The Paris Directive (25 page)

Though the inspector didn’t say so, he too had his doubts. Call it a gut feeling. There was something about this case that smelled bad to him. He also said nothing about the unidentified fingerprints that were found on the tape binding the victims in addition to those belonging to Ali Sedak. And, as always when it came to murder and gut feelings, he reminded himself, the nose knows.

What he did tell her was that the evidence against Ali was strong and mounting. And that they had recently impounded his car. If those were actually bloodstains linked to one or more of the victims he’d seen in it, PTS might well give him something decisive. Anyway, he assured her their investigation was far from closed.

The angry shouts outside grew louder. Mazarelle was becoming increasingly uneasy about the nasty mood of the FN supporters across the street. It could mean trouble. Fortunately they weren’t going to move their prisoner to Périgueux for a couple of hours. It was important to him that this transfer be carried out smoothly.

“Where did you park your car?” Mazarelle asked her.

“A few blocks away. Not far. That sounds like quite a crowd outside.”

“Would you like me to send along one of my men to help you get past the reporters?”

How considerate, she thought. But she’d no intention of letting him think that she couldn’t take care of herself. “No, thanks. They’re so busy out there with Arnaud they’ll never notice me. Besides”—taking out her dark glasses, she beamed at him as she put them on—“I’ve got these.”

René Arnaud, unlike his leader Jean-Marie LePen, was not a big man, but he was well put together and quite striking with his shaved
bullethead. And he was media savvy. He’d brought out an enthusiastic crowd and they applauded wildly, lapping up everything he said. Arnaud spoke bluntly, passionately, and his message was clear.

“I call a spade a spade. They’re backward people with a backward religion. Even when they come here legally from North Africa, they don’t speak our language and fail to integrate into French society.”

Then as the crowd roared its approval Arnaud went on to discuss the evils
les
bicots
brought with them from Africa. Bad schools, bad kids, dangerous drugs, SIDA, and rising crime. But most dangerous of all,
beurs
like Ali Sedak—that cold-blooded butcher of four who kept many good Bergeraquois up nights with their loaded shotguns under their beds.

“I promise you,
mes
amis
,” he assured them, “we’ll all be much happier when that piece of shit across the street is put away for good.”

Arnaud’s speech was followed by delirious applause. Passing by on the edge of the crowd, Molly was fascinated by the scene and the charismatic speaker. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. He reminded her of Mussolini with his jutting cowcatcher jaw and racist dogma. She’d made the mistake of stopping to listen when someone spotted her. Soon reporters were crowding around, hemming her in, asking questions. Their cameras clicking like telegraph keys, flashes blazing.

“Look this way, mademoiselle! Over here.”

“Sorry,” she said, attempting to move away.

“Will you be returning to France for the trial?”

“Mademoiselle Reece,” called another reporter, “why are you here? Changed your mind? Do you still think they’ve got the wrong man behind bars across the street?”

Molly tried to keep calm. “Yes, I do.” She hoped that would be the end of it.

“Why is that?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and turned away.

“Why do you think so?” he demanded, louder this time.

“Because Ali Sedak was home and in bed when my parents and their friends were murdered. The police ought to spend their time hunting for the real killer.”

There were angry shouts from those in the crowd who heard what she’d said.

Though feeling trapped, Molly wasn’t frightened. She just prayed that the reporters, who were standing between her and Arnaud’s followers, didn’t move.

Deserted by the media, René Arnaud wasn’t happy. Informed who she was, he was doubly annoyed. But he hadn’t risen in the ranks of the party without knowing how to turn heads and cameras in his direction. Pushing his way into the center of the circle around her, he confronted Molly. Called her a naive young American who thinks Frenchmen need a lesson in
liberté, égalité, fraternité
.

Molly tried to get around him, but each time Arnaud stepped in front of her, blocking her escape. He was a taunting, diabolical cat playing with a mouse.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s enough.”

He laughed at her.

Fed up, Molly cried, “Get out of my way, you fascist!”

Arnaud’s face reddened in blotches and he flew into a rage. “I am no fascist,” he boomed. Lunging forward, he grabbed her by the collar of her green jacket and held on tight like a pit bull.

