The Paris Directive (35 page)

Bandu also wanted to keep what had happened to his boss as quiet as possible, but for a different reason. He didn’t believe that the stone wall collapsing on him was an accident—a wall that had been reliably standing for hundreds of years. And if it wasn’t an accident, it was a crime and perhaps linked to the Taziac murders. If so, when whoever was responsible discovered that his victim was still alive, he might return to finish the job. Bandu had been on all sorts of murder cases before, but never one in which the inspector in charge became the target. The ruthless villainy of it made his blood boil. Bandu stood guard at the door, protective, gimlet-eyed, his arms laced forbiddingly across his chest, barring intruders.

“I’m his doctor,” insisted the white-coated Roland Pascal, attempting to get by him. He pointed to the ID card draped around his neck. Bandu saw little resemblance between the man and his photo, but the sleeves and shoulders of his lab coat fit him to a T. Bandu waved him in.

Dr. Pascal checked the patient’s pulse, temperature, breathing, and wasn’t alarmed about his still being unconscious. He’d given the inspector a strong sedative. “He’ll be awake shortly,” he told Rivet. “I want to keep him in the hospital another twenty-four hours for observation, but based on my examination and X-rays, I’d say the inspector is in surprisingly good shape. In short, a very lucky man. Except for his obvious cuts and bruises, he’s gotten off almost scot-free.”

Some doctor! Mazarelle concluded. Where did they get this clown? Stretched out on the bed, he was a mass of aches and pains and this joker was patting himself on the back. Mazarelle had no desire to open his eyes and argue with the expert, but maybe he’d do better with a couple of aspirins. He felt like crap.

A peevish Bandu at the door could be heard saying, “How should I know? Ask his doctor. He’s in there now.”

Heads turned as Madame Leclerc, the diminutive investigating
judge, strode into the room. Chic as always in a tailored black suit and a striking green, white, and tangerine scarf with a Matisse pattern. She’d just called Toulouse about another case and Didier had gotten on the line. He’d been trying earlier to reach the inspector at the commissariat and learned about his accident.

“Naturally I came right over as soon as I heard,” she told the commissaire. “How is he?”

Before Rivet could reply, Mazarelle began restlessly to move, to mutter, to open his eyes and blink at the light. Rivet asked him, “Can you tell us what happened?” Mazarelle rose up on his elbows and looked around the white hospital room, startled by all the people staring at him, trying to make sense of it and recall how he’d gotten there. It was like a bad dream.

Brushing Rivet aside, Madame Leclerc inquired almost tenderly, “How do you feel, Inspector?”

Hearing the judge’s voice, Mazarelle closed his eyes—unwilling to deal with her—and fell back on his mattress. She told him she was relieved to see him awake and looking much better than she feared from what Didier had told her. She said, “He’d been trying to reach you about the guns you sent him for analysis. Didier said you were right. The shotgun was the weapon used to murder Monsieur Phillips.”

Opening his eyes, Mazarelle licked his lips, his tongue a fur ball. “Any fingerprints?” he whispered, his voice crusty like dried paint.

“No fingerprints. Didier said he found none at all. Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she demanded angrily, recalling how ticked off she’d been when she heard. “I had no idea what you were doing. I told you to keep me informed. If Ali Sedak wasn’t the murderer, then who is?”

Mazarelle lifted his head and stared at her. “Goddamn it!” he shouted, eyes blazing. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The doctor was not happy with Madame Leclerc. “You’ve upset my patient,” he said, his lips barely moving. “I think that’s quite enough for now. I’m afraid you’ll all have to go.”

Madame
le
juge
glared at him. “But I’m not finished.”

“Au contraire,”
snapped the doctor, taking her by the arm.

As they started to leave, Mazarelle opened his mouth to say something but let his head fall back on his pillow. He gazed at the ceiling. “If you’re looking for black-and-white answers,” he mumbled, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

Madame Leclerc glanced at the commissaire to see if he’d heard what Mazarelle said. Rivet tapped his forehead and suggested soothingly, “Let him sleep.”

Not long after they’d all left, Bandu went to the men’s room at the far end of the hall and, returning, thought he’d heard the inspector’s telephone ringing. He ran back, but before he could get there the ringing stopped. Shrugging, he took up his silent vigil at the door and, pulling over a chair, soon nodded off.

