“Who told you he was French?” Pilguez asked as he sat down on the corner of the desk.
“Manon.”
“So, she knows him well, then?”
“No,” Bartel protested. “She met him the day before yesterday at the mausoleum. They ran into each other, and he told her he was a musician. When she learned yesterday morning that our organist was unable to perform, she asked him to perform in his place.”
“And he accepted.”
“Just to have an in, I’m sure of it.”
“But he could have just walked right in, couldn’t he? The Columbarium is open to visitors.”
“I mean he wanted to get access to Camille!”
“Maybe, but why would a renowned concert pianist want to open an urn? It’s a bit morbid.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Manon doesn’t know most of what I’m about to tell you. And I need it to stay that way.”
Pilguez listened patiently as Mr. Bartel told him all about what had brought him to the United States over twenty years earlier.
“All right, so let’s imagine this young man wanted to see what his father’s mistress looked like. Actually, he was a little late for that, wasn’t he? But let’s imagine it was him anyway. What you’re suggesting is a misdemeanor, but not a serious crime. That still doesn’t link him to the robbery case I’m working on.”
“Of course it does. That troublemaker wanted to damage my wife’s urn, despite the fact that she never even became the mistress of that sneaky surgeon. Since he missed his first chance, he came back at night, found Camille’s cabinet empty, guessed the manager had put the urn in a safe place, and broke into his office to find it. Only, the idiot took the wrong urn.”
“A postmortem vendetta. It’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? In any case, I don’t buy it.”
“But it’s so obvious. He wanted to succeed where his father had failed by kidnapping my wife!”
“To do what, take her on a date? Be reasonable, Mr. Bartel. I know you’re going through a difficult time, but you have to admit that it doesn’t make any sense. How old is this man, in his thirties? If he’s performing for the Queen of Sweden, he must be doing pretty well as a pianist. Do you really think he’d cross the Atlantic and risk ruining his life just to get revenge for his father? By stealing ashes? I don’t know a single prosecutor in town who would agree to file charges against someone with such a crazy motive.”
“A man tries to steal my wife, then his son turns up at her funeral. And you think that’s a coincidence?” Bartel shouted as he pounded his fist on the desk.
“Your wife was not a Louis XVI desk. And since she followed you here, no one stole her. Besides, all this took place so long ago. Did the son even know your wife?”
“Of course he knew her. Camille and Raymond used our children as an excuse to be together. They met on the sly next to the merry-go-round, by the swings, or at the beach. That’s where I caught them.”
“But it was so long ago that your daughter didn’t even recognize the child she used to play with. Did this boy maintain any sort of relationship with your wife? Did they see each other after you moved?”
Clearly outraged by the question, Bartel loudly replied that that was obviously impossible.
“Let me suggest a slightly more believable version of the facts. Our pianist, in San Francisco—maybe for a concert—learns that your wife’s funeral will take place during his stay. If we suppose he knew anything about his parents’ love lives—which, need I remind you, your daughter didn’t—he decides to attend, out of curiosity. When his childhood friend, who doesn’t recognize him, asks him to help out by replacing the organist, he agrees, maybe even to make up for his father’s mistakes. All I see is a strange but poetic twist of fate. I’ll question him, on principle, but believe me, he’s not the culprit.”
“I don’t know where you’ll find him,” Bartel replied, now more convinced than ever that his version of the facts was the right one.
“I’ll call Immigration Services and have an address by this afternoon.”
Pilguez decided he’d wasted enough time. This investigation was going nowhere. Someone had stolen an unknown person’s urn, and no one would ever know why. Maybe it was a family matter—some next of kin who didn’t want to pay for a final resting place had ditched the deceased’s remains and then changed his or her mind, racked with guilt. Or maybe someone else had decided to put the urn back. Either way, the thief had almost certainly scattered the ashes since. The truth of what had happened would forever remain a mystery.
Nevertheless, his professional conscience urged him to call a colleague in Immigration from the car. He asked for a copy of Thomas Saurel’s entry record. If the musician was innocent, it would be possible to find him at the address provided. In the meantime, he looked up Manon Bartel online and learned that she was a bookseller.
Pilguez took off toward Geary Boulevard to question her, convinced that she knew much more than she’d told her father.
Manon invited him into the bookstore, seemingly unsurprised by his visit. She obviously knew who had sent him. She offered him her chair and leaned her back against the counter.
“It’s small but rather charming, don’t you think?” she asked.
“A lot more charming than your father’s house, I have to say.”
