Eight

by James R. Vance

  A waiter stopped by with a tray of drinks. The detectives helped themselves as Dumas approached and asked them to join him on an outdoor terrace, visible through an ornate archway of local sandstone and granite. The terrace stretched along the end of the building where it overlooked the spectacular pool.

  Their host smiled and gestured towards the distant Mediterranean. “Regard that view. In daylight, you see the Iles de Frioul and the tiny fortress of Ile d'If. It is famous by one of my ancestors, Alexandre. You read The Count of Monte Cristo, perhaps when you are younger?”

  Harcourt was even more impressed…a descendant of a famous author. “I read the book and of course The Three Musketeers.” She stared into the distant indigo backdrop of a starlit sky. “The view must be magnificent during the day. It's absolutely breathtaking even at night.”

  Massey passed no comment.

  Dumas walked across to the carved marble balustrade surrounding the terrace. “I think that anyone who regard this panoramic vista for the first time is captivated, as I am on my first visit when I step out here. Adolf Hitler, he has the same experience when he stand at the Trocadero to admire his conquest, the city of Paris. The Tour Eiffel rise up before his eyes. Perhaps you see picture of him when he enjoy this moment.”

  Taken aback by his analogy, Harcourt smiled out of politeness. “I see what you mean,” she said, meekly.

  Massey sipped from his glass, but otherwise remained impassive. The thought crossed his mind that Dumas may have similar aspirations.

  Their host continued his observations. “He command with such power, that man. Today is very different. Power is shared. The U.S.A. believe that they have the greatest authority in the world, but there are many Arab rulers rich from vast oil revenues who can ruin them financially if they wish. Soon other major powers emerge: North Korea, Iran and China with its infinite resources, new wealth and manpower. Look at how the influence of Osama Bin Laden create fear of terrorism in the West and how Russia suffer such easy defeat in Afghanistan. Russia, without doubt, she come again as a great nation. Technology and the internet make, how you say, a level playing field? But power is not the complete answer. Do you know why?”

  “It's all about money now, isn't it?” Harcourt suggested. “One needs financial clout in the modern world.”

  Dumas smiled at her and turned to Massey. “What think you, Inspector? You know the key to great power?”

  “People possess power in many walks of life at different levels. Success lies in knowing how to wield that power with maximum effect to achieve one's objectives.”

  Dumas raised his forefinger towards Massey to emphasise his reply. “Exactly…money, power and especially knowledge. One can rule the world with that. Tonight you watch Olympique Marseille. At this time, they not compete with the rich English and Spanish clubs like Chelsea, Madrid and Barcelone. Perhaps one day…” He looked out across the pool. “Yes, perhaps one day soon they will be the big club.” He raised his glass. “I dream, of course. A toast to Manchester and Marseille. Next time they meet in Europe, I hope the best team, it win.”

  The detectives raised their glasses and sipped their cocktails. Dumas turned to face them. His expression had become serious.

  “Capitaine Thoury, he tell me that you have questions about Ludovic Roche. I think that he is long time dead.”

  That did not ring true, thought Massey. The police captain had said that Roche had absconded. Surely, he must have already communicated that to Dumas. Was he lying or was something lost in translation?

  Harcourt explained that the unsolved deaths in Manchester were the reason for their visit, closing with an apology for their intrusion. She also thanked him for his hospitality.

  “I am sorry that I not give more help. Roche, I know him from my past life. I lose contact with him long time before, when he go live in Limoges.”

  Massey remained unconvinced. The man was far too glib with his responses. “I noticed this morning that your yacht has left the harbour since yesterday, yet you're still here.”

  “Ah, you see my Etoile Olympique. A remarkable craft, n'est-ce pas? It is a Mondo Marine, forty-three metres long, built in Greece of course. It is en route Saint Tropez. It bring some guests for the weekend. We have the engagement party for my daughter, Elodie. You must join us. You are welcome to stay and enjoy the celebration.”

