Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (23 page)

S
till in my bathrobe, I sip my morning coffee and can’t stop smiling. My guy has come back to me. All’s well with my world again.

I hear a pounding on my door. Evvie rushes in without waiting for me to answer.

She bends down to hug me. “I just saw Jack getting into his car. He was whistling and looked so happy. He’s back. For good?”

“For good.”

“No more Michelle?”

“Well, at least he’s no longer ‘guarding’ her.”

Evvie helps herself to coffee. “So where is he going?”

I pass her the plate of whole wheat toast and the cream cheese. “He’s off to see Morrie to describe
the old man he saw last night. Jack’s sure he’s the bad guy. The police artist will do a sketch.”

“Did he tell you how he managed to escape Michelle?”

“He said it’s a long story and he’d tell me later in some romantic setting, just the two of us. Sounds like he wants me in a good mood.”

Evvie chomps on her toast. “I can’t believe you were able to wait and that you didn’t drag it out of him last night.”

“Francie advised me on how to behave.”

Evvie rightly looks puzzled. “Who’s Francie?”

“Our dear Francie. She came to me in a dream. At least I think it was a dream. And that’s another long story. Maybe I should save it for when all the girls can hear it. Especially Bella.”

“I can hardly wait.” Evvie pulls her chair closer to me. That isn’t very far in my tiny kitchen. She’s very excited. “Listen, I have an idea. Let’s get married as soon as possible.”

I blink my eyelashes and make my voice gooey. “Why, darling, I didn’t know you cared.”

She gives me a playful shove. “Our double wedding, as fast as we can get it together.”

I’m in such a playful mood. That’s what pure joy does to you. “Why? What’s the rush? Are you pregnant? Ha-ha.”

She laughs. Then smirks. “You must have had one heck of a welcome home party last night.”

I blush. “Never you mind.”

Evvie turns suddenly serious. “Because I want it for Joe. Sure he’s in remission now, but for how long? Being married again with the chance to do it right this time would mean the world to him.”

I reach over and hug her. “That’s reason enough. Why don’t we all elope? The four of us could go to city hall and then go on a honeymoon somewhere.”

She shakes her head. “I want Joe to have our families there. And all of our friends. It might be the last time he’ll see them. And on a happy occasion instead of … ” The tears start to fall. I reach over and brush them away.

I jump up. Ouch. I remember my ankle a little late. “Okay, call Trixie. Once and for all we have to tell her we are doing this on our own. We can’t keep stringing her on.”

“Hah!” says Evvie. “Are you gonna be the one to break the news to her?”

“I was kind of thinking of letting you have the honor.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“We’ll do it together—but remember we have to be strong. Meanwhile I’ll get dressed.”

Jack leans over the police artist’s shoulder. “The nose should be a little longer and sharper.”

Lee Shiller, a slim, relaxed young man, works at a table over to the side of Morrie’s desk. He makes the change with a few short strokes of his pencil. “Like this?”

Jack nods. “Better.” Jack is surprised he still has the knack. He used the same method in the old days, when in his mind he photographed mental pictures of the suspect.

Morrie is at his desk, shuffling through papers. “Now where did I put that French inspector’s phone number?”

Jack glances at him. “What time is it in Paris now?”

“Six hours difference. It’s four
P.M.
Ah, here it is.” He walks over to Jack and Shiller. “So that’s what he looks like?”

“Pretty close.” Jack tells the artist, “Make the gray hair shaggier, like he doesn’t do much combing—or cutting, for that matter. The cheeks slightly more hollow. And set the eyes a little closer.”

After Lee does so, Jack takes the rendering and gives it to Morrie to examine. “I think that does it, Lee, and thank you.”

The artist gets up. “You’re welcome.” He picks up his gear and leaves the room.

Morrie shakes his head at the sketch in his hand. “This old guy looks like a strong wind could knock him over. He must be about ninety. You sure it’s him?”

