Werewolf Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Of course they are. Unfortunately, you can’t spank them and send them to bed without ruining the baron’s whole party.”

  The Prefect of Police took a deep breath and drew himself up taller. “I should not like to do that,” he said, “but if that is the difference between catching a murderer and letting him escape, I will do it all the same.”

  “We never thought anything different,” Ron assured him. “But I think we can agree it hasn’t come to that yet. So. If you tell them to go take a hike, they’ll just go sneaking around doing detective work, God help us all, getting in the way and trampling on whatever leads may actually be out there.”

  “So what do you plan, then?” Marx asked.

  “Bureaucratize them. They’re used to that. They’ll present papers detailing lines of investigation they think should be followed. They can work on these alone or in groups. Then everything has to come to the authorities—that’s you, gentlemen—”

  “Just a moment—” Diderot began.

  “I do not have the time—” Marx sputtered.

  Ron ignored them. “—by means of a review by Dr. Janet Higgins,” Ron indicated his wife, “who is a college professor herself and has a high tolerance for academic bullshit. In any case, this will keep them happy and out of the way, and who knows? They may actually come up with something useful.”

  Diderot grumbled. “Organized that way, it might work.”

  “There’s something else,” Ron said.

  “Yes?”

  “Assuming our killer has access to this meeting, it’s going to be awfully tempting for him to show up. It’s going to be awfully hard for him not to write a really clever paper to get himself inside the investigation. He can laugh all the harder at us, that way.”

  “It might be a good chance to catch him,” Janet said, almost apologetically. “If I read the papers right.”

  And that had sold it. The meeting would be allowed to take place.

  Benedetti gave them a couple of glowing paragraphs about how he drew energy from being surrounded by great minds, then introduced Janet, who gave them the procedure the authorities had agreed to. Ron looked at Dr. Jacky Spaak, who was beaming in his seat on the dais. On the killer-tries-to-worm-himself-inside theory, Dr. Spaak was suspect number one. A background check was already in the works. Ron reminded himself to have a few words with the fellow as soon as possible.

  13

  “I TRUST YOU WILL be more comfortable in the château,” Paul Levesque said in English. It seemed he was talking English nonstop these days, if not to the detectives, then to people on OSI business. Now he was talking English to a Romanian who at one time lived in Paris. When this was all over (God alone knew when), Levesque promised himself a visit to his mother in Versailles, where he could spend a week or a month talking nothing but his native tongue.

  “I’m sure I will be,” Romanescu said tentatively. “I am—I am very grateful to the baron. I’m not sure how fitted I am for human company...”

  “The amount of company you receive will be entirely up to you. You may have your meals in your room, if you so desire. You are, of course, free to come and go as you please. The baron simply felt that you might be more comfortable away from the hospital.”

  Levesque did not bother to add that the hospital staff was beside itself trying to deal with the deluge of calls from journalists and crime-crazed scientists, all trying to reach Romanescu to confirm or disprove some theory or other. It had been decided that it would be better for the man himself, the town, and what was left of OSI for Romanescu to stay with the baron.

  The Romanian touched the bandage on his cheek. “And yet,” he said, “I think I would like to join the baron for dinner, if he will have me. I would like to speak to him, and to Professor Benedetti. I feel I owe them an...explanation, if not an apology.”

  “I am sure they don’t feel that way,” Levesque said. “They will simply be happy to find you have recovered so thoroughly from your trouble.”

  Romanescu showed a bandage-twisted grin. “The recovery doesn’t go very deep. I still have nightmares. You must warn the staff at the château that I am likely to cry out in the night.”

  Levesque had interviewed the hospital’s staff closely before actually going ahead and arranging for Romanescu to be released from the hospital. No one had mentioned cries in the night. It was good to be warned.

  “I have nightmares, myself, sometimes, Doctor,” Levesque said. “Everyone does.”

  “Not like mine.”

  There wasn’t much that could be said to that. Levesque told the driver to pick up Romanescu’s bag, and they went out to the car.