  Instantly, Harcourt's mind sought any flimsy excuse to extend their stay. “That's very kind of you. I'm sure that it would be a pleasure. I didn't realise that you were married. Is your wife here tonight?”

  “Unfortunately, my wife she die in car crash several years ago. My family is my daughter and my son. He is architect, but he now live in U.S.A. My daughter, she is model and live in Paris. It is special occasion for me. I am honoured if you are here.”

  Massey quickly intervened, hoping to prevent his colleague from making any commitment. “Unfortunately, we will most likely be back in the U.K. by then.”

  They strolled back into the main reception area and mingled with other guests, generally those who could manage to speak a little English. After several attempts at some small talk, the detectives extricated themselves from the throng. They stood on the steps leading to the front entrance where they admired the landscaped gardens.

  Massey was concerned about their somewhat choreographed reception and the spontaneous invitation to the daughter's engagement party. “What do you reckon to Dumas?”

  “Quite a charmer. I imagined him to be a bachelor until he mentioned his children. Pity about his wife, but obviously, he seems to dote on the daughter.”

  Massey was overtly suspicious. “I'd love to know how he affords this millionaire lifestyle. If criminal activities are funding it, it's scary that one of his heroes is Bin Laden, besides the other megalomaniac that he mentioned. I find that quite disturbing.”

  “Perhaps he is just a sympathiser towards those regimes opposed to the principles of western democracy. Let's face it; we're guilty of some pretty oppressive measures in our past history.”

  “Sympathising is acceptable, but using terrorism as an antidote is not only immoral but barbaric. If financial support stems from terrorist organisations, it begs the question: what does he offer in return?”

  “You're not a fan of Michel Dumas, are you?”

  “I don't trust him. He may be well connected in Marseille, but I bet he's a prime target as far as Interpol is concerned. I wouldn't be surprised if they had infiltrated his security blanket already.” Massey turned away. “And he lied about Roche, saying that he believed him to be dead. What does he take us for?” He walked back towards the entrance. “Anyway, enough of Dumas. I need a scotch. Let's have another drink and discuss how we intend to make our way back to the hotel.”

  Harcourt shook her head in exasperation. “Chief Inspector, you're a killjoy. This is probably our last night in Marseille and you want to hit the sack. Let's make the most of our visit. We can check out transport options later…preferably, when the sun rises over those mountains. Besides, I fancy exploring this opulent millionaire's paradise in the daylight. Maybe we'll be able to take a dip in that fabulous pool.”

  “I presume that you've remembered to pack a bikini in that shoulder bag,” Massey said in a sarcastic tone.

  “I'm sure that he could provide the necessary. If not, there's always the option of skinny-dipping as an alternative.” She winked and headed for the cocktail bar.

  Massey sighed and checked his watch. It was one o'clock. He followed her into the reception area. Quite unexpectedly, his thoughts turned to Petra Rebovka. What had happened to her? Was she badly hurt? Was she still in hospital? Too late to call her now, he thought. Perhaps Harcourt could phone before they set off back to Limoges. Why was he even thinking about the young woman? She was like an annoying insect, a persistent irritant.

  He dismissed his concerns as Harcourt passed him a crystal tumbler containing an extremely generous measure of whisky. At that moment, he again wished that he were back
in the Beacon.

  Harcourt poked him playfully with her forefinger. “C'mon, I want to check out that pool. Let's take a walk under the stars.”

  “We'll probably be accosted by the security guards or, in the worst case scenario, be shot.”

  Harcourt started walking towards the main entrance again. “You've been reading too many spy novels. Have you always been a pessimist?”

  “I prefer to make decisions based on the facts before me rather than have my judgement clouded by assumptions. Since we arrived here, nothing has changed my view that Dumas is up to his neck in some form of criminal activity. Why else would he need such a high level of security?”

  “If I had a fantastic pad like this, I'd want to protect it from unwanted intruders.”

  “For privacy and personal security, I just think that it's somewhat over the top.”

