So, Hugo was faking it until he could make it. There was nothing wrong with that. It was just interesting to know.
“Jean-Luc Hugo,” he said shaking her hand warmly. “How do you do? Welcome to Faberge Industries. How can I help you today?”
He spoke English with a strong North American accent. It was only in the way he pronounced the “ow” sound in “how” that Eulalie could hear his Canadian origins. It sounded more like a cross between ‘hoo’ and ‘hoe’ rather than a rounded ‘how’. No doubt that was also something he would iron out in the future.
Eulalie declined the offer of coffee and sat down opposite him with a massive antique walnut desk between them. She got straight to the point.
“I’m looking into the possibility that a rival or competitor from the business side of Mr. Faberge’s life might have been responsible for his death. Can you think of anyone who hated or resented him professionally?”
Jean-Luc Hugo considered the question.
“I can’t think of anyone who would go to such lengths as that,” he said. “Yes, he made enemies. Every entrepreneur does. But it is difficult to imagine someone wanting him dead.”
“I believe he was branching out into the health food industry. Organic products and so forth?”
“You probably know as much about that as I do.” Hugo looked down at the desk and straightened a pile of papers.
“Were you not involved in that side of the business?”
“You could say that. Nobody knew what he was planning on that front. Well, except for his wife, perhaps. He trusted nobody with the details, not even his deputy CEO.”
Hugo’s jaw muscles stood out under the skin, suggesting that he wasn’t altogether thrilled with this arrangement.
“He couldn’t have been doing it all alone,” Eulalie said. “He must have had manufacturers, a supply chain, staff who were going to run this organic emporium for him. He wasn’t planning on selling his gluten-free muffins out of a food truck by himself, presumably.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hugo. “If you are talking about that side of the business, then sure. Of course he had suppliers and staff and that sort of thing. But that wasn’t why he was getting into the organic business. That was just to set the stage for the star of the show.”
“You’re talking about this anti-ageing plant he had discovered.” Eulalie took a shot in the dark, but the expression on Hugo’s face told her she had hit her target.
“If you already know about it, it obviously wasn’t as much of a secret as he thought. Apparently, the locals have known about this plant for centuries. The problem is that it is quite rare. Marcel had dreams of getting hold of enough seedlings to start cultivating it himself. Then all the soccer moms would be lining up to buy products that would knock fifteen years off their faces. It doesn’t sound very likely, does it? I thought it was a pipe dream myself, but Marcel was convinced that it would work.”
As he talked, Eulalie glanced around the room they were sitting in. It was a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave an unobstructed view of Queen’s Town, the bay, and the harbor. In addition to the antique desk, it was equipped with enough leather and high-gloss wood to furnish a gentleman’s club. Eulalie’s first thought was that it didn’t quite go with the knock-off Armani suit with its slightly-too-short pants. Then her eyes landed on a cluster of photographs arranged on a bookshelf and she realized she was looking at the Faberge family when the children were still teenagers.
This wasn’t Jean-Luc’s office at all. It was Marcel’s. The deputy CEO – now acting CEO – had not hesitated to take over his boss’s office.
She refocused her attention on Hugo’s litany of complaints about his former boss’s lack of trust in him.
“He kept everything a secret from me. Everything. It was as though he thought I was going to blab it all to the media.”
“Does that mean you have no idea what the anti-aging plant was called or how he was planning to source it?”
“None whatsoever.” He thought for a moment. “No, that’s not entirely true. I might not know the name of the plant, but I know who was helping him get hold of it. Marcel was in daily contact with a shady underworld character. I used to see him coming out of Marcel’s office. You would have to see him to believe him. He looked like a cross between a bookie and a circus ringmaster. He had the creepiest manner too – like he had caught you out in something disreputable. He made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. If there is anyone you should be looking into, it’s him. Talk about a criminal face. I think I heard Marcel call him…”
“Jimmy,” said Eulalie. “Jimmy the Knife.”
“You know him?” said Hugo. “Then you must agree with me. If ever I saw a dangerous character, it was him. I mean, even that nickname - Jimmy the Knife. It sounds so menacing.” He gave an exaggerated shiver.
Eulalie made a heroic effort not to laugh, but didn’t quite succeed.
Hugo was outraged. “You think it’s funny? You think it’s amusing that some underworld character had the run of this office? And a couple of weeks later the CEO turned up dead? You have a strange sense of humor.”
Eulalie managed to suppress her grin. “I can assure you, Mr. Hugo, that Jimmy the Knife did not kill Marcel Faberge or anyone else for that matter. If you were missing your wallet after a visit from Jimmy, I would say, by all means, turn him upside down and shake him hard and it would probably fall out. But murder, no. However, you have added another name to the list of people I need to interview, and I have to thank you for that.”
Hugo snorted, clearly unconvinced.
“What about the lottery bid?” Eulalie asked. “I believe there was a rival bidder in the running?”
“You mean the Russians? The Leonov Corporation? Yes, they submitted a rival tender to administer the national lottery. I can’t imagine what that has to do with Marcel’s death.”
