Babazouk Blues, page 11
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Maggie, your wife of the last thirty years, you ninny.’
‘My darling, I am so sorry.’
‘I’m coming down.’
‘Might it be easier if I came up?’
‘Stay there. Each one of those steps is supposed to put a penny in my health bank.’
* * *
In the study, Philippe was in the middle of writing an important planning document but he always observed the dictum that everything stopped for a lady. Adjusting his silk cravat, he stood, and intercepted Maggie at the door.
‘Philippe,’ she said, steaming slowly in, ‘I must insist you give Taylor a few days off.’
‘With the exhibition imminent, it would be rather inconvenient.’ Maggie’s shoulders were resolutely square, her little stub of a jaw set. ‘Of course, if something is amiss—’
‘She went through a police grilling this morning. Is that amiss enough for you?’
‘Grilling? I’m sure not. I saw the officer in question, myself. He was charming.’
Maggie’s perfectly applied blusher took on a less subtle hue. ‘You, too? Look, however charming this doe-eyed ruffian pretends to be, the girl needs a break after what she’s been through. She was really fond of the dead woman.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Philippe essayed his famously disarming smile. ‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Good.’ Maggie performed a miniature three-point turn. ‘See you do.’
Philippe moved to escort her but she raised a hand. ‘Taylor should never have felt she needed to buy in the first place!’
‘Margaret,’ Philippe sighed, ‘I feel we have exhausted that subject. And consider that whatever happens in the end, Taylor’s investment has returned a fine dividend already.’
‘“In the end”? I may go here and now.’
‘My darling, as you know, my most fervent wish is that I pre-decease you.’
She gave him a look, took a breath and began the ascent. Philippe still had work to do but his rhythm had been broken by the interruption. He poured himself a cognac and repaired to an armchair instead. After a moment, his eyes slid to his cabinet of delights. Now? Why not? Unlocking its double doors, he reached into the corners of the inner box and flicked open a pair of catches. He lifted it out, exposing a second set of doors. He paused and then pulled them open in the manner of a priest exposing the wings of a devotional triptych.
In a way, that’s exactly what it was.
14
Gilles Voska had spent most of the day doctoring a set of chess pieces. Hollowed out, they could hold a surprising amount. He was applying a second coat of varnish to the king when he heard someone approaching outside. The RV shook as the visitor mounted the step and knocked. Voska set his brush down and went to the door. A thickset black man in his late twenties smiled at him as he opened it.
‘May I come in?’
The man’s voice was pitter-patter soft but Voska knew he would put up a good fight if it came to it. It might last all of thirty seconds. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘I asked if I might come in,’ the man said, still smiling. ‘I am anxious to know if you met with your contact.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, as everything has been done, I want you to hand over what we agreed.’
‘I won’t have it all until tomorrow.’
The black man’s smile faded as he returned Voska’s stare. ‘In that case, give me what you do have.’
‘You think I’d keep something like that in the vehicle?’
‘Then where?’
Voska’s eyes slid toward a stand of trees.
‘Get it, please.’
‘In daylight? Come back after dark tomorrow and you can have it all.’
‘When?’
‘It’s usually dead around here by eleven. Make it midnight.’
‘Dagger, if you are not here or you try to cheat us, it will become a matter of much regret for you,’ the black man said, softly.
‘Midnight tomorrow.’
Voska closed the door with no further word.
The man made his way back to his Fiat 500, nursing an uneasy feeling that after everything he’d done, something might yet go wrong. But he tried to banish the thought as he got within sight of the car. His passenger, sitting with his knees pressed hard against the glove box, was a perceptive soul.
‘Well?’ Rama N’Pata said. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Tomorrow, he says.’
Their eyes met.
‘Do you trust him, Modibo?’
The big man smiled as he gave Rama’s knee a squeeze. ‘Ask me after tomorrow.’