  “Suit yourself. I'm still up for a stroll. Coming or not?”

  Massey shrugged his shoulders. “It's your funeral.”

  “You're a real Job's comforter. Drink your Scotch and get some Dutch courage inside you.” Harcourt grinned at the unintentional paradox of her words.

  They stepped outside and wandered in the direction of the turquoise halo. Hidden eyes watched from the shadows, but no one attempted to stop them. On reaching the pool, they stood and admired the spectacular view.

  “There you are,” Harcourt said triumphantly. “They're here to protect us not to shoot us.” She looked down into the clear water of the swimming pool. “It's so inviting. Don't you fancy a dip?”

  Before Massey could reply, the approach of a dark suit startled them.

  The man was very tall and well built. “Good evening. I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking.”

  “You speak English,” Harcourt said with surprise.

  “I'm actually Canadian, from Quebec. I also speak fluent French.”

  Massey addressed him. “You're part of the security team here?”

  The man lowered his voice slightly. “I would advise you, sir, and D.C.I. Harcourt to get your butts out of here asap.” He turned to acknowledge a message in his earpiece. “Oui, ils regardent la piscine et la vue panoramique. J'ai dit qu'il faut revenir au salon de réception.” He faced the detectives. “I've reported that you are just admiring the view. Look, if I stay here talking, they'll become suspicious. I suggest that you re-join the main party.”

  Harcourt was astonished. “How did you know my name?”

  “The same way that I know that this is D.C.I. Massey. Say nothing. I'm on your side. Now, make a move before we attract too much attention.”

  The man disappeared into the shadows. Massey turned to his colleague, smiling smugly. “There, I told you that there'd be someone on the inside and I bet that he's not alone.”

  As they re-entered the villa, Dumas stepped towards them. “You enjoy the night air?”

  Massey complained. “We were about to admire your pool at close quarters, but one of your heavies barred our way.”

  “I apologise. Unfortunately, France has strict legislation for pools, even on private properties. One must install alarms or barriers and, in some cases, supervision. Therefore, it is not permitted to allow open access. You are welcome to use the facility, if you stay for the celebration.”

  Before his colleague could accept the offer, Massey stepped in with his excuse. “As I said previously, I'm afraid that we have a commitment to return to the U.K. before the end of the week. Perhaps we can take up your offer another time.” He pulled out his mobile phone. “Do you have a taxi number that we can call?”

  “Not a problem. One of my chauffeur, he drive you to the city centre. It is the New Hotel where you stay…yes?”

  Massey nodded, convinced that they had not mentioned their accommodation to him. This man must hold a bloody dossier on us, he thought.

  Thirty-five minutes later, the black limo pulled up on Rue Reine-Elisabeth, dropping its occupants at the main entrance to the hotel.

  “Fancy a night-cap?” Harcourt glanced across at the Quai des Belges, where some bars were still open. Her suggestion almost became a plea. “It's our last night for goodness sake.”

  Massey looked at his watch…two thirty. “One drink, just one. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. Let's aim to leave at lunchtime and you must contact Rebovka before we leave. I want to know what's been happening during our absence.”

  Harcourt smiled. “Don't you ever relax? Are you always on-the-job or do I perceive a soft spot for our young friend?”

  8888

  The local gendarmerie were once again swarming over Roche's house as Jean-Marie drew up outside accompanied by Petra. He had arrived at the hospital earlier to pick her up following her discharge as a patient.

  She wondered why the police had returned. “Why are they still here?”

  “They return to search the ‘ouse again…this time for a different reason. It is again a crime scene. There is the attack on you and of course, Ludo Roche ‘as vanished…Alexis also. They look for clues.”

  “My money's on Marseille, Jean-Marie.”

  “Your money? I not understand.” Her connotation was beyond his comprehension.

  She explained. “If I was to have a bet, you know, like on the horse racing as with P.M.U. here in France.”