  “I was afraid for a few moments,” Jacky Spaak said, “that I had outsmarted myself.”

  Jacky’s tone invited Ron Gentry to share in the amazement that something so absurd could even come close to happening.

  “How do you mean?” Ron asked.

  “Well, I was afraid that since the Task Force” (he had taken to calling it the Task Force) “was my idea, I would wind up coordinating it, spending all my time processing other ideas, then having no time to develop my own.”

  Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. In my experience I’ve found that other people’s theories have a way of sparking mine.”

  Dr. Spaak looked at the Real Live American Private Eye with something like hero worship. It made Ron feel stupid, and more than a little uncomfortable. It occurred to him he ought to introduce this guy to that customs guard at Orly.

  “Yes,” Jacky said. “Of course. Perhaps you and I could exchange ideas.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a trade,” Ron said. “I don’t have a glimmer.”

  “Oh,” Jacky said. His face fell. You might have thought he was a kid who’d just seen Santa Claus pull the pillow out of his pants. “Well, I am still grateful to Dr. Higgins for taking from me the job of coordinating the Task Force. I would have done my best, of course, but I think I can be of better service working on my own.”

  One thing a private eye learns to do is lie, but what Ron had to do then was worse. He had to tell a truth he hated.

  “I’d be glad,” he said, “to hear your thoughts on the subject.”

  And for the next half hour he got them.

  His wife, in the meantime, got hours of it.

  Diderot had set her up in an office in the prefecture (not the one in which de Blois had been killed, for which Janet was more than grateful). No sooner had she settled into the hard wooden swivel chair than a line formed outside her office.

  The first one through the door at ten o’clock had been Professor Karagiorgiou, a marine biologist from Greece. From first to last, he grinned at her with huge, white teeth.

  “Good morning, dear lady.” He beamed. “I have come to save you time.”

  He was so cheerful, it was hard for Janet not to smile back at him. “That’s always welcome.”

  “I feel the same way. I am not like other Greeks; you notice I am the first in the queue today, hah? I am not like other scientists, pssh, so naive.” He slapped himself hard on a rounded stomach. “I am peasant stock, the son of sponge divers. They dove into the sea after sponges, I go after secrets of science, but the heart!” He slapped himself again. “The heart is the same! I am a man of action, a man of adventure, a man of the world!

  “And that is why I tell you you will never solve this case.”

  Janet didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Never?” she asked meekly.

  “Never!” Karagiorgiou insisted. “And I will tell you why. There is more going on here than just the two murders, dear lady.”

  “They were atrocious murders, Professor.”

  “Nothings! The tip of the icicle!” Karagiorgiou realized he was shouting, looked around slyly, then reduced his volume to a dull roar.

  “Oh, yes, dear lady, to you and me, atrocious murders indeed. But to the people behind this, it is the snap of the fingers.”

  “Who is behind it, then?” Janet said. S
he knew it was ridiculous, but the man was so obviously bursting with certainty, she leaned forward in anticipation.

  Still smiling, Karagiorgiou lowered his voice to a rough whisper. “The Company,” he said. He sat back, practically glowing with triumph.

  “The Company?” Janet echoed.

  “Yes. The Company. The spooks. The spies. The CIA.”

  “The CIA.”

  “Yes, and now that I have said so, I have no fear, even if you are one of them yourself, dear lady. They kill only for expediency, never for reasons a decent man can understand, like revenge.”

  “Why would the CIA want to kill an astronomer and a policeman?”

  Karagiorgiou shrugged and made the Pssh noise again. “Who knows? They have one of their insane plans. They are distracting attention from something real. They are attracting attention to something real. I doubt if they know themselves. But can you answer me this: Why has there been no socialism in Greece after twelve years of socialist government? Do you think the CIA has nothing to do with that?”

  It occurred to Janet that even without the CIA, it would hard to impose socialism on a people consisting solely of individuals who want to own their own restaurants, but she got no farther than opening her mouth when Karagiorgiou went on.

