The Hanged Man's Tale, page 17
Then turning to Maurice, Mazarelle said, “You know what to do. I want a record of everything that went on here to add to the report. After that arrange for the removal of the body to Dr. Chardon and schedule the autopsy. And I want the uniforms downstairs to keep the paparazzi outside where they belong. Remember outside. Let’s go.”
At the front desk, the clerk was a runty little guy. His prize possession seemed to be the clefs d’or he wore, the symbol of the hotel’s concierge, on his jacket’s blue lapels. He was anxious about what was going on upstairs. But before he could ask the two of them any questions, Mazarelle had some questions of his own.
“Did anyone come to see Madame Girard before I arrived?”
“I wasn’t aware of anyone. But I was called away from the desk for a short time. No, I don’t think she had any visitors until you arrived, Commandant.”
Mazarelle asked if she was there yesterday.
“Not as far as I know. She was gone all day. I didn’t even see her last night when I closed up. But she has her own keys. She could have come in late. I know she was up early this morning because she called for her petit déjeuner at seven a.m.”
“Thanks. That’s helpful. Now, please don’t let anyone go up to the third floor unless they have police identification.”
The desk clerk’s face clouded over. “What’s going on, Commandant?”
“It’s a crime scene. Only police are allowed.”
Mazarelle headed toward the door, and stopped suddenly. Turning back, he offered a warning: “And if I find out that someone here’s been talking to the paparazzi again, you can come visit me at police headquarters at the Quai des Orfèvres.”
Outside the hotel there were already half a dozen reporters milling about. He recognized a few of them from the years when he and Martine had lived in Paris. Hervé Stein was an old acquaintance who covered crime stories freelance for L’Express and all the major weeklies. Mazarelle nodded at him. They all wanted to know what had happened. They’d heard that the editor of Paris-Flash, Claire Girard, had died.
Mazarelle made a quick decision. The victim was one of their own. He had to give the press something. But he needed to keep the scene contained. Drawing himself up, Mazarelle gave them his ninety-second presser. In short declarative sentences, he explained that as yet he’d very little information for them. All he could confirm was that Madame Claire Girard, who’d been staying at the hotel, was dead. She had been murdered. The investigation was underway. Anyone with any information could contact the Brigade Criminelle. After that, their questions followed thick and fast. Holding up his hand, Mazarelle said that as soon as he had any answers, he’d tell them.
Stein shouted, “Does this case have anything to do with the hanged man who was found on the Canal Saint-Martin?”
Mazarelle shot him the fish-eye.
“It’s too early to tell who may or may not be involved. That’s all we’ve got for you right now.”
As Mazarelle hurried away, Stein caught up with him in front of the bar on the next block. He suggested they go in for a drink. Though Mazarelle, gray-faced and exhausted, wanted to get back to his office, he had a second thought. Perhaps it was an idea whose time had come. “Okay,” he said. “One.”
When the waiter appeared and asked what they wanted, Mazarelle said, “Cognac—okay by you?”
“Perfect.” Stein smiled at the prospect.
“Two glasses of Delamain,” Mazarelle ordered. “And bring us some olives too.” He was about to take out his pipe but changed his mind. He’d no intention of staying that long.
As soon as the cognac arrived, Stein raised his glass in a toast to the new commandant at the BC.
“Thanks,” Mazarelle said. “These are busy days lately.”
The commandant picked up a gleaming black olive stuffed with feta cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Kalamatas?” he asked the waiter.
“Mais, oui.”
“Delicious.” He took another, and passed the plate to Stein.
“I never told you how sorry I was to hear about Martine,” said Stein. “Such a lovely woman, and so young…”
Mazarelle nodded gloomily. Rubbed his eyes.
“You look as if you’ve been working hard.”
“Yes, I have,” said Mazarelle, thinking that’s the least of it.
“How do you like your guys at the BC?”
“No complaints. Young, eager, and some pretty sharp.”
“Hah! Sounds better than some of your former pals at the Fourth, as I remember.”