“Take your hands off me!”

As Molly tried to free herself from his grasp, Arnaud shook her violently back and forth and the crowd cheered him on. The police who’d been watching came running. Swinging their clubs and pushing back his supporters, they seized him. The crowd howled in anger and, attempting to rescue Arnaud, a shoving match ensued. People began to heave rocks, throw bottles.

A passerby, seeing one of the bottles flying in Molly’s direction, lashed out, knocking the bottle aside. In the confusion, he grabbed her by the arm. “You’re going to get yourself killed here. Quick! Follow me.” She raced after him. Her rescuer seemed to find his way through the back streets as if he knew them all by heart. They were soon blocks away, standing safely below the clock tower in front of Bergerac’s own modest but enormously comforting Notre-Dame. Catching her breath, Molly didn’t know how to thank him enough.

He pointed to the Café Chat Noir opposite them in the mall. “You
look as if you could use a cognac,” he suggested, which under the circumstances seemed to her like a damn good idea.

When they were settled at a table with their drinks and she had calmed down, Molly said, “You saved my life. That bottle just missed hitting my head by inches. It was like being in the middle of a full-blown riot.” She called it,
“Tout à fait fou.”

He agreed that the scene was bizarre. He’d merely stopped out of curiosity to see what was going on. “Mademoiselle Reece, isn’t it?”

Molly glanced up in surprise at her savior and his striking blue eyes, which only seconds before had seemed utterly reliable. “How did you know my name?”

“Oh that.” His voice was so calm, so reassuring. “Surely you must realize that your picture has been all over the newspapers, the TV.”

“Yes, of course.” She’d forgotten and felt a little embarrassed.

“I’m afraid that France hasn’t been too kind to you and your family.”

“Please don’t mind me. I haven’t been myself since I arrived.”

“Frankly, it’s a wonder you’re still here,” he confessed, and his sympathy was obviously appreciated. “
Quant
à moi,
if I were you I’d have gone home by now.”

“I’ve given it a thought.”

“Oh by the way,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pierre Barmeyer.”

They seemed to enjoy each other’s company. He told her that he’d just come from Bergerac’s Museum of Urban History, which had a little-known collection of prehistoric artifacts considered quite respectable by some experts. He fancied himself an amateur archaeologist. One of the reasons he’d chosen to holiday in the Dordogne was to be near the caves at Les Eyzies, the capital of prehistory. He was actually a vacationing artist renting a house in Taziac, not too far, coincidentally, from L’Ermitage.

“Oh really.” Given how small Taziac was, Molly supposed that this wasn’t very surprising.

Pierre Barmeyer called it a lovely setting, though the crime had put a pall on his visit. Naturally he felt much better now that they’d caught the murderer.

“If he is the murderer,” said Molly.

“You don’t think so?”

“Not really. Where did you learn your English?”

Reiner stared at her, wondering what she was driving at. With her bright red hair and lambent green eyes, she was unquestionably a beautiful woman. It was her disconcertingly abrupt style and inquisitive mind that troubled him.

“Why? Is it so bad?” he asked softly, his voice perfectly controlled.

“No, it’s really very good of its kind. It’s English-English. In a way perhaps too good, too careful. In fact you could be a BBC announcer. But I can hear the German in it.”

“You noticed. You don’t miss much, do you?” He sat back in his chair and sipped his brandy. “That’s because I’m from Alsace. I went to school in Strasbourg.”

“I’ve never been there.”

He explained that the Romans called it Argentoratum and that today it was still an important commercial center. Not the most attractive of cities, he frankly admitted, but definitely worth a visit. If she ever went, he offered to show her around.

“It’s a deal. That is, if I ever get out of here alive.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“You’ve already saved my life once.” Finishing what was left of her brandy and feeling much better, Molly got up. “Now if I can only get back to my car.”

He offered to drive her. He was parked just across the street in front of the church. “It’s no trouble at all,” he insisted.

As Molly got into his small car and fastened the seat belt, she said, “I’m afraid I’m getting to be a burden.”

“Yes, but that’s all right.”

