The Hanged Man's Tale, page 24
“They had an open marriage. Maybe a little too open for him in the end. He got jealous of her relationship with Nash, the American congressman. He thought she was falling for him.”
At first incredulous, Coudert gradually came to terms with the news. “Hmm…I suppose it’s possible. I’ve heard stranger things in my life. And the evidence?”
Mazarelle quickly summed up what he and his team had learned from their interrogation of Lavoisier. He ended with the capper. Only moments before, they’d had their suspicions confirmed by the report they’d received from the medical examiner.
“What report?” Coudert asked. “What did Dr. Chardon tell you?”
“He said that we had excellent DNA evidence of the murderer’s identity,” explained Mazarelle. “We’d known already that Madame Girard had tried to fight off her attacker, and that there was significant material under her fingernails. We were able to give Dr. Chardon fresh samples of Lavoisier’s DNA to compare.”
“And what did he say?”
“The ME told us that the two of them may not have had a marriage made in heaven, but the DNA evidence we gave him made a damn good match. It turns out,” continued Mazarelle, “that Lavoisier’s DNA will put him away for a long, long time.”
Coudert wanted to know where Lavoisier was now.
“We’ve put him in garde à vue, of course. He’s waiting to talk to his high-powered lawyer.”
Looking thoughtful, Coudert nodded. He got up and paced behind his immense, immaculate desk. Two laps in, he came to a decision.
“Frankly, Mazarelle, I must admit that I was annoyed to see you here. Still, it seems that you’ve done some good work. So I guess—consider yourself reinstated.”
Mazarelle smiled. He hadn’t expected Coudert to turn around so fast. “I’m glad to be back,” he said.
“No time for parties,” Coudert grumbled. “There’s work to do. As far as I’m concerned, your first priority is still the hanged man murder. We’ve got Babo sitting in jail, and the trial is due to start soon. You need to get going on that.”
A small twinge of guilt stabbed Mazarelle. Poor Babo. Still innocent, still sitting in jail. All this time while he was wrapped up with Claire. He turned to head out the door.
And Coudert shot over his shoulder, “Plus I want you to take on the cop killing at the Buttes-Chaumont.”
Mazarelle looked bewildered. “The Guy Danglars case? I thought you assigned that to Lieutenant Duhamel.”
“Right! I did. But she’s made no progress at all.” Coudert shrugged. “Alice Duhamel is a good-looking woman. And a crack shot on the firing range. But, entre nous, as a detective she’s vraiment nulle. The minister wants you to take the case back. I told him you were busy. But he’s hoping you can do better.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I expect no less from you.”
60
Later that afternoon, when Mazarelle’s team arrived at Donovan’s gleaming red door, Caitlin was inside waiting for them. The pub was already crowded.
“You’re late,” she told Maurice, who had called to tell her they were on the way. “I had trouble saving the back room for you.”
“Sorry,” Maurice said. “We were held up. But this time it’s going to be a happy happy hour. Actually, it’s a party and we’re feeling celebratory. The chef is back.”
“That sounds better already. Follow me”—she waved her green fingernails—“and we’ll get you caught up the Donovan way.”
They started Caitlin yo-yoing back and forth toting glasses of Guinness stout and Chimay—the beers on tap. Followed next by bottles of Bass and Smithwick’s Irish ale. Then ratcheting up the alcohol content of anyone still standing and ready to join their chef in toasts, she brought them Teeling and Paddy and Bushmills single malt Irish whiskey.
Caitlin seemed to have inexhaustible energy. She was assisted by a young fresh-faced waiter who took care of all the food.
“Did I forget anything?” he asked her nervously.
Caitlin turned to the commandant. “Anything else?”
“Nice,” Mazarelle said, eyeing the spread, and went downstairs briefly to make room for another Bushmills.
When Mazarelle returned to their buoyant back room, they were all munching on spicy chicken wings, deep-fried onion rings, smoky bacon, shepherd’s pies, and dumplings galore to go with their whiskeys and beer. And there too was Gilles Chardon. The medical examiner had just arrived and already had a raised glass in his hand, his first toast on the tip of his tongue.
