The Paris Directive (14 page)

“Mi bella. Mi amor. Eres tan caliente, querida. Haz el amor conmigo, mi corazón.”

Enraged, Reiner burst through her door like a battering ram. The two of them stared at each other in dumb amazement. The room was full of caged birds. The uncaged yellow-and-gray one in bed with her, who had been doing all the yapping, flew up to the light fixture on the ceiling crying, “Pilar! Pilar,
mi
amor
!” As Pilar attempted to coax it down, the bird cooed,
“Bésame, guapa.”
Reiner told the housekeeper to get her gabby friend back in his cage pronto and shut him up, or he would. Storming out of the room, he slammed the door behind him. Better birds than boyfriends, he thought, and never mentioned her roommates again.

Pilar returned with the red phone and he snatched it out of her hands, dialed Zurich, and waited for the bank to connect him to Numbered Accounts. Reiner recognized the bank officer’s velvety tones immediately. “Ah, Monsieur Spada.” He gave the manager the number of his account and asked him to check on the latest deposit. Spada was not gone very long.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Oh yes. Quite sure.”

Reiner felt the muscles at the base of his neck throb. They were tight as clamps. As soon as he’d left Taziac—his job finished—he’d called the phone number in Paris that Pellerin gave him with the news. Blond said he’d tell him. But that was three days ago, and the rest of his money still hadn’t been deposited. He loathed any delays in payments, any changes or irregularities in agreed-upon financial arrangements. Reiner jumped up and hurried into his bedroom where he slipped into his tennis whites, grabbed his racquet, wallet, keys, his expensive aviator shades. Calls like the one he had to make required a public phone, and Benidorm was only a short ride away.

The Bentley, with its top down and whisper-smooth 6.75-liter V-8 engine, was a joy to drive and could hit over 230 kph if there were any decent roads in the area to drive on. He took a deep breath. The smell of the magnolia-white leather seats, the lamb’s-wool rugs, the walnut trim, everything about his Bentley soothed. So did the CD
he was playing, the debut album of Oliver Schmid’s German sextet Lacrimas Profundere, an amusing heavy-metal band full of gothic groans and heart-tugging weltschmerz. It took the edge off how rankled he felt. He couldn’t bear an unreliable client.

Entering Benidorm, Reiner pulled up in front of the Gran Hotel Delfin, which faced the beach, and got out. The door of the Bentley closed with the satisfying solidity of a bank vault. From the house phone on the front desk, he notified Senor Rincón that he’d be out on the court in fifteen minutes. The Delfin’s tennis pro was always available for a fast set with Senor Kämpe, followed by a bracing single-malt whiskey chaser in the bar. Just off the lobby, Reiner went to the public phone booth and placed his racquet on the floor. Dialing the number in Paris, he waited for what seemed to him a long time before Pellerin picked up the receiver.

“Ah, so you’re there. Good. I wouldn’t want to have missed you a second time. Did Blond tell you I called?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Don’t jerk me around. I took care of your business. Now it’s your turn. Where’s the rest of my money?”

There was a long pause.

“I don’t like the early reports,” Pellerin broke out. “We asked for one soloist, not a whole damn quartet. Jesus, what were you thinking of?”

“Nothing to get exercised about. It was necessary to make a few last-minute improvisations. You wanted terminal, and that’s what you got. But don’t worry. There’ll be no extra charge.”

“Fine. But we also wanted restraint, discretion, no questions asked, and instead Taziac has already turned into a horror show—an international incident. What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you understand what we expected?”

“Calm down. You have nothing to worry about.”

“You can’t be serious. The story is all over the newspapers, the radio, the TV.”

“Mere blips on the radar screen. That will all be gone in a few days when they arrest the murderer.”

“What?” Pellerin sounded startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t strain your mind. Trust me. You’ll see,” Reiner assured him. “I told you a few days.”

Pellerin found the German’s telephone voice as chilling as the accounts he’d read of the gruesome murders. Hard to reconcile with the handsome young man he’d met in Berlin. Of course he’d known there was a sinister side to Reiner. But this man was all sinister. Pellerin hated to have him in his ear.

