“Hélène Scaviner.”
“What about the two men who tried to kill us?”
“He didn’t say anything over the phone. We were working through a translator and he wanted to keep everything to a minimum. He did ask how you were.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you looked as if you’d been on vacation for weeks and that I hoped you felt half as good as you looked.”
“I wish,” she said, noticing that Tom seemed to be watching the road behind them more often. “What do you see in your rear-view mirror?”
“Nothing except for that sign inviting tourists to the farm where they can see the breeders feed their geese in authentic local fashion.”
“I’ll pass,” Diana said. “I don’t need to see that. The French are cruel, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shoving food down a goose’s neck, forcing it to overeat so its liver distends. That’s cruel. I mean, I know the foie gras is wonderful, but what about the goose?”
“How many geese would there be if there was no appetite for them? They wouldn’t be bred. Those that remained would have to fend for themselves in the wild. Besides, they’re practically worshipped. Have you ever had ortelans?”
“No, what are they?”
“They’re what we call garden buntings. The French catch them with traps; they don’t want to damage them in any way. Then they twist their necks, fry them in their own grease, and eat them under a miniature tent so that they can savor the aroma and taste.”
“Under a tent?”
“Yes. They make the tent out of their napkins. They put the napkins around the backs of their necks and then flip them over their heads and over their plates. They eat everything on the ortelan but the beak.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Not to the ortelan eaters, many of whom are British. They come over when the ortelans are in season and scarf them down. You see, the French are violent but they have a whole world of unindicted co-conspirators.”
“Would you eat one of them?”
“Not if I had to wear the tent.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. Throwing napkins around like that . . . you could knock over the wine glasses.”
“Where did you learn about all that?”
“From my French teacher, at Irvine.”
“Sounds like a bad influence.”
“Sometimes. As eighteen year-olds we loved it.”
“You’re looking at the mirror again. Why?”
“I’m sorry; I’m just naturally suspicious. Don’t worry, there’s no one behind us.”
A minute later she noticed him check the mirror again. He was doing it without turning his head. He was talking to comfort her, to distract her from the fact that something violent and unexpected might happen at any moment.
Chateau Bison had a brown metal medallion over its entryway: a carved silhouette of a prehistoric bison, floating in the air against the blue-gray sky in the same way it might float against a wall in an ice-age cave painting. The winery was closed for tastings and the public parking lot had emptied. After Tom drove through the gate an elderly man appeared from behind the stone supporting pillar on the right and carried a heavy chain across the road, securing it at bumper level on the other side. It was 2:25. The afternoon sun was still warm and the gathering clouds were threatening rain. The air was close, the breeze light.
They drove behind the chateau—largely a facade housing the corporate offices of the winery—and parked behind a single-story stone structure whose public entrance was on the east end of the building. On the west end in the rear was a highly-polished oak door. They entered, the door was closed behind them, and locked.
“Bon jour, Mademoiselle Bennett et Inspecteur Deaton,” Cossard said. “Asseyez vous.”
They sat down around a hand-carved rectangular table with 14 chairs. The room was dark, with curtained windows, baroque furniture, and heavy tapestries. Tom whispered to Diana that it looked like an upper room in a Moorish castle. Cossard was sitting in the center of the table. He turned to an associate in a business suit and nodded. The man sat up straight in his chair and greeted them. “Good afternoon, my name is Derieux. The chief investigator has asked me to brief you on the results of our work.”
“We appreciate your help and your courtesy,” Tom said. Derieux cocked his head and smiled briefly.
“Neither of the men who killed your friends from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation has been identified. There is no positive fingerprint match and no identifying marks sufficient to conduct a successful computer search. There were no tattoos, though one of the men appears to have had one that was removed. We are circulating pictures, of course, but that can take a great deal of time. DNA tests will also take quite some time. Their weapons were unregistered; both were of German manufacture. The car found outside Les Eyzies was registered to a fictitious person; the passport and credit card were forged. Since such documents require some effort to obtain, it is clear that your friends were not the victims of random violence. No one suspected that, of course, but the forged documents and the evidence of advance planning suggest that this operation was conducted by professionals.”
“Hired, do you think?” Diana asked.
“Ultimately, of course,” Derieux said, “but not necessarily for this particular operation.”
“What about their dental work?” Tom asked.
“Of high quality, probably American,” Derieux said. “Both had porcelain fillings; one had two crowns, the second a bridge of recent manufacture. All expert work. One of the men had had an appendectomy and the second—the one murdered outside Les Eyzies—was wearing orthotic supports in his shoes. The identifying marks on the orthotic supports had been melted out. We can cross-check the dental work with that of possible suspects, but again, it will take a great deal of time.”
“Clothing?” Tom said.
“Generally of American manufacture, though the man you shot at the Cro-Magnon was wearing Italian shoes. Expensive shoes. Perhaps 250 euros for the pair.”
“But available everywhere?” Tom asked.
