Chapter Eighteen

Boussicault opened the door and nodded at someone outside. Docteure Dwamena entered. Then she stopped.

“Rachel?”

The capitaine gestured toward a chair, waiting for her to sit down. Then he explained, “Rachel is working with me. In fact, she has been working with me for the past few weeks. After Monsieur Laurent’s death Raida Dounôt and I agreed it might be wise to have someone on the inside, since one possibility was that his murderer might have worked at the library.” Rachel admired the vagueness of that “might have worked.” Boussicault continued, “I asked Rachel to work here to see what she could find out about Laurent’s colleagues. In case there was something significant.” His voice weakened on the last sentence, as if he had only just realized how distressing this revelation might be. Rachel, too, suddenly felt guilty for what she now understood was an ongoing trick she’d played on her colleagues.

Docteure Dwamena’s expression didn’t change. The skin around her eyes tightened for a moment, but she said, “I understand.”

“I’m sorry.” Boussicault sounded as if he really was.

Unexpectedly, Docteure Dwamena waved a dismissive hand. “I think we have more pressing concerns now. And perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, look at what’s been happening. First Laurent, then the book, and now this!” She folded her hands in her lap, but Rachel could see the tips of her fingers digging into the flesh beneath them.

“Yes.” The capitaine shared her sorrow for a moment. When he began speaking again, to Rachel’s surprise he didn’t ask about Giles Morel. “How long have you worked here, Docteure?” His tone was conversational.

“Fifteen years. I started in 2000.”

“As head of this department?”

“No, no.” She smiled. “I began in cataloging. At that point we were just beginning to switch to the Internet as our primary interface, and it was my job to think about how to position the Rare Books and Manuscripts catalog so the public could know easily what we had and how to find it.”

“And how long have you been head of Rare Books and Manuscripts?”

“Almost ten years. Since the autumn of 2005.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“All the time?”

“Well”—she smiled—“no job is enjoyable all the time. But I’ve enjoyed it for the most part, with some occasional dissatisfactions.” Rachel saw that her fingers had unhooked; her hands were now clasped softly in her lap.

Boussicault leaned forward. “I was interested by what you just said, grouping Monsieur Morel’s death with the theft from the book and the death of Monsieur Laurent. If you don’t mind, I’d like to begin by asking you some questions about Monsieur Laurent, since his murder is still unsolved.” Docteure Dwamena nodded. “Was he one of the job’s dissatisfactions?”

“He was certainly a grain of sand in my shell.”

“Did it irritate you that you couldn’t turn him into a pearl?”

The doctor crossed her ankles and sat up straight. “Capitaine, it may surprise you to hear me say this, but until recently Laurent didn’t need smoothing in any area that concerned me. He was an excellent librarian.”

What makes an excellent librarian? Rachel wondered. Did he always check the date on his book stamp? Did he have an especially fierce shush?

As if reading her mind, Docteure Dwamena offered a more serious answer. “He knew how to build a collection. He could spot gaps in our holdings that, when we made acquisitions to fill them, became new connections for scholars and made us unique among national libraries. He had a superb sense for the possibilities of holdings. In that way, he was a great asset.”

“But not in other ways? After all, he was quite deliberately antagonizing your employees.”

“Yes, I knew about his personality.” She sighed. “He was a true sadist. Not a sexual sadist, but someone who loved to cause people emotional pain, ideally lasting emotional pain. When he first began working here, I was made aware of some behaviors, but after a couple of warnings it stopped being a problem in the workplace. Until recently. I knew what he did to Giles and to LouLou, of course”—she sighed again—“but as you must know, there is a great deal of difference between knowing things and being able to prove them. And proof is what matters to an employment tribunal.” She spread her hands. “You can’t fire a man for breaking his coworker’s heart, and with Giles—well, there was a chance, however small, that Giles could have left his locker unlocked, or that someone unknown tampered with his manuscript.”