“Maybe that’s why he’s never been caught. Nobody ever pays attention to him. There was something about his eyes. In the way he looked at me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I saw just the slightest flicker of arrogance in his expression. Like he was daring me to recognize him. And when he put his arm around the woman, there was the smallest moment of hesitation on her face, as if she was deciding whether to go along with the guy or not. I’ll bet he seemed harmless to her. Then she smiled.”

“Well, I’m making copies for the hotel security. And I’ll fax this to Paris. Let’s give them another call now. Maybe with you on the line as well, he won’t think I’m a nutcase.”

“Might as well.”

Morrie grins at his father as he picks up the phone. “So Gladdy took you back.”

“No comment.”

“Did you tell her about Michelle’s passionate pleas?”

“Not yet. I’m working up to it. Hopefully, I can leave out that part.” Jack worries about sounding foolish to Gladdy. That a young woman would throw herself at him. He’s kidding himself. She’ll want to know why he left Michelle in such a hurry.

Morrie can’t resist. “Maybe Michelle could become interested in a younger man. Like myself.
She’ll think I’m debonair. There’s a good French word.”

Jack shoots him a dirty look.

“Just think, if I get lucky, you can have her as a daughter-in-law.”

The father pretends to raise his hand to his son. “You’re not too old to spank.”

Morrie smirks. “Yeah, right. You never laid a paw on me as a kid—too late now.”

“Never too late to pull off the old leather belt and whack you.”

“You don’t wear a belt.”

Jack shrugs. “You’ve got a point.”

The two men laugh and reach out to hug each other.

“All I can say, Pop, is you’re quite a Romeo. Who’d have imagined? Well, I guess if you can be a hottie at your age, maybe we can believe in the possibility of a very old killer.”

“Never mind that. Go make the phone call.”

Morrie, still grinning, hits the speaker button and dials the long international number. After a few rings, the phone is answered.

The man is abrupt.
“Bonnard ici.”

Morrie tries out his French haltingly.
“Bonsoir
, Inspector.
Je suis
Detective Morgan Langford. Fort Lauderdale
dans
Florida.”

The inspector rattles off some French to whoever is in the room with him: “It’s the crazy American
again; the one who called to tell us Madame duBois is being stalked by an ancient assassin. Now he’s trying out his bad French again.”

Morrie hears laughter in the background.
“Peut-être … ”
He gives up on the French.

The arrogant inspector chuckles, then in a heavy accent he answers, not even hiding his sarcasm. “Don’t bother. I will speak only in English. We are all forced to take it up in school for just such an occasion as this—when some crazy American calls.”

Morrie refuses to get aroused by his attitude. “I’m here with another detective.” Jack introduces himself. “Jack Langford. Formerly from New York City. Retired.”

Bonnard seems to be in a room full of men. Men who are easily amused. “Have you caught your ancient assassin yet?”

Jack answers. “Not yet. But we now have a description. In fact, we’d like to fax it to you.”

Bonnard says, “By all means. We will examine it quickly before your suspect dies of old age.” He recites the fax number and Morrie jots it down.

Morrie takes over.
“Merci
. Thank you. I will send it off immediately. I don’t suppose you checked on the winegrowers whose names I furnished?”

Jack thinks the inspector seems to be playing with something on his desk, maybe keys from the sound of the clinking. “As a matter of fact we did.
They are simple winegrowers. I personally don’t like their Cabernet Sauvignon, too fruity, but,
alors
, to each his own.”

“And?” Morrie waits for an answer.

“And nothing. They have no criminal records.” Bonnard pauses, curious. “You think these people hired someone to do the dastardly deed—to kill the famous, beautiful writer?”

Jack says, “Yes. Because they want to stop her next book from coming out.”

Morrie leans in closer to the phone. “Her next book concerns this winery, and because she intends to expose them in such a way as to ruin them, we feel sure that they are the ones trying to kill her.”

Someone in the room calls out to the inspector. He translates what he’s just been told. “There have been such rumors. But there have been no attempted attacks as far as we know. Mme. duBois lives in the seventh
arrondissement
. A very rich neighborhood with a substantial police presence.”

