The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (29 page)

“I’m not either, but it looked like the same one to me. I just wanted to confirm.”

“What does Henri’s sailor chest have to do with anything?” Vibert asked.

“Great question.” Hugo smiled and hoped it was enigmatic. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

At his apartment, Hugo yearned for the familiar warmth of a glass of single malt and a few moments alone to think. He’d considered stopping to buy a bottle, maybe keeping it in his room, but the thought made him feel dishonest and disloyal. When he got in, Tom was sipping milk and watching the second half of a soccer game.

“So did Lake go apeshit?” Tom asked.

“Nope. I waited for Vibert to break the news and hung out just in case, but apparently he took it pretty well. Said he’s ready to get back to the United States and do some real work, was actually quite polite about the whole thing.”

“That’s pretty fucking weird,” Tom said. “As volatile as the man is, I’d have thought . . . Oh well, guess we should count our blessings.”

“Guess so.” Hugo dropped into an armchair and kicked his boots off. “Can I run something by you?”

“Need me to switch the TV off?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.” He waited for Tom to find the right button on the remote and kill the screen. “Thanks. Did you see the crime-scene photos or police report on the Bassin murder?”

“I took a look several days ago. Why?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I never really analyzed it the way I usually do, just accepted the general consensus that it was a murder–robbery.”

“Dude, come on.” Tom spread his hands wide. “Stuff was stolen and a woman was killed, that’s the definition of a murder–robbery. We all accepted the general consensus because that’s what it was.”

“I know. But that’s the conclusion. I like to make my own because there’s more to a crime than a conclusion.”

“I never did dig the theory of criminality, all that philosophical shit.”

“Shut up, Tom, you had the highest test scores in that class at the academy.”

“I did? Cool. Carry on then, I’ll see if I can help.”

“Look, the point is, just because it ends up as a murder–robbery, doesn’t mean it was meant to be one. That the suspect intended to do one or both of those things.”

“Sure,” Tom said, “he meant to steal but the old lady stumbled on him, and splat. It’s still the same crime, whether he intended it going in or not.”

“Two assumptions in there, my friend. Sure, most likely the murder wasn’t planned, but everyone takes it for granted that the intruder always intended to steal the chest and its contents. What if he intended to take and return it?”

“Return it? I can answer that: thieves don’t borrow stuff, they steal it.” Tom’s eyes widened. “Ah, you think he was after the chest itself, not the jewelry. And once discovered he figured, screw it, I’ll keep the whole lot for my trouble.”

“Something like that. But there’s another assumption, remember.”

“Which is?”

“Well, think back to the crime scene. What did they find?”

“An old and very dead woman with a pillow over her face and pieces of a broken vase nearby.”

“Which tells you what?”

“Hugo, for fuck’s sake, just spit it out. I hate it when you give me the Socratic treatment like this, I have no idea what it tells me. Nothing, except that a woman died from a pillow over her face and the killer didn’t like vases.”

“I’m just trying to see how this played out. The medical examiner said that the killer probably hit the woman with the vase, fracturing her wrist, and then smothered her.”

“OK. And that means what to you?”

“I’m wondering why the killer hit her with the vase. An old woman, weak. She didn’t have a weapon.”

“She was holding a phone?”

“They found one on a side table, no prints, so possibly she was trying to call for help when she was hit, and afterwards the killer moved the phone and wiped it down. But why hit her with the vase instead of just taking it out of her hand?”

“No clue. Where are you headed with this, Sherlock?”

“To the manner of death. Who gets smothered, Tom?”

“Old people and kids.”

“Right. And who does the smothering?”

Tom frowned in concentration, then looked up at Hugo. “Oh. Of course, the vase and the fact she was smothered. Damn, of course.”

“Right. The killer wasn’t strong enough, or confident of being strong enough, to take the phone away. And not strong enough to kill in the way you’d expect when surprised like that—Collette Bassin wasn’t beaten to death or strangled.”

“I’d have gone with strangled,” Tom nodded. “Old lady, hardly able to fight back, weak little neck. Best choice, most obvious choice.”

“Unless,” Hugo said, “you’re a woman. Much easier to lay on top of her and hold a pillow over her face than strangle, which requires arm and hand strength. Even if your victim’s old.”

“Our killer is a woman?”

“I think so. And not Natalia Khlapina.”

“Damn,” Tom said, then smiled. “I bet you could use a drink right about now.”

“What about you?”

“Yep. I could always use one but you know what gives me great satisfaction?”

“Waking up sober every morning.”

“Well, there’s that,” Tom said. “But there are also times like this, when I know you’d love a nip of whisky and you can’t. Denying you those moments of pleasure is a fine motivating force for sobriety.”

“Glad to help,” Hugo said, reaching for his phone as it rang on the coffee table. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hugo Marston.”

The voice sounded distant, but the connection was good. “Monsieur Marston. My name is Marie Bassin. A police lieutenant gave me your number and said I should contact you immediately.”

“Madam Bassin, thank you for calling. I’d left you a couple of messages, did you get them?”

“Messages? Oh no, I’m not very good with voicemail. Prefer texting, sorry.”

“No, that’s fine. I’m investigating the death of your mother, so first let me offer my condolences.” Hugo ignored Tom, who rolled his eyes at the formality.

