Werewolf Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  Ron looked up. He was about to ask what took the old man so long, but one look at him answered that question. The Professor had shaved, dressed himself in a suit and an immaculate white shirt, and taken the time to tie his bow tie just right.

  Ron should have known. The old man would never be content just to be a guy who’d had a body dumped on his host’s doorstep in the middle of the night. He had to be Niccolo Benedetti under all conceivable circumstances.

  “Have you called the police?” Ron asked.

  “Indeed I have,” the Professor said. “And seen Romanescu and Mrs. Gentry safe within the baron’s private apartment—where the security is considerably better.”

  “You mean he has three stooges there, instead of two?”

  “You do the men wrong, Ronald. There has been no breach of the baron’s security.”

  “But—” Ron began. Then he thought about it and saw that the old man was right. All the nastiness had taken place outside the fence. The baron and his guests may have had their sleep disturbed, but anything else Ron had found to peeve him about this little episode he had walked into voluntarily.

  “You’re right, Maestro,” he conceded.

  Benedetti smiled. “The day I make a habit of being wrong, I shall cease to be the Maestro.”

  “Have you seen who the dead man is?” “I have.”

  “You’re taking it calmly.”

  “One should train one’s emotions not to fill the gap when the mind is a blank, my friend.”

  “In other words, you don’t know what the hell is going on here either.”

  “In a word, no.”

  “Well, let me see if this guy is ever going to be in a position to tell us anything. Ask one of the stalwarts there if I can borrow his flashlight.”

  The Professor spoke softly in French, and the guard Ron had rescued ran to him and pressed his flashlight into his hand like one of the faithful trying to get the pope to touch his rosary. Ron took it from him with a smiled thanks, but he was beginning to get uneasy. As he saw to the baker, he could hear Benedetti questioning the guards.

  When he was done, he stood and turned to Benedetti, who turned from his interrogations to ask, “Well?”

  “His pupils are equal and reactive. That’s a good sign, but I’m no doctor, and he needs one. Want to go back to the house and phone for one? Or should I send Mr. Gratitude, here?”

  “It won’t be necessary,” the Professor said. Ron could hear new sirens through the din still coming from the château. “The police can call for one much quicker on their radios.”

  Two cars pulled up, about two minutes apart. The first contained two uniformed local constables, who very efficiently put up tape around the scene of the crime, took everyone’s name, and began to get stories.

  The second contained a driver, Prefect of Police Diderot, and Captain Marx of the Sûreté.

  Etienne Diderot looked in alarm at Captain Samuel Marx. The Alsatian always gave the impression of suppressed anger; now the anger was at the surface. Marx was so mad that smoke seemed to be coming from him.

  A second look showed Diderot that smoke was coming from him. Or rather from the cigarette that dangled from his mouth.

  Diderot, who was beginning to feel some pique at the arrogant man Paris had sent him to replace the charming de Blois, spoke roughly to his colleague.

  “Captain,” he said brusquely. “The cigarette. Not here.”

  Marx must have been very angry indeed to have forgotten a rule so basic in criminal investigation—No Smoking at The Crime Scene.

  Marx took the cigarette out of his mouth, glared at it as if he’d caught it trespassing, threw it to the road, and stomped on.

  Diderot watched him stomp on. The prefect was about to say something, but thought better of it. He shrugged, picked up Marx’s cigarette, crushed it out, and brought it back to the car. He wondered what could be the matter with the Sûreté man. Smoking wasn’t forbidden at a crime scene for health reasons—it was because cigarettes and matches themselves often proved to be such excellent clues, providing everything from a suspect’s blood type to his manual preference. It was only wise not to go burying possibly valuable evidence with worthless confusion of your own manufacture.

  One of Diderot’s men passed by, saluted, then used his car radio to call for an ambulance. When he’d done with that, the prefect got a brief report of what was going on here.

  Madness. Simply madness. He didn’t care what the vaunted Professor Benedetti said, there was a madman at work here, and it was going to be hell to catch him.