  “And why is Karagiorgiou here, hah? A marine biologist brought to the mountains hundreds of miles from the sea, and told to work. It is ridiculous. I will tell you why. There is something at the bottom of the Aegean the CIA does not want Karagiorgiou to see! That is why they have held this ridiculous convention, to remove Karagiorgiou from the scene while they get rid of whatever it is.”

  He paused for breath. Janet took a look into the Greek’s black eyes and saw sparks jumping, each spark caused, she was sure, by two or more conspiracy theories colliding in his brain.

  “Thank you, Dr. Karagiorgiou. You’ve given us a lot to think about.”

  “Hah!” he said. He rose and kissed Janet’s hand. “All the thinking you do will get you no further. Just take care not to cross the Company. Better yet, denounce them. Then you will be perfectly safe. I’m glad I have got you straightened out. We must talk again sometime.” He sailed out.

  Janet looked at her watch. Twenty minutes after ten. She was exhausted already.

  “Next,” she sighed.

  14

  RON LOOKED AT THE plate full of snails in front of him and felt his stomach try a back flip. He lifted his eyes from the table and looked around at his dinner companions, but that was worse. Everyone, even his wife (the traitor), was gaily using tongs and small forks to pull little gray blobs (with antennae, yet) from shells, and popping them merrily into their mouths. Several (including Benedetti) were nodding appreciatively, then wiping them around in garlic butter until they were shiny, and having another go.

  What is the matter with these people? Ron thought. Haven’t they ever seen snails? Don’t they know that snails spend their lives sliding around in their own snot?

  Apparently not. And he didn’t want to offend the baron, either. Ron took a deep breath, seized the tongs and the oyster fork. Trying not to look, he plucked the grayness from the shell and brought it quickly to his mouth, thinking all the while, “Shrimp scampi! Shrimp scampi!”

  It kind of almost worked. Ron chewed it a couple of times and got it down without actually feeling the slimy little antennae tickling his mouth. Now all he had to do was choke down five more. He tried thinking of the next one as an escargot rather than, say, slug-on-the-half-shell, but that didn’t work as well as the shrimp scampi ploy.

  What he needed was some conversation to take his mind off this, but the rest of these perverts had been too busy stuffing their faces with garden pests to say anything.

  So Ron said something. “I’m sorry I set off the alarm last night, Baron.”

  Benac patted his lips with a snow white napkin, then used it to wave Ron’s apology away. “It was nothing, the work of a moment to correct. And it keeps Hilaire from becoming bored.”

  It had kept Ron and Janet from becoming bored last night, too. It is far from boring for an armed man to come knocking on your door a few seconds after you open the window.

  The baron had, at one time, kept a virtual army of security guards. “But they were worthless,” he explained. “Young men of the village who spent their time in my employ wishing to be skiing by moonlight, or sharing wine with their sweethearts.

  “Do you know, one night, I woke up to find a man in my room? He was a mad Canadian. Fortunately, he did not wish me harm. He wanted me to back him in a chain of escargot shops throughout North America.”

  Can’t get away from the damn things, Ron thought. He’d eaten half so far; he stopped now with the fourth one halfway to his lips. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “McSnails.”

  The baron shuddered. “He did not quite go so far as to tell me a name, for which I thank God. In any case, the security guards soon came, but I was nonetheless furious. Suppose it had been someone intent on violence?”

  Benedetti smiled. “Like the person we are now attempting to deal with.” Ron saw the old man turn his gaze slowly toward Romanescu, who until this moment had been sharing the dinner with what seemed to be a brave show of cordiality. Surreptitiously, the Romanian extended the first and third figures of his right hand. The Professor had taught Ron that this was the mano cornuta, used throughout southern and Eastern Europe to ward off the evil eye.

  “I don’t know if any security system,” Romanescu said, “would be enough to ward off ‘the one we are now attempting to deal with’ as you put it, Professor Benedetti. I only pray I am wrong.”

