Babazouk Blues, page 35
‘Brilliant.’ Bonbon grinned, just as amused as when they had read the original at Crédit Bal-Med. ‘Cheeky bugger.’
‘The letter continues: You see, I never did take the original off the wall at the Musée and swap it for what you’ve got there. I know we shook on the deal but I could never do such a thing. It’s against the law and besides, I would never have got away with it. You can’t just short-circuit the alarm wiring like I told you.’
Taylor had stopped kicking the air altogether.
‘There’s more: Lucky the original had just been cleaned or I wouldn’t have got away with doing a new one for you, would I? You might have smelled the rat that was the new paint and varnish. Now Phil, if you’re thinking of getting back at me or my wife over this, I’ve got something to tell you. Just as my job at the Musée gave me the chance to take photos of every square centimetre of the original painting, so you coming over to my place gave me the opportunity to take photos of every stage of our business deal. I had a remote camera hidden in the window. I’ve got shots of you handing over the money, the lot.’
Darac tried to read the next sentence without any special emphasis. ‘I’m pretty good at photography and the shots came out very well, by the way. Don’t worry that I’ll put the squeeze on you, Phil. I’ve got a heart. But don’t try anything funny or I’ll expose you to the whole world for what you are: a thieving art expert who’s been fooled by a complete beginner. All the best, Alain. PS, if you fancy any Cézannes, I think I could manage one of them as well.’
‘That’s what really kills me,’ Bonbon spluttered, slapping his thigh. ‘Priceless.’
Darac folded Alain’s letter and returned it to his pocket. ‘Obviously, mademoiselle, when you’d recovered from the shock, you did not put the letter back in the frame.’
Taylor’s perfect face looked as if it were slowly being put through a shrink-wrapper.
Bonbon was still grinning. ‘To think that for all those years, the old boy had been sneaking into his room, opening his secret cabinet and getting off on a complete fake. And he paid Alain Mesnel God knows how much for the privilege.’
It was a phenomenon that interested Darac but this was no time for intellectual debate. He set the painting down and resumed his perch on the desk. ‘Your plan depended on Lambert never finding out that the Woman at Asilah on show at the Musée Matisse was the genuine, un-swapped original. If he ever realised he’d been duped, he might have destroyed his Mesnel replica and then you would have nothing with which to bargain. True, you had an incriminating letter but it was the flimsiest possible lever. Anybody could have written it; you could have. That was when you thought about the photographs Alain Mesnel had taken. If you could somehow lay your hands on those, you’d have documentary evidence of the crime being commissioned, the money handed over, everything. It would be excellent insurance.’
‘No.’ Her voice drying, she gave a little cough. ‘Not true.’
‘Would you like more water, Taylor?’
Unconcerned at Darac’s use of her forename, she nodded. He went to the cooler.
‘I’ll go on. If you could obtain the photographs, it didn’t matter whether Lambert destroyed his painting or not, you had a lever to prise open his wallet at will.’
‘I’m not saying anything further until the lawyer and the US Consul get here.’
As he handed over the cup, their hands touched momentarily.
‘Carry on, Granot, will you?’
‘With pleasure. Your quest to find and secure the photos began as any enquiry does. Checking things, speculating, footslogging. You were like a one-woman police force—’
The angry cat had returned. ‘Do not patronise me!’
‘If you insist. You decided to find out what you could about Alain Mesnel, hoping some opening might present itself. Your skill at greasing round people is well attested. Who knows what you might be able to pull off if you could find the man himself? I reckon you started with the local phone book and didn’t have to check out too many Mesnels before you hit the bull’s-eye. And, what a bonus, the address was just around the corner. It turned out Alain had died shortly after his involvement with Lambert but his widow might still have the photos. All you needed was to get her out of the way long enough to find them, and you could start blackmailing the man you were so devoted to.’
A little eyebrow semaphore with Darac put him back in.