“Thank you, that’s kind. Do you have news?”

“Actually, I have a question. Did anyone visit your mother, either when you were there or not, before she was killed?”

“They already asked me that,” Marie Bassin said, a note of impatience in her voice. No doubt she’d hoped for news, not duplicative questioning. “My brother and I would take her to dinner on Friday nights—together when we could or just one of us. But other than us and the people who work there, I don’t know of anyone who visited her in the weeks before she was killed. Maybe they did, but I wasn’t there if it happened, and she never mentioned anyone.”

“What about before that, and not just a few weeks. Six months before, maybe.”

“I don’t know how that could be helpful, but again I don’t recall . . . Oh, well, there was someone. Two people, now I think of it. Five or six months before, but that can’t be related.”

“Who was it?”

“I’m struggling to remember their names, I’m sorry. They were there doing research.”

“What kind of research?” Hugo asked.

“Into our family, oddly enough. Some sort of medical people they were.”

“Doctors?”

“Yes. Well, medical professors, the older one told me. I spoke to her and my mother spoke to the younger one.”

“Her?”

“They were both women, yes. Very nice, too, I’m just sorry I can’t remember their names.”

“You don’t need to, Madam Bassin,” Hugo said. “I know exactly who they are.”

“Holy shit,” Tom said. “Alexandra Tourville? Why the hell would she kill that old woman and steal the chest?”

“It contained something that she wanted. Something she wanted very badly.”

“The lock of hair?”

“Now, that I can’t answer.”

Marie Bassin clearly hadn’t known, either. Hugo had deflected her questions about her mother’s death by asking about the chest. According to Marie, it had been in the family forever. Her mother used it to keep her jewelry and said Marie could have it once she was gone. A few cryptic comments about it
being
a family treasure as well as
holding
the family treasure, but nothing specific. Marie had known it contained secret compartments, but she’d not known how many or how secret they really were. She’d assumed not very. As for the lock of hair, at first she’d been as surprised as Hugo but then a memory came back to her. “My mother . . . oh, I wish I could remember. She once talked about a man named Louis in connection with the chest. I don’t know his surname, I’m sorry, and I don’t know if it was a friend or . . . or even a lover. I just don’t know. Could it be his, whoever he is?”

Maybe, Hugo had told her. Maybe. And maybe a dead end.

“Even if it’s the golden locks of some long-lost lover, or even a bastard child,” Tom said, “how the hell do we find out? Is it time to have Lerens pull Alexandra Tourville in?”

“I think she has to. But I want to confirm one thing first.” Hugo dialed a number and waited for a moment.

“This is Henri Tourville. Monsieur Marston?”

“Yes. How are you, sir?”

“In the middle of something, I’m afraid. How can I help?”

“I have a quick question. There was an old sailor’s chest at your house for that first dinner. Felix Vibert and I were admiring it in the dining room.”

“That was a sailor’s chest? I thought it was for . . . well, I had no idea what it was for.”

“Can you tell me where you got it?”

“No, but only because I didn’t get it from anywhere. You looking to buy one?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll ask Alexie. Or ask her yourself, she brought it to the house. I think she meant to take it to her room but for whatever reason it was in the hallway, in the way. I had someone move it to the dining room.”

“Thank you, I appreciate the information, I’ll check with her. Is she there right now?”

“No. She’s been in Paris for a couple of days. I’ll text her cell number to you.” He paused, then said. “While I have you on the phone, has Lake said anything about our talks?”

“No, I gather he took it pretty well.”

“That’s what Felix told me. I’m a little surprised, to be honest.”

“We were too,” Hugo said. “Relieved, though.”

“Definitely, I’m glad that’s all over. Maybe the next man they send will be a little easier to work with.”

Hugo rang off and looked at Tom. “Alexandra Tourville had the chest, took it to her brother’s house.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I’m guessing to hide it in plain sight. She might have worried about someone seeing her with it, but didn’t want to get rid of it in case she hadn’t found everything inside. Keeping it at her brother’s place was a smart idea, he told me himself no one really keeps tabs on what antiques or paintings they have or how long they’ve had them. Maybe she got unlucky that it wound up in the way and catching her brother’s attention, but even so, to him it was just another family heirloom.”

“I’m still not getting a motive though,” Tom said. “Why would a Tourville kill an old woman for an antique chest?”

“Fine question. And add to it, why would she kill Raul?”

“If we’re really thinking she did that, too.”

“I suppose it’s possible she hired someone to steal the chest, and that person killed Madam Bassin and then Raul. But like I said before, I think a woman killed Colette Bassin. Not just that but having talked to Alexandra, I’m not seeing her as someone to trust other people with her dirty secrets.”

“Yeah, she wouldn’t be big on trust after what she went through, I think you’re right.”

“Which leaves us with her as a killer, but without a motive. I can only think that she went to steal the chest, got caught red-handed and panicked.”

“I know one way to find out.”

“Yep,” Hugo said, reaching for his phone. “Time for our good lieutenant to bring her in and ask her.”

“First thing tomorrow?”

“No,” Hugo said quietly. “Tomorrow morning we have plans.”

“Ah, right.” Tom’s head drooped as he remembered. “Tomorrow morning is for Raul.”