“I hope you’re right, monsieur. Okay, a few days. We’ll expect a call from you then. And,” Pellerin added, “that’s when you’ll get your final installment.” There was a dead silence at the other end of the line that he didn’t care for at all. He wondered if his caller was still there.

When he spoke again, Reiner’s voice was ice. “If I don’t get my money, I’ll do better than give you a call.” He hoped the Frenchy understood this as a threat, because it was.

19

THE OLD MILL, TAZIAC

O
n the south edge of Taziac a tiny stream trickled past an old stone water mill surrounded by dust-covered vines. There were few in town who could remember when it was still working. The baby out front slept soundly in the sun despite the large green flies buzzing around its carriage. Even the noise of the police car driving up failed to awaken it. Thérèse, who had been hanging the baby’s wash on the line in back, dried her hands and came hurrying out, eager to see who it was. When she saw the two cops her expression changed.

Mazarelle announced that they were looking for Ali Sedak. “Is this where he lives?”

Thérèse nodded and tried to keep calm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ali’s face peering from the window.

“Is he here?”

“What do you want?”

Following her glance, the inspector abruptly turned his head and spotted Ali ducking out of sight.

“There he is,” said Duboit.

“What do you want with him?” she shouted.

Mazarelle took her gently by the elbow and led her toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”

As the policemen entered the stone house, Ali, who was fully dressed and stretched out on top of the unmade bed, propped himself up on a pillow and demanded, “Who are you?”

“Police,” said Mazarelle.

“That doesn’t give you the right to barge into my home. Get out!”

“Are you Ali Sedak?”

“What do you want?”

“Shut up and answer the inspector’s question.”

To the young cop, Ali, who hadn’t shaved in several days, had the look of a religious fanatic, a terrorist. Duboit didn’t like anything about this messy setup—the cocky little Arab stretched out on his backside, his French wife (or more likely
poule
), their half-breed bastard, and the place reeking of couscous and merguez and pot. It smelled to him like a Maghreban whorehouse.

Mazarelle held out his hand. “Your papers,
s’il vous plaît
.” He glanced at the plastic card Ali gave him and, returning it, asked what he did for a living.

“I’m in the construction business.”

Duboit snorted derisively. “Handyman.”

“And where are you working now?” the inspector asked.

“At the villa L’Ermitage, not far from the gravel quarry.”

“You mean where the recent murders occurred?”

“What murders?” Ali looked both confused and indignant. “I know nothing about any murders.”

“You’re joking,” Duboit sneered. “Do you think we’re idiots?”

Mazarelle gave him a squelching look and, clamming up, Bernard folded his arms angrily. The inspector turned back to Ali.

“On the evening of the twenty-fourth, four foreigners who were living at the villa were murdered.”

“Oh, really. You don’t say?” Ali sounded not especially interested. “I know nothing about it.”

“Were you working there that night?”

Outside the house, the baby began to howl. “Will you shut him up?” Ali told Thérèse.

She ran out the door and returned with the momentarily quieted baby in her arms, though the cute, olive-skinned, dark-eyed child soon began to fuss again, screaming as if in pain.

“Something wrong with him?” Mazarelle asked her.

Ali jumped out of bed and in one fluid movement was at Thérèse’s side. “Here,” he held out his hands. “Give him to me.”

No sooner was the infant cradled in his father’s arms than he stopped crying, started to suck his fingers, and went back to sleep. Mazarelle was struck by how much the two of them resembled each other. He liked sleeping babies. Awake all they did was bawl and shit.

“Well,” he said, “were you there that night?”

“I don’t remember. I work when I want to and leave when I want to.”

“Why didn’t you go to work the next day?”

“My back—I hurt my back. I could barely move. I’ve been in bed ever since.”

“You’re better now, I see.”

Ali avoided the inspector’s eyes. It was plain that his little game was up.

“Okay. So I knew about the murders,” he admitted. “So what? I didn’t say so because I didn’t want to get involved. Thérèse told me what happened. Didn’t you?” he said to her.

The look that passed between them was an electric current draining the color from her face. “Yes,” she told the inspector, “a terrible thing.” She had heard about the murders on the radio.