Molly found his honesty disarming and, perversely, liked even better that Pierre Barmeyer was no charmer. But there was something else she felt about this tall, blue-eyed, dark-haired, intense Frenchman that she couldn’t put her finger on.

“What’s that awful smell?” she asked, catching a whiff of rotten eggs as he turned on the engine.

“This is a Renault,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It’ll go away once we start to move. It’s the catalytic converter.” He opened
the window as they exited the parking area. “Did you think it was poison gas?”

“Something like that.”

The police had dispersed the crowd opposite the commissariat, and all that was left on the street were torn leaflets, broken glass, a few discarded signs. Molly thanked him one last time when they got back to her car, and as she was about to get out he stopped her.

“Yes?”

“What about dinner tomorrow night?”

He looked so grim, she thought, so vulnerable. Was he afraid she’d turn him down? Molly had always felt that in these classic dating situations women had all the power.

“But only if I pay my share. I’m getting a little tired of thanking you.”

Reiner felt he could live with that. “Yes, why not?”

He agreed to pick her up at the Hôtel Fleuri tomorrow night at 8 p.m., and as Molly waved and got into her car, Reiner drove off smiling. Amused at the absurdity. Given what he’d been told that morning by his bank in Zurich, Mademoiselle Reece had already paid for far more than her dinner.

The lobby of the Hôtel Fleuri was empty when Molly returned. She hit the silver bell on the front desk, and its thin, sharp, metallic note still hung in the air when Monsieur Favier shuffled hurriedly out from the kitchen, wiping his mouth. His face fell as if he’d been expecting a new guest.

“Oui, mademoiselle?”

Molly asked for her room key and he seemed irritated to be bothered. Perhaps she’d interrupted something. She could hear a TV that was on somewhere inside. The key was connected to a heavy chrome blackjack with a hard rubber tip, nothing you’d want to carry away with you by mistake. She supposed Favier was tired of losing his keys.

“Any messages?”

Without needing to look into the small pigeonholes behind him, he grunted and marched back to the kitchen. Molly raised her eyebrows
in annoyance and, hefting her key, walked up the stairs. She wondered if Favier had lost his fondness for American movies.

Molly’s first thought on opening her door was that they hadn’t cleaned her room yet or she’d entered the wrong one, but the clothes on the floor were unmistakably hers. The bureau drawers were open and everything had been dumped out. Her heart pounding, Molly scoured the small room as if there was actually somewhere in it for someone to hide. Fortunately everything she had of importance was in the bag on her shoulder—her wallet, her tape recorder, her passport, her return plane ticket.

Then she remembered the jewelry. She ran to the suitcase on the floor beside the armoire. Like a dummy, she hadn’t locked it. She opened the small zippered compartment inside and there were her parents’ familiar rings and watches just where she’d left them. Removing the jewelry, Molly put all of it in her shoulder bag.

Then, one by one, she picked up her clothes, folded them neatly, and tucked them back into the drawers. She felt violated at having someone rummaging through her things, felt almost like crying but angry enough to smash whoever it was. No wonder Favier provided a blackjack in every room. As far as she could tell, however, nothing was missing. If they didn’t take the jewelry, what were they after? Molly wondered if someone was trying to frighten her, scare her away, because if so they were doing a good job. And who the hell was it?

She was about to go down to report the break-in when the telephone rang. It was an excited Kevin. She couldn’t recall ever being so glad to get a phone call. Kevin wanted to know why he hadn’t heard from her.

“I was getting worried about you. Didn’t you get my messages?”

“What messages?”

He said he’d called three times and each time left a message with the guy who answered the phone. “What the hell kind of hotel is that you’re staying at?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just that—”

“What’s going on there, Molly?”

She told him what she’d found when she came back to her hotel room. “I know I shouldn’t have been so upset, but it’s been a tough day.” She described her meeting with Ali Sedak, who she didn’t like and didn’t trust, but she felt even more strongly now after seeing him that he wasn’t the murderer. Then she told him about the rock-throwing anti-Sedak rally she’d gotten caught up in and René Arnaud, the local FN leader, grabbing and shaking her like a martini.