“You’ve got a good memory, Stein,” Mazarelle cut in. “So tell me—you knew Claire pretty well, didn’t you? You wrote for her enough. How much was she using our cops for information?”
Stein stopped mid-olive. He had intended to work Mazarelle for background on the investigation. He hadn’t expected to find himself on the receiving end of awkward questions.
“Information?” he stalled.
Mazarelle nodded. “The kind you pay for.”
Stein took a long sip of his cognac. Mazarelle’s eyes never left his.
Finally, the reporter put down his glass with a sigh. “Off the record?”
Even on this grim day, Mazarelle had to smile. “You think I’m going to print it somewhere?”
“Okay, okay.” Stein pushed the glass away. “Sure, Paris-Flash used some of those ripoux guys. Everyone does it.”
Mazarelle knew that Stein wrote for most of the major periodicals.
“Look, it’s a few euros here, a few euros there. And we get tips on stories that might stay buried otherwise. It’s almost a public service.”
Mazarelle wasn’t about to buy that one. But as much as any reporter, he knew you didn’t want to interrupt the flow once someone was talking.
“Any idea who?”
“No, I never got into it that much.”
That was another lie Mazarelle was going to let go.
“But Claire, did she have a falling out with any of them? Did it sound as if someone might be gunning for her? Any dirty cops?”
Stein was shaking his head even before Mazarelle finished.
“No, no, nothing like that. Everybody really liked Claire. If anything, a little too much maybe. They were all trying to get into her pants.”
Stein paused for another sip.
“She was such an attractive woman. And bright, too.”
“Yes, she was,” Mazarelle said wistfully. The preterite clearly depressed him. He’d seen more than his share of murdered women before, but seldom one he cared for so much. He drank his cognac in silence.
“No, Claire never really mentioned the ripoux,” said Stein. “That was just a fact of business.”
Sipping his woodsy, honey-colored brandy, Mazarelle began to feel that he’d had enough socializing. He swallowed what was left in his glass in a gulp.
But Stein was still talking. “Last time I saw her,” he said, “must have been about a week ago. She was hinting about something else—some dirt she had dug up on an American big shot. A senator maybe? It sounded important. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me any details.”
Stein didn’t know Mazarelle well enough to see the quickening of the glance, the sudden focus of the eyes. He rambled right on.
“And speaking of scoops,” Stein said, “what can you tell me about…”
But Mazarelle was already in motion. He pulled out a few bills, dropped them down on the small round marble-topped table, and said, “Thanks for the chitchat. Got to go.”
45
Despite the gloom of Claire’s death weighing him down, Mazarelle, fueled by the cognac, pushed the ton on his back up the black linoleum staircase at 36. He climbed to the third floor and went into the main office to pick up his mail. But even distracted, how could he not be intrigued by the white-haired zazou sitting on the bench? Could that be—? The thought that he might be Claire’s husband amazed him. It wasn’t that he didn’t know she was married. After all, he’d spoken to the man a short time ago. But he never imagined what he looked like. Certainly not wearing a sportif blue blazer, white pants, white sneakers, and a blue and white striped shirt. He seemed as out of place here as if he were waiting pier side at Cannes for a sleek white speedboat to ferry him out to his yacht.
“Monsieur Lavoisier?”
“Ah, at last!” He was up on his feet. “Commandant Mazarelle. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Thanks for coming so soon.”
“I couldn’t believe what you told me on the phone. Claire dead! I can’t wrap my head around it. How did it happen? Are you sure it’s definitely her?”
The commandant waved Lavoisier’s breathless questions aside. “Not here. Let’s go upstairs to my office. Follow me.”
Upstairs on the fourth floor—sitting opposite his visitor—Mazarelle noticed Claire’s husband’s tired bloodshot eyes. He wondered if the old boy had been crying. He decided to let the excited Lavoisier ask as many questions as he wanted while providing not much in return.
“Yes. It’s definitely her. She was just in our offices, so we could identify her. And, no, nothing yet. It’s still early days in our investigation.”
