“I never—never …” he stumbled.
“What about the bloodstains?”
Ali felt cornered. “They could be mine,” he acknowledged. “When you work with tools you sometimes cut yourself.”
Bandu said, “With knives too.”
“I didn’t murder anybody.”
“Yes, that may be so,” said the inspector, “but I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t look too good for you, Sedak. Just see it from my point of view,” he suggested, and proceeded to outline the case against him.
Ali was, as he himself had said, probably the last one to see Phillips alive. And the bayonet he used had been identified as one of the murder weapons, stained with his own blood as well as that of three of the other victims. The blue tape they were bound with was his tape with his fingerprints on it. Furthermore, Ali had also freely admitted stealing money and a credit card from the victims and, most likely, he’d stolen more than one. And why? To buy drugs, a crime for which he already had a well-established history. And then there was the victim’s cell phone found in the trunk of his car …
“As I say, monsieur, it doesn’t look too rosy.”
Although badly rattled, Ali was not going to confess something he never did. “You’re trying to bury me. Make me your
gogo
because I came here from Algeria and wasn’t born in France.”
“Don’t be an imbecile! Come now, why don’t you get these murders off your chest? You’ll feel much better, and the procureur will probably go a little easier on you if you do.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. I know nothing. I’m not a murderer. I’m innocent.”
Mazarelle rose out of his seat and loomed darkly over the handcuffed suspect on the floor. “I’ve lost patience. We’ll charge him with four counts of murder, acts of barbarism, drug possession with intent to sell, and theft. Lock him up.”
30
THE MEETING IN BOURGES
T
he gleaming Mercedes-Benz tour bus climbed to the summit of the hill and pulled up alongside the other buses parked perpendicular to the south side of the looming cathedral like piglets suckling on some gigantic sow. The teachers getting off were clearly excited. They had come from Geneva, traveling the pilgrim’s road to Santiago de Compostela. Vézelay’s Sainte-Madeleine had been interesting, but this was Saint-Étienne, one of the largest and most beautiful Gothic cathedrals in all of France. Their cameras came out almost as soon as they looked up and grasped the splendor, the immensity of the thing. And it was a warm, sunny, marvelous morning for photographs, the cathedral floating in a blue sky with an occasional billowing cloud sailing by overhead.
The neatness of the travelers belied the long distance they’d come. Definitely Swiss. Birkenstock sandals and trim khaki shorts, striped polo shirts, and floppy hats. Though a little taller than most of the men, Reiner fit right in as he put on his sunglasses and followed their guide to the west side of the cathedral. Its five magnificent doorways were framed by two massive asymmetrical towers.
The guide pointed to his left. “That one is called the ‘deaf tower’ because it has no bells. Perhaps”—clearing his throat—“it really should be called the mute tower.” The teachers savored his dry sense of humor. In that way, Reiner realized, they weren’t so different from assassins. “And for those of you who enjoy climbing and can still handle three hundred and sixty-five steps, there’s the other one, the north tower. In the unlikely event you reach the top, I can promise you a spectacular view.”
Reiner was looking forward to it. Carved in the stone arch above the main doorway was an eight-hundred-year-old Last Judgment that the guide called “a powerful vision.” Rather than dismiss the sculpture out of hand, he gave it another look. The good confidently waiting for Heaven while the rest dragged off kicking and screaming into the cauldrons of fire and the pits of Hell. A simple cartoon world of rewards and punishments, he thought, trying to wrap his mind around that dusty old shibboleth, but it was hopeless. He hurried to catch up with the rest of his group.
The cathedral interior was enormous. The space majestic with huge columns thicker than elephant legs and chandeliers falling from the ceiling and floating in air. As Reiner expected, the church on Sunday morning was filled with vacationing tourists. A few dozen of them standing around a large cabinet displaying a clockface and dial beneath it decorated with rams, scorpions, goats, and other zodiacal signs. Suddenly it began to chime—noisily delighting the children. Reiner’s wristwatch said 11:23. He was more impressed with the one in Strasbourg that had a cock that crowed on the hour.
