“Well, let’s get the intern in here with her paperwork,” Verlaque said. “I’d like her to show me everything before we call Tamain.”
Paulik got up and left the office, pulling his cell phone out of his jacket. Mme Girard was on her way in, and she paused in the doorway. She saw the empty Michaud’s bag and tried not to scowl. “There’s a retired magistrate on the phone for you, Judge. His name is Daniel de Rudder. I was about to take a message when I saw the commissaire leave.”
“Oh! Rudder was one of my professors in Bordeaux,” Verlaque answered. “I’ll take it.
“Âllo?” Verlaque said into the phone. “Juge Rudder?”
“The one and only,” the judge answered and then fell into a coughing fit. Verlaque held the phone’s receiver away from his ear and tried to estimate how old Daniel de Rudder was. Possibly eighty. “Sorry about the cough,” Rudder went on. “But when you’re eighty-eight, these things are bound to happen.”
Verlaque raised his eyebrows at his poor guess. “It’s great to hear from you! Where are you living these days? Still in Arcachon?”
“Yes, I’m sitting here with a woolen throw across my knees like an old man, staring at the flat gray ocean. My daughter-in-law, a retired nurse, keeps bringing me tea. All day long. I hate tea. Do you remember Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”
Verlaque laughed. “So you’re living at your son’s? I’m glad about that.”
“Yes, having children was the best thing I ever did,” Rudder answered. “Especially now, when they can take care of me.” He laughed and exploded into another coughing fit. “I heard you too have finally settled down, and may I say congratulations? Marine Bonnet is a fine woman.”
“You’ve met?”
“No, I’ve read her articles in the law journals,” Rudder answered. “At least I did. But now articles exhaust me. Tintin is about my speed these days.”
Verlaque laughed, not able to believe that Daniel de Rudder—champion sailor, beloved professor, then terrifying magistrate—was now staring at the ocean and reading comic books. “You’re probably wondering why I’m calling you out of the blue,” Rudder said.
“It had crossed my mind.”
“I hear that Valère Barbier is living in Aix.”
“Yes, coincidentally Marine had dinner with him last night, at a friend’s house.”
If Rudder was impressed, he didn’t say. “Nurse Ratched is helping me clean up my affairs and go through old documents. Last night I stayed up way too late and reread my diary from the time of Agathe Barbier’s drowning.”
Verlaque slowly nodded. “You were the magistrate investigating that case . . .”
“Yes, it was my wife’s insane idea to move to Cannes to see some blue sky once in a while. We hated it. We were only on the Côte for two years, but I was there when Agathe Barbier had her accident. A few things are still bothering me . . .”
Three hours later Verlaque closed his office door and headed out for lunch. He had remained on the phone with Daniel de Rudder for another twenty minutes, chatting about friends and the weather, and Rudder agreed that he would arrange to send documents concerning Agathe Barbier. Verlaque imagined Rudder sitting in his wicker chair, tying up the packet of documents with a string, his age-spotted hands trembling, the tea-crazed daughter-in-law hovering in the doorway.
As Verlaque headed out into the noon heat, uncertain where to go, he winked at Mirabeau’s statue—how could a man with a deformed foot, too many missing teeth, and an oversized head have been a lady-killer? He took out his cell phone and called Marine, to see if she was at home, but got her voice mail. She was probably at the library or eating with friends. Marine seemed to know half of Aix.
And so he did what he usually did when he had no lunch plans. He wandered. Wandering in Aix wasn’t as fun for him as wandering in Paris; when he was a teenager his father had jokingly told a friend that Antoine was going to get his PhD in flânerie. In those days he could leave the family home in the 1st arrondissement in the morning, walk up to the top of the butte of Montmartre, then walk back downhill and cross the river to eat lunch in a Left Bank café. Nowadays he couldn’t imagine walking up to Montmartre, but he could possibly walk downhill, if a good dinner met him at the end of his stroll. But Aix, despite its small size, was still a town that surprised him. It held lots of secrets, little gems hidden in its gold stone. Myths, stories, hopes, and wishes that the Aixois had held on to for centuries.
The impending investigation of the mayor depressed Verlaque and at the same time bored him. He walked up the rue Mignet, hands in his pockets, humming a Van Morrison song. “Caravan,” he thought it was called. His paternal grandparents, Emmeline and Charles, would play the record after they had worked a long day in the garden and had poured themselves each a celebratory aperitif: Pimm’s for Emmeline, who was born in London and held fast to certain English traditions, and an inexpensive whiskey, diluted with water, for Charles. Emmeline would sing along, and Verlaque’s grandfather would tease her. She was a much better watercolorist than singer.
He stopped before number 9 and watched as a couple walked out the door, excitedly talking. “Ça alors! C’était magnifique!” the woman said, squeezing her partner’s arm. “Mais oui! Plutôt insolite,” her partner replied, turning his head around to look back down the narrow passageway before closing the door. Verlaque loved the word insolite and asked the couple what lay beyond, as there was no sign or lettering on the front door. “Une boutique surprenante!” they replied almost in unison, and he thanked them, opened the door, and stepped inside.
It was immediately cool in the damp passageway, and as his eyes adjusted from leaving the bright sun he saw dozens