Modibo was still looking cheerful as he pulled away. Inside, he was already preparing for the fight he suspected would come and reflecting that of all the bad cards he’d been dealt in his life, the one bearing the mark of the dagger might just have been the worst.
15
As stake-out spots went, the window table at Maison Branco in Saint-Laurent-du-Var was one of the best Darac had experienced in a while. Their bourride paired well with Pouilly-Fumé and the clear sight line across to the Résidence Floride meant its night man would easily be able to signal him when the time came.
Earlier, Darac had not found Jeanne Mesnel’s oldest friend, Madame Corot, at home. A neighbour volunteered that she had flown to Montreal three weeks ago to visit her sister and wasn’t due back for a day or two. Montreal in winter? A hardy soul, obviously. More importantly, one who hadn’t been around at the time of her friend’s death.
Darac lingered long over a perfect tarte au citron. As he savoured the final forkful, there was still no sign of Cristelle Daviot. More waiting. It wasn’t until the staff began to close up the place around him that Darac got up to leave. He crossed the road to update the night man. Wearing the sour, put-upon expression of the traditional fleabag concierge, the old boy seemed out of place in the clean-lined setting of the Résidence. His smart uniform only added to the effect.
‘OK, plan B.’ Darac pointed toward a line of vehicles. ‘See the grey Peugeot?’
‘A white Cadillac I might see. A Peugeot? Grey?’
‘I haven’t finished yet. The grey Peugeot parked next to the green plumber’s van.’
The night man shrugged.
‘Same drill as before but now I’ll be in that car if you see anything.’
‘I am not stupid.’
Darac went back to his car and slid Monk’s Brilliant Corners album into the CD player. He listened to the title track and then phoned Ridge to give him the good news.
‘Garfield, you kidding me?’
‘No. It’s all yours, Monsieur Eldridge Barton Peters Clay.’
‘Ever heard of Peters? Preacher. Good man.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Madame Mesnel an old friend, then?’
‘No. And I thought I knew all the jazz cats around here. How big is this stash?’
‘Including the vinyl LPs and the tapes it might be seven or eight hundred albums.’
A woman emerged from the parking area opposite and headed for the apartment block. Darac couldn’t see her face but she was young, well dressed, slim. A candidate.
‘I’m stoked, man. Stoked and choked.’
Translated literally, the American terms Ridge used often didn’t make sense in French but Darac had come to understand most of them.
‘I would be stoked too, if someone had left me all that.’
Ridge’s voice took on a more sober tone. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She had an accident. Drowned.’
‘There’s no good way to die, I guess.’
The night man appeared in the doorway and cursorily made the signal.
‘Got to go, Ridge.’
Darac paused at the desk just long enough to stuff a ten-euro note into the old man’s breast pocket. The lift Cristelle had taken still hadn’t returned so Darac pushed through a door at the rear of the lobby and took the service stairs. He rang the bell of apartment 312 and, almost immediately, the door jagged open on its chain.
‘Yes?’
He wasn’t prepared for the impact seeing the woman in the flesh had upon him. ‘Mademoiselle Cristelle Daviot?’ He omitted to produce his ID. ‘Darac. Police.’
‘At this time of night again? My, I am lucky.’
She closed the door to release the chain and then reopened it, doubling the thrill of the reveal. A simple navy-blue jersey dress showed off her slim but athletic build, and she had glossy, shoulder-length, dark-brown hair. Her nose and chin were probably too prominent to be considered classically beautiful but taken with her almost black, almond-shaped eyes, the overall effect was sensational. Darac felt a curious urge to touch her as she let him into the apartment.
‘Drink?’
‘Uh… yes.’
Darac couldn’t fathom the depth of his reaction.
‘What would you like?’
The word ‘beer’ came out of his mouth.