Their guide led them down the side aisle past the chapels named after some of the notable families of Bourges who had donated money to the church. He stopped in front of the Jacques Coeur chapel. Its stained glass windows, rich blues and deep ruby reds, cast a wavering light on the faces of the people who were there. None of them looked familiar to Reiner. It was still early. That he didn’t spot any undercover cops in the crowd was especially gratifying. Their guide was describing Coeur as a financier, diplomat, and one of the greatest merchants of the Middle Ages. He failed to mention that Jacques Coeur was also a major arms dealer and that Bourges today was a center of the French armaments industry. Though hardly averse to change, Reiner had a soft spot in his heart for tradition.
Only about half their group wanted to climb to the top of the tower. The heavy breathing of the couple ahead of Reiner on the way up sounded as if they might have to be carried down on stretchers. As promised, the view of the city was impressive. Caesar had called Bourges “the finest city in Gaul.” To Reiner it looked more like a sleepy provincial town. Reaching into his shoulder bag, he took
out his lightweight Zeiss eight by forty binoculars and as he peered through their dustproof, fogproof lenses the view was spectacular indeed. It was only a matter of time before all the others had gone back down, leaving him alone.
Twelve minutes before noon he spotted the two of them walking toward the cathedral. Though still at a distance, they were unmistakable. Thin and fat like Laurel and Hardy. Reiner wondered if they were lovers. In any event, there was nothing funny about these two. He’d never make the mistake of underestimating them. After all, they’d known enough to track him down in Berlin and hire him. It looked as if they’d come alone. Putting away his binoculars at the bottom of his bag, Reiner unwrapped the chamois cloth from his black Ruger P89 and placed the fully loaded fifteen-shot pistol on top where it was easily accessible.
In the almost empty chapel, they recognized him at once. “Ah, it’s you. As punctual as ever.” Pellerin extended his hand and Reiner took it. But he didn’t care for the way Blond held back, his hands out of sight in the pockets of his baggy seersucker jacket. Both of them had mahogany tans.
Pellerin cast a vexed glance about the chapel and said, “I hate to work on Sundays. Let’s make this as painless as possible. Then on to lunch. First of all, there’s Ali Sedak. Wednesday he’ll be formally charged by the investigating magistrate with the four murders in Taziac.”
Good news, of course, and rather intriguing. No indictment had been publicly announced anywhere yet. He guessed they had an informer in the procureur’s office. Reiner wondered what other connections they had higher up.
“Second, with the murderer formally charged, our problems are simplified. Your money will be deposited in Zurich Wednesday morning.”
“Don’t disappoint me. I’ll be expecting it. And the unfinished business you mentioned?”
“That, monsieur, is where you come in. I said our problems were simplified, not eliminated. Ordinarily this story would now disappear for perhaps a year or so until the trial is held. But the daughter
is stirring people up. Every time the Reece woman gives an interview to
France
Inter
or
Sud
Ouest
or
La
Dépêche
, telling them she doesn’t think Sedak is guilty, the story comes back like a bad meal.”
Hubert Blond, making loud preludial noises, cleared his throat. “And not just in the Arab
banlieues
either. People are saying that if the daughter thinks a snake like Sedak is innocent maybe he is. Even in
Le
Figaro
—”
Pellerin broke in, tapping him on the arm, and they waited until two snoopers in front of the chapel had moved on. “So,” Pellerin continued, “we need her to go away. Either she goes home voluntarily or, if not, in a box. We’ll leave that to you, of course. Frankly, I don’t care which, but it has to be done at once.”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m finished with Taziac. I never go back. It’s bad luck.”
“You created this mess. You should clean it up. Let me assure you that you’ll be very well paid for your time.”
Reiner couldn’t resist. “How well?”
“Name a price.”
His was ridiculously high and Reiner knew it, but he’d no desire to take this job. No desire to become the black-haired Barmeyer again. The only way he’d even consider it was for enough money—in addition to what he’d already salted away—to set himself up in the one other business he’d ever been interested in. He watched the two of them exchange glances. Blond, looking dark and worried, kept his hands jammed into his pockets, his mouth shut.