“Yes. The bottom line, as you would say, is that the men were probably from America. They were here specifically to kill the Federal Bureau men or to kill you, probably the latter. At this point we cannot say when they arrived in France. In all likelihood the murderer of the second man was a confederate, one who wished to both punish the man for his failure and insure his silence.”
“Can you tell us about the director’s secretary, Madame Scaviner?”
“Yes. That is quite interesting. Quite interesting.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chateau Bison, St. Emilion
Wednesday, 2:52 p.m.
Before Derieux could continue, a representative of the winery entered the room and put two bottles of red wine on the table along with two plates of fruit, cheese, and bread. The plates were hand-painted country porcelain. The wines and food were exquisite. Tom tasted the wine and said, “Excellent.” The server smiled, said “Merci, Monsieur,” and promptly left. The Frenchmen responded to the wine the way most American businessmen would respond to a pitcher of ice water accompanied by a stack of scuffed, plastic glasses.
“Madame Scaviner has been quite helpful,” Derieux said. “It seems that Monsieur Ponge’s personal appointment book has been lost. Stolen, we assume. However, Madame Scaviner has kept her own book for many years. She has also had the foresight to keep her book in her own possession and not leave it on her desk. It seems that she was devoted to Monsieur Ponge and sought to protect him and his activities from the eyes of curious visitors.”
“Do you have the name of the contractor?” Diana asked.
“No, Mademoiselle Bennett. You see, there was no contractor. There was what you would call a ‘consultant
.’ This person appears to have secured the workmen who entered the cave and stole the Chevaux Ponctués. We believe that this man was recommended to Monsieur Ponge. The firm was not a local one. Thus, we are assuming that Monsieur Ponge contracted with the consultant in order to conceal the existence of what he believed to be the green disease. He wished to avoid embarrassment. That, at least, is what we are expected to believe.”
“And you have his name?” Tom asked.
“We have the name of his company,” Derieux said. “It is a British organization. Does that surprise you?”
“There was an Englishman who claimed to have discovered the green disease,” Tom said.
“Yes. This individual was probably the person who referred Monsieur Ponge to the British organization. If that is the case (and we believe it to be so) the Englishman and the consultant conspired to steal the Chevaux Ponctués. Madame Scaviner’s memory was quite acute. She told us that the Englishman was young, perhaps twenty five or thirty years of age. He feigned nervousness and concern, as if he had discovered some great evil. You realize, of course, that at that time Madame had no knowledge of the green disease. She was simply confronted with a man demanding to see Monsieur Ponge. Madame tells us that he was tall and blonde and wore the clothes of a businessman rather than those of a tourist or scholar. He carried an attaché case when he presented himself to Monsieur Ponge. He used the name Hayward; we are checking with British authorities, but we assume that the name is fictitious.”
Derieux sat comfortably in his chair, bridging his fingers as he told his story. Cossard, on the other hand, was tense and frustrated. His English was inadequate but he was anxious to participate in the discussion. Occasionally he nodded insistently or cocked his head like an attentive terrier. His fingers were inverted and interlaced, as if they were holding in the pressure building in his chest and temples. Tom thought of the children’s game ‘This is the church and this is the steeple,’ but Cossard kept his fingers together, squeezing them tighter and tighter as his knuckles whitened.
Derieux’s brown eyes were warm, his expression easy. His hair was neatly combed. He wore an intricate gold ring on his left hand and a muted tie to complement his brown suit and shoes. Cossard was his polar opposite, his gray eyes darting from side to side, his hair neatly trimmed but his face darkening with whisker stubble. He had worked around the clock and now that they were making progress he was consigned to the sidelines. Finally he blurted out the words, “English, Inspecteur Deaton, Englishman.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “And the consultant as well.”
Cossard shook his head in frustration.
“This is the benefit of an excellent secretary,” Derieux said. “She is scrupulous with details and absolutely loyal to her supervisor. She serves him even after his death.”
“The consultant,” Tom said. “You were going to tell us the name of his organization.”
“That is what I mean,” Derieux said. “Such precision, such accuracy. It is so rare these days.”
“Yes,” Diana said. “And the name?”
Derieux took a sip of his wine and picked up an apple and a paring knife. “That is what is so fascinating,” he said, as he peeled the skin from the apple in a single, long strip. “From Normandy,” he said. “Quite nice. You should try one.”
Tom and Diana waited. Cossard was lifting his chin and turning it from left to right as if his starched collar was choking him. Derieux took a bite of his apple. “Yes, excellent,” he said. “Now . . . Madame Scaviner. A woman of great observation. Monsieur Ponge must have given her a business card of the consultant’s or, perhaps, he wrote her a note so that she might record his telephone number in her file. She remembered it precisely when we asked. She did not even have to look in her book. The firm was called . . . here, let me write it for you.”
He took out a pad, removed his fountain pen from the inside of his jacket, wrote down seven letters, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Tom and Diana. It read:
Téve∂os
“Tenedos,” Tom said.
