The Hanged Man's Tale, page 12
As they ate, Claire and Mazarelle watched each other over their wine. Mazarelle noticed the way she brushed her dark hair back from her eyes, the subtle curves of her crisp navy business suit. The editor was looking carefully at him as well, trying to read Mazarelle, like a footnote in a foreign language. Everything about this lunch was concerning. This detective seemed tenacious. The kind who would never give up. And while she might not have anything to do with his murder case, some of his inquiries might be headed toward dark and dangerous places. Risky places for her. How should she navigate this? Could he be useful?
She put down her wineglass and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “So tell me about the death of the investigator Alain Berthaud. Are you getting closer to finding out who killed him?”
Mazarelle took a thoughtful sip. “It’s not that easy to tell how much longer a case will take. I’ve found that in murder cases each has a unique rhythm all its own. This case, for example, leaped from the starting gate, but now”—he shook his head—“I’m afraid it’s a dogtrot. We’re getting closer in one sense, but I suspect that things may be much more complex than we initially thought. We’ll see.”
“Don’t worry,” she consoled him. Her fingers reached out to delicately trace the top of his hand. “Things will pick up. All you need is a little patience. You’ll see.”
At that very instant it seemed to him they had already begun to improve.
Recalling how upset she was when she first came to his office, Mazarelle asked if the Internal Affairs officers had spoken to her yet about their corruption case. Had they contacted her? Asked her any questions? “Not yet,” she said. But he noted the way she flicked her eyes—up and to the right. A sign, he thought, that she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Mazarelle smiled and filed it away for future reference.
Her eyes glistening from the wine, Claire changed the topic. What she enjoyed talking about was her magazine—telling stories about the scoops, the exclusive interviews they had wangled. Mazarelle was fascinated, and Claire clearly loved a good listener. Especially one with such a powerful physique. He looked like a granite boulder in a linen suit. She liked power, always had. And knowledge too. There was nothing a journalist appreciated more than information.
Mazarelle mentioned that when he was in her office, she said she’d be going out of town in a few days with the American politician he’d met there.
“I’m sorry to see you go just when we’re getting on so well,” Mazarelle glumly mumbled.
Claire’s eyes darted up from her wineglass. She nodded slowly and smiled. Leaning forward, she confided, “It’s only a short work trip. We won’t be gone long.” She had to admit she was a little charmed by his jealousy. She wondered how deep it might run.
* * *
—
The messenger arrived as they were pushing back from the table. One of the interns from Paris-Flash, with an envelope in his hand.
“Someone dropped it off at the front desk,” he said. “They told us it was important.” His expression was all modest efficiency, trying to please the boss. “So I ran it right over here.”
Claire moved a few steps away from the table and opened the envelope.
Inside, a flash of color. It was a tarot card. The Hanged Man.
There was no note, nothing else inside.
She turned the envelope over, looking for a return address. There was none. The color drained from her face.
Mazarelle saw her expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
The matter? Claire stiffly smiled at Mazarelle, as her brain churned furiously. The matter, she thought, is that someone, I don’t know who, has threatened my life. Someone who knows that Internal Affairs has called me in. If I don’t keep my mouth shut, they’re going to kill me. That’s the matter.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Claire said, tucking the envelope away in her purse.
* * *
—
Outside on the street, Claire stopped and asked if perhaps he had a few moments more to spend with her. She’d enjoyed their lunch and didn’t feel like going back to work quite yet. They were having so much fun that she felt like a schoolgirl on a blissful spring day who’d decided to play hooky.
“Plus,” she said with a shy grin, “I’d love to hear more about your investigation. It sounds so exciting.”
What she wouldn’t—she clearly couldn’t—tell Mazarelle was how rattled she was feeling. She wanted the comfort of his powerful presence a little longer. Like a mastiff at her side. At least until she decided how to deal with that frightening warning.
The Château Saint-Germain was also on the Left Bank but closer to the river on the rue de l’Université. Despite its name, the small hotel was anything but palatial. That was one of the reasons, ironically, Claire had chosen it for her pied-à-terre. Given the kind of high-pressure job she held, it was important for her to get away from the telephones, noise, and confusion. Few were aware of its existence. Even though Armand Lavoisier, her husband, thought he knew all about her private life, he’d never seen this lodging. Or if he had, perhaps chose not to mention it. Theirs was an open marriage. She didn’t want to know about his private life and, as for him, he thought he knew all about hers.
As they came in, the well-groomed clerk at the front desk greeted Madame Girard warmly. The three-story hotel’s modest drawing rooms were intimate, cozy, snug rather than grand, and though the Château had no restaurant its quiet bar was a treasure. Mazarelle headed toward the dark walnut interior of the bar. But breezing right by, Claire pointed toward the elevator. Her small two-room suite was on the top floor. She kept it reserved for her private life. She needed a place like that.
Though Mazarelle was never one to hesitate, he was uneasy. Such a lovely young woman. And most likely not a suspect in the case. Most likely. Still, this was not exactly by the book. By any book, in fact.
The elevator in the lobby was no bigger than a telephone booth. Claire got in. Seeing there was little space left for him, Mazarelle said, “I’ll take the stairs.”
