Murder Without Pity (7 page)

A wind swept across the Seine. The bridge’s gray wall loomed overhead through the jumble of leaves that quivered in the chill. Stanislas backed deeper into the shadows. If he could gaze up through that foliage to the Pont Royal, he thought, someone up there could spot him hiding below. His right leg ached from standing too long. He wondered how much longer he must remain pressed against the trunk. A lamp, bracketed to the quay’s wall, shown a faint light through the leaves. He raised his arm and caught the numbers’ glow. It was a little after nine, and he still had twenty-five minutes before he rendezvoused with Henri.

He noticed a crowd of sufficient thickness gather against the bridge’s low wall. Cameras hung around their necks, and the strollers stooped like laborers after a hard day in the field. Move now, he told himself. Passersby of that number may not come along again. Head bowed against the curious, he limped up the stone steps, wincing as he hurried to join them.

They strolled as a group across Pont Royal, Spanish tourists, giving up for the night their search for beauty. Near the midpoint he glanced back and scanned the few pedestrians behind, feeling foolish at his maneuver. What did a pursuer look like? And would anyone dare harm him, a state functionary? But the next moment he recalled his captivity, the police escorts given to him and other threatened criminal investigators, and Leclair’s whispered warning. He looked off to his right, toward the Ile de la Cité and its Palace of Justice. Would any attacker take orders from there? How would he react if hit? He didn’t know.

The Spaniards reached the other side, crossed Quai des Tuileries, going in his direction. They passed through the Place du Carrousel, paused to admire the Louvre off to their right, then proceeded across Rue de Rivoli and into an arcade.

Two drifted into a McDonald’s. Further on, three paused to browse at figurines in a boutique’s window. Others dipped into a café, bright as a torch. He was now alone and exposed. “
Light can kill,
” Leclair had warned. Stanislas searched for refuge in a darkened side street.

“Postcards, monsieur?”

He jumped. A man to his left with teeth missing shot out from behind an arcade’s column.

“A selection of the best,” and his voice rose in hope. “Paris at the beginning of the last century?”

Stanislas winced as he jerked his bad leg forward faster.

“Just a few euros for eight of them.” Even as he dropped back, he threw out a loud whine. “Monsieur, I’ve a family to feed.”

Several more steps, Stanislas thought. There. He ducked into a side
rue.
The long passage cupped a thin fog between the street and the buildings’ walls. The night became quiet with just the slosh of spillage along the gutter and his clumsy footsteps as he plodded down the street.

As he passed a church, a rattle echoed at the distant end. A motorcycle sputtered around the corner. Its yellowish light hit him. His eyes flinched from the glare. He shot a hand out, caught the rider veer at him at the last moment, and jumped onto the narrow pavement. The motorcyclist sped past, throwing mist against him. At the corner he paused, turned his helmeted head, visor snapped down, back to Stanislas, and held him in his gaze. He thrummed the motor, then clattered off into the night.

Had his captors sent a tough to warn him off because he was closing on something dangerous? he wondered. Through the wetness, the sonorous downbeat of a church bell droned, and he thought of sanctuary. He stayed on the sidewalk the rest of the way.

The van emerged from the fog. Stanislas climbed in as it speeded up toward a boulevard. Officer Henri Leclair tapped a finger against his lips until he had switched on a radio station that pumped out rap. “Welcome to the Arctic on wheels. Sorry the heater doesn’t work. I borrowed this old dog from my brother-in-law. He thinks I’m helping a friend move.” Thick mist drifted in waves over the windshield. He dimmed his headlights and probed his way in a northerly direction. “Some night, yes?”

Stanislas noticed his hands trembled. He wanted answers. “Why this melodrama?”

“You know how some of my police buddies are: Hide the mike, seek out the conversation. My wife thinks you’ve assigned me one too many surveillance jobs.” He looked across to Stanislas. “Who knows? Maybe Yvette’s right. Maybe I have grown paranoid.” He turned his attention back to driving. “In our business, a healthy dose of that can keep you alive. I think this Renault’s more secure than your office or mine. I assume you weren’t followed?”

Stanislas peered out into the darkness. Random bursts of life broke the gloom as cars sped past. “I push paper. How would I know for sure I wasn’t followed? A motorcyclist… I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure of what?”

