by Cathy Ace
“Your desk is old, and, again, I suspect it has been in that particular room since it was new and it has been used by all your predecessors. You are shorter than the man you took over from, who was quite tall. I know this because the feet of the desk used to have round pads on them, and they left round indentations in the carpet, but now they are square and have been trimmed down. The desk was too high for you. The seat upon which you now sit allows you to have your feet on the floor, but scuff marks to the right and left of the opening for your feet show me that, for some time, your feet dangled, and you knocked the wood quite often—”
“Very good . . . stop!” called Moreau, again holding up his hand. I opened my eyes and met his. It was a pity he’d stopped me—I was just getting going. “This is very interesting. It is clear that you can do what you claim,” he stated bluntly. His manner was beginning to get to me. He was so absolutely without any human connection. He was all business, and grim with it.
“Yes, I can,” I replied as level-headedly as possible. Naa-naa-na-naa-na! rang in my head.
“I should use this talent of yours, like your Bud Anderson does in Vancouver. You have told me the facts of your day; now tell me what you have learned, and what you think it means. I admire your trust in us, and I will be pleased to be taken into your confidence when it comes to your thoughts on the case.”
Despite his words, his demeanor didn’t convey a hint of admiration or pleasure. He was either playing me, or I’d passed a test that meant I was no longer a suspect. I suspected the former, but I acted as though it were the latter. After all, I wasn’t in Vancouver, Bud wasn’t there to hold my hand, so I’d have to put my faith in my own abilities and hope that, eventually, I could really win Moreau over.
“Thank you, Captain Moreau, I’d welcome the chance to do that. I think there are two possible reasons for the murder of Alistair Townsend: the necklace that is missing from his apartment, or the fact that he was pushing for a swimming pool to be built into the gardens at the Palais du Belle France. Let’s start with the necklace, because that’s what I know most about. Beni thinks that Alistair had somehow acquired a museum-quality, Welsh-gold Druidic necklace, dating from the first century AD, that became the property of a Roman family living in Cimiez; Chuck seems to think that Alistair had managed to get hold of something called the Collar of Death, which was a piece of jewelry used by the Gestapo and SS as a part of their adornment of young girls plucked from the locale and subjected to God only knows what before, presumably, being killed. Now, apparently only Alistair and Tamsin had seen the necklace before its theft, and Alistair had promised to tell everyone the story of his find after he had presented it to Tamsin at her party. I think I can do that now, because I believe I can put the pieces together, thanks to something that Gerard told me . . . albeit unwittingly. I believe that the necklace Beni is talking about and the necklace Chuck is talking about are one and the same. Both the theft of a Roman family archive from the museum at Cimiez and the photographic portrait of Madelaine taken from her apartment are connected to its disappearance. I need to explain a bit of background to help you understand why that is.”
“Please do,” said Moreau, quite graciously, for him.
“Beni told me about the ancient history of a gold necklace—it was taken from the dead body of a Celt by a Roman soldier. It was inherited by his family, which moved from Rome to Cimiez. Later there was an unsolved missing persons case, presumed to be a multiple murder. All this is recorded in the archive of the family in question—the archive was one of the items stolen from Beni’s museum. Next, when the foundations for the Palais were being dug, bones were found by the workmen. One of the skeletons was bedecked with ‘jewels.’ I believe that the bones were those of the Roman murder victims, probably buried in a shallow grave at the time of their demise, and that the Celtic necklace was one of these pieces. I further believe that the wife of the architect of the Palais took it to Germany when she ran off with her young lover, who was German. This brings the story of the necklace up to the late eighteen-hundreds. I cannot tell you exactly what happened to it then, but it must have found its way—maybe through simple inheritance or maybe more nefarious or unpleasant means—into the hands of one of the high-ranking officers based here in Nice, during the Vichy years, when the Palais was Gestapo HQ. He brought it with him, and when the Germans left, it was assumed to have gone with him. If the stolen photograph of Madelaine Schiafino showed her wearing the necklace, then it might just be possible that it was something she was somehow able to hang on to when the Germans fled. Having seen her apartment, which is full of old items that were originally expensive, I’m going to guess that Madelaine’s bank balance was pretty small. She was a very old woman, whose life had possibly exceeded the savings she had set aside for her retirement. Schiafino had some expensive new appliances there too, so I’m further going to suggest that you found a large amount of cash somewhere in her place, and that she did in fact keep the necklace, which Alistair bought from her for a very large sum of money. I believe that Alistair pieced the story of the necklace together in much the same way that I have—by talking to Beni, Gerard, and Chuck, and by finally confronting Madelaine. Something you might not know about Alistair is how very good he was at getting people to confide in him. It was his trademark. He could talk you into telling him anything—about anyone, your own darkest secrets included. If he managed to get everyone to talk, and he had found out about Madelaine’s past, he would have been well placed to get her to sell, and to keep quiet about it.”
“If what you say is true, then who do you think had a motive to steal the necklace?” asked Moreau bluntly. It was an obvious question.
