The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (17 page)

He turned to the door but stopped when it swung open. Alexandra Tourville walked in, her surprised look turning into a friendly smile.

“Monsieur Marston,
bonjour
.”

“
Bonjour
, how are you?”

“Fine. Did I disturb you?”

“No, I’m just killing time. Anything to keep out of those meetings.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you were here. At the house, I mean.”

“Why wouldn’t I be, I live here, remember?”

“Of course. Silly of me.”

“You are borrowing a book?”

“Just browsing. I have one in my bag, but if these talks drag out I might need one.”

“Well, help yourself. Mostly the books in here just gather dust.” She breezed past him to the writing desk and opened a drawer. “
Merde, rien ici
,” she muttered, then turned to Hugo to explain. “We used to have stationary with the house’s address and family coat of arms on it, I thought there was a stack of paper and envelopes in here but it looks like I’ll have to raid my brother’s study.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“I’m sure he won’t know,” she smiled, and again Hugo caught a look that might have been flirtatious.

“While you’re here, I have sort of an odd question,” he said.

She wagged a finger. “Henri told us all you weren’t to be asking any of those.”

“Oh no,” Hugo said, “nothing like that. As I told you the other evening, I have an interest in old books, antique furniture, that sort of thing. Last time I was here, I saw an old sailor’s chest in the dining room but I didn’t get a chance to have a closer look. Felix Vibert was telling me how clever the construction is, how they sometimes have secret compartments in them.”

Her face was blank, unreadable. “It’s not there anymore?”

“Gone, I’m afraid. Do you know the chest I’m talking about?”

“No, sorry. If it’s been in the family years I may not even know it’s here, and pieces get moved around occasionally if one of us, or even one of the staff, suddenly decides it’d look better elsewhere.”

“I see. I have no clue whether it was a newly purchased piece or had been here for decades.”

“Ask Henri?”

Not a chance
. “When he’s not so busy, maybe I will. It’s not a big deal, I was just curious.”

She gave a delicate shrug as she left the library, leaving Hugo to ponder his next move. His first thought was to go to the seat of all knowledge in a place like this, the place where secrets and gossip unfurled like spring flowers: the staff. More specifically the kitchen, which Hugo knew would act as the fulcrum for the people who worked inside and outside at the chateau. His hesitation was the promise he’d made to Tourville. If Alexandra and Vibert mentioned to Henri that he’d been looking for something in the house, it would be no big deal. But pestering the staff was an entirely different matter, he could hardly claim to have accidentally wandered into the kitchen and made polite chitchat with the maid or groom about a Tourville antique. And it wasn’t just a matter of getting away with this line of questioning. Hugo didn’t like being coerced into a promise not to investigate, but once he’d given his word, he didn’t want to go back on it any more than he had to.

The alternative wasn’t much more appealing. Two days, maybe even three or four, wasting away at the house while the talks dragged on and he passed his time walking circles on the estate or plowing through books here in the library. Wonderful options for a long weekend, but frustrating in the extreme when there was work to be done in Paris.

He pulled out his phone and called Capitaine Garcia. “Any progress?” Hugo asked after brief pleasantries.

“
Non, pas encore
. Right now, I’m concentrating on the jewelry. Some of it is pretty distinctive and so we’re contacting as many places as possible here in Paris to see if they’re reselling it. The burglary unit here has good contacts, they do this sort of thing a lot.”

“You think whoever stole that stuff would just show up at a used jewelry store and peddle it?” Hugo was doubtful.

“I’ll be honest, Hugo, yes. For one thing, there aren’t a lot of options for really old, recognizable pieces. Some of the stuff that was taken can probably be resold pretty easily but a lot of it, well, for the thief to get anywhere close to what it’s worth he’d have limited choices.” Garcia chuckled. “When I say limited, of course, I mean dozens in Paris, but you get the point.”

Hugo had never been involved with art and antique theft or even regular burglaries, so he was happy to take Garcia’s lead. One thing bothered him, though. “Tell me this, Raul. If you know where the bad guys sell the fancy jewelry, isn’t it easy to track back and figure out who’s selling to them?”

“No. I mean, if we set up cameras outside all their stores, maybe, but then they’d do business in the local bar. These are the people who recognize quality merchandise but happen to be totally blind when it comes to recognizing the people they’re buying from.”

“Intentionally blind.”

“Absolutely. They don’t issue receipts or have mailing lists. They do business with some of the same people but are happy to look at whatever walks in the door. And the people who buy from them are the same way, which means an item can disappear from someone’s home and be two buyers deep in a matter of days.”

“And wherever the police show up in the chain, no one knows who they bought from or where the object originated.”

“Correct.”

“Then is this jewelry angle even worth pursuing?”

“Sometimes it can be. Usually not. But we have an advantage in this instance, a little twist that might loosen a tongue or two in that chain.”

Hugo thought for a moment. “The threat of a murder charge.”

“
Exactement
. For a foreigner you are very intelligent, Hugo.”

“Thanks, I say the same about you on occasion. Anyway, let’s hope you’re right and the specter of murder makes a difference. If you’re going to get any hits, when do you expect that to be?”

“Within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. The unit’s been hammering hard at their known dealers and we only need one lead to get moving.”

“Good. In that case, I’m headed back to Paris. If we get something, I want to come with you.”

“Fine by me, but what about your senator?”

“He can do without his minder for a day, he’s in his element right now. Probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“And if he does?” There was mischief in Garcia’s voice.

“If he does,
mon ami
, then I won’t be here to incur his wrath, will I?”

The call came through at a roadside café outside Mantes-la-Jolie, as Hugo held the door for a young couple holding hands and blissfully unaware of the gesture. When his phone buzzed, hope flashed that it was Claudia but the name on the screen was Garcia’s.