The call was from Duboit. He’d heard what had happened to the boss and wanted to know how he was.

Mazarelle mumbled something that he didn’t understand, and Duboit said, “Speak louder, chief. I can’t hear you. How you feeling?”

The patient felt his headache getting worse. “I’ve been better.”

Duboit wanted to know if there was anything he could do to help.

Mazarelle appreciated the offer, because Bernard, whatever his shortcomings, was not an ass-kisser.

“Thanks, but your job is Mademoiselle Reece. Are you keeping an eye on her, Bernard?”

“That’s
all
I’ve been doing. Babette barely recognizes me anymore.”

“I’ll get someone to back you up when I’m out of here. Meanwhile, stay with her, Bernard. There’s a killer still on the loose who’ll stop at nothing.”

Bandu, who’d been daydreaming, thought he heard Mazarelle moving around in his room and, when he went inside to look, was astonished to find him out of bed and getting dressed.

“What the hell are you doing, chief?”

“Going back to work. Come on.”

“The doctor said you can’t get out of—”

“Stuff it! Don’t waste my time on nonsense. This was no accident. We’re dealing with attempted murder here. I want you and Lambert to get down to Taziac right now and cordon off the crime scene at
the house of the wooden heads. But first drop me off at the commissariat. Let’s go.”

As he brushed past an astonished nurse in the hallway, who tried to stop him, the inspector wondered if his men would find Michou’s dead body crushed under a pile of stones or if, by some miracle, she still had one of her nine lives left.

44

TREASURES OF PÉRIGORD

R
einer had used only two of the six rooms on the second floor of the house, but he’d been in all of them. So he cleaned them all up as well as the hall, where he found a few more pieces of the mug he’d busted. Then he closed all the doors, except the bathroom’s. Less to do after dinner. He didn’t want to have to waste too much time removing all trace of his stay before leaving. The downstairs would be a postprandial job.

Outside, Reiner gathered a jar full of wildflowers—yellow daisies, red clover—and filled it with water. Women liked that sort of thing. For a tablecloth he used the white sheet draped over the couch. Not exactly perfection, but it would do. What counted most was the food. He was amused at how eager he was to show Molly that even with the simplest of dishes he really was a good cook. He was looking forward to their final romantic tête-à-tête. A shame it would have to be their last—a great-looking woman like that who kissed with her eyes wide open and held you as if she meant it—but she knew too much about him. Unfortunately he couldn’t afford to leave her behind.

In Bergerac, opposite the church of Notre-Dame, Reiner found the small gift shop near the café where they’d had a drink. One of those stores full of interesting jars and tins of Earl Grey tea from London, biscottinos from Milan, and wonderful French mustards, jams, jellies, nuts, and pâtés wrapped in yellow cellophane and ribbons. He bought a large gift-wrapped box called Trésors de Périgord containing white truffles, foie gras, pruneaux d’Agen, plus a bottle of Monbazillac and one of Cahors. A sort of going-away present. Despite the outrageous price, it was perfect. On the way to his car,
he spotted a rack of newspapers in front of a stationery store and bought a copy of
Sud
Ouest
and
La
Depêche
. There was no mention yet of the dead inspector, not even of an accident in Taziac. Strange, he thought, but he was confident it was merely a matter of time.

Back in Taziac, he left his present on the kitchen table and skipped out the back door toting a wicker basket on his arm. “To market to market to buy a fat pig.” All in all, Reiner was feeling rather pleased with himself. There was nothing quite like fresh-picked mushrooms to make a memorable dish, and he’d been impressed by the variety of those he’d seen in the woods behind the house.

Reiner mused on the mushroom hunts of his youth in Germany and how sly mushrooms could be, camouflaged like animals almost to invisibility and then, as soon as the danger passed, popping suddenly into view. He kept his eye on the ground as he moved slowly through the trees, brushing aside the sun-splashed gnats hovering in his way while refocusing on the shadows where his mushroom prey huddled together at the base of an oak tree. Their soft cap a wonderful orange, the foot white. He knelt down and taking out the hunting knife he’d bought in Bourges as a souvenir—a popular French model with a carved handle—he cut into the thick white flesh and, sniffing its characteristic walnut odor, took a bite. Delicious! The magnificent
Amanita
caesarea,
celebrated raw or cooked since antiquity. It would be a meal she’d remember as long as she lived. His bizarre laughter echoing through the trees sent the looping swallows skying.