  “I will tell you of my current precautions,” the baron said. “Perhaps it will ease your mind.”

  Ron had one more snail to take care of. He closed his eyes and fought it down. Now he only hoped nobody would bring him seconds.

  The baron was talking. Bragging, rather.

  “...run on electricity, you see, from outside the normal power grid, and run to the house through shielded, underground wires. After the system is armed by Hilaire and his assistant, no one can touch the fence around the property, the gate, or the outside of any of the doors and windows of the château without receiving an electric shock that will stun him severely, perhaps even render him unconscious, and a loud alarm rouses the whole château.

  “In addition, if any of the doors or windows are opened, even from the inside, an alarm sounds in the security office, and Hilaire and his man are there with guns drawn in virtual seconds.”

  “We can vouch for that,” Janet said. “All we wanted was a little air.”

  “Forgive me, madame,” the baron said. “There is a small lever behind the curtain to the right side of the window that switches off the alarm and electricity for that window. This allows you to open the window at will. I was remiss not to tell you—I had forgotten the American passion for fresh air.”

  It was time for the next course. Ron braced himself for squid or something, but it turned out to be veal in some sort of lemon sauce, and it was delicious. He made it through the rest of the meal with delight.

  They met after dinner in Benedetti’s room. This was a place that could stand to have a window open. The old man must have stayed in here all day, and smoked about sixty-seven cigars.

  Ron wrinkled his nose, but kept silent. He dared a lot with the Professor, but two things he wasn’t about risk doing were to try to get the old man to give up his beloved guinea-stinkers, and to try to stir him to activity when they were on a case. The latter wouldn’t have made any sense, anyway. The activity that counted took place in back of that sloping brow. Besides, the old man was perfectly capable of action when he was ready.

  He’d certainly made a lot of progress at the easel today, at any rate. The painting of the werewolf carrying off the young girl was done, signed as usual with a stylized “B.” The Professor had propped it on a chair in the corner.

  Benedetti saw Ron and Janet looking. “I believe it is a decent job fo
r one of my representational efforts. Do you think the baron would care to have it?”

  “If he doesn’t, Grave Tales will buy it for a cover illustration.”

  “I don’t think so,” Janet said.

  “Sure they would. They love werewolf stuff.”

  “I mean, I don’t think it’s wise to offer it to the baron. At least not now. He’s tense, he’s worn out, and he’s hypersensitive about this werewolf idea. I was surprised when he invited Romanescu into the house, since he started the whole thing.”

  “For some men,” Benedetti said, “the obligations of hospitality outweigh any other consideration. Benac has invited, in a sense, the whole world of science to be his guest. It is a heavy burden, and would be even without a murderer running loose.”

  The old man turned to his easel. A stretched canvas sat waiting for him. “Va bène,” he said. “I will keep the werewolf for now.” He opened a jar of gesso, and began preparing the canvas. “But what have you accomplished today, my friends?”

  Almost simultaneously, Ron and Janet said, “Don’t ask.”

  Benedetti smiled. The broad brush spread the gesso, whitening and smoothing the rough gray canvas. “But I do ask. Have I failed, then, to teach you that one may never dismiss a fact as worthless?”

  “One may form a humble opinion, Maestro,” Ron said.

  Benedetti nodded. He lit a cigar, which in that room was superfluous. Ron could see Janet’s eyes getting red.

  “Would you like me to open a window, Maestro?” he said. “Now that I know how to do it, I mean.”

  The Professor consented. Ron went over, threw the switch, and opened the window. It was a beautiful night, and Ron spent a few seconds enjoying it. Then, because he was a detective, and because he’d been trained, he noticed things.

  “The moon,” he said, “is now in the phase known as waning gibbous. No longer full. If that’s any comfort to anybody.”

  Uncharacteristically, Janet grunted. “It’ll help a few of my crowd get to sleep,” she said. Her voice was sardonic. That wasn’t like her, either.