The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (16 page)

“Yes sir. And if we’re to get back on track, I should let you get some rest.” Hugo moved to the door and opened it. He turned back and said, “I’ll deal with the ambassador tonight, let him know all’s well. He or I will be in touch in the morning, maybe I can drive you back to the chateau myself tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Hugo, I appreciate that. Tell Taylor I’ll call him when I’m up, I don’t feel like enduring another inquisition.”

“I understand, have a good night.” Hugo closed the door behind him and started down the hall.
The inquisition, Senator, has only just begun.

Taylor picked up on the second ring. “Hugo, find anything?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

“Great, care to fill me in?”

“Sure. I found Senator Lake. A long complicated search, with clues leading me hither and thither, but I’ll spare you the details. He’s back in his suite, tired, grumpy, and wanting to be left alone.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yep. He walked in the door while I was in there. Said he’d been wandering the banks of the Seine to clear his head.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought but I didn’t say so.”

“What the hell’s going on with him? Is he mentally unstable or something?”

Hugo chuckled. “People keep asking me that. No, I don’t think he disappeared in a fog of mental or emotional confusion. I think he met someone.”

“Who?”

“If I knew that, boss, I’d have mentioned it by now. No clue.”

“A girl?”

“Possible, it’s the city of love, after all.”

“Jesus. Someone from the chateau? Must be, he’s not been there long enough for anything else.”

“Maybe, but these days it’s easy to arrange something like that via the Internet. He could have planned this for weeks and we’d never know.”

Taylor sighed. “When in France, do as the French do.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s it.”

“Why not?”

“Why wouldn’t he take his phone? He doesn’t know whether we can track him or not, and so what if we do? Everyone looking after him here is used to political indiscretions, no one’s tipping off the press or making a fuss. He’s single, for heaven’s sake, he can meet who he likes.”

“Maybe it’s a dude.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Hugo conceded. “But he left with no phone, no map, and he came back all flustered and angry.”

“Maybe he thought it was a woman and it turned out to be a dude.”

Hugo laughed. “You sound like Tom, Mr. Ambassador.”

“God forbid. Seriously, Hugo, what do you think’s going on?”

“I have no idea. The other thing is, he insisted we stop the investigation into the mysterious intruder in his room. Says he imagined it all, he’s now convinced no one was in there.”

“That’s an about-face.”

“Agreed. And he knows it, too. He told me he wants the talks back on track, they’re important to his career and the islanders, he said. Which is true but . . .”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“He’s a mercurial man, so maybe my spidey sense is tingling for no reason, but it doesn’t usually do that. I can’t help wondering why, when everyone at the chateau seemed so squeaky clean, he was scared and angry at the thought of an intruder but now, when he knows someone at the house could be a suspect in a real murder, he’s all about heading straight back into the lion’s den.”

“Good point.” The ambassador cleared his throat. “Best I can figure, there’s only one way to find out. Tomorrow, you can head back into the lion’s den with him.”

Henri Tourville welcomed Senator Lake like an old friend, the two men exchanging warm handshakes and clapping each other on the shoulder, but they barely made eye contact and as Hugo trailed them toward the dining room, he could see the tension in their stiff movements and hear it in the forced amity of their voices.

The original ten participants of the talks had been hastily summoned for an informal brunch, one that had required clearing the village bakery of every pastry and sandwich on its shelves. The coffee was home brewed, though, and a welcome and reassuring aroma filled the dining room.

Hugo stayed in the background, watching the ice crack but not melt, aware that he was probably the only one in the room who was glad to be there. And the only one with a simple, definable, and hopefully achievable mission: find the sailor’s chest.

It was here somewhere, he knew, and other than the shared fingerprint it was the only potential link between the chateau and the murder in Troyes. Not a link yet, of course, more of a wild theory because Chateau Tourville was precisely the kind of place one would expect to find an antique like that. Even so, he planned to find it and photograph it for Garcia, who could then show it to Georges Bassin to see if it was the same one. Surreptitiously, of course, because recently-smoothed feathers didn’t need to be ruffled by an overly nosy babysitter.

As the politicians piled croissants and mille-feuilles onto plates, Hugo circled the dining room. The chest had been on a side table right behind his seat at the dinner, a table that was adorned with the same vase, now brimming with yellow and white flowers. But no chest. He looked around the rest of the room but didn’t see it, and he realized he couldn’t even picture it clearly in his mind.

He drifted into the hallway and then to the large living room where he found Felix Vibert in an armchair, papers on his lap and on the ottoman in front of him. He looked up when Hugo entered.

“Monsieur Marston,
bonjour
. I heard the commotion and assumed you and the senator had arrived.”

“Yes, just in time for brunch. And then maybe some progress. Aren’t you part of the French delegation?”

“I’ve been part of delegations, monsieur, and there is no such thing here. A silly squabble that will blow over no matter what we say or do.” He smiled to show he was only half joking. “In my humble opinion, this is little more than a chance for politicians to be seen to be working when they are, in fact, eating, drinking, and making merry.”

“Good work when you can get it.”

“Indeed.” He waved a sheaf of papers. “My assistant and I have already been working on a draft of the agreement, and the talks haven’t begun. That tells you all you need to know.”

