craft. A member of the faubourg association . . . a distinguished member. Once a compagnard de devoir , a traveling craftsman, if memory serves.”
“Not me. Only those who complete the seven-year course and finish their chef d’oeuvre, Commissaire, can claim that distinction.” But his shoulders relaxed. This man had done his homework.
“What about your chef d’oeuvre ?” he asked, motioning Cavour toward an opened door, the first of many in the long, linoleum-tiled hall.
“Never completed,” Mathieu said. “I attended the École Boule later.”
Inside, Mathieu heard the chorus to Verdi’s Requiem , a Palais des Congrès de Paris recording, emanating from a radio. On the cluttered desk, a computer terminal screen blinked and a sheaf of papers filled the oversized printer tray.
“Not my office, I’m borrowing it,” the flic said apologetically. “But it’s tidier than mine. Sit down.” He pushed a blue-tinged plastic bottle of Vittel toward Cavour and sat down.
“Tell me why the murdered woman had your chisel, Monsieur Cavour,” he said simply. “Then you’ll be released and I can go home after a twelve-hour shift.”
Mathieu didn’t want to believe this was happening. Didn’t want to think of the suspicions this tired-looking man with the jowly face entertained.
“But who was she . . . this unfortunate person?”
The Commissaire sat forward in his chair, his eyes intent. “Didn’t you know the woman who lived in the passage behind you?”
Was the Commissaire trying to trap him?
“I don’t know people who live next to me in my own passage anymore, and I’ve lived there all my life,” Mathieu said. He spread his arms out in exasperation. “ Bien sûr , I know the old inhabitants, the people I grew up with. But the quartier ’s changing. Old people die and the property’s sold to upstarts— architects who make apartments into lofts, developers who tear down historic buildings and atéliers to build new condos.”
“Don’t call me an expert but my impression is that the quartier ’s already mixte , rich, gay, some craftmen like you, young families, singles into the nightlife, couples; it’s Paris today.”
“All gougers and opportunists!”
“Did you classify Josiane Dolet as one of them?”
Mathieu blinked, taken aback.
He felt the Commissaire’s eyes boring into him.
“Josiane? Never, she’s my friend, a member of the historic preservation association . . .”
“Past tense, if you please,” he said. “How did you know her?”
Sadness washed over him.
“I bury my head in my work. . . . People call me a hermit,” Cavour said. “But I have so much to do, it’s easy to fall behind. The apprentices from École Boule, well . . . the way they work differs from my approach. Bon, their technique is good but . . .”
He shook his head, lost in thought, and lapsed into silence.
Despite École Boule’s prestige—the founder Charles Boule invented the chest of drawers—Mathieu knew the young ones didn’t like the long hours. Or the minute attention to detail. Tedious, they’d tell him. They rejected all the things drummed into Mathieu by his father. His father never gave him a day off, yet these young ones expected holidays, sick days. Demanded it. But Mathieu was old-school and his craft would die with him.
“Tell me about Josiane Dolet,” the Commissaire said.
Mathieu hesitated. Mistrust flooded him. How much should he reveal?
Thursday Morning
AIMÉE SHUDDERED. SWEAT BEADED her upper lip. She balanced herself against the smooth Formica-topped chest of drawers beside her. She’d never realized how difficult putting on her underwear could be. Forget matching or even clean. Wearing a leopard thong with the black lace bra wouldn’t matter, not even if they were inside out.
First she had to find them, then get one leg in and then the other, and pull them up.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Loud and in front of her.
Merde!
You might want to close your
“Not me. Only those who complete the seven-year course and finish their chef d’oeuvre, Commissaire, can claim that distinction.” But his shoulders relaxed. This man had done his homework.
“What about your chef d’oeuvre ?” he asked, motioning Cavour toward an opened door, the first of many in the long, linoleum-tiled hall.
“Never completed,” Mathieu said. “I attended the École Boule later.”
Inside, Mathieu heard the chorus to Verdi’s Requiem , a Palais des Congrès de Paris recording, emanating from a radio. On the cluttered desk, a computer terminal screen blinked and a sheaf of papers filled the oversized printer tray.
“Not my office, I’m borrowing it,” the flic said apologetically. “But it’s tidier than mine. Sit down.” He pushed a blue-tinged plastic bottle of Vittel toward Cavour and sat down.
“Tell me why the murdered woman had your chisel, Monsieur Cavour,” he said simply. “Then you’ll be released and I can go home after a twelve-hour shift.”
Mathieu didn’t want to believe this was happening. Didn’t want to think of the suspicions this tired-looking man with the jowly face entertained.
“But who was she . . . this unfortunate person?”
The Commissaire sat forward in his chair, his eyes intent. “Didn’t you know the woman who lived in the passage behind you?”
Was the Commissaire trying to trap him?
“I don’t know people who live next to me in my own passage anymore, and I’ve lived there all my life,” Mathieu said. He spread his arms out in exasperation. “ Bien sûr , I know the old inhabitants, the people I grew up with. But the quartier ’s changing. Old people die and the property’s sold to upstarts— architects who make apartments into lofts, developers who tear down historic buildings and atéliers to build new condos.”
“Don’t call me an expert but my impression is that the quartier ’s already mixte , rich, gay, some craftmen like you, young families, singles into the nightlife, couples; it’s Paris today.”
“All gougers and opportunists!”
“Did you classify Josiane Dolet as one of them?”
Mathieu blinked, taken aback.
He felt the Commissaire’s eyes boring into him.
“Josiane? Never, she’s my friend, a member of the historic preservation association . . .”
“Past tense, if you please,” he said. “How did you know her?”
Sadness washed over him.
“I bury my head in my work. . . . People call me a hermit,” Cavour said. “But I have so much to do, it’s easy to fall behind. The apprentices from École Boule, well . . . the way they work differs from my approach. Bon, their technique is good but . . .”
He shook his head, lost in thought, and lapsed into silence.
Despite École Boule’s prestige—the founder Charles Boule invented the chest of drawers—Mathieu knew the young ones didn’t like the long hours. Or the minute attention to detail. Tedious, they’d tell him. They rejected all the things drummed into Mathieu by his father. His father never gave him a day off, yet these young ones expected holidays, sick days. Demanded it. But Mathieu was old-school and his craft would die with him.
“Tell me about Josiane Dolet,” the Commissaire said.
Mathieu hesitated. Mistrust flooded him. How much should he reveal?
Thursday Morning
AIMÉE SHUDDERED. SWEAT BEADED her upper lip. She balanced herself against the smooth Formica-topped chest of drawers beside her. She’d never realized how difficult putting on her underwear could be. Forget matching or even clean. Wearing a leopard thong with the black lace bra wouldn’t matter, not even if they were inside out.
First she had to find them, then get one leg in and then the other, and pull them up.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Loud and in front of her.
Merde!
You might want to close your
Similar Books