But Mazarelle had his own queries. “When did you last see your wife? Do you know what she planned to do today?”
“Claire was away for the past two days in the South of France with the American politician, Frank Nash. They were working together on an article…” He paused. Suddenly bursting out—“I don’t know why she had to use him. From what I’ve learned about Monsieur Nash, he didn’t come to Paris from Washington without baggage.”
“What do you mean? Politics?”
“No.” Lavoisier shook his head emphatically. “Not politics.”
It was clear that he wasn’t about to say what he meant. Mazarelle moved on. “Do you know when she planned to return to Paris?”
He expected Claire back late that day or the next. “In any event, she would have been back tomorrow. We planned on having dinner together at home.”
Mazarelle thought he knew very well what Claire had in mind. The extra day…she had set it aside for him. He wondered, uncomfortably, how her husband would feel if he sensed that.
Lavoisier wanted to know if the commandant had already spoken to Nash.
Mazarelle indicated that he hadn’t but intended to. He thought maybe he should push Lavoisier again. “Why do you ask?”
“I guess there’s something about him that makes me nervous—”
“Do you mean suspicious?” Mazarelle interrupted.
“No, I didn’t say that. I said ‘nervous.’ And that’s what I meant.”
“O-kay,” said Mazarelle coolly, as if he couldn’t care less. “Have it your way.” Then he turned toward the door.
Maurice was back. He apologized for interrupting them. The men in white were still taking photos of the crime scene when he left them, but Maurice thought Mazarelle would want the list of what they found as soon as possible.
“Yes. Let me see it.”
Maurice had crammed four pages full of details. Even at a hurried glance, Mazarelle could see that all of it was neatly laid out in the Ivorian’s tiny handwriting.
“Thanks. I’ll check it out later.”
But something had caught Mazarelle’s eye.
“I see that Madame Girard had some jewelry with her. Did she always wear expensive jewelry?”
“Claire had expensive taste. She liked good jewelry, and so do I.” He glanced down at the gold watch he wore. “Why bother with any other kind? Whatever I bought for her was the best.”
“Do you know what jewelry she took with her?”
He didn’t. But he assumed she had her diamond ring, gold wedding band, her pearl earrings, a watch, a necklace, a pin or two. He really didn’t know what else, but recently he’d given her a present that she seemed quite fond of. A pendant he bought from Van Cleef & Arpels. It was called Oiseau de Paradis.
Mazarelle again scanned Maurice’s list. “I don’t see any pendant here.”
“Maybe she didn’t take it. I’ll check at home,” her husband said.
“What about this gold ankle bracelet?” Mazarelle asked, looking at the list.
“Gold!” The color drained from Lavoisier’s lips. “She took that damn thing with her? I’d never buy Claire a piece of cheap crap like that. More like gold-plated tin. The kind that turns your skin green overnight. I warned her about that guy.”
In a way, oddly enough, that was how Mazarelle himself felt. He’d certainly seen the way Claire looked at the handsome young Yank. The truth was he couldn’t get it out of his head.
Lavoisier got up. “Can I see her?”
“Are you sure you want to?”
He thought about it. “Why?” he asked. “Has she had the autopsy already?”
“It’s not scheduled yet, but we’ll let you know.”
“Where will it be done? I’d like to see her before then.”
Mazarelle gave him the address of the morgue in the Twelfth and said he’d meet him there.
Lavoisier was firm. “I’ll go by myself.”
“No, I’m afraid not. This isn’t a funeral home.” Though Mazarelle would have much preferred not to join him, that wasn’t the way the medical examiner did his job. Especially not a stickler like Chardon.
As Lavoisier left, a messenger arrived at the door and handed Mazarelle a package. It had an unfamiliar return address—Sofitel Boutique de Cadeaux, Marseille. Mazarelle opened the package and inside found a gift-wrapped tobacco pouch with a note. “À monsieur le commandant, ton amie, Claire.” He ran his fingers lightly over it. The pouch was almost as soft as her skin. For a moment, Mazarelle was stunned. Then really quite moved. Touched to learn that, in a way, she was still looking out for him.