“Whether he tried to hit me or didn’t see me until the last moment.” Where was his Paris? he wondered. Some unseen force had snatched away its cafés, fountains and flowers, leaving only half-light and shadows. He heard a rustle of fabric and turned.

Left hand steering, Henri used his right to unzip a tote bag stuffed in the gap between the front bucket seats. He shook out a small, opened box with a micro-cassette recorder inside and held the package up. “This tape’s either a gift from God or from someone who hates. It’s in English, and it might mean something.” He pressed a button, and from the recorder came the sound of a telephone ringing five times.

Seconds later another one rang. “
Where were you? I called your telephone booth Monday
night. The ninth
.”

“
Don’t start on me, sir. I’m in no mood. I got stuck on the damn metro and couldn’t get
there in time. Sir
”—the choirboy voice rose in irritation—“
Paris has become a war zone. The
police are searching practically everyone these days. Or haven’t you noticed? Say what you
want about our food. At least our police are more civilized
.”

Leclair switched the tape off and handed the parcel across. “I’d say it’s from someone who hates your Monsieur Boucher. Notice how my name’s in bold type on the front. ‘Leclair’ is so sharp it practically jumps out at you. It’s as if the sender demanded legibility to ensure I got it. You’ll notice something else if you think about it. Fear. There’s no return address. No fingerprints either; I checked. The sender must know Boucher has powerful patrons and wants to avoid a firing or worse.” He groped left and eased ahead. “According to the postmark, the gift was sent six days ago from the Odéon Post Office. I got it yesterday morning. The Odéon Post Office, let’s see. That narrows our mystery giver down to only those passing along Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

Stanislas lifted the micro-cassette recorder’s plastic hood and peeked inside. There was no writing on the tiny cassette. “Only half of Paris,” he said.

“I know.” Henri steered left. “It’d be safer if you got in back. The police are thick tonight because of those metro bombings.”

Stanislas parted a curtain of heavy beads that hung behind the front seats and squatted on a spare tire, facing Leclair, the recorder on a knee. He began to slip on the earphones when Henri downshifted abruptly, and he pitched against the back of the driver’s seat. Through the slit in the curtain, he made out cars ahead and to both sides bunched up like rush hour. The taillights of a Citroën in front blinked red dots and dashes as it poked ahead. Henri braked. He studied his rear view mirror and smacked the steering wheel. Stanislas understood. They had stumbled into a random checkpoint.

Leclair kneaded the steering wheel tensely, while he let the engine run. “The police must have blocked off the side streets and pinched everyone into the boulevard,” he muttered over his shoulder.

After awhile he switched the ignition off. A driver jammed further up the line honked his outrage. Others followed with beeps. After several more minutes the Citroën bumped ahead, and Stanislas could glimpse a trail of flares along the avenue’s left side. A breeze whipped dense red smoke about in the fog, nearly blinding their view.

“Company’s coming.” Henri lowered the radio’s volume.

Stanislas moved further back. He heard a man from a distance yell a command, next the crush of boots closing in, finally a name called. “Henri.” The greeting was a statement of recognition. It carried no warmth.

“Joxe.” Henri stared straight ahead.

From the sound of his breathing, Joxe must have stopped at the driver’s window, Stanislas thought.

“It’s still ‘Joxe,’ Henri?” the policeman asked. “Not ‘Victor’? Not even after three years? You do keep a grudge and over a little disagreement. I never realized you were that fond of Arabs.” He revolved his flashlight in circles over the curtain. The beams hit the right side paneling. “Who’s in back? Some Bulgarian cow? Or does your taste run to North African meat? You naughty boy. You should be home snuggling up to pretty Yvette.”

“Bored?” Henri said, still looking ahead. “Haven’t clubbed anyone lately?”

“Carrying out orders: Inspect every suspicious vehicle. Such as this one.” He fixed the beam on the dashboard like an accusation. “You listen to rap? Who’s the group?” He broke out into a singsong voice. “‘Putrid race, la-la. You sons of bitches, la-la. You SS-cops. Kill. Kill. Kill. La-la-la.’ Or something like that.” He struck Leclair’s face with the light. “Henri, we’ve lost our way. From Voltaire and Hugo to, let me guess, Public Assassins? Or is it Cop Killer? What’s happened to our once great motherland?”

“Go back to Toulon,” Henri said, staring now at Joxe. “You’ll have lots of company there.”

“It’s no longer just in the south of France. The Politics of Order are gaining everywhere in Europe.”

