The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (11 page)

“Which isn’t much, because we have no idea whose print it is,” Hugo said. “You want me to talk to Tourville?”

“I don’t know, Hugo. I’ve thought about it and I’m torn, because at this point we have to treat everyone in that house as a suspect.”

“Including Tourville himself? I understand the theory, Raul, but that’s a stretch. The guy has more blue blood than the Queen of England and is hardly in need of other people’s trinkets.”

“True enough, but I’m not really in the business of doing French aristocrats favors.”

“I appreciate that, I do. But it’s not so much a favor as being realistic. Not only is he extremely unlikely to be a murderer, but if we alienate him now it could hamper the investigation.”

“
My
investigation,” Garcia said, “which means that if you’re wrong it’s my head that rolls.”

Hugo chuckled. “A fine French tradition, head-rolling. I think you’ll be OK, though, I’ll make sure you get political asylum in the States if I see them polishing the guillotine.”

“You better.”

“So let me talk to Tourville, maybe we can start by taking prints from his staff if he’s not willing to do more, I can’t imagine he’d mind that. If we don’t get anything from them, we can look to the family and guests.”

“
Bien
, let’s go with that. And tell him I’ll come back there and print his people myself, try to keep this discreet for as long as possible.”

“Tonight?”

It was Garcia’s turn to laugh. “No, not a chance. Americans are workaholics, not Frenchmen. I’ll be down in the morning. Mid-morning; you know I like my breakfast.”

When they hung up, Hugo started to head back inside but stopped at the top of the stairs. He put a quick call into the ambassador, passing on Garcia’s new information.

“Jeez, Hugo, this isn’t what we need, not right now,” Taylor said. “If Lake finds out he’s been sleeping in the shadow of a murderer he’ll go ballistic.”

“Sounds like a board game, doesn’t it? The murder of a senator in the library with the candlestick.”

“Not funny, Hugo.”

“No?” Hugo’s tone was light. “Of course, it’s always possible the fingerprint in question is the senator’s, which makes him the murderer not the murdered.”

“Still not funny.”

“Well then, keep the info to yourself for now. I’ll call tomorrow with an update.”

“Thanks. And Hugo? Call me with good news one of these days. Would you try that sometime?”

Hugo headed into the chateau, pausing when he saw Henri Tourville having a drink in the sitting room with Felix Vibert. The two men stood with their backs to an oversized painting of a peasant girl in a garden looking wistfully upward with one arm extended. It was oddly familiar to Hugo, though he couldn’t begin to place why.

“Monsieur Tourville,” he said, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I have a word?”

“Certainly, you can speak freely in front of Felix.”

Hugo tilted his head, an apology. “Actually, on this matter I’m afraid I can’t.”

“
Pas de problem
,” Vibert said. “I will leave you gentlemen to it, but please don’t keep us waiting for long, dinner smells wonderful.”

They watched him leave the room and Hugo indicated the painting behind them. “Why do I recognize that?”

“Ah, it’s something of a knock-off. The version you may recollect is in a New York museum, and the young lady is Joan of Arc at the moment she is spoken to by God. Getting her marching orders, you might say. The famous one is by Jules Bastien-Lepage, but about the time that one was painted a lot more were produced of her, sculptures too. I’m told this one was also by Jules Bastien-Lepage, but it’s not signed and an art dealer told me it might not even be finished.” Tourville shrugged. “Like most of the stuff in here, I’ve no idea where it came from, what it’s worth, if anything, and it’s been in the family longer than anyone can remember, so there it hangs.”

“Not a bad problem to have.” Hugo turned back to Tourville. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

Tourville raised an eyebrow but acquiesced, moving to a pair of plump, faded-red armchairs. As they sat, Tourville said, “Things not going as planned?”

“Not exactly. And please, let me finish talking before you say anything.”

Tourville nodded. “
D’accord
.”

“
Merci
. First, I won’t have answers to some of the questions you will ask because I have only a preliminary report from Garcia. He’s coming down tomorrow and should have more for us, but I wanted to come to you as soon as possible. Like you, I want to get these talks back on track and you’ve been very gracious with your hospitality and this unusual situation.”

Tourville nodded again, the corners of his mouth turned down in anticipation of whatever bad news was coming.

“Unfortunately, this situation just got a whole lot more unusual. One print from the senator’s room matches a print found at a crime scene at a country home on the east side of Paris.”

Tourville blinked. “How is that possible? What kind of crime scene?”

“To the first question, that’s what we’d like to find out. To the second,” Hugo hesitated, but guessed that he’d get more with honesty than obfuscation. “A robbery–murder scene.”

“How can that be?” Tourville repeated, his voice a whisper.

“I haven’t seen the file on that case yet, this really is early stages.”

“But what can it mean?”

“Honestly, it can mean a lot of things, or even nothing. Right now, the most we can say is that the same person was at that house and this.”

“What kind of house is it?”

Hugo though back to what Garcia had told him. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but a very old country house, not as large as yours but several hundred years old.”

“Then it’s quite possible that someone passed through both there and here, someone unrelated to any crime at all.”

“It’s possible,” Hugo said. “We want to check that possibility out, even if not for the sake of our little investigation here, then the police looking into the murder will want to follow up a lead like that. And you probably want us doing it, not them.”

Tourville straightened in his chair. “I don’t mean to be difficult, my friend, but I have a strong feeling I should talk to my lawyer about this. What is it you want to do?”

“Well, we’d like to take prints from everyone in your household, staff and guests at the dinner, maybe we can find out who was at the other house. Maybe there’s an innocent explanation, but we need to know.”

“Why can’t you just ask if anyone knows that other house?”