“But if you can’t fire someone,” Boussicault said, echoing Rachel’s thoughts, “removing them another way comes to look very attractive.”

“But murder is a rather extreme form of removal. And what if they have saving graces? As I say, he was a gift to the profession.” She gave a tiny smile. “As it happens, I had begun the process of having him transferred to the Mitterand site, so that they might benefit from his talents. With a nice raise, so he wouldn’t be inclined to angle for my job here.”

Checkmate, Rachel thought. Even Boussicault looked impressed. He continued, “Now, tell me, Docteure, what did you do this morning before the library opened?”

She gave him a level look. “From seven-thirty to eight AM, I was in the Café Korcarz having a croissant and coffee, as I am every morning before work. I then walked here, arriving at eight thirty, as I usually do. From eight thirty to nine I was on the telephone with our conservation team. They are about to take annual holiday, and we were covering some final issues before they did so. At nine I went to the side door to let Rachel in.”

“I hope you don’t mind my saying that we will check all this.” She nodded, and Boussicault scarcely took a breath before he moved on. “Now we come to Morel. Was he a gift to the profession?”

The smile vanished. “No. He was a man with hopes beyond his talent.” She looked sad. “And without any self-awareness.”

“And Madame Fournier, what is she like?”

Docteure Dwamena pressed her lips together before she spoke. “Yes. Yes, that is the question, isn’t it? You know all about her assault, I assume?” When Boussicault nodded, she went on. “Before that, she was very shy. Quiet, sweet-tempered … But she changed. Immediately after the attack she became very fearful, very fearful. She showed me a knife that she kept in her bag; she told me she held on to it as she walked home every day, just in case. But then she got survivor’s counseling, and things were much better. She and Giles were friends, you know. He was very supportive—he was a little in love with her, I think. But then Laurent—” She looked at Boussicault. “I don’t have to tell that story, do I?” He shook his head. “Thank God. He ruined her. He really did. Salaud. He confirmed what she feared about men. In fact, he did worse. After the attack she was afraid of dangerous men. He convinced her that all men are dangerous.”

Just at that moment, as if on cue, the door opened and the young blond brigadier came in. He leaned over Boussicault and whispered in his ear. The capitaine stood. “Pardon, mesdames. I will return in a moment.”

LouLou and Docteure Dwamena sat silent. At last Rachel said, “I’m sorry.”

“De rien.”

“I really enjoyed working here.”

“I’m glad.”

The door reopened, admitting Boussicault. In his hands was a large plastic bag, doubled over and stained rusty at the bottom. Sitting down, he put it on the table. “Docteure, would you be willing to tell us if you recognize this item?”

At some point, Rachel was sure, Docteure Dwamena’s composure would crack, but this was not to be that moment. The doctor nodded, her only sign of tension being that she pressed her lips together once again. The capitaine unfolded the bag.

Rachel leaned forward, too. She saw a serrated knife, its blade around five inches long. It was the knife that LouLou had been holding. Dried blood coated its tip and sharp edge, but its riveted handle was completely clean, and the tip was smudged where LouLou had held it.

“Do you recognize this?”

The skin around the doctor’s eyes pinched again. “It’s a steak knife.”

“Yes, but is it one you’ve seen before? Is it at all familiar?”

Docteure Dwamena leaned back and flicked up her eyes to meet Boussicault’s. “I know what you’re asking, but I couldn’t say.”

“Couldn’t say, or can’t say? One is definitive, but the other implies a personal choice.” Abruptly, Boussicault’s tone became hectoring. “Which is it: you don’t recognize, or you prefer not to admit that you do?”

“All right.” Docteure Dwamena looked down at the knife, then back up at the capitaine again. “I want to say first that this is an ordinary steak knife. I have seen thousands like it at restaurants or in people’s homes. But … yes. It does look like the knife Louise Fournier had in her bag last year.”

She looked at Boussicault. Boussicault looked at the knife. Rachel looked at Boussicault. His face said the interviews were over.