“There was a large amount of money at stake, Mr. Hugo. We’re talking millions of dollars. It’s not a stretch to imagine that someone might do something desperate with that kind of money at stake.”
Jean-Luc Hugo frowned. “But not the Leonovs. They are an honorable family and a well-respected organization. They would never be involved in something so sordid.”
“Really? Your competitors? The people standing between you and the most valuable tender on the island? What makes you so sure there isn’t a rogue member in their organization?”
“Absolutely not. It’s unthinkable. The Leonovs are above reproach.”
Eulalie’s business often took her into the field of industrial espionage. This was the first time she had heard a senior executive praising the competition like this. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“What about the horseracing scandal, Mr. Hugo? Do you know anything about that? Marcel’s Pride won a lot of money for its owner by unseating the favorite at the Queen’s Cay meeting last month.”
The deputy CEO didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he came close.
“Horseracing was Marcel’s hobby, Ms. Park. A lucrative hobby, perhaps, but still a hobby. He kept it completely separate from Faberge Industries. I’m afraid I know nothing about it.”
“Not even rumors?”
“I know as much as anyone else who watches the evening news.”
“Then I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Eulalie stood up and held out her hand. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hugo. You’ve been very helpful.”
Jean-Luc Hugo shook her hand and flashed his Hollywood smile, but the mask had slipped, and he couldn’t quite get it back into place. Eulalie had glimpsed the ambitious, confused, and determined man beneath.
As she got back on her Vespa and headed into town, Eulalie felt as though she were making progress at last. This investigation was opening up new and interesting angles.
It was time to have a chat with Jimmy the Knife.
Chapter 8
The target was due to appear in downtown Queen’s Town by mid-afternoo
n. She was expected to call in at Sweet as Flowers coffeeshop and order a latte. The boss was sure that this was her afternoon routine, and the boss’s intel was always good.
At four, he spotted the target puttering down Lafayette Drive on her Vespa. It was a busy time of day, with children coming out of school, locals visiting the farmers’ market, and holiday-makers coming off the beach in search of ice-cream and coffee. She proceeded with caution, looking out for people who stepped off the wide, tree-lined boulevard and into the street.
He always knew people were dumb, but he never realized how dumb until he saw them stepping in front of moving traffic.
He watched through his binoculars as she parked her Vespa in Bonaparte Road and set off down Lafayette on foot. The orders were to grab her as she walked past the Rue de Montaigne – a tiny alley that led nowhere and into which the cheerful Prince William Island sunlight never penetrated. They were to give her a good going-over with fists and feet, but not to kill her or put her in a wheelchair. They were to stick to the script that the boss had given them and then they were to get out of there.
As he watched, she turned in the opposite direction to Sweet as Flowers. He nudged the others and they had to scramble to stay ahead of her. But this was even better than the original plan, because she turned down Finger Alley - a long narrow gap that led to a part of Queen’s Town that respectable citizens did not frequent. It was the home of fences, pick-pockets, drug dealers, and small-time pimps. It was the perfect place to grab her.
She was completely oblivious – looking down at her phone and tapping away at the screen.
As they came up behind her, he gave the signal, “Teper rebyata!” Now, boys!
Some instinct seemed to warn her because she pulled her arm away at the last second so that he ended up catching at her shirt rather than getting the grip he was hoping for. The material slid out of his hand.
It didn’t matter. She was cornered anyway.
“Zdravstvuyte, Ms. Park,” he said. “My bosses would prefer you to stop looking into matters that don’t concern you. They can be very persuasive. Poluchit’ yeye!” Get her!
But as he reached for her – almost before he had begun to reach for her – she swayed to one side, leaving him clutching at air. His comrade on the left grabbed at her too, but she ducked under his grasp.
“Keep still, witch!”
His colleague on the right tried to box her in with his body, but she sidestepped him, and he nearly lost his balance.
“Poluchit’ yeye,” he said again.
This time, the three of them converged on her in a mass, leaving no room for ducking or evading.
He saw the change in her eyes as she went from passive avoidance to deadly aggression. Her eyes seemed to turn black. She lashed out with the speed of an adder - kicking, punching and scratching, aiming for the most tender parts of the body. His comrade on the right reared back with a cry of pain as blood gushed from his right eyelid.
The speed with which she attacked was not human. She seemed to know where their faces were going to be before they did. He could feel a flap of skin hanging down from his earlobe, and the warm blood leaking onto his neck.
His comrades cracked first. They had looked into her tar-black eyes and seen the feral creature that lived within.
“Enough!” one shouted. Then they turned tail and ran, back to the sunlit safety of Lafayette Drive.
Now it was just the two of them. Her lip was raised in a snarl and there was that wicked look in her eyes. Her hands were raised like weapons. The dim light in the alley reflected off her fingernails, turning them into silver claws.
Blood pumped steadily down his neck. He started to feel faint. Most days he would do anything for the boss, but collapsing in a filthy alley while this feral creature tore him limb from limb was not what he had signed up for.
He spun around and ran back up the alley in the wake of his comrades. All he could think of was finding an emergency room to stitch up his neck and ear before he passed out.
