Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery by M. L. Longworth Page B

himself. Well, Roger could be late if he wanted to—typical for the south, always five or ten minutes late, even on the job—but he would be on time.
    Roger in turn watched Jules skip up the stairs. “What a geek,” he whispered under his breath, lighting his cigarette and smiling at a passing nurse. Jules had hardly spoken to anyone Tuesday night at Alain Flamant’s
pot,
except for some of the female officers and a couple of the secretaries. Roger had overheard Jules saying that he didn’t drink pastis and that he only liked white wines—preferably Rieslings. Most of the officers had changed into civvies for the party, and one of them had nudged Roger and pointed to Jules’s jeans—ironed, with two big pleats running down either leg. Jokes about ironing abounded, until no one listened anymore to Roger and the other policeman, so they poured each other another pastis and consoled each other over the Marseille soccer team’s losing streak.
    Jules was thinking of this moment as he came down the brightly lit hallway toward Mlle Montmory’s room. He had heard the ironing jokes and knew that they were referring to his jeans, but none of the other policemen had paid attention to them, and Commissioner Paulik had even smiled at Jules and rolled his eyes.
    Jules could see Officer Flamant standing at the end of the hallway, speaking to a young red-haired policeman whom Jules knew by sight only. The young man was a rookie and always seemed nervous yet willing to please, and to work hard. Unlike Roger, downstairs smoking. Jules walked up to both men and shook their hands, and was briefed on Mlle Montmory’s condition (critical) and told that only hospital staff, with badges, were to be permitted into her room. In the late afternoon, the girl’s parents would be allowed to visit. Flamant had a photograph of them, which he passed to Jules.
    â€œWhere’s Roger?” Flamant asked.
    â€œHe’ll be up in a minute,” Jules answered. “Um…he forgot something in the car.”
    A doctor wearing a white lab coat emerged from Mlle Montmory’s room and stopped when he saw the two officers. “Hello,” he said, shaking hands with them. “I’m Dr. Charnay. Glad to see that Mlle Montmory’s room is being guarded.”
    Jules Schoelcher read the doctor’s name tag and studied his face; the young officer wanted to try to memorize the names and faces of all hospital personnel who visited Mlle Montmory’s room. “I’m a specialist,” the doctor said, seeing that the younger policeman had studied his name tag. “Have a nice evening,” he said, looking at his watch. “I hope the evening isn’t too dull for you. You can always bug the nurses if you get bored,” he added, laughing.
    â€œGoodbye, Doctor,” Flamant said. The doctor waved and said something to the nurses; Jules saw one of the nurses roll her eyes as he walked out of the ward. Roger suddenly appeared, smelling of smoke, and Flamant sighed and repeated what he had just told Jules. “You’ll be relieved at five p.m.,” Flamant told the two officers. “It goes without saying that you’ll spell each other off when one has to eat or do other business. I want one officer here at all times.”
    The young redhead began moving from side to side, and Flamant realized that he probably had to relieve himself in the men’s room. “You may leave,” he said. “Get a good sleep, and see you tomorrow.”
    Roger laughed as the rookie raced down the hall. “Will Commissioner Paulik pass by today?” he asked.
    â€œProbably,” Flamant answered. “He’s at the bank now, interviewing the employees. He may stop by with Judge Verlaque.”
    â€œAhhhh,” moaned Roger. “Christ!”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œGood thing he wasn’t at your
pot,
eh, Alain?” Roger went on, slapping