“Don’t be silly.” Grabbing his arm, she pulled him into the elevator after her. “It’s the third floor!”
Upstairs, in her private rooms, he watched her shrug off her navy blazer and toss it onto a chair. He felt uncertain what to do next. She was gorgeous. She was a decade and a half younger than him. He really shouldn’t be there.
“So tell me about these boeuf-carottes,” she said, brushing the breadstick crumbs from his jacket. “Here, let me get you a little wine.”
As she opened the Saint-Émilion, she was still trying to calculate how deep her trouble was. If she played it right, she could get him to help. Even if there were things she couldn’t talk about. Her hand shook as she poured.
She recharged her smile, and came back into the room with the two glasses and a big grin. “Is their investigation getting in the way of yours?”
“Not at all,” said Mazarelle. “Are you worried about them?”
“No, no.” Claire’s words rushed out. “Unless…” She gave him a teasing smile.
“Are you here to lock me up?” She held out her wrists.
She was trying to be seductive. But to Mazarelle, she seemed on edge, jittery.
He put down his wine, trying to read her eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
She slid next to him on the sofa. He stopped her, gently. And gave her a long, appraising glance.
“What’s going on?”
In a lifetime of romance and seduction, it was the last thing she expected. Someone who was actually paying attention to what she was feeling.
Her eyes started to glisten. She took a deep breath. Got herself under control.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asked, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.
“Just some bad news at work.”
He’s really kind of sweet, she thought.
She kissed him once softly, and poured some more wine. Outside, the sun disappeared on the back of the drapes as the afternoon glided into dusk.
When they parted, it was almost dinnertime.
31
“Merde de merde!” Mazarelle groaned. He’d had a lovely afternoon and his spirits were still soaring, but his head ached. The penalty paid by the old boy for his teenage high jinks with the beautiful Claire. Who knew where this was headed?
And now Mazarelle was caught in traffic. He glanced at his rearview mirror and noticed that he hadn’t even put on a tie. He was going to show up at this black-tie event minus any kind of cravat. Serves them right, he thought. That’s what they get for inviting somebody like me.
If his boss knew where he was going for dinner, he’d shit a brick. A command performance at the Fabrianis’. A fundraiser for the policemen’s union. The Fabrianis lived in a sumptuous apartment on the rue Champfleury overlooking the Champ de Mars in the fashionable Seventh. He was glad to have been invited. It was a good cause. But coming in the door, it was soon clear to him that this was also a launch pad of sorts for Fabriani’s political aspirations. The mix was half cops, half politicians.
Since Mazarelle had never been there before, the Fabrianis gave him the grand tour. In the kitchen, there were two stoves—one electric, one gas. Mazarelle had heard that the wife liked to cook. In the bathroom, there was a whirlpool tub which Mazarelle’s aching muscles yearned to soak in. The oriental rug in their living room, he dimly recalled, was one that Martine had described as “classique.” And the view of the Eiffel Tower—superbe! Monsieur Eiffel’s gift to its visitors, a lavish promise of all Paris had to offer its admirers. Looking out, Mazarelle felt his heart beat a little faster. The tower so close it filled all the windows. Their apartment—and Mazarelle wasn’t even sure he’d seen it all—could have been a palace. Dozens of guests here, and still so much room. He supposed that Fabriani would probably sum up Mazarelle’s own place as a triste little box.
In short, the Fabrianis were living in luxury. The money belonged to his wife, Juliette, who came from a wealthy family. Actually, she was probably the reason Mazarelle had been invited to dinner. She’d been a friend of his wife, Martine. There was nothing snobbish about Juliette, who apparently didn’t care about money. Not unheard of, Mazarelle thought, among people who had more of it than they could ever spend. And there were more than a few of them here tonight, ready to open their wallets.
The dinner was excellent, the cognac afterward smooth and elegant, a Delamain XO. Fabriani held it appreciatively at arm’s length. “I visited the maison a few months ago. This is how they test it—by smell. Not too close, where the nose gets overwhelmed with the alcohol. Just here—la bonne distance.”
Juliette rolled her eyes, and smiled at Mazarelle. The assembled guests murmured appreciatively as Fabriani got to his feet. This was the moment they had come for.
“Thank you so much for being here.” He opened his arms wide to welcome them all in. “It’s an important night. We all know how crucial our policemen are. The first responders. The first ones on the scene. And tonight we get to show that appreciation. Tonight we’re not just giving money. We’re making a statement about what’s important. The safety of a nation. Security in our streets and our towns. In these uncertain times, we stand behind our police. They understand what it means to stand tall. To stand firm. To stand up for our national values. And we will stand behind them. We will not fail them. Thanks again for coming and making your presence felt.”
A bit dramatic for Mazarelle’s taste, but the crowd loved it. They were on their feet, cheering and whistling as if the Rolling Stones had wrapped up a two-hour set. An excited buzz filled the room, as the guests broke into small groups to chat.
Mazarelle was soon surprised to find himself in the middle of a gathering of invited politicians. “You’re that detective?” one national assemblyman asked, incredulous. “The one who caught Reiner?”