  During their conversation in Le Capricorne, Alexis had tried to explain to Petra the complexities of Pari Mutuel Urbain and the betting system. It was not only a bar tabac, but also one of almost ten thousand registered P.M.U. outlets countrywide. She had understood some of what he had said.

  The ex-gendarme laughed. “I remember that. It is good phrase.” He muttered it once more. “My money is on Marseille.” Again he laughed. “C'est bien, ça.”

  They emerged from the car and walked towards the house with Jean-Marie leading the way. “First, I check the progress of the judiciaire. After, you collect the Clio. Then you go make a written statement at the gendarmerie. I think that your work ‘ere is now almost finished. You return to England, yes?”

  Petra made no reply. She was hesitant, not keeping pace with him, unsure of what may confront her in Roche's house. Her strange behaviour convinced Jean-Marie that the injury to her head had affected her more than originally diagnosed. They approached the main entrance to Roche's house. A uniformed gendarme barred their entry until Jean-Marie enlightened him.

  Inside, an officer in plain clothes greeted them. “Bonjour, Fauchet.” He looked at Petra. “Ah, l'Anglaise. Vous êtes en bonne santé maintenant, Mademoiselle?”

  “Much better,” Petra replied. “Tant mieux, merci. Allez, je veux vous montrer quelque chose. Suivez moi.”

  What could she possibly want to show them, thought Jean-Marie? She had told them everything at the hospital.

  Petra led them into the dining room. A forensic team seemed to be examining every nook and cranny in the house. It reminded her of the searches at her flat above the saddlery. She could still recall the feeling of impotence when she and Klara were suspects prior to their eventual arrest. This lot can search forever, she thought. They've not a hope in hell of discovering the secret cellar.

  All activity appeared to cease as she entered the room and positioned herself at the end of the sliding fixture. She was holding centre stage; not an unusual experience for Petra. Whether they were steeling themselves for her coup de grace or merely ogling her stunning, yet slightly battle-scarred allure, she was unsure. Nevertheless, she took the opportunity to milk the moment. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

  She first explained to Jean-Marie that the blow to her head must have caused some memory loss. That was her excuse for omitting this imminent revelation from her recollections of yesterday. Her return to the scene of the crime, however, had prompted the emergence of a more lucid picture. He, in turn, translated her explanation to the increasing numbers who had swollen her captive audience.

  Inwardly, she was enjoying every minute of commanding the attention of the local gendarmerie.
How her fortunes had changed. She felt good and she knew why. Once more, she was in control. Now for la pièce de résistance.

  She pressed gently against the side of the sliding fitment. It was rigid, immovable. A nauseous sensation engulfed her for several seconds until she noticed that the barely visible tramlines were beneath her feet. Immediately, she realised that she was at the wrong end. Smiling at her inquisitive audience, she confidently strode the full length of the fixture, gesturing towards it with outstretched arms. She announced her intention to reveal the hidden cellar.

  “Voila! C'est derrière là. Une cave cachée.”

  On reaching the far end, she pushed against it. This time the fitment slid gently along the wall towards the adjoining kitchen. Inwardly, she heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  “Regardez ici, le monde véritable de Monsieur Roche.”

  Even Jean-Marie was lost for words. The real world of Roche…what did she mean by such a remark? The hidden door came into view. A senior gendarme stepped forward and slid the door open. He was not only annoyed at his officers’ incompetence in missing this, but also furious that almost twenty-four hours had elapsed with no communication concerning its existence. Two officers, possibly responsible for the original house search, felt the immediate wrath of his anger.

  Petra could see his frustration and embarrassment. Not fancying a ticking-off in front of all and sundry, she hoped that her previous explanation exonerated her from any blame. Wait until he discovers what lies in store down in the cellar, she thought. That will distract him; give him something to consider. How would the police react to the symbolism on the walls?

  The remaining team members continued their renewed forensic investigation. The senior officer called over Jean-Marie, who, in turn, invited Petra to join them. I hope that he's covered my arse, she thought.