“Here’s to you, mon ami. And to the work you and your team have done on the murder of Claire Girard and ID’ing her killer. It’s good to have you back in Paris. Welcome home.”
“Couldn’t have done it without your help, Gilles.”
“I’m glad you realize that,” the ME pointed out with an impish smile. “It makes my job so much easier.”
By way of showing his appreciation, Dr. Chardon had a little present for his friend. Unwrapped, it turned out to be Turgenev’s last novel—Virgin Soil. He hoped Mazarelle hadn’t read it.
“No never.”
“Wonderful. You’re in for a treat. He’s my favorite Russian.”
Mazarelle smiled. “What’s this book about?” he asked.
“Among other things,” Gilles explained, “it’s a novel about young love—so sweet, so sad.”
Mazarelle, who had seen the doctor perform more than a few autopsies in his time, stepped back and gave his friend the once-over. “You know, mon ami, you surprise me. I didn’t realize what a sentimentalist you really are.”
Chardon took out a cigarette and lighted up, exhaling a cloud of thick gray smoke as if to conceal a blushing cheek. “I’m also a Vladimir Nabokov fan,” he added, in the spirit of full disclosure. “What about you?”
Mazarelle thought it over. “I like Chekhov. His eye for detail. Maybe that’s due to his medical training.”
The doctor chuckled. “Another round?”
What Mazarelle felt he needed more than anything else at the moment was a few hours’ sleep or he’d never be able to get up in time for their meeting tomorrow morning. As for the ME, he too had to be up at the crack of dawn. His first autopsy was at 8 a.m.
Mazarelle asked his friend, “How’s chances of dropping me off on your way home?”
“A pleasure.”
“What about them?” asked Caitlin. She’d been standing there taking more orders for drinks.
Chardon said, “They’re much younger than we are. Give them another round and the bill.”
Mazarelle went around the table, shaking hands with each one and thanking them for the boozing, the laughing, the screwing around. “It was a lovely party,” he told them. “But if you’re late tomorrow, it’ll make me very unhappy. And you know how I get when I’m like that? Grumpy. Very grumpy. And nobody wants that, do you?”
“Hell no!” they shouted in unison.
“Good,” replied Mazarelle, reminding them they’d only gotten one case done. Still two more to go. As he started toward the door with the doctor, Caitlin came running after him.
“Here, Commandant.” She handed him his still half-filled bottle of whiskey. “You forgot this.”
“Keep it, darling,” Mazarelle insisted. “You’ve made my day.”
She hugged him, kissed him, and ran back inside to fill their order.
As the two friends drove to Mazarelle’s apartment in the doctor’s Citroën, Vanessa Paradis was back on the radio, singing “Joe le Taxi.” Mazarelle recalled seeing her picture on the cover of Paris-Flash, as he waited for Claire at her office. He tapped his foot to the music. A catchy tune. It seemed as if all that had happened a long time ago.
As they approached his building, Mazarelle was impressed with how festive the boulevard looked in the bright moonlight. Gilles pulled into the curb in front of the building’s entry.
Mazarelle turned to his friend. “Care to come upstairs for a dernier verre?”
“After what we’ve already had to drink? I’m practically asleep already,” said Dr. Chardon. Mazarelle smiled as the medical examiner drove off.
Punching in the code on his front lock, Mazarelle walked into the house. He waved to his concierge, Mme. Paulette, who stood at her lighted window, passed under the Moorish arch into the inner courtyard paved with black flagstones, and headed back toward the elevator. Getting out on the third floor, he pressed the button for the minuterie, but it didn’t work. Mme. Paulette looked efficient, but she never remembered to change the bulbs. Still, he knew the braille of his floor, his apartment. In the dark, he pulled out his key and opened the door. He was relieved to see that inside his own lights were okay.
