Inspector Armand Renaud was having his morning coffee and croissant when Legault came bursting into his office without knocking, saying, "You'll never guess who's outside, asking for you."
Renaud sighed and put down his croissant. It seemed he couldn't even have his morning coffee without being interrupted. "All right, who?" he said wearily.
"Jacqueline Monet," Legault said.
Renaud stared at him. "You're joking. The Jacqueline Monet?"
"The very same."
"And she wants to speak with me?"
"She asked for you by name. She won't say what it's about."
Renaud quickly brushed the stray croissant crumbs off his desk with his crumpled-up paper napkin, then pushed his hair back with his fingertips and straightened his tie. He looked up to see Legault grinning at him.
"What are you grinning at? Send her in."
Still grinning, Legault left and a moment later, she came through the door. She was even more beautiful in the flesh than she was in her photographs. Jacqueline Monet was in her late forties. Her exact age was subject to some question, but she had the figure of a woman in her twenties. With a face and body like that, she could easily have landed a spot in the chorus of any Montmartre nightclub. Her legs were long and her waist was girlishly trim. She wore a well-tailored neo-Edwardian suit of dark crimson brocade, with white lace at the throat and cuffs. In her high-heeled boots, she was just under six feet tall and her long, thick, gray-streaked hair was a rich mahogany color. She wore it loose, down past her shoulders. He got to his feet as she came up to his desk.
"Mademoiselle Monet," he said, offering his hand. "I am Inspector Armand Renaud. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
She took his hand in a strong grip. "I seem to have interrupted your morning coffee, Inspector," she said in a deep and sexy voice. "I would like to speak with you in private concerning a matter of some importance. There is a small cafe across the street. Perhaps I could buy you an espresso?"
"Allow me the pleasure of buying you one," said Renaud. He picked up his jacket. "After you, mademoiselle."
Every eye in the station house followed them as they went outside and down the stairs. There wasn't a police officer in all of France who did not know who Jacqueline Monet was and the idea of her strolling casually into a police station as if she owned the place was typical of the brazen effrontery for which she had become famous. Infamous, perhaps, would have been a better word. In any other country except France, the sight of a notorious criminal walking into a police station with such an air of impunity would have elicited reactions of outrage and anger, but in France, and especially in Paris, the police had a somewhat different attitude when it came to certain types of criminals.
Those who committed violent crimes, such as rape or murder, armed robbery or assault, were hated just as much by the gendarmes as they would have been in any other city, but master thieves, especially those who never had injured anyone and carried on their trade with a flamboyant sense of style, could often command a certain admiration from the gendarmes who sought to catch them in the act. When it came to someone like Jacqueline Monet, it became a fascinating game between the criminal and the police, with mutual respect on both sides. It was not unlike the relationship between a big game hunter and his quarry. The hunter would stalk his prey relentlessly, but if it was a clever beast and managed to escape, the hunter was not angry. Rather, he felt respect and even an affection for the creature that had managed to elude him and he would look forward to stalking it another time. So it was with Jacqueline Monet and the Paris police.
Renaud accompanied her across the street to the cafe. The waiter greeted him by name and they took a small table in the corner. Renaud ordered two espressos and a couple of croissants. He tried to keep from looking anxious. The two of them had never met before. Jacqueline Monet's activities were generally considered the province of the French Bureau of Thaumaturgy and the I.T.C., though the police were often involved, as well. Renaud wondered what was on her mind.
He did not have to wonder long. She came right to the point. She took the newspaper she was carrying under her arm and spread it out before him. "Would you be so kind as to tell me what this is all about, Inspector?" she asked, pointing to the headline.
He glanced at the article. He had already seen it. It concerned the arrest of Max Siegal for the murder of Joelle Muset.
"I should think that it was self-explanatory," he said. "You have some interest in this matter, mademoiselle? Some information that is pertinent to the case?"
"Max Siegal is a close personal friend of mine," she said.
