Gorski parked in a space a few streets to the west of Quai Kellermann and got out of his car. He kept an even pace, not wishing to draw attention to himself. In order to reduce the possibility of running into Lambert, he approached Veronique Marchal’s building from the opposite side of the police station in Rue de la Nuée-Bleue. Nevertheless, he was uneasy about encroaching on Big Phil’s turf. He reassured himself, however, with the thought that a chance encounter was far less likely in a city the size of Strasbourg than in his home town.
He paused at a kiosk to call the station in Saint-Louis. Earlier that morning, Roland had called him to report—almost tearfully—that he had lost Raymond Barthelme. Gorski had been dismayed, but he suppressed the urge to rebuke him, instructing him only to do his best to find him.
Schmitt answered Gorski’s call in his usual irritable tone and went on to wearily relate that Roland had called in again to say that the ‘so-called subject’ had been relocated and had gone to the railway station.
‘And do we know where he went?’ Gorski asked.
‘He didn’t say.’
‘When was this?’
‘When was what?’ Schmitt replied.
‘That Roland called.’
‘I don’t know. Half an hour ago, maybe more. Do you expect me to write everything down?’
Gorski hung up. He resisted the temptation to stop off for a snifter in the bar with the zinc counter, calculating that his presence there might well be reported back to Lambert, and proceeded directly to Mlle Marchal’s block.
Even though he must have put his eye to the peephole—Gorski had seen it darken— Weismann opened the door on the chain. Gorski creased his face into a smile. The historian looked at him suspiciously.
‘Inspector Lambert told me that I was not to discuss the case with anyone,’ he said.
‘Absolutely,’ said Gorski. ‘And I hope you haven’t done so. However, given your great importance to the case, he asked me to go over the details of your evidence before you make your statement to the examining magistrate.’
His words had the desired effect and Weismann unfastened the chain. Gorski stepped inside. There was the usual powerful odour of cologne.
‘You must forgive my circumspection, Monsieur—’
‘Gorski,’ he reminded him. ‘Chief Inspector Gorski.’
‘Ah, yes, Gorski,’ he repeated, as if the name failed to meet with his approval.
Weismann led him into the study. The air there was stale. Gorski had the feeling that the windows had not been opened in years.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t had any journalists knocking on your door,’ said Gorski.
‘I have,’ replied Weismann proudly. ‘But I didn’t utter a word to them.’
‘Good man.’
As on the first occasion that Gorski was here, the two men stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor. Apart from the chair behind Weismann’s desk, all the available seating was piled with books and papers.
‘Of course, I understand that you’re a busy man,’ said Gorski. He picked up a book from the top of a pile and turned it over. ‘An interesting period, I understand,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know a great deal about it.’
‘It’s quite fascinating,’ said Weismann. ‘But somewhat neglected. I assure you, Inspector, you are not alone in your ignorance.’
Weismann then embarked on a lecture on the history of the Alsace during the Reformation. The historian became quite lost in his monologue, retrieving books and papers as he spoke to illustrate his points. His enthusiasm for his subject was endearing. His initial wariness gave way to something approaching charm. After ten minutes or so, Gorski interrupted.
‘I can certainly see why you are so renowned in your field,’ he said.
Weismann smiled sadly. ‘I’m afraid your colleague somewhat exaggerated my status,’ he said. ‘And vanity prevented me from correcting him. My work is published in monograph only.’
He tore open a box and handed Gorski a stapled pamphlet entitled The Bundschuh Conspiracy. ‘No publisher has ever been interested in my work,’ he said. ‘My ideas are too controversial. It is my contention that the so-called Twelve Articles were in fact written by the Catholic hierarchy in order to legitimise the suppression of the peasantry.’
Gorski nodded seriously. He handed the pamphlet back to Weismann, but he waved it away. ‘Please keep it,’ he said. Then added sadly: ‘I have boxes of them.’
Gorski thanked him. He took his notebook from the pocket of his jacket.
‘My apologies, Inspector, I must have been boring you.’
Gorski assured him that he had not. ‘Nevertheless—’ he said. He turned the pages of his notebook. They contained no more than the notes he had made at the scene of the accident. Weismann now hastily cleared some papers from two chairs.
‘I must apologise. I have forgotten my manners. I’m not used to entertaining guests.’
Gorski accepted the seat he was offered.
‘And I must offer you a drink, Inspector.’
Gorski thanked him. Weismann produced a bottle of schnapps from the floor behind the desk. A pair of mismatched glasses were located on the window sill. Weismann gave them a cursory wipe with his shirtsleeve. He poured two measures and handed one to Gorski. Gorski took it and carefully set it on the floor by his feet. Weismann sat down. He knocked back his drink and appeared visibly revived.
‘I wanted to go back to the first time you saw Maître Barthelme,’ Gorski said.
‘The first time?’ said Weismann. His left leg was twitching and he placed his hand on his thigh to calm it.
‘Yes,’ said Gorski. ‘It’s important to establish how long he had been visiting Mademoiselle Marchal.’
Weismann wrung his hands and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure I could say with any certainty,’ he said. ‘Inspector Lambert was very clear that I shouldn’t testify to anything I was unsure of. That I should stick to the facts.’
‘That is sound advice,’ said Gorski. ‘But even if you can’t recall the precise occasion when you first saw Maître Barthelme, perhaps you could say how long ago it was.’