‘There’s no need to go into great detail about what happened next, is there, mademoiselle? Engineering the meeting with Jeanne Mesnel, putting in the house purchase offer, et cetera? It suited you both. Buying her the hot tub you knew would be yours one day was a shrewd move. You took to taking baths together. Every now and then, you would offer to run errands. “No, you stay here. I’ll go.” As always, nothing was too much trouble. And of course, you would occasionally have to go up to the house on your own account. For calls of nature, and so on.’
The reference made Taylor squirm.
‘So while she was luxuriating in the hot tub, you were mounting a search for the envelope of photos. You didn’t find them. Your plan to blackmail Lambert started to look more uncertain but you had killed two birds with one stone in your purchase of the villa. You thought Madame Mesnel was unlikely to live much longer so you wouldn’t have to wait long to become its legal owner. That meant you would be freer to search the place. And of more immediate benefit, having spent every last euro of your savings to set up the house purchase, you would be spared any further monthly payments. But then you read about the Marcelline Boule en viager house sale case, and that got you thinking again.’
‘More nonsense. I’ve never even heard of… whatever her name was.’
‘Bonbon, refresh the mademoiselle’s memory?’
‘It began when one Jean-Jacques Philibert bought Madame Boule’s house in Le Havre in 1989. It was all above board: fair price, fair bouquet payment, fair monthly rent. Madame Boule was eighty at the time and very ill. He was forty-one. But nineteen years later, he’s still paying her rent when he pre-deceases her. Madame Boule, now almost a century old, is thinking of putting the place on the market again! Supposing Madame Mesnel hung on similarly? You might have found yourself losing your job, having nowhere to live as a result, and yet still be paying her for living in your house.’
‘I’ve told you. I knew nothing about—’
Granot slapped the arm of his chair. ‘You read the original article and follow-up pieces on the internet. You deleted your search history, of course, but our lab people found it on your hard drive.’
‘So I read an article. What does that prove?’
Darac ran his hand through his hair, thought about it for a moment, then reached into his briefcase and took out a manila envelope. He tossed it on to the desk.
‘Timing. Timing is everything. You had never taken out a safety deposit box in your life. Then just two days after Madame Mesnel died, three days before the body was discovered, you did precisely that. In the box we found the photographs and Alain’s original letter—’
‘You had it all along? So what you read out wasn’t a transcript, it was a photocopy. You liar!’ Taylor bit her lip so hard, beads of blood began to seep through the coral gloss. ‘And you’re lying about the lawyer and the Consul. They’re not coming, are they?’
‘I give you my word that they are, Taylor.’
For the first time, their eyes met and retained the connection. The amplitude on the range of Darac’s emotions was wider than ever.
‘Paul?’ she said softly, leaning forward, keeping her eyes on his. ‘I can explain why I had the photos and the letter under lock and key. It was to protect Philippe should Madame Mesnel ever decide to start blackmailing him.’ Her voice dropped still further. ‘May we continue alone?’
Bonbon and Granot shared a look. After a moment, Granot coughed, stagily.
‘Uh… chief?’
Darac unlocked his gaze. ‘Let’s continue, shall we?’
Taylor stiffened and sat back.
‘Yesterday, mademoiselle, I re-interviewed Henri Lepic, a nice kid as you know, who had broken his leg, skateboarding. He hadn’t initially told us the truth about the unseemly circumstances surrounding the accident because his fine, upstanding parents had drummed into him that he mustn’t. At all costs, we the police must never find out what Henri had been up to because once we knew, the world at large would know and the family’s reputation would be sullied forever. Or that’s how they saw it. But help was at hand. The Lepics saw it as a sign of divine providence that the mother, a clerical assistant at Hôpital Saint-Roch, had access to the computer file detailing Henri’s visit to A and E. All the humiliation that the boy was about to heap on the family could be averted, she realised, by simply altering the date of the visit on the file. Assuming that if the police checked at all, they would look no further than the date, she did just that.’
