” Verlaque asked.

“What about them?”

“Do you like them?”

“No. I’m afraid I’m biased…I’ve worked for two years now alongside Dr. Rodier, and I see that his scholarship, his dedication to his subject, greatly excels that of the other professors.”

Verlaque said nothing, but he doubted that Dr. Leonetti was not a fine scholar.

“Dr. Moutte included?” Paulik asked.

“Especially him.”

Verlaque looked at Paulik and then at Claude Ossart.

“Go on, Claude. What do you mean?”

“Dr. Moutte’s research was unoriginal. He was more interested in the Cluny order’s love of art than any theological issues.”

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Moutte?” Verlaque asked, intigued that someone so young would be confident, or bold enough, to find fault in his elders.

Ossart looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to remember. “Last week, he called me into his office. It was before I was about to lead a seminar class for first-year students on the Old Testament, so Wednesday, just after lunch.”

“Why did he want to see you?” Paulik asked.

“To wave the Dumas prize in front of my face,” Ossart replied with no trace of hostility. “He liked doing that, making hints about the fellowship and then changing the subject. He was also supposed to sign off on a research grant I was applying for, but then when I got there he had forgotten the paperwork at home. It was a total waste of time, and it made me late for my seminar class.” Ossart had raised his voice for the first time during the interview. “I hate being late,” he finally added.

“I understand,” Verlaque said. “That will be all for now. Could you please leave us your key to the building?” Ossart reached down into his front jeans pocket and pulled out a large silver key and laid it gently on the desk.

“I of course could have made a copy,” he said.

“We will have to trust that you didn’t,” Paulik answered, taking the key. “You may leave now.”

Ossart stood up and carefully placed his chair back under the desk before leaving.

“Thank you,” Verlaque said.

“You’re welcome,” Ossart answered. “If you need me, I’ll be in the library. Second floor, last desk at the end, facing the window.”

Officer Cazal came in with lunch for Verlaque and Paulik, said, “
Bon appétit
!” and closed the door behind her.

“It’s funny, I mean odd, that we should interview Claude Ossart and Bernard Rodier back-to-back, given that Ossart is Rodier’s assistant,” Paulik said, checking the list, finishing his tea and tossing the plastic cup in the wastepaper basket. Their lunch had consisted of tuna sandwiches, grated carrot salad with an industrial-tasting dressing, and then surprisingly good and oily brownies that a caterer had delivered to the university. The university coffee was so bad that Paulik had resorted to drinking tea,
which suited the unusually gray weather. Verlaque skipped both and drank sparkling water.

“Yes, we’ll be able to compare mentor and student,” Verlaque answered. He was about to ask Paulik what he thought of the interviewees so far when the door was opened and Dr. Bernard Rodier quickly walked in and sat down.

“Terrible, terrible news,” he said, looking from the judge to the commissioner.

“Yes,” Verlaque answered. He looked at the professor, handsome enough that he could have been a leading actor on one of the American television shows that Sylvie Grassi watched on DVD. He was about six feet tall, broad shouldered, lightly tanned even in November, and had thick white hair. His face was perfectly chiseled, a large square jaw and large mouth, perfect teeth, and dark eyes.

“You’ve no doubt heard of the argument I had with Georges on the night of the party,” Rodier quickly said. Before Paulik or Verlaque could reply, he went on, “Georges had made an announcement last week that he would be retiring within the year, either at the end of this term, at Christmas, or in May. On Friday night, at the party, I simply asked him if he had decided yet if he was leaving after Christmas or in May.” Rodier looked from commissioner to judge as if to double-check that they were still listening and then continued.

“I begin a year’s sabbatical in January, and I simply wanted to know when Georges would be announcing his replacement. If I was fortunate enough to be offered the post, and if the job began in January, that would mean I would have to change my travel plans, as you can imagine.”

Verlaque nodded and quickly said, “Yes, I see that. And that was when Dr. Moutte raised his voice?”

“He shouted, yes! He told me that he was, in fact, not retiring just yet, or anytime soon. I was most affronted! To be treated like that, in front of my colleagues and the students. I left immediately.”

“Where did you go?” Verlaque asked.

Once again, the words came quickly and easily, and Verlaque wondered if they had been rehearsed. “I went and got my car out of the public parking garage and drove home, naturally. I live in an apartment on the avenue Philippe Solari, just north of downtown.”

“What time did you get home?” Paulik asked.

