Double Murder in Attractive Districts

by Agnès Ruiz

  Then they went downstairs while talking.

  “And what relations did your neighbor have with your parents?”

  Annabelle remained silent a little too long to the liking of the detective.

  “They were not in good terms. That’s true, she admitted. It’s not a reason. I repeat that it has nothing to do with it.”

  “What did they like about him?” Jeff replied.

  “It is the family as a whole that is concerned. Grégoire’s father and my father did not get along. We do not know why. For my parents, inevitably, their mutual antipathy turned on Grégoire.”

  “And they certainly did not appreciate your great friendship,” Rachel added.

  “That’s the least we can say. So, you see, Grégoire has nothing to do with all that. This trap door, in the wardrobe, has been there since our childhood. We could see each other in secret, like that..."

  The detective noted that the girl was clutching her purse against herself, like a comfort. A nostalgic smile came alive on Annabelle’s lips.

  Unexpectedly, the detective said it was over for the day. She finished the tour and asked Annabelle to let them know if something abnormal was happening to her.

  “I will not fail, I assure you.”

  In the car, Jeff did not hide his skepticism against Annabelle Rambouillet.

  “She lied to us and you leave her there? We should have asked her more questions. She has things she’s not yet told us, Rachel.”

  “I know, Jeff. This passage between the two houses is only the tip of the iceberg. This whole story seems more complicated. That’s even the more reason why we shouldn’t rush things. Else, we risk missing the point.”

  She thought of the trap in the attic and wondered if Grégoire Caron could have come here and committed the crimes.

  The question remained the same. Why?

  Annabelle arrived at Grégoire’s home terrified. He had hardly opened the door when she told him that the police knew about the door in the attic.

  “So what? It’s not that bad,” Grégoire simply commented.

  “How can you say it’s not bad?! They think I lied because I did not tell them.”

  Grégoire frowned.

  “You’re all upset with this story, Annabelle. You see problems where there is none. In fact, you should have told them about this access from the beginning, it would have been simpler.”

  “That was the best! And you, you said, maybe?”

  “Why should I have done it?”

  “Because you were the first person to go to the scene. They looked for where the murderer might have passed. They must have told you.”

  “True,” Grégoire grudgingly agreed. “But I did not think for a moment of the attic.”

  “Well you see, neither did I. Except that... now they know and necessarily, they already imagine things about me. And maybe you.”

  Grégoire shrank from the comments. They remained silent for a long time, thinking hard about their dark ideas.

  “What exactly did you tell them?”

  Annabelle related that in spite of herself. She spoke of the mutual animosity of their parents.

  “Then you know what, I’m gone. I’ll be back.”

  “Already? We could not really talk.”

  “About what, Grégoire? There’s nothing more to say. Not for now anyway. Then, I’m sick of this whole story...”

  “It’s just beginning, you know.

  Annabelle went to call a taxi with a depressed mind.

  “I can drop you. My car is in front of the house.”

  Annabelle’s first reflex was to refuse. She heard herself accept. Yet neither of them moved.

  “You really want to go back? It’s raining again, outside, and it’s windy.”

  Annabelle lifted the curtain and watched the rain curtain which separated them from the rest of the world. She saw herself under the umbrella with Grégoire.

  “Sometimes I want to stay like that, sheltered,” she announced in a barely audible voice.

  Grégoire had joined her again. He heard her murmur. When she turned, she bumped against him.

  “Stay on, please,” Grégoire asked again. “We can eat together and then you will leave. I’ll prepare you your favorite meal.”

  “You always have the best intentions in the world for me,” Annabelle agreed.

  “You’re my friend,” Grégoire justified himself without taking his eyes off her.

  “I think it’s more than that...”

  Without warning, she leaned over and kissed him.

  Grégoire did not move, surprised. He feared that she would retreat, as she had done in the past, when he himself had made that gesture. Annabelle proved to be more eager and clung more to him. This time, Grégoire grew bolder. He listened only to his love, which he always repressed in order not to be wounded.

  He responded with the entire ardor he had. Annabelle was very audacious. They swung softly onto the floor of the living-room and found themselves against each other.

  Annabelle rode on Grégoire caressing his torso with her aerial fingers. Her long hair swept Grégoire’s body, taking his breath away occasionally.

  The young man tipped her over and found himself above her. He rained myriads of kisses on her body, lingering in her neck. He whispered tender words, just audible. Perhaps she did not hear them. His wildest dream became reality. Annabelle was offering herself to him, full and entire.

  Chapter 13

  Rachel Toury had just bought the newspaper and was stunned by the article on the front page. She could easily be recognized as she was discussing with Grégoire Caron. In the locket, we saw the photograph of the two victims, Lucien and his wife Ségolène Rambouillet. The article merely reported the sordid facts of the couple’s murder.

  That’s not what annoyed Rachel. She noted the journalist’s name and then went back to the station to wield the newspaper.

  “Who’s responsible for that?” she asked round.

  A strange silence filled her request. Some coughed, dared a “hello” before returning to their task.