Sitting behind Bonbon, Perand had the look of a dog who knew he was finally about to be let off the leash.
‘But two things conspired against her,’ Darac continued. ‘The eagle eyes of that young man.’ He indicated Perand. ‘And the dead hand of fate. Fill in the mademoiselle.’
‘Henri’s mother put the treatment date back a day from the 2nd to the 1st of January but it was too complicated to alter the other details. But that didn’t matter. The time and date of Henri’s admission on the file matching the Lepics’ version of events, she was right that we wouldn’t have looked any further. But then I noticed the name of the doctor cited as setting the leg. There was just one problem. At 16.47 on the 1st he wasn’t at work. He was teaching a class, a special event for New Year’s Day. I know because I’m one of his students.’
Taylor seemed undisturbed by the development.
‘So the world is full of liars. What bearing does this have on anything?’
‘Plenty,’ Darac said. ‘It was from about two o’clock on the afternoon of Saturday, 2 January that young Henri was out stunting on his skateboard. He was trying to emulate people like your countryman, Troy Pinto. They don’t just scoot along roads and pavements, these people. They get up high. They defy gravity.’
Blood began to drain from Taylor’s face.
‘Aping the approach of his heroes, Henri somehow succeeded in getting on to the wall that forms part of the barrier between Chemin Leuze and Rue Balmette. That was his first misdemeanour – trespass. He was working out what sort of stunt to perform when something distracted him. Away to his left, he saw Madame Mesnel taking a soak in the hot tub, as was sometimes her custom, in the nude. His interest waned after no more than a few moments but as he was about to return to what he was doing, he saw an elderly black man walk out of the house and join her.’
Taylor was sitting so absolutely still, she looked like a waxwork figure of herself.
‘More out of curiosity than anything, he watched as they made love. He knows he shouldn’t have but he did. Misdemeanour number two – voyeurism. He was still watching as Madame Mesnel suddenly became distressed and clutched her left arm. The man panicked, not knowing what to do for the best. She managed to say something and he got out of the tub and hurried back to the house. Less than two minutes later, he emerged with his mobile but he aborted the call when he saw he was too late. Madame Mesnel was dead. He got back into the water and held her in his arms for a moment. Then taking his champagne glass, he returned to the house, dressed, and made his exit.’
‘And what does this tragic drama have to do with me?’
‘Everything. You arrived right in the middle of it.’
‘I… did not.’
‘The boy saw you dodge behind the wall where the waste bins are kept. As Madame Mesnel became distressed, you watched the man get out of the tub to call an ambulance. The moment he was out of sight, you stepped forward.’ His hands balling into fists, Darac looked Taylor in the eyes. ‘The boy assumed you were going to comfort the lady.’
‘Lady? Letting that fat old ape screw her!’ She looked startled at her own words. ‘No. I meant—’
‘I think I understand why what you saw upset you.’
‘Oh spare me that… garbage!’
‘As you approached her, you had a shock. She held out a hand to you. You realised she was recovering. Whatever had happened to her heart had been more of a warning shot than a potentially fatal attack. All that uncertainty came back into your mind. She might live for years, mightn’t she, this vile old woman? In your heightened state, you decided to make sure she didn’t. Here was a golden opportunity to advance all of your plans with one simple action. And considering the circumstances, you knew nobody would suspect you of anything. There would be an investigation, of course. But once you had charmed your way through that, you would be home free, as you Americans say.
‘But was there time to murder Madame Mesnel? In her condition, holding her under the water for a few seconds was all it would take. If the man caught you, you would simply have said you were trying to save her. It would have looked more or less the same. But you didn’t need to. You took her hand, pulled her under the water—’
‘This is all lies,’ she said, shaking. ‘Lies.’
‘You murdered her and got back to your hiding place just before her lover reappeared. Then things got even better for you. The man, weeping, started erasing traces that he’d been at the scene. He felt guilty, you see.’