“It was just before 10:00 p.m., because I watched the news at 10:00 p.m. on television. Nothing else seems to be worth watching. I then read for a bit, then turned off the lights at 11:00 p.m.”

“Do you live alone?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes, I’ve been separated from my wife for over a year now. She kept the house, in Puyricard.”

“Did anyone see or hear you come home?” Paulik asked.

Rodier seemed surprised by the question, as if he only now realized that he was being asked for an alibi.

“Well, no,” he answered, this time slowly and awkwardly. “My apartment is on the ground floor, in the back of the building. My neighbors who live above, a young couple, came home late, after I had already turned in for the evening. I heard them laughing in the hallway.”

Paulik silently noted that both Rodier and his assistant lived in ground-floor flats and neither had an alibi.

“Were your dealings with Dr. Moutte usually this confrontational?”

“No, not at all! We get…oh, I mean got…on quite well, considering…”

Verlaque turned from Paulik to Rodier.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that Georges and I are on opposite sides of the history of Catholicism in France. He’s a Cluniac specialist, and I research the Cistercians.” Rodier smiled for the first time. “He lived very opulently, like the priests he studied.”

“Are you saying that you have a problem with that?” Verlaque asked.

“No, no,” Rodier answered, stammering. “What I meant, no judgment intended, was that I live very differently.”

“But surely not in a cave or a remote monastery?”

Rodier chuckled, falsely, Verlaque thought. “No, but not as austerely as I should. Simply, let’s say.”

“Do you know a lot about art?” Paulik asked. “The doyen was a collector, was he not?”

“Yes, he was. But I have a very basic, undergraduate-level knowledge of the history of art,” Rodier answered. “That was the one thing we disagreed on. I thought his art collecting…frivolous. That aside, we normally get on quite well, and he had all but promised me the…”

“Post of doyen?” Verlaque finished Rodier’s sentence for him.

Rodier nodded. “Yes. Drs. Rocchia and Leonetti seem to think they were destined for the job, but just last week Georges said to me, ‘When you’re in this office…’ So you see why I was so upset, and surprised, at his outburst and announcement on Friday evening. I was so confident that I even had Claude, my graduate assistant, pack up the bookshelves in my office!”

Rodier suddenly let out a long sigh that sounded to Paulik like the same kind of sigh Léa released when she wasn’t permitted a second helping of Nutella: overly theatrical.

“Your assistant, Claude, he wasn’t at the party…” Verlaque said.

Rodier smiled. “Oh no, a party is not Claude’s cup of tea, I’m afraid. He was at the library, following up on something we had come across in our research earlier that day.”

“And you didn’t tell Claude on Friday night what happened at the party?” Verlaque asked, double-checking Claude’s answer. “Did he know that the doyen had canceled his retirement?”

“No, I didn’t call Claude. I don’t have a cell phone nor does Claude. I called Claude from home later the next day. But I did stop at a phone booth and called my ex-wife on my way to get my car after the party.”

Verlaque raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Rodier shrugged. “We were married for thirty years, and she knew Georges. She had always complained about him, telling me that he was two-faced and that he was more interested in his glass, and in women, than in the university. I called her to tell her what he had just done. She was furious!”

“And then you went home?” Paulik asked.

“Yes. The streets in the Mazarin were oddly quiet. I went home, watched the news, read, and then went to bed.”

When the interviews were finished for the day, Dr. Rodier walked the three miles back to his apartment. The latter bit was up a steep hill, but he didn’t like using his car every day. Bruno Paulik went to hunt down stronger coffee and Verlaque sat in silence, doodling on his notepaper. It had been interesting to interview student and teacher back-to-back, as Paulik had suggested. Something was bothering Verlaque during Rodier’s interview, and he now realized what: the student had been the more mature and better spoken of the two. If Verlaque had been an undergrad and had to pick between a class given by Ossart or Rodier, Verlaque knew that he would choose Claude Ossart’s class, hands down.

P
aulik and Verlaque agreed that on Monday morning they would take a look at Georges Moutte’s apartment and continue any interviews necessary. They still needed to speak to the cleaning woman who had discovered the doyen’s body on Saturday morning. A refugee from Rwanda who had seen too many murders as a young girl, she had been given sedatives by a doctor and had been sent home to rest. She, unlike the boys, had been worried, or curious enough, to lean in close to the body and discover that the doyen had been bludgeoned to death.