Jack says, “Here’s our thinking. Logically, if someone were to put out a contract, they would naturally hire someone young. Which makes sense. But the odd fact that this man we’re searching for is old makes us wonder why. They might worry that a hired killer is an unknown factor? Something might go wrong?”

Morrie jumps in. “Is it that they couldn’t afford it, or wanted to keep it quiet? So, perhaps in one of
their families, there was such a person? A contract killer who’s now old? Retired?”

Jack adds, “Perhaps he’s a killer who never got caught.”

Bonnard coughs, but they sense he is paying close attention. “A most original idea.”

Jack smiles. It’s a good thing they don’t know it was his darling Gladdy who came up with that idea. That would cause another round of derisive laughter. Nor would he inform Bonnard that he and Morrie also thought the idea preposterous originally.

Jack speaks again. “So the next question is—any criminals in their family trees?”

There is a sound of something falling. And another barrage of French. This time the voices speak quickly and excitedly.
Vous ne croyez jamais. Il a trouvé Le Serpent. Après trente-cinq ans! Interpole, vite. Enfin
.

All Jack can understand is the word Interpol. From a slight distance he hears the inspector excitedly calling out to him and Morrie. “It is nothing. Only my chair fell over. I will be right back. Hold on.”

Morrie uses the time to fax the drawing to Paris.

Bonnard is back. “I went to our wall with the most-wanted list. One man has been on this Interpol list for thirty-five years. His name is Anatole Oliviere. Also known as The Snake.”

Other voices call out to remind him. “Also he uses phony passport names. Pierre Gimpe. Michel Avedon. Louis Phillipe.”

Bonnard adds, “He has killed at least twenty people that we know of. There could have been more. In our never-ending search for him, we interviewed a distant cousin, many, many years ago, Gaston Dubonet. The very same winery owner. But it seemed at the time to mean nothing. Dubonet had never had contact with this very distant uncle. He was shocked to think such a person might be in his family. We let that go by. Eventually the killing stopped. We all breathed a sigh of relief. We thought he was dead. Now we think, thanks to you, retired.”

Jack smiles at Morrie—they’ve struck pay dirt.

Jack agrees, “No longer retired.”

Bonnard says, “I am looking at your fax. What the murder book tells us is that at about fifty years of age, he was a very thin man. Short of stature. Shifty, close-set eyes. Wiry. Skimpy black hair.”

Morrie adds, “Gray now, but that’s a pretty close description.”

Bonnard says, “We have only one possible photo of him, but it is blurred and has proven useless.” He adds grudgingly, “The Snake is considered the master of them all; none can compare. He’d slither his way in and slither his way out. Quick, efficient, and deadly.”

Bonnard’s voice grows gloomy. “We never came close to catching him. He always outsmarted us. Maybe age has slowed him, but I would think he is still someone to fear. Now tell me everything that has transpired in this case of yours. Paris will work hand in hand with you to capture this elusive killer.”

Jack high-fives Morrie. About time. They’ve got to get Michelle safely out of the country and back home. If they can’t catch The Snake here, then Inspector Bonnard will be waiting for him in Paris. He can’t wait to tell Gladdy how her hunch was so right.

A SECRET REVEALED

T
rixie waits for us inside Jerry’s Deli. She’s dressed as usual in a loud patterned flowery dress with a matching wide-angle hat. We pass chubby Jerry and his equally chunky son, Larry, busy behind the counter slicing, chopping, and nibbling. Evvie and I say hello. Jerry grunts. A man of very few words—none of them pleasant. His usual dialogue consists of “Wadda ya want” and sometimes “Hurry up. Order. I ain’t got all day.”

Trixie waves us over to join her in her booth. She is excited to see us, ready to hear our good news. Which won’t be so good after we’ve explained our position.

Before her sits a massive plate of pastrami and scrambled eggs, hash brown potatoes, a bagel with
cream cheese. And a side of pancakes, swimming in butter and syrup. Cholesterol heaven.