46
Whenever Fabriani had a problem that he couldn’t share with his wife, he’d often try to unravel it at No. 6 on the rue de Ponthieu—a short, narrow street with a variety of small shops and an entrance to an arcade that led to the Champs-Élysées. The only identifying mark on the door was the number. Outside bright sunlight, loud street noises, stalled traffic, honking delivery trucks, motos, but passing through the double doors of numéro 6 was like entering an air lock into a decompression chamber. Inside, the lighting was soft, indirect, the music on the sound system an elegant piano piece by Satie. The small sign on the wall whispered in lowercase letters—the aristo club.
Jérome, the club’s host, greeted Commissaire Fabriani warmly. Fabriani alerted him that he was expecting a guest and then went on to the club’s inner room—a cozy area full of leather chairs and the quiet buzz of civilized conversation. Sitting down on the soft chamois cushion of his familiar chair, in his usual corner, he scanned the day’s headlines. The Défense Nationale were in the streets of Calais, mixing it up with immigrants and refugees.
Fabriani opened his private humidor and chose his first cigar—a Romeo y Julieta, which he enjoyed not only because it bore his wife’s name, but because it was a Reserva Real Maduro. He’d barely lit up when Jérome brought over his guest. He put down the newspaper with a contented sigh and tapped a finger on the front page.
“Our right-wing friends. So eager. So easy to…” He offered his hand and gestured to the dark leather seat next to him. “How do you like the jacket I picked out for you?”
As he sat down, Luc Fournel ran his fingers over the sleeves. They may have been too long but he’d never worn a silk jacket before.
“Very nice.”
Luc was impressed with the Aristo Club. Pleased by the sound of his heels on the gleaming parquet and the smell of money—the one thing he was good at sniffing out.
“I like the decor,” he said, pointing to the framed paintings on the wall.
Fabriani smiled, wondering if his old lieutenant could tell that Manet’s Portrait of Mallarmé with a Cigar, Frida Kahlo’s Portrait with a Cigar, Picasso’s Cigar on a Sword, and Larry Rivers’s Dutch Masters with Cigars were all weak variations of famous paintings and not the real things.
Jérome brought over a flute of Henriot Blanc de Blanc and an assortment of cigars for the new arrival. From the way he hesitated, it was obvious to Fabriani that Luc wasn’t much of a cigar smoker, but also that he enjoyed being catered to. Fabriani watched the care he exercised, amused at the cigar he selected. An Arturo Fuente God of Fire Robusto. It fit his big craggy face to a tee. Fabriani handed Luc his cigar cutter, then ignited the Xikar that Juliette had bought him.
Luc settled back to smoke in his leather chair as if he were a regular member. “So who did you think did it?” he asked. “Not that I’ll miss her—but I wonder…”
The question surprised Fabriani. Made him pause. Did Luc really intend to keep him in the dark about his latest piece of violence? Fabriani had understood why Berthaud had to be eliminated. Even Guy, he supposed. But why did Luc need to have Claire killed? Suddenly, it occurred to him—was she perhaps planning to cut his Agence AB out of the money chain? But if so, weren’t there other ways to deal with such difficulties?
“Really?!” exclaimed Fabriani. “If you don’t know, then who does?”
Luc looked puzzled. “Écoute, Claude—I can name you half a dozen victims of the Paris-Flash scandal treatment who would have paid handsomely to have Claire eliminated.”
Fabriani concluded that Luc simply had no intention of revealing anything he knew about the murder. So he went on to what really bothered him most.
“It’s the timing of what happened, Luc—with the boeuf-carottes and Mazarelle both sniffing around. I especially don’t like it that anyone who ever had any connection to us might be suspected. Especially now. Well, there’s not much we can do about that anymore, but if we put our heads together, it may be possible to keep Mazarelle’s investigation of Claire’s murder from spreading. Don’t you see?”