  “Who spoke to the journalist? There must be somebody. It’s written here,” Rachel insisted.

  Finally, a policeman came forward.

  “It’s ... me, Madame.”

  Rachel was surprised. She knew the man in front of her. He had never bothered her. What had happened?

  “Come into my office. We’ll discuss...”

  Rachel closed the door and handed him the article.

  “You see a problem, Officer Philippelli?” she asked.

  Obviously, this was not the case. Louis watched the detective and then the newspaper and shrugged.

  “No, I can’t see... I’m sorry.”

  “It says ‘Detective Toury spoke at length with Grégoire, the son of the two victims.’”

  “The journalist came to see me... She asked me about the case. I did not say anything, I assure you. I know the procedure...”

  “Why Grégoire, then?”

  “It’s... the journalist, she stuck me. She turned her question without my realizing it. I just said who was talking to you at that time. That’s all, I assure you...”

  The detective did not understand anything. Officer Philippelli seemed sincere.

  “You know Grégoire is not the son of the murdered couple, is he?”

  This time, Louis opened his mouth in amazement.

  “Uh...no. I thought... Well, it’s, it’s a mistake on my part.”

  “Well, at least, the journalist did not deliberately lie, and neither did you. I realize now.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective Toury. It wasn’t my intention. I should’ve said nothing.”

  “I know it’s not easy to be silent when you are assailed by a thousand questions,” Rachel moderated.

  Officer Philippelli had been manipulated. All was not lost for him.

  “I can go find this journalist, and explain...”

  She thought a few moments and felt that it was not so serio
us, in the end.

  “No need. I simply rely on your good faith. You will put that in your apprenticeship,” the detective justified.

  This was not the first nor was it the last time. She too had been through that.

  She accepted the repeated apologies he gave her and let him return to his duties.

  * * *

  Grégoire awoke, at first surprised to be in his living –room, on the couch. He frowned before remembering the day before.

  “Annabelle!” he whispered.

  After having made love, they had stuck together on the couch without saying a word, continuing with tender gestures to the point of sinking into sleep.

  “Annabelle,” he called more loudly.

  He stood up, looked around the room. Everything was silent. Outside, the rain had stopped. Had Annabelle already gone without a goodbye?

  His heart was dismayed at this very probable statement. He jumped up, pulled on his underpants and paced the rooms.

  Upstairs, he realized she was gone. She had not even left a word, he remarked. A crazy hope was born again when he thought of the attic trap door. Who knows? Maybe she wanted to go home to look for some stuff or so?

  On the spot, he discovered that the hatch of the cabinet was still closed. He returned to the living-room, with a depressed mind and consulted his telephone. No message either. He tossed it away and went to have breakfast more out of habit than hunger. Then he prepared breakfast to bring it up to his mother.

  Meanwhile, Annabelle had entered the room in secret where they had reserved with Jonathan. She heard him snore. Shame overwhelmed her while she slipped down by his side despite all. Why had she embraced Grégoire she never ceased to wonder. He was just a friend... What was he going to imagine? There’s nothing between us.

  Annabelle turned round roughly in bed, involuntarily sending an elbow to Jonathan’s ribs. He protested, straightened up before noticing Annabelle. She seemed to be asleep. He did not know she was simulating because she could not sleep.

  Discovering her there, near him, seemed to be content. He hugged her with a firm arm, trying to get her out of her torpor.

  Annabelle no longer moved a muscle. She wanted to sleep and forget everything. Forget her parents’s death, forget that she had made love with her childhood friend, forget her entire life!

  Chapter 14

  Jean-François Millet arrived in Rachel’s office with a folder in his hand.

  “Maybe we have a lead for our two corpses,” he said, almost joyfully.

  “I’m listening to you.”

  “A neighbor says he saw a gray pick-up parked in front of the house the night before. And it is alleged not to belong to anyone in the neighborhood.”

  “A trademark, perhaps a registration?”

  “You do not want the driver’s name, too?” Jeff said in amusement.

  “Ah, if only,” Rachel confirmed, in the same tone. “Has this vigilant neighbor given any further details?”

  “There were two men on board. They looked Caucasian. One of them was of average height, in a suit, and another really hefty, with long hair, according to the witness.”

  “Did this neighbor see them enter the Rambouillets’?” Rachel hoped, surprised that this information was coming in only then.

  “Unfortunately, no. His phone rang at that time. And he got distracted.”

  “I do not know what we’re going to do with that. Do you know the number of gray pick-ups going about in the city? In any case, we can still call the witness. He can look at our records. He may find the two fellows in our databases.”

  “Jacques could see to that.”

  “Perfect!”

  When her phone rang, the detective heard Raoul Corpus. He wanted her to go down to the morgue.

  “Our forensic doctor demands our presence,” Jean-François said.

  “Come on,” Rachel agreed, puzzled.

  When they arrived in the doctor’s room, he was in front of the body of Ségolène Rambouillet.

  “After the autopsy, something tickled me. I had to check.”

  “Did you miss a clue?” Jeff asked, suddenly pleased to find fault with him.