“I’m sure they will be grateful.”

“No, they won’t. They will complain and thump the table for a day and
then
they will be grateful.” He cocked his head. “And in the meantime, what will you do here? Look for more invisible intruders?”

“No, no,” Hugo said. “The senator says that was all a mistake, he’s even apologized personally to Monsieur Tourville. Case closed, you might say.”

Hugo turned at a voice behind him.

“I heard my name.” Henri Tourville smiled, but his eyes were wary.

“Explaining that I’m back to babysitting, and no longer hunting room-invaders,” Hugo said.

Tourville nodded. “Nicely put, Monsieur Marston. And I’m very glad that’s the case; as you said, the senator was gracious in his apology. Case closed indeed.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Even so, am I right in thinking that there is an outstanding allegation against someone in my household?”

“No allegations,” Hugo said. “Just an undefined connection with another crime scene. But yes, a connection that the police would like to clear up.”

“Is that why you’re here? The senator has two capable secret service agents to drive him around, so I’m not clear why you returned with him.”

“That was entirely his choice,” Hugo said. True, too, though Hugo would have found a way to accompany the senator regardless.

“I see. While you are here, are you planning to work on that other matter?”

“My only job here is to make sure the senator is taken care of.”

“You dodge the question, so let me ask it another way. Are you a part of the Troyes investigation?”

Hugo nodded. “I’m helping the lead detective when I can, yes. As you know, Capitaine Garcia and I are friends and he occasionally requests my help on serious cases, as I do his.”

“That’s what I thought, and it means we must have an accord of our own, you and I. While you are in my home, Hugo, I want your word that you will not go behind my back and interview any of my family, guests, or staff. If you are here only to accompany the senator, that should be a simple promise to keep.”

Dammit
. “I think I can agree to that,” Hugo said.

“And I also want your promise that you will not go around lifting finger prints from wine glasses or anywhere else. My home is not a crime scene and I won’t have it treated like one, do I make myself clear?”

“You do, abundantly clear.”

“And so I have your agreement on this? No interviews, fingerprinting, or other crime scene analysis.” He held Hugo’s eye. “I want your word.”

Hugo hesitated but knew he had no choice. If he refused, or even equivocated, he would be asked to leave, and that would be bad every which way.

“You have my word,” Hugo said.

“Thank you.” Tourville turned to Vibert. “Felix, will you be joining us?”

“Once the chit-chat stops and the talks begin, maybe.” He held up the papers again. “But I’m working, don’t worry.”

“Good.” Tourville nodded at Hugo. “I should get back. I’m glad we understand each other, Hugo. Thank you.”

“Very welcome,” Hugo said. He watched Tourville leave and then drifted over to the large windows overlooking the lawn. He stared out at the green grass, soft and even as a carpet, and he wondered how much money someone like Tourville had to spend on gardeners and servants, how much money it took to be so divorced from regular society that you could demand an end, even a delay, to a murder investigation and fully expect that demand to be met. Hugo had given his word, and he would keep it. But he would abide by the letter of their agreement, and if the spirit flitted away, free to roam at will, then so be it.

He turned to Vibert. “May I interrupt you for a moment?”

Vibert looked up. “Of course, what is it?”

“Do you remember at dinner the other night, there was an antique right behind where we were sitting? You told me it was a sailor’s chest, I think.”

“A sailor’s chest.” He furrowed his brow. “I don’t think I remember that. What did it look like?”

“A wooden chest, it was on the table behind us in the dining room. You said something about secret compartments.”

“
Alors
, I’m sorry, I really am.” He peeled off his glasses and gave Hugo a small smile. “If I remember rightly, there was a lot of champagne flowing that night. That stuff goes straight to my head, so it’s entirely possible we had that conversation, I don’t doubt you.” He shrugged. “But I’m sorry, I don’t remember it at all. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious, I have an interest in antiques. Books, furniture, things like that.” Hugo grinned. “I guess it’s being an American, we don’t have anything much older than a couple hundred years back home.”

“Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

“And that piece,” Hugo continued, “what you said about the secret compartments intrigued me, I wish I’d looked at it that night but it might have seemed rude. Have you seen anything like it around here?”

“It’s not in the dining room still?”

“No, I just looked.”

“
Non
, I’m sorry, I haven’t.” He put his glasses back on and looked down at his notes, but sharp eyes flicked up at Hugo for a second.
Careful, Hugo
.

“No matter. I’ll leave you to your work.”

He strolled out of the living room, but that look from Vibert had set him on edge. Was the man lying about forgetting their conversation? Or did he suspect Hugo’s motive for asking about the chest?
No telling
, Hugo thought, trying to put it out of his mind. His best bet was to find the damn thing as soon as possible.

He headed for the library, breathing a sigh of relief that it was empty and closing the door softly behind him. The room was lined with bookcases and contained only enough furniture to enhance the space as a reading room. A small writing desk sat near one corner, but Hugo quickly realized the chest wasn’t here. Other than the kitchen, he’d run out of public rooms to check. Tourville had a private study somewhere in the back of the house, but Hugo couldn’t risk getting caught snooping, not just yet. Maybe one of the bedrooms, but that presented the same problem.