Settling comfortably into his red armchair, Mazarelle took out his meerschaum and filled it with tobacco. As he smoked, he opened his gift and began reading Turgenev. He could tell immediately that he was going to enjoy the book. But just then the concierge’s intercom buzzed from downstairs.
“Messenger here with a delivery for you, monsieur le commandant. It looks like a present.”
“Where from?”
“Fauchon. It looks quite elegant.”
Mazarelle had to smile. A gift basket from Fauchon. Coudert must have been happier than he let on about his clearing the case.
“Okay. Send him up. But tell him to be careful. The minuterie up here isn’t working again.”
“I’ll tell him. He’s coming right up.”
* * *
—
A few moments later, Mazarelle heard footsteps on the landing. The loud knocking on his door sounded positively jolly. He rushed over, unlocked and opened the door, ready to welcome the messenger. The light from his apartment shot across the landing, but no one was standing there. Mazarelle stepped out and peered into the shadows, trying to see if anyone was still there, waiting for a tip. Nothing. No one. No sound of footsteps on the landing. But then he saw it—a large pink and black box sitting on the floor near the top of the staircase.
Mazarelle hurried over to the Fauchon box. Bending down, he opened it and examined his gift. Inside was a spectacular array of delights: a Sicilian orange cake; a splendid chocolate Megève ganache de chez Fauchon; and, surrounding them, half a dozen cream éclairs that seemed to be decorated with cherry blossoms. The patron must have been really happy with his work. Mazarelle could hardly wait to carry his treat inside his apartment.
He didn’t see the garrote until it was almost too late.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement, the coil, as it slipped over his head. Had he not just come from the South of France, Mazarelle would have had barely any idea of what he was up against. But in that split second, he had a chilling realization of what it had to be. Not just a garrote. La loupe—the double-coiled garrote, the deadly weapon used by the elite troops of the French Foreign Legion to remove enemy sentries silently.
Even as he reached up to grab at the coils, he stopped. He knew that if he tried to pull away, or yank at the ligature—the normal instinctive reaction—he’d be a dead man in less than a second. No one was strong enough to save himself that way. The edge—the leverage—was always to the attacker from behind. That’s what made the garrote so deadly.
As the coils started to tighten into his neck, Mazarelle did the unexpected. Instead of trying to pull away, he rolled his shoulder, and turned right back into his attacker—slamming him in the face. The son of a bitch was almost as tall and broad as himself. He was startled, but he wouldn’t let go. The two large men lurched through the darkness like drunken dancers, pounding into the wall, bouncing over toward the black railing. There the two struggled against the wooden support, each refusing to release his grasp of the other. Strength against strength. Neither yielding. The raw power of his opponent was frightening to Mazarelle.
But Mazarelle had a trick or two of his own. Dropping down, he unleashed a move learned long ago on the rugby fields of his youth—the straight elbow to the balls. Not exactly according to the rules of the game. But always a winner.
He heard his attacker cry out in some unrecognizable language—“Da-i dracului! Dute dracului! Mânca-mi ai coaiele!” Turning face-to-face, pummeling the wounded man in the gut, Mazarelle thought, I’ve got him now! But the attacker, in a burst of energy, fought back. And suddenly the two, clutching each other, went crashing into the balustrade—the wooden rail cracking and splintering. And both men, off-balance, but still locked together, went twisting, falling, hurtling down three flights toward the bushes and the black stones of the courtyard below.
Moments later, Mazarelle’s motionless body lay sprawled on the ground. His head battered, with a small crimson pool expanding around it. His attacker nowhere to be seen. No signs of life in Mazarelle—just streaks on his face, his clothes.
Near him a trail of blood glinting in the moonlight led off through the stone courtyard and out to the traffic on the boulevard.
PART SIX
61
Luc was not happy about being shaken out of a sound sleep, the first he’d had in a while. He picked up the ringing telephone, ready to give hell to whoever it was. But the caller’s gruff, sandpaper voice caught him by surprise. He recognized it instantly.
