“Excuse me?”
“If the urn contains your wife’s ashes, why did you steal it?”
“I didn’t steal anything at all. What are you talking about? The manager of the Columbarium knows very well why I couldn’t let him keep her.”
“I’ve come straight from his office, and he didn’t seem to be in the know.”
Pilguez studied his surroundings. Wainscoting, crown moldings, fine oak detailing, antique furniture, paintings by master artists on the walls—luxury in all its forms. It occurred to him that his entire salary wouldn’t be enough to purchase the pair of wing chairs in front of him.
“Something doesn’t make sense. A man of your circumstances would have called his lawyers instead of breaking a window. What came over you?”
“I don’t understand a single thing you’re saying. Someone tried to open my wife’s urn after the funeral. I assumed it was the work of an unstable person and asked Dignity Memorial to give it back to me to prevent him from doing it again. I signed a form and brought Camille back home.”
“Your deceased wife, I assume.”
“What window are you talking about?”
Pilguez didn’t answer. Instead, he asked Mr. Bartel if his daughter was in.
“Manon? What does she have to do with any of this?”
“Your wife isn’t the only one to have left the Columbarium. An urn was stolen last night, and the only lead I have—if it’s even a lead at all, I have my doubts about that—is a gardener’s claim that he saw a suspicious man in the park with your daughter.”
“Come in,” Bartel ordered. “I might know who he is.”
Pilguez followed Mr. Bartel to his office. The splendor of the first room was nothing compared to the ostentatious luxury he found in this one. A Louis XVI desk with matching marquise chairs, Persian rugs—even the wallpaper and curtains looked priceless. The detective gawked at a Picasso and a van Gogh.
“Do you like art?” Bartel asked.
“I do when it’s in a museum. Might I ask what you do for a living?”
“If you think it will help with your investigation.”
“No, I’m just curious. You said you knew the suspect?”
“I said I think I might know who he is. That’s not exactly the same thing. But before I say more, I need to know you’ll leave my daughter out of all this.”
“I promise to do my job. We’ll see about the rest.”
The two men sized each other up, then Bartel turned his computer screen around.
“Are you going to a concert tonight?” Pilguez asked as he studied the poster on the screen.
“This is your criminal.”
Pilguez leaned in and examined the features of the pianist posing in front of a grand piano at Stockholm’s opera house.
“What makes you so sure? Sweden isn’t exactly next door.”
“He was there yesterday, at the Columbarium. I recognize him.”
“But, just moments ago, you corrected me, saying you didn’t know him. So, how did you identify this person as Thomas Saurel?”
“By looking up ‘pianist,’ ‘French,’ and ‘concerts.’ It’s not rocket science. I’ll be sure to donate some money to your precinct so you can replace your typewriters with computers,” Bartel joked bitterly.
Pilguez stared at the bereaved man, a fiery look in his eyes. “You’re arrogant, just like every other person who’s never had to struggle. But your show of money doesn’t impress me. You couldn’t pay me to spend a single night in this house. You’d better change your tone if you want this conversation to continue.”
Bartel looked at his feet and, after a brief silence, apologized, blaming his behavior on the pain of having lost his wife.