“Well, it was a team eff—”
“Nonsense.” Juliette had come over to join the group. “It was him. And did you hear about the parade? Bastille Day?”
“Chirac?”
The group had gotten bigger. And like an MC, Juliette was working the room.
Her husband had told her all about what Mazarelle and his men had done to capture the president’s would-be assassin.
“That was you?”
Mazarelle shrugged. “Right place, wrong time.”
He looked around for a way out. But the group wasn’t going to let him go.
“What was the story with that shooter—the crazy guy, Max? Was he some kind of terrorist?”
“They never found out.” The assemblyman knew the whole story. “He died trying to escape.”
Wandering over, Fabriani clapped Mazarelle on the shoulder. “Very impressive, this one. Just the sort of quick thinking we need in times like these. Right, Paul?”
Except for that horreur, Juliette thought it had been a wonderful parade. “Especially the Foreign Legion. With their orange aprons, their huge axes, oh là là!”
Mazarelle nodded, glad for the subject change. “The sappers.”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed. “Those fierce beards. They looked like the murderers and cutthroats they all used to be. Criminals hiding out from the law.”
Fabriani said that was a long time ago. “You all remember Luc Fournel, don’t you? Before he was in our commissariat he was in the Legion. Can you imagine Luc with a beard growing like a jungle all over his face?”
The sound of Juliette’s laughter was so infectious that Mazarelle almost wanted to join in, but he only smiled, as Fabriani went on.
“Luc in the Legion was no desperado. In fact, he saved a comrade’s life. Won a medal. He was a hero. And frankly, when he took early retirement from our office, I was sorry to see him go. We lost a plum.”
Mazarelle asked his host if the medal was for something Fournel had done in battle. Fabriani wasn’t sure.
“I think the incident occurred in North Africa. But he never talked about it. Luc’s not one to blow his own horn.”
Mazarelle was struck by the Fabrianis’ good opinion of Luc Fournel. It wasn’t something that he shared with them. Could he be wrong? Perhaps. He had no real basis for his feelings except some rumors and intuition.
But as the Fabrianis continued to talk about Luc’s great qualities, their enthusiasm had the curious effect of souring Mazarelle’s opinion of the former legionnaire even more. He was tempted to turn their image of Fournel around like a trompe l’oeil painting. To see their former hero in a different light. And instead of confirming what he’d heard from Fournel himself—the seemingly rock-solid alibi he had as a patient in the hospital on the night of the murder—Mazarelle was now inclined to consider another scenario.
Sitting here in the Fabrianis’ elegant apartment, he suddenly remembered one of his favorite martial arts films—the great Wong Kar-wai’s Ashes of Time. The Chinese wuxia classic dealt with the theme of murder for hire. A surrogate. Mazarelle sipped his brandy and considered this new prospect. It would certainly offer a different view of his case.
Getting up, he apologized for having to leave a little early. He had an appointment the next morning that he couldn’t afford to miss. “Le boulot,” he said to Fabriani, throwing up his hands helplessly. “You know?”
Mazarelle thanked Juliette for her wonderful dinner. The time had flown by.
She had one small question to ask him. Glass in hand, she pulled him aside into what must have been Fabriani’s home office.
“Listen, Paul, I know my husband wouldn’t want me to mention this, but I’m a little worried.”
Mazarelle took in the ornate moldings and medallions…the vast dimensions of the room. “Not enough square footage?” he asked.
She waved the joke aside. “Ever since he’s become more visible, he’s been getting letters. Hate mail. They’re really terrible.”
She walked around behind the mahogany and rosewood desk, with its intricate detailing, its ormolu mounts, and its engraved leather top, and picked up a stack of papers.
“Look, Juliette. That goes with the territory. Once your name is known, people think they can write anything to you.”
“No, but it’s more than that.” She sighed. “Will you do me a favor? Take a look. If I’m wrong, tell me. I need to know.”
Mazarelle was proud the encouraging smile never left his face. He knew there was no way out of this one.
“Well. It’s the least I can do for such a lovely evening.” Mazarelle reached out his hand and, folding up the stack of letters, tucked them away in his jacket pocket.
On her way out she asked, “Tell me. How’s the beautiful Michou? Does she enjoy being back in Paris?”
His wife’s cat had loved curling up in his overstuffed armchair. She had clawed and chewed enough of it to make her feel right at home. But not enough to make her stay. One day he’d returned from 36 and she was gone. Despite being warned, his cleaning lady had left the apartment door open after throwing out the garbage. They had posted reward signs with his telephone number, but so far no one had called.
It only took Mazarelle a moment to decide. “I haven’t heard any complaints.”
Juliette sipped the end of her wine. She’d never forgotten how Martine used to dote on that sleek gray cat of hers.
Fabriani came in and took their guest under his arm. Talking nonstop, he led him out of the long hall covered with photos of their family and friends, the Fabrianis’ nearest and dearest. Mazarelle nodded, impressed by how many important political figures he recognized among them. And how many had been there that night. At the front door, his host asked, “And what about Luc’s partner?” It was as if the murder of Alain Berthaud had just occurred to him. “Any progress with that Gypsy?”