“Because where murder is involved, we can’t trust people to tell the truth. People lie, but fingerprints don’t.”

Tourville stared down into his drink and Hugo let him process the news. After a moment, Tourville looked up and slowly shook his head. “
Non
, I can’t allow it, I’m very sorry. I don’t like to stand in the way of a legitimate investigation, but I don’t consider Senator Lake’s claims to be legitimate and I most definitely can’t let my family become suspects in a murder case.”

“Then let us start with your staff, the people who work here and worked here the night of the dinner party.”

“I don’t know about that. Why should I allow them to become suspects and not my family? How does that look to them?”

“Monsieur Tourville, you know that the police can ask them for their prints whether you like it or not?” Hugo’s tone was soft but he knew the frustration rang clear.

“Please. Let me call my lawyer and if he tells me I am wrong, then I will reconsider. You said Garcia is coming tomorrow?”

“Yes, he’ll do the work himself to try and keep this under the radar.”

“I am grateful for that consideration.” Tourville rose. “And, of course, you are still my guest. Go in to dinner and I will join you once I’ve spoken to my attorney.”

Hugo wandered into the dining room and joined those already seated. Felix Vibert was there, as was Natalia and Alexie Tourville. Four other people—couples, Hugo assumed—introduced themselves as friends of the family but didn’t elaborate on where they’d come from or why they were there. It was an informal meal, much more to Hugo’s liking than the stiff, multicourse marathon earlier that week. Two members of staff, who themselves seemed more at ease than the previous evening, brought in platters of braised beef and roasted vegetables that were left on the table for the guests to dig into and pass around. Wine bottles were placed at generous intervals, close to everyone so there’d be no need to reach too far or, heaven forbid, request one be passed.

Hugo was considering a second helping when Tourville appeared in the doorway and beckoned him over with a polite nod. Hugo excused himself and joined Tourville in the hallway, the pair moving away from the dining room to be out of earshot.

“We appear to be bringing each other bad news tonight,” Tourville said grimly.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your lawyer doesn’t want you to cooperate?”

Tourville was gruff. “What he wants or doesn’t want is irrelevant. He knows that and is very good at telling me where I stand legally. Once he has done that, I do what I think is best.” He looked at Hugo and frowned. “I’m sorry, that sounded more harsh than I meant it to. What I’m trying to say is that according to him, the
code de procédure pénale
does not authorize the police to obtain any kind of warrant or court order requiring anyone here to give fingerprints.”

“We were hoping for your cooperation, not warrants.”

“I understand, but without legal authority our cooperation is entirely optional. As he explained it to me, and it was very much the same as you said, all anyone can say from this information is that the same person was at the same two locations sometime in the recent past. He assures me no judge will sign one based on so little.”
Especially for my family
was unspoken, but Hugo caught the suggestion just the same.

Hugo nodded. “I’m sorry to hear this but I do understand. I’ll let Capitaine Garcia know.”

“And if this is all the capitaine managed to find from his expedition here, I will act under the assumption that any investigation into the senator’s so-called intruder is now complete. Agreed?”

Hugo held Tourville’s gaze, and said, “That will depend. Whoever is investigating the robbery–murder will be made aware of the connection, and even though I expect you are right about the warrant, I’ll have no control over what they do, or try to do. It really would be better to clear as many people as possible so that—”

“
Non
.” Tourville held up a hand. “I’m sorry but as far as I’m concerned, as you Americans say, it’s ‘case closed.’ Now, let us return to the table, I expect dessert is in there by now, and I’m not missing out on my Crêpes Suzette.”

Tourville led the way, and as they walked Hugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took a peek to see who was calling, intending to remain polite and get back to them after the meal. He smiled to himself as the name Tom Green lit up the screen. Best friends through the FBI Academy—and ever since, really—Tom had been recruited by the CIA after several years. For years he’d rattled between anonymous missions for the Company and the whisky bottle, both taking a heavy toll. He’d kicked the latter, for now at least, but was still working on and off with the former.

And a call from Tom right now meant just one thing: this case was far from closed.

Hugo heard the noise twice. He checked his watch and it showed two thirty in the morning. There it was again, a noise that could have been a door opening, closing, or maybe a footfall in the hallway.

He listened. The wooden floor and joists of the chateau creaked and muttered like those in any old house, but after several nights Hugo had picked up a familiarity to these sounds and he knew when something was amiss. His mind cast back to Lake’s tale, but even if that was true, this couldn’t be the same thing. No one would try to sneak into two people’s rooms, Hugo couldn’t believe that. He heard the noise again and slipped out of bed, moving to the doorway on silent feet. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. He opened the door and stepped halfway out to look up and down the long hallway.

Felix Vibert stood in pajamas and a blue robe standing at the top of the stairs that bisected the long hallway. He and Hugo looked at each other in surprise.

“Anything wrong?” Hugo asked.

“I don’t . . . I thought I heard someone come into my room. And then out here.” He sounded hesitant, but Hugo remembered what time it was and put the uncertainty in his voice down to tiredness, and maybe a little fright.

“Probably just the wind.”

“Perhaps.” Vibert didn’t look persuaded but he waved a hand, took a last look down the stairs, and shuffled back to his room.

Once Vibert had closed his door, Hugo went to the top of the stairs and stood quietly, the dim light from the upstairs hall fading into the black well of downstairs. He heard nothing, saw no one, but that didn’t stop his ears and an old house teaming up to play tricks on his mind. But after a minute he felt as sure as he could be that everyone was asleep, and went back to his room.

He closed the door and froze at the sound of a voice that came from the armchair opposite the bed. “Good evening, Monsieur Marston.
Comment ça va
?”