Her lips stretched over her teeth like a tourniquet, Taylor essayed a smile. ‘How should I know?’ She took a further sip of water. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘After he’d gone, you went back into the house to search for the precious envelope of photographs knowing you would not be disturbed. You found them. At long last, you believed everything was set fair.’
Taylor appeared to gain strength. ‘You and the boy are wrong.’ She tugged an earring. ‘You’re forgetting my alibi. At the time all this is supposed to have happened, I was with Philippe de Lambert.’ She uttered the man’s name as if it were a trophy. ‘Remember?’
‘At the time you both swore you were together, Philippe was actually having paid sex with a schoolteacher by the name of… we’ll call her Violette. You have no alibi, Taylor, and we have an eyewitness to what you did at the hot tub.’
‘No!’
A knock on the open door heralded the unbidden entry of lawyer Hector Duclaux.
‘Execrable!’ He was by Taylor’s side in the blinking of an eye. ‘The American Consul has just arrived, my dear.’ He fixed Darac with a look. ‘I absolutely insist you release my client. Immediately. Release her or charge her.’
‘Alright,’ Darac said. ‘Taylor Walters-Halberg, I charge you with the murder of Jeanne Honorine Mesnel…’
54
The first move Darac made after Taylor had been charged was to arrange for Ridge’s release. He was still culpable of the post-facto offences he’d committed at the scene but the word from the Palais was that the matter would be dropped. ‘I know it’s hugely hard to take, Ridge, but learning how Jeanne really died must be some sort of comfort to you.’
Pain was etched deeply into the man’s face. ‘If I had done what I should have, it would never have happened at all. Jeanne would still be grooving around, sipping champagne and listening to the Duke.’
What could Darac say? ‘I called Didier. He’s au fait with everything. Relieved you’ll be back for tomorrow night. Delighted, in fact.’
Ridge nodded, accepting the compliment with his usual gravity. ‘You going to play?’
‘Too much to do. Especially with Gilles Voska still at large. But I may be able to drop in last thing just for a listen.’
Another senatorial nod. ‘Thanks, Garfield.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, man.’
The two men embraced and Ridge walked free.
* * *
It was 5 pm before Darac and Granot threw in the towel. Neither of them had had any sleep the night before and the call they had just concluded with Maggie de Lambert’s solicitor seemed to draw a line under the day.
‘Koffee, chief?’
‘Why not?’
The big man hauled himself up on to his feet but, for the moment, just stood, staring.
‘Forgotten the way?’
There was no cause for concern. Indented into the carpet was a trail of Granot-shaped footprints leading unerringly to the machine. Giving himself a slap on the chops, he set out on the pilgrimage once more. ‘Poor old Madame de Lambert, eh?’
Within the past hour, confirmation had come from the medics that the woman had withstood the first crisis that could have killed her, but she hadn’t withstood the second.
‘Learning that Taylor had betrayed their bond of trust was just one blow too many, wasn’t it? Especially after she had made such huge provision for the girl in her will.’
‘Not that Miss America knew that, of course.’ Granot handed over the espresso. ‘Or she would never have embarked on the journey that ended at the hot tub.’ He shook his grizzled head. ‘Taking an old lady’s hand and holding her under the water. Ai, ai, ai.’
‘And it was all for nothing.’ Darac drained his espresso. ‘What will happen to the Mesnel villa now? Might Cristelle still inherit?’
‘If she has the stomach and the wherewithal to contest it, she probably will, yes.’
Trying to assimilate all that had happened, Darac clasped his hands behind his head, sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Nothing was said for a couple of minutes.
It was Granot who finally spoke. ‘It’s no wonder Henri wound up falling off the wall, is it? Witnessing sex and murder.’
‘Henri, the global teenager…’ Darac felt as if he were back where it all began. ‘You know, in a way, there’s been a theme running through this case. The changes toward what Ridge Clay calls “France Lite; the Coca-Colonisation of the planet”, and so on.’