“It’s done, Luc. The investigator is kaput. We’ve seen the last of him. And the rest of the plan is all set.” Without waiting for an answer, the caller hung up.
Luc smiled happily, turned over on his side, and went back to sleep.
62
Every part of Mazarelle’s body was falling apart. They put him on a stretcher and slid him inside the police ambulance like a loaf of bread into the oven. The main thing he recalled before they pulled away from the front of his house was the siren screaming in his ears. They told him they were going to the Hôtel-Dieu, the oldest hospital in Paris. They snapped a mask over his face that made his breathing easier. It must have been a respirator. The two attendants peered down into Mazarelle’s pale face. Both of them needed a shave. He assumed that he didn’t look especially good either. The next time his eyes opened, the ambulance was bouncing up onto the curb outside the hospital and into the building, and they were wheeling him into the Intensive Care Unit.
As Mazarelle slipped in and out of consciousness, he couldn’t get the attack out of his mind. Each jolt of pain that shot him awake, sent him raging at the villains, whoever they were, and even more at himself and the dumb trap he’d been snared by. But through the lingering pain, one idea brightened his mind.
Something good had happened.
Sure every breath stabbed him in the side. And he had a wire or a tube plugged into every vein. But Paul Mazarelle had to smile. He had flushed the bastards. They were out in the open now. It had almost cost him his life, but the key word was “almost.” He was alive. And he’d learned from years of detective work that all you had to do was survive. As long as you did, you could pick up the investigation and go on. Half comatose, he couldn’t wait to get out of bed and start again.
Meanwhile Maurice, Jeannot, and Serge were in the waiting room. As protection, Maurice had insisted that they maintain a round-the-clock vigil. The attacker might return. He was not likely to fade away. As for the team, despite the doctors’ gloomy expressions, Mazarelle’s guys were not giving up on their chief’s likelihood of surviving. They would not desert him. No more animated than gravestones, they spent the whole night in an almost completely empty hospital waiting room in silence, like figures in a late-night Hopper painting.
After midnight, Coudert stopped by. Looking around at the men on guard in the waiting room, Coudert nodded to himself. Going over to Maurice, he bent down and whispered, “I’m glad to see all of you here. As soon as your chief is moved out of intensive care, I’ll post a gendarme outside his room. Then you and your men can go back to work.”
* * *
—
Over the next week, Mazarelle went through cycles of pain. An excruciating headache that was bad in the morning but worse in the evening, body aches all day that felt as if they’d never go away. The doctors told him he was lucky to be alive. But whenever he had a bit of respite from medication, he bitterly complained about the time he was wasting. The urgent work he had to do. The assassin he had to catch. He was such a loud squeaky wheel about wanting to get back to his office, so driven to get out of there, that after ten days the medical staff was willing—even eager—to let him go home. When the nurses protested that he was a real handful, a pain in the ass, he smiled. A twinkle in his eye.
On his last day, they lined up to say goodbye. All quite glad that he was leaving. A few of his nurses stood together behind his wheelchair at the front door. When one of them came forward to help him get into Maurice’s car, the commandant brushed her hand away from his arm. He needed no assistance.
Dr. Jacobus, who’d also treated him in the past, was there too, of course. He’d been especially impressed with Mazarelle’s progress. He knew how much battering the commandant had already taken. His broken leg from rugby that had not been set well, the various bullet wounds he’d received, the medieval stone wall and timbers that had fallen on him in the Dordogne. And now after escaping with his life from his most recent “adventure,” he was leaving them with only a concussion, a broken collarbone, and some cracked ribs—all thanks to the elaborate hedges and floral plantings that the building’s gardener had recently installed in the courtyard. Dr. Jacobus doubted that Mazarelle would have survived the dangerous fall if his head had hit the flagstones instead of a bed of blossoming dahlias. As for the unknown villain who’d apparently walked away, leaving only a streak of blood, his landing had no doubt been cushioned by Mazarelle’s body.