He sat down on the sofa and stood up again as she went to get the drinks. What was going on here? And then it hit him. Cristelle Daviot wasn’t just a strikingly attractive woman. She looked like the woman, the smoking sloe-eyed beauty in the Blue Devil club poster. A crazy thought struck him. But no, no, it couldn’t be. Could it? Think, man. He considered the time element. The woman in the poster looked to be in her early twenties and the photo had been taken in 1963. So that meant she would be about seventy if she were still alive. Jesus Christ… But slow down, slow down – that’s just one factor. What about relatives? He ruled them out: Cristelle’s grandmother had had no sisters and her one female cousin had been at least twenty years older. Yes, it was at least possible.
He considered the extraordinary resemblance between Cristelle and his poster girl. The sort of resemblance that often skips a generation. And then he considered the gift of Jeanne’s record collection to Ridge and the bequest of her poster to Cristelle. Darac shook his head but he knew everything was pointing to the most incredible conclusion. The woman in the poster, the enduring emblem of the world he loved, that woman was Jeanne Mesnel. In a strange but real sense, he had been in love with Jeanne, or at least her image, all his adult life.
An ambulance raced by below, the pitch of its siren falling as it headed west. A very different image of the woman came back to him.
‘Take it, then.’
Cristelle was standing in front of him holding an opened bottle of San Miguel. He took it and followed her out on to the balcony as if in a dream. A low, blond wood table was set down next to her sun lounger. On it was a packet of Gitanes.
‘You don’t mind?’ She took one and lit up. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’
Smoke your gorgeous head off. ‘Not at all.’
She lay back in the sun lounger and, folding her legs under her, blew out a long column of smoke. Fade in the club, the bass player, the drummer, the brass section…
‘There’s a director’s chair in the corner.’ He didn’t react. ‘If you want to sit.’
‘Ah.’
He brought the chair and unfolded it. Cradled in canvas, he felt even more at a loss, somehow. He needed to make a start but how? Cristelle had a powerful sexual charisma of her own but it was the sense that he was in the miraculous presence of the young Jeanne, a living reincarnation of his muse, that overwhelmed him. His original plan for the interview spooling off on to the floor like a torn reel-to-reel tape, he dragged his gaze away. ‘Mademoiselle—’
Another snorted plume of smoke. ‘Cristelle.’ She began absently stroking the side of her bare foot. She might as well have been stroking his manhood. ‘Please.’
‘Cristelle… Obviously, I’m here in connection with your grandmother’s death.’
‘Would you like to spend the night with me?’
Darac closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Picture the hot tub. Picture the mess of flesh. Picture the morgue trolley. ‘That would clearly be a bad idea.’
‘Why? Because you know or have guessed that I’m a prostitute?’
‘No, no. Not at all.’
‘I don’t want your money, if that’s what you’re thinking. I want us to fuck purely for the pleasure of it. I have needs, as well, you see.’
Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus… ‘That isn’t the reason, either.’
‘Why then?’
Because I’m struggling to separate your identity from a woman I’ve been half in love with all my life and you’re a potential suspect in her murder. That good enough for you?
‘Cristelle, I am with the Brigade Criminelle.’ He showed her his ID.
‘Captain Paul Darac.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Captain? You must be good at your job.’ She blew smoke, holding the pout that went with it a little too long. ‘Very good.’
‘You certainly look as if you’re working.’
‘Can’t you recognise real flirting when you see it?’
He needed to get into gear now or there would be no way back. ‘Whether real or not, I have to ask you some questions.’
It was with a sense that the seduction was merely on hold that she stopped stroking her foot and started paying a different kind of attention to him. ‘Ask me questions? Why?’
‘You don’t have to answer them now but I hope you will.’
‘No. It’s fine.’
‘Thank you. First, I’d like to know what kind of a person your grandmother was.’
The question seemed to surprise, even discomfit her. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Because the Canadian winter might kill off Madame Corot before I get the chance to talk to her. And when I get to the heavy stuff later, you might be in no mood for casual reminiscence. ‘Just for background.’ Darac smiled. ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Alright.’ Her head tilted back as she took a nourishing suck on her cigarette. ‘For what it’s worth, I thought she was a remarkable woman. Very bright. Interesting. She wasn’t really like other grandmothers. Or other mothers, come to that.’