“You must be drunk, Joxe.”

“Henri, wake up. See what’s happening. Graffiti everywhere. Arabs everywhere. Our Seine’s become a toilette. The Marais’s turned into a huge gay bathhouse. Those Israelites multiplying like rats. Gypsy gang shootouts in churches. My advice: Get on board while you can.”

Stanislas strained forward to risk a peek, to see if Joxe wore the ALPHA 1 armband, to match a face with the voice that made him sweat. But Joxe had stepped back. Stanislas struggled against his pounding heart and the horns to detect the direction of the policeman’s walk…around back to fling open the rear doors?

A light lanced through a tinted side window. The beam died. Joxe continued around to the rear.

The inside door handle rattled suddenly in violent fits, left, right, left. “Yoo-hoo,” Stanislas heard Joxe call out. “Mademoiselle-of-the-night.” The cop had somehow picked up his presence in the van, he feared. “Or is it Mademoiselles-of-the-night? Yoo-hoo.” How would he explain his presence? How explain the tape? They could risk punishment and destroy it, he realized. Or blow his investigation’s secrecy. Left, right….

“We can go?” Henri shouted.

The handle jerked left.

“There aren’t any cars ahead of us.” Henri pounded the horn with his fist, and Stanislas saw him try to wave the policemen aside with several frantic sweeps of his hand. “Joxe, you’ve had your fun,” the officer shouted.

Joxe slammed his riot club against the rear door. Then he returned to the driver’s side. “For the time being we’ll lift the barriers, Henri. Old friend, think about what I said. Believe me, you and Yvette don’t want a son-in-law named Ahmed.” He moved back, and Stanislas could see him through the blurry windshield, laughing amid the reddish smoke, motion his men to step aside.

Henri jammed on the gas. The engine roared above the honks. The Renault lurched ahead through the reddish pall.

Stanislas warned him to slow down. Though they had passed that checkpoint, other police roved, and he couldn’t let Henri’s bitterness put them at risk. He told him to dodge around the side streets for awhile.

“He was best man at my wedding,” Henri said, preoccupied.

There was no irony in the officer’s voice. Only sadness from his own personal war. Stanislas patted his shoulder in sympathy and left him with his thoughts. He eased on the headphones and with a press of a recorder’s button heard the tape again.

“…want about our food. At least our police are more civilized
.”

“
I didn’t signal from a phone booth that night to chat about your problems, Lenny
.
I called
because I must know if you rang me at my apartment Friday evening, the sixth. About 8:30?”

“
Sir, you warned me not to call there anymore. Remember? I only saw your Mercedes parked on the street this morning, and here I am. You sound more agitated than the last time we talked. Hello? Hello? Mr. Boucher?”

“
I was just thinking.”

“
A friend of yours? Or a wrong number? Anyway while you’re on the line, sir, you’ll be pleased to learn we’ve bidders for the Steuben crystal.”

“
Whatever they pay won’t go far. Anyone interested in the Madonna and Child?”

“For the right price, sir, there are always bidders.”

“I asked you a question. Any other buyers as we speak? I’ll need the money before long.”

“None except that Mr. Gaaf. The market for Old Masters is rather soft these days. I still think a blind intermediary as the seller through Christie’s or Sotheby’s might work wonders.”

“And risk exposure? It’d humiliate my family if word got out. Your network’s worked wonders so far. Go with this Mr. Gaaf then. And quickly.”

“
Very well. The lads will arrange everything. And fear not, sir. Discretion is our byword. Oh, almost forgot. About our added ten percent contingency fee. Your changed circumstance, telephoning from a call box. Why is your affair. But I assume the lads and I are as much at risk as you from whatever the threat is.”

“I don’t need you to remind me. Upon the sale’s consummation to Mr.Gaaf, of course. The added premium.”

“Payment in American dollars would be lovely, the lads think.”

“
Yes, yes, yes, Lenny. U. S. dollars. Good-bye
.” The line went dead. The phone booth’s door swung open. A melee of children’s screams filled the cabin.

Stanislas frowned as he pressed a button. The tape rewound. This wasn’t the Boucher, whose suffocating arrogance he had endured during the hearing. The man on the tape sounded somewhat panicky. And despite being wealthy, he was desperate for cash, using someone with a British accent to auction valuables for a vague deadline. Was it next week? Next month? And did any of the tape relate to the Pincus dossier?