  When he ducked under the barricade, the prefect could hear Marx talking to Gentry. Perhaps berating him was a better word.

  “I know Americans like to meddle,” Marx was saying. “But this is too much. Physically assaulting suspects! Questioning witnesses before the police get here! Tampering with evidence! There are strict laws in the Republic of France about those things, Monsieur Gentry.”

  Diderot could see the young American was controlling himself only with great effort.

  “Yeah. Americans love to meddle. I meddled here the way we meddled in World War Two. That is, I bailed your ass out of a desperate situation. Ask the guard. If I hadn’t done what I did, the Republic of France would have had its population decreased by at least one more, possibly two. As for assault, I’m not the one who clobbered him. As for tampering with evidence, you’re out of your mind. As for anything else, take it up with the Professor. He’s standing right over there.”

  “You will answer my questions,” Marx snarled. “You do not amuse me.”

  “Shame,” Gentry said. “I think you’re funny as hell. Furthermore, you haven’t asked me a single question. And even furthermore, I was awakened out of a sound sleep, and risked my life to keep this situation from becoming any worse than it already is. Okay, I took a job and I’m doing it; we can skip the parade under the Arc de Triomphe. But I’ll be damned if I’ll take any abuse about it.”

  Marx opened his mouth, but Gentry cut him off.

  “As of now,” he said, “as far as you are concerned, I have amnesia and a severe case of laryngitis. Send me Diderot, or someone else who can ask a civil question, and we’ll see. In the meantime, take it up with the Professor.”

  “I think not—” Marx began, but Gentry had turned away from him. Marx lifted his arm, as though to clap the young man on the shoulder and turn him around.

  Diderot saw the tension, the tautness in Gentry’s muscles, and was almost hoping the Sûreté man would do it, for he would surely be rewarded with a punch in the mouth.

  Diderot knew that, considering his own frustration with the Mysterious Professor Benedetti and his assistants, this desire was somewhat illogical, but he spent more time in the company of Marx, and therefore was even more annoyed with him. For the love of God, the man didn’t even know how to behave at a crime scene!

  Unfortunately, Captain Marx must have seen the same tension in Gentry’s manner, because Diderot saw him lower his arm again, and, following the young American’s advice, turn to Professor Benedetti, who was standing near the fence, grinning.

  “So, Professor,” Marx said. His voice was oily. Diderot was learning to hate an Alsatian accent, even when it spoke English. “It seems I am to take it up with you.”

  “Take what up?” Benedetti asked.

  “The matter of your assistant’s misconduct.”

  “I think my assistant answered the charges masterfully, though I do agree with you that Americans tend to meddle. But he has committed no misconduct. If you had bothered to investigate before arriving and throwing around accusations backed by nothing but insecurity and chauvinism, you would have discovered that for yourself.”

  “His manner and language were disrespectful.”

  “Ahh,” Benedetti said, and spread his hands. “On that count, I must apologize on my young friend’s behalf.”

  “I should hope—” Marx began.

  “He has,” Benedetti went on, “never le
arned the art of feigning respect for officious fools.”

  Marx narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting I am acting like a fool?”

  “Not at all,” Benedetti said good-naturedly. “A suggestion is a statement that lacks conclusive evidence.”

  Diderot began to laugh. He corked it with a fist, but it wanted to bubble loose, like agitated champagne. He did his best to turn it into a cough instead, none too successfully. Diderot suspected he’d be added to the list of Captain Marx’s enemies, but he suspected this was worth it.

  “I am a fool, then,” Marx said. “What have you done since you have come here, except interfere with my investigation ?”

  “Your investigation? Has M. Diderot retired?”

  “Not yet, Professor,” Diderot said.

  Marx was concentrating on the Professor.

  “Do you honestly believe,” he said, “that Dr. Spaak would be dead right now if you and your Americans hadn’t encouraged him in his insane scheme to investigate these crimes?”

  “Since I have no idea why Dr. Spaak was killed, I simply cannot answer your question.”

