The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth Page B

sound asleep.”
    Pierre mumbled something in acknowledgment.
    Rue Boulegon was no longer a posh street that housed an eccentric artist, as it had been at the turn of the century; it was now a street of kebab stands, shops selling inexpensive clothing and jewelry from India and Africa, and other miscellaneous businesses whose owners couldn’t afford the rent elsewhere.
    â€œI’ve always liked Boulegon,” Pierre said. “I miss it.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” Verlaque answered, sensing that his friend, out of nervousness, wanted to talk of something neutral. “Every town should have a street like this, although I fear its time is running out.”
    Pierre was about to lament the increasing rents andglobalization of Aix’s shops but instead pulled the key out of his pocket that would let them into number 23. The urgency of René’s message sounded once again in his head and he fumbled trying to open the door that he had passed through daily for years. He pushed the key in and turned for a third time; the heavy wood door finally opened and they entered the hallway. It had always smelled of dust to Pierre, and it did so this evening, but mixed with something odd, like wet woods.
    Verlaque motioned for Pierre to leave the hall lights off. There was enough street light coming in through the transom window above the front door, and Verlaque pulled out his new cell phone and used its flashlight. Quickly they made their way up the stairs—much narrower than in Verlaque’s more noble building—stopping when they reached René’s door.
    â€œLight,” whispered Pierre, pointing to the strip of light shining under the front door. “And I can hear someone in there.”
    Verlaque held his finger to his lips. He held up his cell phone and made a dialing motion for Pierre to try René’s phone.
    Pierre pulled out his cell phone and called the old man’s home phone. Within seconds they could hear the telephone ring. The shuffling noise in the apartment stopped.
    Verlalque motioned toward the door, signaling what both men knew: there was an intruder in the apartment; otherwise René would have answered the phone. Verlaque thought that with luck the door might still be unlocked if the intruder hadn’t thought to lock it behind them. He put his hand on the ancient brass doorknob and slowly turned. The door opened.
    Before the judge could stop his friend, Pierre, panicked, ranin and called out to his former neighbor. “Pierre!” Verlaque called out. “Don’t!”
    The door across the hall to Pierre’s former apartment opened, and a young man in pajamas rubbed his eyes and asked, “What’s going on?”
    â€œPolice,” Verlaque said. “Go back inside.” He heard the man mumble something to a woman named Françoise as he quickly closed the door.
    Verlaque looked back at René Rouquet’s living room. An old man—he assumed Rouquet—was lying on the floor, near the fireplace. Verlaque saw blood on the threadbare carpet and noticed that the fireplace was made from Mont Sainte Victoire’s orange-colored marble. Pierre was kneeling down, with his index and middle fingers on Rouquet’s neck, immediately remembering the Red Cross lessons he had taken as a teen. Verlaque stood in the doorway and called an ambulance.
    Pierre now smelled the woodsy scent that had permeated the entryway. It was cologne. He slowly turned around and stared, transfixed. Verlaque looked up from his cell phone and now saw the fourth person in the room, standing against a window.
    â€œPlease don’t hurt me,” the intruder said, in English.
    Pierre looked quickly at his friend Antoine Verlaque.
    â€œI didn’t do it,” the intruder said, pointing to René’s body.
    Verlaque held up his hands palms out and walked slowly toward her. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Several