“Well, that’s the trouble, you see!” I know I almost shouted, but I was frustrated, and tired and, believe it or not, hungry. I carried on. “Beni would have wanted it because he thought it was the Celtic necklace . . . indeed, that’s what Tamsin herself referred to it as, so I think that is pretty well established. Chuck would have wanted it because, whatever he might say about being anti-Nazi and his grandfather being instrumental in the Nuremberg trials, he is infatuated with that era. I can quite imagine him wanting to possess something that was so viscerally connected with the Gestapo. Then there’s Gerard. If his sister was one of the Gestapo’s Collar of Death victims, I can quite imagine him wanting it as a remembrance of her, however terrible. And if we assume that Madelaine had sold the necklace to Alistair, I suppose there’s an outside possibility she might have wanted to have her cake and eat it too. She could take the money and steal the necklace back, as a mark of her youthful beauty and, who knows, maybe also of her triumph at having survived what must have been a horrendous time in her life, but I have to say that seems unlikely.
“Whichever one of them did it would also have to have known about both the Roman archive and the photographic portrait of Madelaine. Obviously, they were both stolen to hide the identity of the necklace and to provide provenance should it be sold. To be honest, I don’t believe that selling the necklace was the reason for its theft—I believe that whoever stole it wanted it for themselves. They also took the evidence of its appearance to cover their tracks. The only person I can’t imagine wanting to, or needing to, steal it is Tamsin herself—I mean, it would have been officially hers in just a few hours, so what would have been the point? I do have a question which I am hoping you asked her during her interview: how did she know so quickly after Alistair’s death that the necklace was missing? If we assume that Alistair had hidden it from her as a birthday ‘surprise,’ how could she know it wasn’t simply hidden rather than stolen? That occurred to me when I re-thought the evening, and I guess I should mention it, in the spirit of openness.”
I smiled as sweetly as I could, and waited for Moreau’s response. I didn’t have to wait long.
“What about you, Professor Morgan? Why might you have wanted to steal this necklace?”
I forced another smile. “Oh yes, let’s not forget me . . . Well, I didn’t kn
ow anything about the necklace until Alistair was dead, and it had, apparently, gone by then. So that’s me out. Does that make it clearer?” I really hoped it did, because I was getting more tired by the minute.
Moreau sucked on the end of a pen and stared at me intently. The man hardly ever blinked, I noticed. It was very off-putting. He put down the pen.
“It makes a very interesting story, about a very interesting necklace. Do I take it that you think that Alistair Townsend was killed to accommodate the theft of the necklace? And that Madelaine Schiafino was killed to allow for the theft of the photograph of her wearing it?”
“Ah . . . now that’s what I haven’t made up my mind about yet,” I answered, quite lamely.
“This is a pity, because then the whole case would be solved,” replied Moreau patronizingly. The bugger! I did not say this aloud, because I was, after all, on the record. What I wanted to say was—Oh, so you already knew all this then? Well, I’m sorry I took up your precious time. I shut my mouth and waited for him to say something constructive.
He didn’t speak, but burst out laughing instead. A big laugh, from deep inside him. I also noticed, for the first time, a smile in his eyes as well as on his face. His laughter stopped abruptly, but when he spoke he still had a genuine smile on his face.
“I am sorry. I am playing with you a little, Professor Morgan. It is my way—” Well, you could have fooled me—I thought you were a dry old bugger, “as the people who know me would understand. Seriously, you have given me new insights. I, too, am not sure how this connects with the two deaths, but it is a beginning. Now, you also mentioned a swimming pool?”
He had been listening—good. “Yes,” I replied, “but I don’t know much about it. All I know is that Alistair and Tamsin were for it; Chuck, Gerard, and Madelaine were against it. The local authorities had given the go-ahead for excavations to take place in the gardens, and the Syndic was going to vote on whether to go ahead or not. As I’ve said, knowing Alistair’s track record in his business life, I would think that he’d have been able to talk most of the apartment owners into agreeing with his point of view—that was his strength. Also, having thought about his desire to find dirt on people, then hold it over them, I did wonder if he might have found out something about someone else in the apartments that they couldn’t afford to let him make public, and they decided that killing him would be best all round? Alistair was not a well liked man when I knew him. No one had a good word to say about him—in fact, most had quite a few nasty ones to say behind his back. That’s a dangerous quality to have—the ability to make people hate you.”
“I agree, it is a very dangerous quality,” responded Moreau. He fell silent.
I had a question that I was burning to ask, though I suspected he wouldn’t answer it. “Captain, I wondered if you’ve received any toxicology reports back on Madelaine yet? I know she looked very peaceful, and she’d obviously had a bit of a shock to her heart the night before . . . but I thought there might be an outside chance that she’d been poisoned, though I couldn’t see anything obvious at the scene . . .” I let the question hang in the air.
“A very interesting observation, Professor, but, of course, I cannot tell you any of the findings of our investigation because you are a suspect and a witness. I can tell you that the sad death of Mme. Schiafino was not the result of natural causes. That is all. Is there anything else you would like to share at this time?”