‘Go on.’
Cristelle’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t touched your beer.’
Darac hadn’t registered that he’d been given one. ‘I don’t really want it. Mothers?’
‘Mothers, yes. Mine died of cancer when she was only thirty-five. I was fifteen. I fell apart. I wanted grand-mère to fall apart with me but she didn’t.’
‘She didn’t grieve?’
‘Oh yes, she did. Briefly. My own pain wasn’t so easily relieved.’
‘Maybe her response was—’
‘Healthy?’ More smoke. ‘No doubt.’
‘I was going to say perhaps she got through it quickly so she could be strong for you.’
‘You’re that type, are you?’
‘What type is that?’
‘The type that looks for a silver lining.’ She made a dismissive sound in her throat. ‘“Look for a Silver Lining”. She used to sing that to me. Stupid song.’
‘I think it’s quite a good song. Especially when Chet Baker sings it.’
Cristelle shrugged.
‘Was she religious, mademoiselle?’
‘No. If she had been, perhaps she wouldn’t have been such a self-centred person.’
Darac remembered the photo of Cristelle’s mother nursing her as a baby. ‘Did she pass those selfish qualities on to your mother?’
‘No. My mother always put me first. Always.’ The flame that danced in her beautiful sloe eyes had been lit way down. ‘Now, suppose you tell me why you really want to know these things. That oh-so-winning smile won’t do it for you a second time.’
‘Alright. We’re not absolutely certain that your grandmother died accidentally.’
Cristelle sat up. ‘What?’
‘It could be that someone, or some people, drowned her deliberately.’
He watched her carefully as she came to terms with the news. If she wasn’t genuinely shocked, it was some performance.
‘I… would be lying if I said I haven’t been waiting for my grandmother to die, Captain. But that was alright. I knew I wouldn’t have to wait much longer for what’s coming to me.’
‘And what’s coming is?’
‘The house, obviously. I don’t think there’ll be much else.’
‘There may be some other treasures. I was very taken by the jazz club poster on the stairs, for instance.’
Cristelle filled her lungs and held in the smoke for what seemed an age before exhaling. ‘It’s not worth anything.’
‘You don’t think it’s remarkable? Especially as the woman featured in the shot—’
‘Is my grandmother, I know.’
Hearing her granddaughter confirm his suspicions sent a thrill like an electric shock down his spine.
‘OK, enough.’ Cristelle emphatically stubbed out her cigarette. ‘They said she died last Saturday, right? When exactly?’
Darac gave only a vague indication.
‘I’ll get my diary.’
It felt like a reward when she returned. Riffling pages, she leaned in close, strands of her soft hair tickling his cheek. It was only the initial sortie in an attack on his senses whose power was heightened by her scent: a subtle medley of wild herbs and flowers floating over a heavier base of sweat and tobacco.
‘I think these entries account for my, what do you call them?’ Again, the pout. ‘Movements? My first client was in Fréjus. See there.’
Darac read the entries: Gassin, Sainte-Maxime, three in Saint-Tropez. ‘And these people would testify in court?’ It seemed like a dumb question but he had to ask it. ‘That they were with you, I mean?’
She ran a perfectly manicured nail across each name. ‘Not him. Or him. Possibly her. And yes, actually, I think those two would love to broadcast the fact.’ She smiled at Darac. ‘You see, I’m very good at my job, also.’
It had been some time since Darac had had sex and he hadn’t intended doing anything much about it until someone significant came along. But here was the sight, the sound and the scent… He kicked back his chair and stood. Cristelle’s lips were already on his as he pulled the soft jersey material of her dress over her buttocks. Without feeling her weight, he lifted her off her feet and wrapped her legs around his waist.
