Disaster at the Vendome Theater by M. L. Longworth

Author:M. L. Longworth [Longworth, M. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Saturday, August 12

Gauthier Lesage’s apartment was bright—it was always worth it, thought Verlaque, to have to climb up a few flights in order to have sunny rooms. Two large windows looked out onto the street. The furniture didn’t surprise him—black leather armchairs, lots of stainless steel and the color gray. If Lesage had a car, Verlaque guessed it would be a BMW. The cool colors didn’t help cool down the apartment—it was already stuffy and warm despite the fact that it was just after 9:00. He was tempted to open the windows but he knew, because of the search going on, he couldn’t.

“The bedroom is through here,” Paulik said, gesturing to an open door just off the living room. Two uniformed officers, carefully documenting and inspecting the apartment, stepped aside to let them pass. Verlaque nodded and followed the commissioner into a large bedroom. The double bed was unmade—was Lesage just messy, or had he planned to make his bed but didn’t get the chance? Two more windows faced the street, and opposite those was a contemporary glass desk. Above the desk were dozens of photographs and magazine clippings taped to the wall. Paulik was already standing in front of it, his head moving up and down and back and forth. Verlaque walked over to the collage. After a few seconds he said, “It’s all about Gauthier Lesage.”

“Yes,” Paulik replied. “His entire career on one wall.”

Verlaque estimated the collage was about four feet across and three feet high, starting above the desk. Judging by the glossy colorful pages, the clippings seemed to have come out of various celebrity magazines.

Paulik stared at the photographs and clippings. He pointed to a small color photo. “That’s Gauthier. Younger.”

“Yes, with his arm around a very happy-looking, also younger, Liliane Poncet.”

“In the middle of the collage.”

“Anything else in the apartment?” Verlaque asked.

“Nothing,” Paulik answered. “Follow me.”

They walked back through the living room and Paulik opened a new cheap wooden door that led into the kitchen, also new and cheap. Wouldn’t a somewhat well-known actor be able to afford a better apartment? Verlaque wondered. But it was the commissioner who said aloud what Verlaque had been thinking: “We’ve gathered up all of Lesage’s paperwork and bills, and someone is going over it. He might have been in a bad way, financially, looking at this place. It’s like someone decorated it on the cheap, trying to make it look like some fancy bachelor pad.”

Verlaque nodded. “That would explain his accepting a role in a local amateur theater.”

“The kitchen looks like he only used it for mixing drinks and making coffee. There are empty Nespresso capsules in the garbage. That’s about it,” Paulik said. “Oh, there’s one last thing. The student who lives across the hall heard a loud argument coming from this apartment on Wednesday night, the night Lesage died. By the time he fumbled with unlocking his apartment door and turning on the hall light, the yelling had stopped. He heard Lesage’s apartment door bang shut.

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