I gave it some thought, but decided to keep a few things to myself until I was sure. “I don’t know what else to say, really,” I said apologetically. “I cannot work out how the necklace was stolen. I’m assuming that everyone was searched at the hospital, like I was?” Moreau nodded. “If no one had it on their person, then I don’t know where it could have gone . . . unless it wasn’t there when we arrived, and it had been stolen earlier in the afternoon. I suppose no one’s saying they knew where Alistair hid it?”
Moreau shook his head this time. Clearly he didn’t want any of his “answers” being recorded by the microphones.
“So I suppose all I’ve done is float a possible theory for a motive that could still apply to three out of four people, for a theft that may, or may not, be connected to the murders?”
“It is as you say,” he replied. “But I am sure that you will continue to think about possible methods, and how people might have had the means to commit the crimes, as you appear to be a natural investigator. I would, of course, prefer it if you would leave the investigating to us, the police. You are not working with the Vancouver police force. You are not a consultant to the police in this case. You have no standing, and we cannot offer you our protection. You are, I repeat, a witness and, until we close the case, a suspect. And I should warn you, Professor Morgan, that you must be very careful if you choose to continue to ‘investigate.’ I think that maybe you see this as an academic exercise—a chance to use your brain in a creative way. Two people are dead. We don’t want it to become three, do we?”
“Oh, good grief, no we do not!” I replied quickly, “and I promise that I’ll be a good girl and not stick my nose in . . . too far!” I risked a smile, and I got one back.
“I am now concluding this interview,” said Moreau. He made some parting comments for the record and switched off all the devices in the room. Then he pushed back his chair, stood, and stretched. I took my cue from him and did the same.
He looked as tired as I felt, and I realized he still had Chuck and Beni to interview before his night was over. Poor guy.
As he guided me toward the door he explained that Bertrand would take me out and make sure I got back to my hotel safely. As I was leaving, he put his hand gently on my arm and said in a quiet voice, “Tell me, when you said that I had taken over the office I use from my old boss, and that I didn’t like him . . . why did you say that?” He looked a little concerned.
I had to come clean. “One of the skills I have is reading people. I use it a lot. When I mentioned that your desk had been moved I saw a change in your expression: you knew the person who had used it in its old position, and you felt anger at the thought of that person. Now, most people feel anger toward those who have, at some point, made them feel powerless—so the man was likely your boss. I’m afraid your dislike of him was very apparent—he didn’t just make you angry; you also felt indignant that he had held the post. I suspect that you felt he wasn’t up to the job, eh?”
“Ah,” was all that Moreau would say, and he winked at me. “You see much,” he added.
“Yes, I do,” I replied, and I dared a wink back at him. I followed Bertrand to a waiting police car, to be ferried back to my hotel and, oh please, please, please, a comfortable night’s sleep. I was knackered.
The Early Hours of Sunday Morning
THE SAME GUY WHO HAD been at the reception desk at my hotel when I’d arrived back from the hospital was there again when I dragged myself out of the police car at two o’clock in the morning. As I smiled weakly at him I wondered if he thought I’d been there all day . . . and night, given that he was the one who’d given me the directions to the police station that morning. He looked surprised and puzzled, but I decided to say nothing and to retain an air of mystery!
I finally got to my room and flopped onto the bed, face first, just glad to be someplace where I could relax. It had been a hell of a day. I had to tell myself quite firmly that I couldn’t just lie there like that all night—I had to get myself undressed, into the bathroom and into the bed to try to make sure I slept properly. For once, I listened to myself, and also took the time to remove my makeup and brush my hair. When I got under the covers, I couldn’t get my mind to slow down. I lay there staring at the ceiling, wishing I could switch off.
You know what it’s like when you can’t sleep; it doesn’t matter what you do, you just can’t get comfy. I’d almost beaten my pillows to a pulp trying to get them to allow my head to nestle just so, but I still felt as though I was lying on a couple of bricks. Eventually, I sat up, t
urned on the bedside lamp, and reached for my pen. I hoped that doing a “brain dump” would let me wind down a bit.
I scribbled some notes on various bits of paper before I realized that, if I wanted to be able to read what I was writing at some future point, I’d better just open up my laptop and type. You’d be excused for inferring from my handwriting that I was a doctor of medicine, not a doctor of psychology.
Having pulled out all the paraphernalia that I’d managed to stuff into my little laptop case, and having managed to hook everything together, I sat and typed. I was hoping that the process would help me to organize my thoughts, but all it resulted in was a very long list of all the things I didn’t know, or things about which I knew a little and wished I knew more. The whole process was rather frustrating.
I looked at my watch—it was three o’clock, so six in the evening in Vancouver. I was pretty sure that Bud would be home, so I called the Anderson apartment, his cell phone, Jan’s cell phone, then the apartment again . . . nothing. Still just voice mail. Where the hell was he? For that matter, where was Jan? Again I was struck by the idea that maybe something bad had happened out at Bud’s Chilliwack drug-bust operation.
This time, rather than panic, I decided I’d use the “Free Wi-Fi in Every Room” the sign in the hotel lobby promised. I checked the Global TV News website for anything about trouble in the Fraser Valley. There was nothing. I was relieved. I was pretty sure that if anything had happened it would have made it onto the news page.
