Bertie and the Crime of Passion by Peter Lovesey

Author:Peter Lovesey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2019-01-29T19:21:44+00:00

CHAPTER 11

After that, I need fortifying,” I told Bernhardt. “Shall we find ourselves some lunch?”

This being a fine morning, the first promise of spring, we strolled in the sunshine as far as the Pont Michel and crossed to the Left Bank, to the boulevard Saint-Michel, or Boul’Mich, as it is known to all Parisians. At the top end, it is lined with cafés and restaurants catering to every nationality. We walked past several where we would have looked conspicuous. The Vachette was filled with elegantly dressed Africans from, I would guess, Madagascar and Martinique, who would, I am sure, have wel­comed us. A band of cadets of the Ecole Polytechnique in their cocked hats had occupied the Soufflet; and the Café Steinbach was emphatically given over to Germans drinking beer at fifty centimes a glass. We wanted a table on the sunny side of the boulevard, and we finally settled for a discreet place in the third row outside the Café d’Harcourt, where the English tend to congregate, and ordered aperitifs. I suppose the weather had put people in a larky mood, because we could hear much laughter from the other tables. A pretty grisette unselfconsciously lifted her skirt to place a handkerchief in her stocking top, whereupon a young man at another table created much amusement by slyly imitating her, slipping his matchbox into his sock. It was diffi­cult to credit amid this gaiety that people were languishing in dark cells just across the bridge.

I made an effort to dismiss the thought. “Cannes is calling to me,” I told Sarah. “Do you think if I left this afternoon I could be there before midnight?”

She turned to me and placed her hand over mine. “Bertie, you can’t leave Paris.”

Ever the optimist, I took this to mean that she wanted to rekindle the flame so unkindly extinguished the previous evening, but she added immediately, “We must do something about that odious little man.”

“Goron?”

“Unless we stop him, he’ll force a confession and an inno­cent man will go to the guillotine.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s likely,” I told her. “No one but Morgan could be the murderer.”

She said nothing, making her disagreement clear by star­ing across the street as if I was no longer at the same table.

Tolerantly—for I knew she was genuinely troubled—I reminded her that her own country’s law has its safeguards. “It isn’t only up to Goron. The juge d’instruction will see that the police are conducting the investigation properly.”

She was unconvinced. “Can you imagine a magistrate who would disbelieve the famous Goron?” Turning to face me, she said in a tone that was almost accusing, it was so forceful, “Bertie, you conscripted me as your assistant and now you must listen to me. Morgan is innocent. I understand him, because I, too, am an artist. I value my talent above all things. Morgan cares too much about painting to put it at risk by killing a man. His supposed motive for the crime isn’t at all convincing. Look, the man has been living on the edge of poverty all his life.

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