  “But we see how he was killed, don’t we? With his throat torn out. And this time, on your very doorstep.”

  “Even allowing for hyperbole,” Benedetti said, “this is the doorstep of Monsieur le Baron, not mine.”

  Benedetti’s grin became more catlike than ever. “Is it my understanding, Captain Marx, that you wish me to withdraw from this investigation?”

  “To put it mildly, yes.”

  Benedetti gave him a little bow. “Then you must persuade the baron to dismiss me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll await further—and I hope competent—questioning at the château.”

  “You can’t leave.”

  “I must. This is a crime scene, after all, and I feel the need of a cigar.”

  18

  NEXT MORNING, PAUL LEVESQUE volunteered to drive Benedetti and Mr. and Mrs. Gentry to the Hotel Racine for their appointment with Mme. Goetz, thereby becoming the highest-paid chauffeur in France.

  He did so for two reasons. First of all, when the police had awakened him at the crack of dawn to question him about the events of the night, Levesque had been completely at a loss. This was not supposed to happen. He was supposed to know everything that concerned the baron, and have at least one idea to offer on what to do about it.

  It was not, of course, his fault, nor was it the fault of the baron himself, who was similarly in the dark. The men slept in another part of the château; their quarters were soundproofed; and neither one of them had the Anglo-Saxon passion for fresh air at night, the very thought of which made Levesque want to shudder.

  By taking the baron’s big Jaguar and driving the investigators to town, Levesque hoped to learn something that could be of use in seeing to the well-being of the baron’s affairs.

  The other reason, frankly, was to get away from the office. Because, Levesque knew, with this latest atrocity, wolves would infest Mont-St.-Denis in force—wolves of the press, because this was a story too good to pass up; and wolves of the world of finance, because the smell of the baron’s economic blood was too much to resist.

  Both of these hordes of carnivores would descend on Paul Levesque before they did anything else, and if Levesque were unavailable, he might delay their onslaught for a few hours. He could also use the time to gather his own dwindling resources.

  There was yet another reason Levesque wanted to be away from the château. He simply could not bear to look the baron in the face. The Olympique Scientifique Internationale was dead, its last signs of life extinguished during the night with the unfortunate Belgian physicist. Even if the scientists could be persuaded to stay, or even compelled to stay past the reasonable time the police could keep them for the investigation into this latest death, they would do no work. Levesque was sure it was as true in science as it was in any business. Fearful people do no useful work. Resentful people do their best to sabotage whatever you are managing to accomplish. Levesque had taken no survey, but he was certain that the two most prevalent emotions in Mont-St.-Denis this morning were fear and resentment.

  For the first third of the trip, Levesque’s passengers provided nothing but yawns. Apparently they had gotten no sleep at all last night.

  Finally, Gentry asked a question. He had to speak right through a yawn to get it out. “How long will we have your services, Paul?”

  “Oh,” Levesque said, “I suppose until fourteen hours. I’m sorry, two o’clock.”

  “Good. After we’re done with Mrs. Goetz, I want to go by police headquarters and pick up the police reports. At least Diderot is still speaking to us.”

  His wife said, “He seemed to be going out of his way to be nice, last night. This morning. You know what I mean.”

  “Diderot is a man of honor,” Benedetti said. “And he promised full cooperation. I don’t think he is especially pleased with my performance thus far.”

  “Have you gotten anywhere, Professor?” Levesque asked.

  Benedetti’s grin was sardonic. “I have completed one painting. And I have begun another.”

  “I just hope,” Gentry began, then had to pause for a yawn. “I just hope that son of a bitch Marx is there when I pick up the reports. I hope he makes a remark. I’ll stuff an oily shirt down his throat.”

  “I don’t know what his problem is,” Janet said. “Even professional jealousy shouldn’t make him this hostile.”

  “Maybe he hates Italians,” her husband suggested. “And their friends.”

  In the rear view mirror, Levesque could see Benedetti scratch his chin. “There were many interesting things about the captain’s behavior last night,” he said.