Behind him, the feral light died out of Eulalie’s eyes and her fingers relaxed their claw-like posture.
“You’ve got blood on your shirt again,” Fleur sighed. You’ll need thick bleach and a good pre-wash to get that out.”
“Oh, come on,” Eulalie said. “It hasn’t happened in ages.”
Fleur shook her head and tutted. “I don’t see why it has to happen at all.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I was just walking along minding my own business when three men attacked me.”
“That’s the other thing I don’t understand. How did they get the drop on you like that? I thought that wasn’t possible?”
Eulalie winced. “That part was my fault. I was walking around with my head in the clouds, not paying attention to where I was or what was going on around me. When I zone out like that, the warning signals don’t always get through.”
“If there’s one place in Queen’s Town where I would be paying attention to my surroundings, it’s Finger Alley, but hey, that’s just me. What were you doing anyway?”
“Texting Chief Macgregor,” Eulalie admitted.
“Oho! It all becomes clear. And how is His Broad-Chestedness this afternoon?”
“I don’t know. I never got to send it.”
“Who attacked you and why?”
“Central casting thugs.” Eulalie shrugged. “One of them spoke Russian to the others. He warned me to stop looking into things that don’t concern me.”
“Russian? But you haven’t even been to speak to the Russian company yet – the ones who were bidding against Faberge for the lottery contract.”
“I know. I was planning to do that tomorrow. I had just been to speak to Jean-Luc Hugo, the deputy CEO of Faberge Industries. I asked him about the Russians and he fell all over himself trying to assure me what good guys they are.”
“And a short while later you get attacked and warned off by Russian thugs? Interesting.”
“One of them spoke English at the end,” Eulalie said.
“Before he ran off bleeding from vital parts of his anatomy?” Fleur put a latte down in front of Eulalie who sipped it gratefully.
“Does his neck count?”
Fleur smiled as she made up another coffee order.
Eulalie looked around the coffeeshop. It was as busy as usual for this time of day and this time of year. Fleur’s name had been mentioned several times in the media over the last few days. While no journalist was prepared to come right out and say that she was a suspect in the killing of Marcel Faberge, they all mentioned the public fight she had been in with him.
“None of this seems to have hurt your business at all.”
“Seems that way. Apparently, notoriety is good for business. I think a lot of people have come in just to take a look at the crazy lady who killed a prominent businessman.”
Eulalie slid money across the counter.
“Thanks for coffee. I’m going back to Finger Alley tonight, but this time I’ll pay attention.”
“You’re going to talk to Jimmy the Knife?”
“Yes. He knows something about what Marcel Faberge was up to, but I’m not sure what or how much.”
Fleur darted forward to give her friend a hard hug, carefully avoiding the blood stain. “Thanks for all of this. I really mean that.”
“I know you do.”
This time Eulalie kept her phone in her pocket when she entered Finger Alley.
As she stepped into the dark, narrow alleyway, the lights of Lafayette Boulevard disappeared behind her, while in front there was only gloom. This was a good time to catch Jimmy the Knife. In Finger Alley, there was a day shift and a night shift, and Jimmy belonged very much to the night shift. She would catch him at his best now.
The alley opened into a narrow street that was lined with tattoo parlors, dive bars, and betting shops. Eulalie slowed her pace. She hoped Jimmy was in the mood to talk to her. If he wasn’t, he might decide to run, and then she would have to go to
all the trouble of catching him.
He was probably at Mo’s Bar, but she peered into pawnshops and peepshows as she made her way down the road. Then she looked up and saw him stepping out of a secondhand jewelry store that doubled as a receiver of stolen goods. He spotted her a second later.
She knew he was going to run almost before he did. That meant he had barely gone ten paces when she grabbed him by the collar and gave him a shake.
“What the hell, Jimmy? Why did you run? I just want to talk to you.”
He clutched at his neck and mimed choking to death.
“Not so tight, girlie.”
She relaxed her hold.
“Why, Jimmy?”
“They say you’ve been spending time with the chief of police. I figured maybe you’d gone over to the dark side.”
She gave him another shake. “Whose granddaughter am I, Jimmy?”
“Angel’s.” He hung his head.
“How likely is it that I would narc on you?”
“Not very.”
“Exactly. The Chief and I have an arrangement, and it has nothing to do with you. Now, where can we talk?”
She let go of his collar and he smoothed it down carefully. Jean-Luc Hugo’s description of Jimmy the Knife as looking like a cross between a bookie and a circus ringmaster was spot on. In his loud check sports coat, red suspenders, sagging corduroy pants, and battered top hat, that was exactly what he looked like. She also couldn’t fault Hugo for saying that Jimmy had a criminal face, although she would have called it more rodenty herself.
He was barely 5ft7 in his boots, and skinny with it. A less terrifying figure would be hard to imagine.
“Please, step into my office.” Jimmy swept a hand towards Mo’s Bar.
“Fine.”
Mo’s reeked of beer and other nameless fluids. Jimmy chose a dark corner, and they sat down.
The Complete H-Series of The Eulalie Park Mysteries Page 8