  “I you don’t stop, I’ll get you out of my morgue!” Raoul replied, scathingly.

  “That’s a joke, nothing more,” Rachel said. “And you have to recognize it, we’re human, we can all make mistakes.”

  Raoul Corpus remained silent, looking stern and observing his visitors. Finally, in articulating each word, he thundered:

  “It never happened to me. And I hope it will always be so.”

  “So much the better for us, then!” Jeff agreed, playing fair.

  Investigator Millet was given a black look. Nevertheless, he kept a mocking face.

  “Well, and let’s come back to your request, Raoul? You brought us here. I’m sure you have a good reason.”

  “Indeed. Annabelle Rambouillet’s visit the other day was in total contradiction with her parents’ bodies.”

  Neither Rachel nor Jeff understood what he was insinuating. The detective urged him to come to the facts.

  “I do not know who this Annabelle Rambouillet really was who came to identify the bodies.”

  “Either you said too much, or not enough,” Rachel complained.

  “This woman, Ségolène Rambouillet, has never had a child,” Raoul Corpus went on.

  The detective did not give up that much.

  “Perhaps the husband had an affair with another woman, or a first wife,” she assumed.

  “Except Annabelle is not Lucien Rambouillet’s daughter either. No physical resemblance. Besides, the blood groups are incompatible... I sent samples to the laboratory for DNA confirmation and comparison.”

  “That’s quite a surprise,” Rachel conceded. “Could it be she was adopted?”

  “It’s possible. Even probable,” the doctor said.

  “She could have told us,” Jeff said.

  “Why would she have done it? Rachel asked. That was not relevant in our case. In any case, that’s what she had to say.”

  “You are very conciliatory.”

  “Rather objective.”

  “Well, I think I told you everything,” Raoul said.

  It was clear that he was dismissing them. Rachel thanked him for this information.

  “I hope this new data will be useful to you,” Raoul mumbled.

  In the elevator that led them upstairs, Jeff and Rachel discussed Raoul Corpus’s discovery.

  “What are we gonna do with that?”

  “We’re going to see Annabelle Rambouillet and ask her about it. This will be the simplest thing to do. While I think about it, there is a crossroads very close to the Rue des Rambouillet. If I remember well, there is a surveillance camera. Ask Paul to get a copy of the murder evening’s video. We may see the gray pick-up on the tapes and even its registration.

  “And when do you want to see Annabelle?”

  “I’ll contact her and keep you informed.”

  Chapter 15

  As Rachel went through the hall, Fred, the receptionist officer questioned her. He pointed to an old man who was sitting on a chair from the back of the room.

  “This gentleman would like to see you, detective ...”

  With gray hair, carefully brought back, he wore his head straight and his eyes seemed to scrutinize every corner of the room. He had broad shoulders which denoted a great stature, visible by his long legs which seemed to have difficulty finding their places as they were constantly moving. He had an angular face and a gaunt body, ready to crack at every moment, Rachel thought casting a glance at him. The man captured this conversation at once. He did not get up. Nevertheless, he stood ready; there was no doubt about it.

  He intrigued the detective.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “A neighbor to your murders. He says he has information that might interest you.”

  She wondered if it was the same neighbor who had pointed out the pick-up.

 
“Has he been here long?”

  “Good half an hour.”

  “No one could receive him to take his statements?” the detective exclaimed.

  She was uncomfortable about having caused this individual to wait for nothing. There were however several officers capable of responding to this request.

  “I tried, Fred justified. He insisted that it be you and no one else. And believe me, it is somewhat convincing. Tough, I would say.”

  “All right. Let me handle that. Thank you, Fred. ”

  As she walked towards the man, Rachel wondered if she would hear one more gossip or something really interesting. Maybe it did not even concern the current case.

  “Hello, sir, I’m Detective Rachel Toury. You asked to see me?”

  The man rose with more facility than his age could have foreshadowed. His height was such that Rachel had to raise her head to speak to him.

  “I know who you are. You are the one investigating the Rambouillet murders.”

  “That’s right.”

  Rachel found it unnecessary to ask how he knew this information. Either he had seen her in the street while the bodies were being removed (there were many curious people), or he had read her name in the newspaper with the picture. While she was leading him to her office, he asked her why the newspaper said Grégoire Caron was the son of the Rambouillets.

  “It’s great anything, if you’ll allow me,” he argued.

  “It’s just a mistake, sir.”

  “A journalist worthy of the name should check his sources,” the old man insisted.

  “I fully agree with you. Would you like to sit down, sir?”

  “Jeremiah Johnson... Yes, like the movie with Redford,” he said before Rachel commented. “Did you know that it was taken from his life? He was better known as the man of the mountains, Johnson, the liver eater.”

  “You’re a descendant, maybe?” Rachel asked politely, still uncertain of this man’s role in her investigation.

  “No, Ma’am. No chance. My family is from Texas and before that, directly from England.”

  “Good. And what brings you here, Mr Johnson?”

  “That’s your business. A dirty story. It’s certain. You have some work to do with these two corpses.”