Weismann looked troubled. Clearly he did not want to give an answer that might discredit his evidence. ‘I saw him on the night of the murder. Isn’t that all that matters? Inspector Lambert did not seem concerned with these details.’
Gorski smiled patiently. ‘Which is precisely why he has asked me to go over them with you. My colleague would be the first to admit that he’s sometimes guilty of taking a rather gung-ho attitude, but as these are questions the examining magistrate will put to you, it’s important that we’re prepared for them.’ He used the first person plural advisedly. ‘I’m sure, as a historian, you understand the need to build a case from a solid evidential base.’
Weismann seemed pleased with this comparison. ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘But even so, it’s hard to recall.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Gorski said, adopting a breezy tone, ‘would you say it was a matter of months or a matter of years?’
‘Some years, I suppose,’ Weismann said vaguely.
Gorski nodded and made a little note in his book. ‘It’s just a question of building up as full a picture of their relationship as possible.’
‘Their relationship?’
‘If, as you say, Maître Barthelme was a frequent visitor, then that would constitute a relationship, wouldn’t you say?’
Weismann made a face. It seemed likely that he did not have much expertise in the sphere of human relationships. He decided it was time to refill his glass. Gorski had not as yet touched his drink.
‘Of course, Mademoiselle Marchal had so many visitors I couldn’t be sure. In any case, it’s possible that he’d been visiting her long before I ever saw him.’
‘Indeed,’ said Gorski. He smiled reassuringly. ‘Please understand, Monsieur Weismann, I’m not trying to trip you up. It’s simply a question of making sure that you’re clear in your own mind about what you saw.’
He tapped the page of his notebook with his pen.
‘Now, this might be important,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘In any case, you’re sure to be asked about it: on the night in question, when you saw Maître Barthelme enter Mademoiselle Marchal’s apartment, what led you to go to your front door? You can’t just have happened to be there.’
Weismann screwed up his face. ‘As I explained before, I often mistook the sound of Mademoiselle Marchal’s buzzer for my own.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Gorski, as if he had forgotten this detail. ‘And did you open the door or just look through the peephole?’
‘I looked through the peephole,’ he replied, as if this was somehow shameful. ‘As I could see that the visitor was not for me, there was no need to open the door.’
‘So before I came up, you must have heard me press your neighbour’s buzzer?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ he said.
Gorski nodded. He had done no such thing.
‘I also need to ask about your own relationship with Mademoiselle Marchal.’
‘I had no relationship with her,’ Weismann said sharply. He had already finished his second measure of schnapps.
‘You must have encountered one another in the stairwell now and then.’
‘Now and again, perhaps,’ said Weismann, ‘but I would hardly describe that as a relationship.’
‘Surely you must have exchanged a few pleasantries?’
‘In passing only.’
‘So you would not describe her as a friend?’
‘I would not.’
‘You never, say, invited her to your apartment?’
‘Of course not. Why should I?’
‘She was an attractive woman. What could be more natural for a bachelor like yourself than to invite her in for a cup of coffee or a little glass of schnapps? I daresay, if I was in your position, I might have tried my luck.’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Weismann.
Gorski nodded placidly. ‘And you are a handsome fellow yourself. Did she never invite you across the landing?’
‘Certainly not.’
Gorski sighed, as if the truth had suddenly dawned on him. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘perhaps you are not that way inclined?’
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean,’ said Weismann.
‘Monsieur Weismann, I can assure you that your sexual inclinations are of no consequence to me.’
Weismann stood up. ‘I’m not sure I see any purpose in continuing this conversation,’ he said.
Gorski remained in his seat. ‘My only interest is in understanding why an eligible fellow like yourself would have no interest in such an attractive neighbour.’
‘I’m not a pansy,’ he said. He had grown quite agitated.
Gorski nodded slowly. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’ He suggested that Weismann sit down.
The historian filled his glass for a third time. His hands were shaking. Gorski didn’t say anything for some moments.
‘You must excuse me for putting these questions to you,’ he said. ‘I assure you that it’s only to ensure your evidence is completely watertight. We don’t want to let any discrepancies get in the way of a successful prosecution.’
Weismann resumed his seat. ‘Of course not,’ he muttered.
‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you have never set foot in Veronique Marchal’s apartment?’
‘Never.’
Gorski nodded as if he was now satisfied. He took his own glass of schnapps from the floor and, holding it delicately between his thumb and middle finger, drained the contents. He then took a plastic evidence bag from the pocket of his raincoat and dropped the glass inside. Weismann watched him.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I keep hold of this,’ he said. ‘It’s a mere formality. There is an unidentified print on a glass in Mademoiselle Marchal’s apartment. This will help us to eliminate you from our enquiries.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ Weismann blurted out, ‘I—’ He clamped his hand over his mouth.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Gorski, nodding slowly. He stood up and pushed the glass into the pocket of his coat. Weismann sat forward in his seat with his head in his hands. Gorski felt a little sorry for him. He wondered if the historian might be tempted to take his own life. He showed himself out of the apartment.
Outside in the street, he took the glass from his pocket and dropped it into a litter bin. On the way back to his car, he went into a bar, ordered a beer and put in a second call to Schmitt from the old-fashioned cabin in which the telephone was located.