"Ah. I see."
"And he is not a killer."
She took out a cigarette and Renaud lit it for her. "With all due respect, mademoiselle," he said, "the evidence indicates otherwise. Unless you have some information that would prove him innocent?"
"If I had such information, he would not be in custody right now," she said. "But I would stake my life upon his innocence."
Renaud shrugged. "Such loyalty is very commendable, mademoiselle, but of course you realize that I would require something a bit more tangible than just your word."
"I'm not a fool, Renaud. The newspaper says you are in charge of the case. I tell you that you have arrested the wrong man. If what you really want is justice, then I have certain connections that might be of help in your investigation. I could pursue avenues of inquiry that would be closed to the police. In helping Max, I would be helping you to catch the real killer."
"A most intriguing offer," said Renaud, "but you see, I believe that we already have the real killer."
"What evidence have you got against him?"
"Well, this is all somewhat irregular, mademoiselle," he said, "I am not in the habit of discussing police business with outsiders, especially criminals." He smiled. "Correction, 'suspected criminals.' However, since I am interested in seeing justice served and you have been kind enough to join me for breakfast, then speaking strictly off the record, I can tell you what I have already said to his attorney. It does not look very good for your friend. He engaged young Joelle Muset to model for him in the nude. Her friends have testified to this and there is no question but that she was in his studio on the night that she was murdered. He admitted it. The arresting officers found the canvas that Siegal was working on that night. It was unfinished, yet it was a painting of Mademoiselle Muset. Her face is clearly identifiable and the pose that she was in was quite, shall we say, provocative?"
"All of Max's nudes are highly provocative," said Jacqueline. "That in itself proves nothing."
"Perhaps," said Renaud, "but the painting was discovered impaled upon its easel. Siegal evidently smashed it over the easel in one of his famous fits of temper. He is known for being violent on occasion."
"That still doesn't mean he killed her," said Jacqueline.
"Perhaps not, but it does indicate that there was some sort of violent argument," Renaud replied. "And aside from his famous temper, Max Siegal is also known for his romantic liaisons with many of his models and he has been accused of assault before. It would appear as though he had tried to pursue a sexual liaison with Mademoiselle Muset, but, she protested and one thing unfortunately led to another. Siegal admitted to being very drunk that night. And some of the things he said to his arresting officers clearly indicate his guilt."
"What sort of things?"
"He referred to the deceased as 'a little bitch' and said he knew that something like this would happen, that he should have known she would be trouble. While being interrogated, he asked to be arrested and to call his lawyer. He confessed that he could not take it anymore. That he hadn't the stomach fork."
"But did he actually confess to having killed her?"
"Well, not in so many words," Renaud said. "By the time he realized what was happening, he had apparently regained enough of his sobriety to start denying it, but then they always do, don't they? And he resisted arrest, as well. Would an innocent man do that?"
&nbs
p; "Max would," Jacqueline said wryly. "How was the girl killed?"
Renaud pursed his lips. "She was murdered in a particularly violent manner, mademoiselle," he said. "Her body was discovered in the apartment that she shared with two other young women in the Rue Morgue, just off the Rue St. Roch. One of them is her sister. They found the body when they came home from work at the Cafe Noir, where they are employed as dancers. She couldn't have been dead more than an hour or two. Siegal must have followed her home from his studio, gained entrance, found her alone and then attacked her. She was found nude, with her body badly mutilated."
"Was there any blood on him when he was arrested?" Jacqueline said.
"No, but then he would have had ample time to wash it off," Renaud said.
"Was any bloody clothing found in his studio?"
"No, but then he could have easily disposed of it. We are still searching the vicinity of—"
"What sort of weapon was used?"
"Apparently a knife of some sort," said Renaud.
"Apparently? You mean you don't know for sure? Did you find the murder weapon?"
"No, but as I said, we are still searching—"
"So then you have no evidence tying Max in with the crime other than the purely circumstantial fact that the victim modeled for him on the night that she was killed and he destroyed the painting?"