“Very good,” Derieux answered. “Madame reproduced the nu. When we asked her about it, she pronounced it Tevedos. That is what I mean by precision and attention to detail. That is what she was given and that is what she remembered. Quite remarkable in these days. You must be a Greek scholar, Inspecteur Deaton.”
“Catholic High School graduate,” Tom responded. “My father insisted on it. Tenedos is an odd name for a consulting firm.”
“Yes, I agree, but Madame Scaviner was quite specific.”
“And you said that it’s British,” Diana said.
“Yes, Mademoiselle. We even have the telephone number. We have called them, of course, but there was no answer.”
“Was there a recorded message?” Tom asked.
“No, as a matter of fact there was not,” Derieux answered. “Would you expect one?”
“Most people who are self-employed rely on them. Did the phone number carry a London city code?”
“Yes, we expected that, of course.”
“I’d appreciate the number.”
“We can do that for you. Presumably it is public knowledge. Do you intend to go there?”
“Yes,” Tom said, looking at Diana. “We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Derieux asked.
“Certainly,” Diana answered, Tom deferring to her.
“These people have been responsible for six deaths on French soil. So, at least, we believe. If you intend to seek them you should be very careful. When we are finished here I would like to speak with you further.”
“Of course, Monsieur Derieux,” Diana said. “Thank you.”
Derieux turned to Cossard and whispered something to him. Cossard stood up immediately, nodded to Tom and Diana, and walked toward the door. The rest of the men followed him out of the room. Derieux rose, gestured to Tom and Diana and took them to the far west corner of the room, where they could stand under a vent fan whose vibrations would mask the sounds of their voices.
“I would trust all of these men with my life,” he said quietly, “but that does not mean that one cannot still be careful.” He handed them a large brown envelope. “This contains additional automobile plates if you need them,” he said. “We will return the vehicle which you rented. If anyone attempts to follow it they will find four armed men. At the rear of the car park is a private vehicle from the Culture Ministry for your use. After you have driven it a safe distance you can change the plates if you so choose. They will provide an added precaution, one that is probably unnecessary, but I prefer to err on the side of safety and I suspect that you do as well. Take whatever route you wish and whatever means of travel you choose. Park the car, lock the keys in the glove box and call me after you have arrived in Britain. I will arrange to have it picked up. You should know that these plans have been made by Monsieur Cossard. He has asked me to explain them to you.”
“You have both been very helpful and very kind,” Tom said. “Please convey our thanks to him.”
Derieux nodded. “We will do what we can with the authorities in Britain,” he said, “but you may have better luck than they. I wish you well. Mademoiselle’s brother must be avenged . . . and the horses must be returned to Pech-Merle.”
“Avenged?” Tom asked.
“But of course,” Derieux responded. “Hopefully the courts will do this, but if they are unable to, we must still have justice. Otherwise, what is the point?”
“Policemen are not permitted to speak that way in America,” Tom said.
“Of course not. But you see, I am not a policeman. I am a student of art. We are far less forgiving.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cherbourg
Thursday, 1:22 a.m.
They checked into the Marine Hotel at the harbor. Their room was at the north end of the bui
lding, overlooking the marina. The moonlight illuminated the walls and windows of the surrounding city and the light from the docks and boats was glistening in the swaying water. “This is lovely,” Diana said, as she opened the drapes, took in the view, and let in the late night air.
Tom put down their bags and walked across the room. “Yes,” he said. He was standing next to her. She turned her head and smiled at him; her shoulder brushed against his arm. “So far so good,” she said.
“So far so good,” he answered.
“I’ll take that couch,” she said, “and I don’t want any arguments.”
“It looks softer than the bed,” he answered. “It’s yours.”
“In that case . . .”
“No, no arguments,” Tom said.
“All right, no arguments.”
The harbor bell sounded at 2:00 a.m. as Tom shifted position. He was still unable to sleep. For the last hour and a half of the drive his eyes had been heavy and burning around the edges. When he blinked to focus them they sometimes continued to blur. He had forced his fingernails into his thumbs and palms to keep himself alert. Once they arrived at the hotel he had unwrapped some of the food that Derieux had persuaded him to take along: Normandy apples, Isigny brie, and still-fresh slices of French bread. He had also included a spare bottle of the St. Emilion. Diana had gone right to sleep while Tom had stayed awake, eating, thinking, and absorbing the events of the past few days. He had hoped to fall asleep quickly, but the food revitalized him and as he lay in bed he listened to the sounds of the harbor: boats rocking against their moorings, members of the harbor master’s staff making late-night rounds, the pop of a welding torch off in the distance and the occasional cries of gulls fighting over scraps.
At 2:30 he reached for his watch on the nightstand, raising it in the air to catch the moonlight on the dial. His eyes were heavy and his knees and ankles were cramping but the circuits in his brain were still overloaded with plans, contingencies, repeating melodies, and the fragments of dreams and random thoughts.
INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL Page 14