“All right,” Pellerin said.
“Half Wednesday along with the other money. The rest within twenty-four hours of my call to tell you that I’ve taken care of the matter. Agreed?”
“Done. Now let’s get out of here before I lose my appetite. Places like this depress me. Besides I’m starved.”
All the way to the parking lot Pellerin sang the praises of the Abbaye Saint-Ambroix and its kitchen. On a warm summer day like this, he suggested the cold salmon with fennel confit à l’orange. Simple but succulent, he raved. There was something about the nonstop way he went on that irritated Reiner. And the silence of Pellerin’s fat boyfriend made him edgy.
“But when it comes to salmon,” Pellerin couldn’t resist pointing out, as he unlocked the long black Citroën and climbed in, “how can you touch arctic char freshly plucked out of a chill Quebec lake and brushed with a little honey mustard and a dry white wine simmering over an open fire?” He kissed his fingertips and turned to Hubert, “Right,
mon
ami?
”
“Have you two been camping?”
Pellerin smiled and turned on the engine, but Reiner didn’t get in. Pellerin rolled down his window.
“You’re not coming with us, monsieur?” he asked, astonished.
“I’ll be in touch. Toodle-oo!” he called, without looking back.
31
THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
M
azarelle’s men had returned from the neighbors with nothing new to report. As instructed, Lambert had left a list of the locations of the empty houses in the area on his boss’s desk. Two of them were old farmhouses for sale—drags on the market—with no takers for years. The third, a large château in the Taziac hills, was rented for the summer to a family coming from Brussels. As for the fourth, it was a vacation house owned by an English family that usually arrived at the beginning of next month.
“Where is it?” Mazarelle asked.
“Now that’s what makes it interesting. It’s next door to L’Ermitage. But we looked all over the property, and there’s no one there yet. Everything’s locked up.”
Mazarelle agreed with Lambert. The location of the fourth house made it more than a little interesting. Later that day, he went himself to check the place out. Not a bad-looking country house, on the whole, though it didn’t seem as if anyone was taking care of the grounds. Downstairs the shutters were closed. As for the car tracks—other than those made by his own men—he’d no definite idea how old they were, but all of them appeared to be tire marks made by the same car. Mazarelle tried the front door, and it was locked. He went in through the back door with the aid of one of the passkeys on his key ring, riffling through them until he found a winner. He switched on the lights. He didn’t like doing this kind of thing without a
mandat
when dealing with foreign owners, but under the circumstances …
The place was deserted. It didn’t look as if anyone had been in there recently. The damp, musty smell in the air was typical of houses that haven’t been lived in. Nothing in the sink, nothing on the table, everything spick-and-span. Then his eyes fell on the gun case on the wall as if it were some flea-market treasure. Without the slightest hesitation or difficulty, he selected another of his keys—a small, toothless one this time—and clicked it open. There were two guns inside. Though both were of interest to him as he looked them over—without touching either—it was the shotgun he was especially eager to get a report on. Only PTS could tell him whether or not it was the weapon that had killed Schuyler Phillips. But he’d need the permission of the owner for that. Mazarelle had a feeling that he was definitely on to something here.
A sharp squeaking sound caused the inspector to whirl around. It took him a few seconds to locate exactly where the noise was coming from. Somebody standing outside the house had forced open a shutter and was peering in. He assumed it wasn’t one of his own men or he’d have called out his name. By the time Mazarelle got out the back door, hoping to come up from behind whoever it was, he’d fled. Annoyed with himself for letting the intruder get away, the inspector returned to his survey of the interior.
Upstairs, he went quickly through the rest of the house. That too showed no signs of any trespasser. He walked down to the far end of the hall and found the stairs to the attic. There was a door at the top of the landing and, tramping noisily up the narrow staircase, he turned the knob. It was a small gloomy storeroom with a table, some chairs, a stool, a folded cot, and assorted dust-covered cartons of books, bottles, wires, and plugs that made his nose itch. Pale ghostly cobwebs dangled from the ceiling beams. In short … nothing.