Renaud patiently took a deep breath. "There is the sheer violence of the assault," he said, "and your friend's well-known propensity for violence. There is the fact that he was drunk and cannot account for his whereabouts on that night. He says that he was home alone, but there is no one who can corroborate that supposed fact. There is the fact that he destroyed the painting in an obvious fit of rage, the fact that he had once studied thaumaturgy at the Sorbonne—"
"Wait a moment," said Jacqueline, frowning. "What does thaumaturgy have to do with it?"
"Well, the symbols that had been carved into the body of the victim were—"
Jacqueline suddenly leaned forward and grabbed his hand across the table. "What symbols!" she said. "You said nothing about any symbols carved into the body!"
Renaud was a bit taken aback by her intense reaction. "I mentioned that the corpse was badly mutilated," he said. "The condition of the victim's body left little doubt but that the assault was perversely sexual in nature. She was slashed repeatedly and she had certain markings carved into her breasts and abdomen that were identified as runes, the sort of symbols that might be used in some sort of thaumaturgic ritual."
"Give me a pen," Jacqueline said, her voice tense.
Puzzled, Renaud reached into his pocket and handed her a pen. She started to draw on one of the napkins.
"Did they look anything like this?" she said.
Renaud watched as she drew several obscene-looking symbols on the napkin: He frowned. "Yes, as a matter of fact, they looked exactly like . . ." His voice trailed off and he glanced up at her with new interest. "How did you know this? There was nothing about that in the papers."
"Listen to me, Renaud," she said urgently. "Max Siegal didn't kill that girl. He once studied thaumaturgy, that's true, but he never got very far in his studies. He had no talent for it. You can verify that for yourself if you contact the College of Thaumaturgy at the Sorbonne. These symbols are runes used in a very advanced thaumaturgic ritual, the kind that isn't taught in thaumaturgy schools. The killer was no ordinary adept and this was no ordinary murder. This girl was a victim of necromancy."
"Necromancy! How do you know this?" said Renaud. "And how did you know about the runes?"
"There was a series of murders in California about a year ago in which the same pattern of runes appeared," she said. "Call the Los Angeles police department. Ask for Captain Rebecca Farrell and tell her how the girl was killed. Then call Scotland Yard and ask for Chief Inspector Michael Blood. Ask him about the so-called Ripper murders that occurred in Whitechapel about two years ago. And tell him about the murder of Joelle Muset."
Renaud started quickly making notes. "May I ask what this is all about, mademoiselle?" he said. "How are you involved in this?"
"Never mind that for now," she said. "First I want you to be absolutely certain that I'm telling you the truth. We'll discuss it further after you've verified the information."
"You may rest assured that I will do so, mademoiselle," he said. He glanced at her, puzzled. It occurred to him that she might have been involved in the crime somehow. "I assume that you will stand Max Siegal's bail?" he said, watching her for a reaction.
"No," she said. "Right now, jail is the best possible place for him."
"You believe that he is in some danger?" said Renaud.
"No, I don't think so, but I believe that this is only the beginning. There will be other killings of this sort, Renaud, I'm certain of it, and if Max is in jail when they occur, then you'll know he couldn't possibly have been responsible."
"You seem to know more about this than you're telling me, mademoiselle," Renaud said. "I really think it would be best if you—"
"I know you are suspicious of me, Renaud," she said, "and under the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. But you will soon think differently. I'll speak to you again after you've made those calls. Right now, I have to make some calls of my own. If I'm right, then what's happening here is too much for the police to handle alone."
"If what you're saying is true," Renaud said, "then it is my duty to call in the I.T.C."
She got up. "Do whatever you think you must," she said. "But at least speak to Blood and Farrell first, so you can satisfy yourself that I am telling you the truth. Then use your own best judgment. I can't tell you what to do. But I promise you that Max Siegal is completely innocent of this crime. I fear that this is only the beginning. It seems there is a necromancer loose in Paris."