  “Not just last night,” Levesque said, before he could stop himself.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has been paying attention to one of your witnesses. Personal attention. He has been—how do you put it—putting a rush on Karin Tebner.”

  “That’s interesting,” Ron Gentry said. “I knew he’d had a drink with her, but putting on a rush, how, exactly?”

  “The usual way,” Levesque told him. “Flowers, dinner, who knows what else.” Ferme la bouche, Paul, Levesque told himself. This way lay nothing but embarrassment.

  “That is interesting,” Gentry said. “I expect it will slow down now that the moon is waning, and the star gazers will be getting back to work, but it’s still interesting.

  Levesque simply grunted.

  Gentry wouldn’t let the subject go, however.

  “How do you happen to know this?” he asked.

  “It is my business to know what’s going on. In the baron’s interest, you know.”

  “I didn’t ask why you know,” Gentry said. “I asked how.”

  “There are people in town who keep the baron informed of such things. Hotel clerks and the like.”

  “I see,” Gentry said.

  “In fact,” Levesque said, relaxing, “Marx was with Dr. Tebner at a local bistro again last night.”

  “Gee,” Gentry said. “That’s wonderful. We should sign you up.”

  “Sign me up?”

  “As an operative. A network of informants like yours can be incredibly valuable. And you keep track of these things?”

  “For the baron, I do.”

  “What was Peabody up to last night?”

  “Who?”

  “Launcelot Peabody. The Brit who worked next to Spaak, discussed theories of the murders with him. He’s a witness, now. Maybe a suspect. What do your sources tell you about him?”

  “I—ahhh, Monsieur Gentry—well.”

  “Never mind,” Gentry said pleasantly. “I already know what he was doing. He was having what the English call a ‘piss-up’ for a few friends in his room. They were asked to tone down the drunken noise, several times through the night, so he’s got a solid alibi, you see. I have a few sources of my own—I’ve been spreading the baron’s francs around town.”

  “But if—”r />
  “Okay, now I ask why.”

  Levesque was by now thoroughly confused. “Why what?”

  “Why are you so handy with the details of Karin Tebner’s life?”

  “I don’t have to answer that,” Levesque said. He sounded petulant, even to himself. “I mean, can that really be important?”

  Gentry grinned. “The Professor has an entire little speech covering that point.” He turned to the old man. “You want to give it to him, Professor, or should I?”

  Benedetti said, “You do it; I shall see how well you have listened.”

  “‘In the humility which is the only proper attitude for an investigator,’” Gentry quoted, “‘we must never judge the importance of isolated facts. We must let logic and events determine that, and accept their dictates meekly.’ How was that?”

  “I believe I usually say, ‘meekly accept their dictates,’” the old man said. “Seriously, Monsieur Levesque, we—all of us—are in a dire situation here. I have faith that the answer exists, but I cannot say from where the true indication of the way to it may come. The fact you wish to hold back may be of vital importance.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Levesque said. How could he have put himself in this situation?

  “I think nothing,” Benedetti said. “I only ask.”

  Levesque knew he had no one to blame but himself. He had rendered the situation hopeless by now, in any case.

  He decided to accept the thing with a humorous fatalism. That was what was expected of a Frenchman, after all. “Very well. It is a matter perhaps too simple to be deduced. I have been interested in Mademoiselle Tebner because I have been interested in Mademoiselle Tebner.”

  “Interested?” Gentry asked.

  “Interested,” Levesque said. “Attracted. Drawn to. Curious about. My English fails me for further synonyms. It is too soon to say ‘enamored’; I hardly know the woman. ‘Obsessed’ is much, much too strong.”

  Gentry was nodding. “‘Interested’ sounds like the right word. Of course.”

  “I first met her during the selection process, you see,” Levesque went on. He told them how he had found her so refreshing. The way she didn’t pretend to be anyone but herself. Her unadorned delight with being considered for OSI. The way she seemed completely unaware of her attractiveness. All of it added up to a kind of honesty and openness he had never seen in a European woman.