He collected a half dozen of these fragrant beauties and seven medium-size cèpes with their tawny brown suede crowns. His little basket was filling up with gustatory gems. The rest of the hunt promised to be more difficult, but he was pleasantly surprised to come upon a couple of earth-speckled grayish-yellow cousins of the cèpe—the sun-worshipping satanas, the nasty black sheep of the boletus family. Rarely fatal, but always sure to produce a very bad stomachache.

The
Amanita
phalloides
was another matter altogether. Reiner found the prize of the hunt in a remote clump of beech trees. Its slim white foot stepping delicately out of the ground gave no hint of how lethal it was.
Vorsicht! Der Knollenblätterpilz.
The world’s most dangerous
mushroom. Its beautiful greenish-yellow cap shaped like an umbrella could reduce a strapping muscular brute to skin and bones by quick unpleasant stages of diarrhea, uncontrollable convulsions, and hepatic coma. It was an awful way to die but the amanitas, like all families, have a dark side. This was the yin and yang of the mushroom world. Humming softly to himself, Reiner snipped off the five death caps and added them to his tasty mycological sampler.

At the house, he put aside the choice ones he wanted for dinner and then unwrapped his present and, adding the two santanas and four of the deadly phalloides, he repacked it. He hadn’t at all liked the way the two French smart-asses did business. Bad-mouthing him for what happened in Taziac and then trying to stiff him on the bill. When it came to accidents, Reiner’s amour propre was involved as well as the fact that he’d a reputation to protect. As an irresistible grace note, he tied a neat white card to the package on which he’d written
“Félicitations et bon appétit.”

On the drive to Bordeaux, he checked his watch and pulled off the road to call Zurich. Monsieur Spada said he’d look. He soon returned with the news that there had been no deposits that day to his account. Not that it would have made any difference in his plans for Pellerin and his fat friend. In the end, Reiner had gotten not much better than he expected from those two, and a good deal worse. His patience with them had run out.

At the central post office in Bordeaux, he checked the Paris phonebooks and was furious to discover that Pellerin was not listed. How could he have been so stupid? Momentarily tripped up, a seething Reiner raced through the white pages, searching for him under the name of his boyfriend Blond, which he eventually tracked down. They were both living cozily on the fashionable rue de Berri in the eighth arrondissement. Apparently someone was paying them quite well to do his bidding. Back in Reiner’s car, he picked up the gift box and wrote in the address. Then puzzling over the return address—for a minute even considering leaving it blank—he had a brilliant
idea. Since they both had once worked for the government, he put down an address he knew they couldn’t resist.

The Mérignac Airport was to the west of the city. Following the heavy truck traffic and signs that said
frêt,
he found the office of the DHL courier service. It was crowded inside and hot, hot, hot, but one more customer with sunglasses was scarcely noticeable. So much the better, he thought. When it was his turn, Reiner asked the young man with the bandaged hand for one of their large red-and-white shipping boxes, pasted on the label he’d prepared, and slipped his gift box inside. Although many paid with credit cards, he paid cash.

“Merci, monsieur,”
said the sweating clerk, promising him that it would be delivered in Paris the next day.

“Avant midi?”

“Oui, oui.”
Heaving the box onto the large pile behind him, the clerk turned to his next customer.
“Madame?”

Reiner scowled. Fortunately, his little present was packed in two strong boxes, which was a comforting thought. Otherwise, it might end up squashed like Mazarelle. As he drove across the Garonne east of the city, he noticed a French warship docked on the quay below. A destroyer. Even motionless it was a streak of gray, sleek as a shark, and like a shark a perfect killing machine.
Zerstören.
The German word for destroyer popped into his head—so much better than the French or English. Not simply to demolish but to do so utterly, reducing an enemy to infinitesimal bits, dregs, dust.
Zerstören.
The word alone gave him a mouthful of pleasure. On his best days lately he’d felt he too had that same sort of terrible Nietzschean power, a gift not given to many. Reiner smiled at the thought.