He cried out as the sword bit deeply, cutting through his armor and slicing into his shoulder. He dropped his own sword, unable to hold on to it, and sank to his knees, raising his shield in a vain effort to ward off the punishing blows that kept raining down on him as Uthur smashed away relentlessly, chopping at his shield with repeated, powerful, two-handed strokes. He felt his strength draining away with his blood and he knew that he was finished. Merlin had cloaked Uthur in warding spells and with the fury of his attack, there was no opportunity to summon up an enchantment powerful enough to break through Uthur's magical protection. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he was going to die.
That it should end like this, that after all these years, he should die at the hands of a mere mortal, aided by the spells of his own abandoned son. ... He thought briefly of his wife, Igraine, who would now be at Uthur's mercy, his to seize as chattel, his to use in whatever way he pleased. He thought of his three daughters, Elaine, Morganna and Morgause, whose fate would also be in Uther's hands, and he was filled with unutterable grief. He collapsed beneath the savage onslaught, his shield reduced to a battered lump of shapeless metal, and with the next stroke, his arm went numb and he could hold on to it no longer. There was one chance remaining, only one, but he did not know if he had the time or strength to take it. He concentrated with all the power left in him as Uther raised his sword for the killing stroke. His vision blurred and he felt the world receding from him as Uther screamed and brought the sword down at his head—
Billy Slade cried out and awoke, bathed in a cold sweat, his bedclothes twisted around him. He felt hands upon him and he struggled against their grip.
"It's all right, Billy, it's all right," said Modred, bending over him and holding on to his shoulders. "It was only a nightmare."
Billy stared at him wildly, then relaxed and sank back down onto the bed, shutting his eyes and breathing heavily.
"Gor, what a bloody awful dream . . ." he said in a thick cockney accent. He opened his eyes once more.
Kira and Wyrdrune were standing by his bed, looking down at him anxiously.
"I went an' woke everybody up again, didn't I?" he said. "I'm sorry. What time is it?
"
"About four in the morning," Modred said.
"Bloody 'ell," said Billy wearily.
"Was it the same dream again?" asked Wyrdrune.
Billy nodded. "Yeah," he said in a tired voice. "Uther bloody Pendragon was cuttin' me to pieces, smashin' away at me with 'is sword. 'E was just about to finish me off when I woke up."
His facial expression suddenly changed, becoming grim, and when he spoke again, he sounded like a completely different person.
"It's Gorlois," he said. "He's doing it all for my benefit, blast him. He's making me experience his death, having me relive it over and over again because I was the one who helped bring it about."
The adult voice sounded incongruous coming from the slightly built fourteen-year-old. Billy sat up and ran his hands through his unusually styled hair, cut short at the sides and crested at the center, flowing down to the middle of his back like a horse's mane. But it wasn't Billy who was speaking. It was the entity that possessed him, the spirit of his ancestor, the archmage Merlin Ambrosius, court wizard to King Arthur Pendragon and father of the second thaumaturgic age.
"I simply can't get through to him," said Merlin. "He's there, he's part of us, but he's unreachable. Except when he takes over our dreams in order to torment us."
Billy looked at his hand, at the unusual ring he wore, a gleaming, fire opal in a heavy silver setting. The band of the ancient ring was engraved with tiny, intricate runes. The ring had once belonged to Gorlois, the last of the Old Ones, the sole surviving member of the Council of the White. He had given it to his daughter, and Morgan Le Fay had worn it throughout her life, never realizing that it was the source of much of her power, the repository of her inhuman father's spirit. She, in turn, had given it to the sorcerer named Thanatos when they had married and he, too, had been unaware of its true nature until the moment when they had their confrontation with the Dark Ones and the spirit of Gorlois had manifested itself, taking him over to do battle with the necromancers. That struggle had cost Thanatos his life and when Billy Slade approached his body, the ring had fallen from his
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 3