“Hurry,” Garcia said when Hugo answered. “Are you close to Paris?”

“Forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on traffic. Have something?”

“Yeah, a piece of jewelry from the Troyes murder. A shop in Butte-aux-Cailles. Since you’re on your way, you might as well meet me there.”

“OK, text me the name of the place and an address,” Hugo said.

“One hour?”

“I’ll be there. Don’t go in without me, I’ll never forgive you.”

Hugo drove carefully; he always did when he was going somewhere that mattered. He could have sped, probably, as he was in an unmarked police car, but he’d learned that the cops who patrolled major highways were not always as obliging with their brethren as they might be. Once, he’d been running late for the funeral of a colleague who’d retired and soon after died in a car accident in North Carolina, one of the agents who’d taken Hugo under his wing at Quantico. Hugo had been high-tailing it along I-40 near Raleigh when he was pulled over by a state trooper. Pale-faced and military-smart, the trooper had been robotic behind mirrored sunglasses as he ignored Hugo’s explanation for cresting fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit. Trooper Anderson—Hugo could forever picture the sun glinting off his nameplate—took his sweet time with Hugo’s license and then requested his FBI credentials, studying them the way a toddler stares at an ant hefting an entire leaf; part amazement, part amusement, and no hurry to do much of anything. Hugo had arrived at the funeral late, embarrassed, frustrated, and a living example of the haste-makes-waste motto.

Of course, diplomatic immunity was his current get-out-of-jail-free card, but the ambassador frowned on traffic-related abuses and expected those working for him to abide by speed limits and pay any tickets incurred when they failed to do so.

The midday traffic was light enough on the way into Paris, though, and he pulled into a parking spot in Rue Samson twenty minutes before his rendezvous with Garcia. He checked his watch and decided to walk a little, physical movement welcome after an hour and some in the car. He’d not visited this part of Paris, though he knew of it. In the southeast of the city, it was a lively hub in the otherwise fairly ordinary Thirteenth Arrondissement. With cobbled streets and more than its fair share of bars, cafés, and restaurants, it was a destination for locals who knew it was there, and for those tourists who looked past the usual guidebooks and didn’t mind venturing a fair few miles from the Eiffel Tower.

He headed for the neighborhood’s best-known street, Rue de la Butte aux Cailles, a narrow and cobbled lane that rolled slowly uphill. The sidewalk was almost as wide as the road, which had its own lane designated for bicycles—a nod to modernity in a place that seemed to have otherwise lingered in time. The whitewashed shop fronts and old buildings huddled close together as if waiting for the age of glass and steel to pass by.

His phone rang and he checked the caller before answering: Tom.

“Hey, Tom. What’s up?”

“Can’t talk long. Just wanted to let you know we finished the comparison from the staff members we printed at Tourville’s little place. The water glasses.”

“Great. Get anything interesting?”

“Nope. No matches. Be sure and tell Raul, will you?”

Tom rang off without a good-bye and Hugo smiled to himself as he cut left, down a side street. He admired for a moment the spray-painted image of an eagle clutching a wine bottle, no words or indication as to meaning, just a flash of red on a wall of white, more art than vandalism. Hugo meandered, checking his watch now and again as he headed toward the store where he was to meet Garcia. Maybe it was his imagination, too, but the closer he got the narrower the streets seemed, with more store fronts shuttered up, blank eyes not caring who came or went or what people might be doing.

Garcia was parked two blocks from the store and hopped out of the car, a twin of the one Hugo drove, as soon as he saw the American in his rear mirror. Garcia leaned on the back of the car watching him approach. “Enjoying the neighborhood?”

“Never been here before,” Hugo said. “I like it.”

“I lived here many years ago. When I was first married, actually. Unlike the rest of Paris, it doesn’t seem to have changed all that much, there’s still not a single chain store here, as far as I can tell.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. Always makes me like a place.”

“Agreed.” Garcia straightened. “You going to let me do the talking?”

“I think I have to, don’t I?”

“Just wanted to be clear.” They set off toward the store, and Garcia explained the layout as they walked. “It’s a long, fairly thin main room that you walk into off the street. They sell antique furniture, estate jewelry, that kind of thing.”

“Been in business how long?”

“Just over four years. They hit our radar a year ago, three pieces of stolen jewelry within three months that our detectives found for sale here. They, of course, claimed they had no idea the items were stolen. And by ‘they,’ I mean the owner and his son, André and Bruno Capron.”

“Could be true, right?”

“Could be. Our detectives didn’t think so, and they’re particularly interested in the attitude of people who run places like this. Total innocence usually results in the object being returned to us without a fuss, and the name of the seller being turned over.”

“They didn’t do that?”

“No. Not on any of the occasions.”

“Red flag indeed,” Hugo said.

They waited on the corner for three bicyclists to breeze slowly by. “Anyway, the layout. There’s the main sales area and just a small office and bathroom at the back, where a fire door leads into the alley where the trash cans are kept. The sales counter is on the right, a glass cabinet that contains smaller and more expensive pieces. That’s where our detective saw the necklace. He’d seen it online and went by to make sure it was still here. The Caprons, by the way, are selling it for two thousand Euros.”

“That’s what it’s worth?”

“No idea. But it’s evidence in a murder investigation so if he paid anything like that to the seller, he’s not going to be happy about us taking it.”

“Do you have a warrant or anything to compel him to cooperate?” Hugo asked.

“No, I didn’t have time. I don’t need one to take the necklace, and I’m going to rely on my charm for the name and address of the seller.” He gave Hugo a wry smile. “Very funny. I know what you’re thinking, so there’s no need to say it.”