Mazarelle said to Ali, “Your white VW was seen leaving L’Ermitage very late on the night of the crime. What time was it?”

“Maybe around ten thirty or eleven. It was late, but there was a job to finish. Phillips liked to help me with the guesthouse I’m building. We were putting down a new floor.”

“Where were his friends?”

“They went to eat somewhere. I left before they came back.”

“You’re
sure
about that?”

“Sure I’m sure. I know nothing about any of these murders.
Nothing
,” he insisted, his voice rising and the cords popping out in his neck.

“And where did you go when you left?”

“I went home. Where do you think I went? I got back here about twenty minutes later and went right to bed. My back was killing me. Didn’t I, Thérèse?”

“That’s right. He came home and went straight to bed.”

Mazarelle took out one of the surveillance photos that the bank
manager of the BNP in Bergerac had given him and asked if she recognized the face of the man. Ali watched Thérèse anxiously as she studied the picture, her fingers trembling. She shook her head as if she didn’t trust her voice.

“And you?”

Ali glanced at the photo and quickly handed it back. No one he knew.

“All right, thanks.” Mazarelle looked for Bernard and spotted him near the rear door. “Let’s go.”

“Look what I found.”

Pulling out a handkerchief, his boss took the rifle from him. Mazarelle thought Bernard had found a shotgun by the excited tone of his voice, but it was a pump-action .22.

“Is this yours?” he asked Ali.

Thérèse said, “It belonged to my father.”

Mazarelle promised to return the gun when he was through with it. “By the way,” he asked Ali, “you don’t own a bayonet, do you?”

“A bayonet! No, why?”

“Just wondering. Sorry to bother you. Nice earrings,” the inspector complimented Thérèse, as he walked past her on the way out. Silver teardrops with an intricate engraved design. “New?” he asked.

Thérèse, her cheeks glowing like burning embers, nodded. “A present,” she said softly.

“Nice.”

Duboit could no more hide his emotions than a lion could mute its roar. He was seething. He couldn’t understand why they weren’t bringing in the son of a bitch for questioning. As soon as his boss put the rifle into the trunk and got in the car, Duboit said, “You don’t honestly believe that he wasn’t there when the three of them came back from the restaurant, do you? They probably discovered him with Phillips’s dead body or going through the house searching for loot, and it cost them their lives.”

Mazarelle started the car and put it in gear. “It’s possible.”

“Then why the hell aren’t we taking him in?”

“Jesus, Bernard, take it easy! There’s work to be done first before we can do that. You get so excited, you’ll end up bald as a hubcap before you’re thirty.”

“That’s not funny.” Sensitive about his hairline, Duboit stared out the car window and sulked.

Mazarelle barely noticed. He was busy going over in his mind what had just happened with those two. Sedak was lying as fast as he could, and his woman was frightened enough to swear to anything. But why? he wondered. As to the pump-action .22, there was a possibility that, even if it didn’t kill anybody, it was at the scene of the crime, held by an accomplice. As soon as they got back to Bergerac, he wanted it gone over for prints, for whether or not it had recently been fired, and checked for ownership.

The inspector pulled into the parking lot in front of the small cream-colored stucco building with the mansard roof. The Crédit Agricole was the only bank in Taziac.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“I want the tape from the surveillance camera for the ATM over there.” He indicated the machine to the left of the front door. It was the only ATM in town and the closest one to where Sedak lived. Though he’d have to have been a fool, it was possible. “Tell Desforges, the manager, it’s for me. I’ll pick you up later at Madame Charpentier’s for some coffee and cake. I’ve got an errand to run.”

Duboit made a face and unlocked the door. Before getting out, he asked, “Do you think he stole those earrings?”

His boss shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe. We’ll see.”

“What about the gold chain?”

“What chain?”

“The gold one he was wearing under his shirt.”

Though annoyed with himself for missing it, Mazarelle gave no indication as he elbowed his young friend out the door. “Don’t worry, Bernard. We’ll bring him in.”

On the road out of town—not far from the gendarmerie and a few kilometers beyond it—was the small Taziac cemetery. They’d passed it on their way to the old water mill. Mazarelle had felt a little
guilty about not stopping. It was a while since he’d paid Martine a visit.