The Paris Directive

by Gerald Jay

  “That’s enough questions,” Bennett said, seeing how tired she looked. He took her arm. “Come on, Molly.”

  “Just one more, mademoiselle. How long are you planning to remain here?”

  “As long as it takes. I’m not going home until I find out who murdered my parents and their friends. They deserve that. Not to be forgotten. Besides, I’m an assistant district attorney in New York City. I may be able to assist your police in their investigation. I’ll help in any way I can.”

  On their way upstairs, Bennett said, “You’re not serious about that, are you?”

  “About what?”

  “Not going back with me to Paris tomorrow.”

  “Look,” she said, and stopped at the landing. “We both know how the process works. As long as I stay here nobody is going to forget about what happened. And certainly not the police. I’d hate to see them get away with convicting some poor schnook they don’t like just because he’s an Arab. Why shouldn’t I stay?”

  “Well, for one thing, if you’re right about Sedak not being the killer, then the real murderer may still be around here. You could be in danger.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “Maybe for the same reason he killed your parents and their friends.”

  “Let’s drop this subject, okay? I’m tired.”

  Though she’d told him that she wasn’t interested in dinner, Molly was glad later when Dwight knocked on her door. The restaurant Favier recommended was Chez Doucette. She didn’t care for the corny rustic decor, but the food was good and the wine even better. And Dwight was good company. He knew all sorts of amusing stories and could tell them well. A terrific mimic, he had more voices than Canal Street. By the end of the evening Molly thought she’d finally mellowed out. She even agreed to think over going back to Paris with him in the morning, which he kept encouraging her to do.

  Later in her room, the sweet smell of the rain brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t stop sobbing. After a while, she settled down and crawled into bed, listening to the rain lightly tapping on the window, and fell asleep. Around three, she got up to go to the bathroom and returned to bed, feeling as if she were the only one still awake in all Taziac. A grieving orphan cut off from even her memories of old, shared, familial joys. The church bell’s clanging stroke falling on the night faded away and left nothing but loneliness. Picking up her Walkman from the night table, Molly put on her headphones and played with the dial. Getting waves of static, then Radio One coming in crystal-clear from Cork.

  “That was Erroll Garner and ‘Misssty,’ for yooouu,” the deejay told her in a deep, alcohol-soaked baritone, before promising gale-force winds over the Irish Sea. “So lay on a fire,” he suggested, “and cooozy up with a blanket to Ella singin’ ‘Baby It’s Coooolld Outside.’ ”

  A little after 4:00 a.m. and unable to get back to sleep, she picked up the phone. It was still only 10 p.m. in New York. She told herself that she didn’t really expect Kevin to be home yet, but she knew how rotten she’d feel if he wasn’t.

  “Lo …” His voice sounded as if it had been tucked in bed for the night.

  “Kev! Hi, sweetie. Did I wake you?”

  “Molly! Where are you? I was getting worried. I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you see your folks?”

  “Oh, Kevin, it was awful.”

  “I bet.”

  “The worst.”

  “I could kick myself. I should have been there with you.”

  “But you couldn’t. You have the new play. I understand. How’re the rehearsals going?”

  “Geoffrey is all nerves. It’s a small stage. He keeps changing the blocking, which is a drag. Other than that, not bad. What time is it there anyhow?”

  “Four fifteen.”

  “A.m.! What the hell are you doing up at that hour?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Lifting the receiver closer to his mouth, Kevin whispered, “I wish you were here, Molly. Miss you, honey. When are you coming back?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Seems as if you’ve been gone ages already. Come home, Molly.”

  He didn’t want her to stay any more than Bennett did. “You too?”

  “Me too what?”

  “Did you get a chance to speak to Sean and tell him what happened?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I tried, but he wasn’t around. The gallery assistant promised to pass on the message to him when he called in. Did you know that he’s in France?”

  “Sean’s in France? Where?”

  “She didn’t know exactly. Which reminds me, where are you?”

  “The Hôtel Fleuri in Taziac.”

  Molly gave Kevin the number pasted on the phone and before hanging up promised to call as soon as she knew what she was going to do. She really couldn’t decide. I’ll sleep on it, she thought.

  A few hours later, when Bennett knocked on Molly’s door, he was glad to see that she was dressed and waiting for him.

  “Ready to go?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Let’s talk over breakfast.”

  Downstairs Bennett could tell it was hopeless to try to change her mind and gave up. Instead, he ordered a chocolat and dropped in three cubes of sugar. Poor thing, she thought. He seemed to be feeling deprived. Over the petit déjeuner he asked if she’d like him to drive her to the Hertz in Bordeaux, where she could get her own car.

  Later in Bordeaux, he took out an embassy card from his wallet and wrote down his home phone number.

  “I can be reached at either of these numbers. If there’s anything you need, Molly …”

  She thanked him and gave him a French send-off on both cheeks.

  “And above all,” he warned her, “don’t go playing detective. Remember, you’re in France now. That’s Mazarelle’s job. Be careful, Molly.”

  25

  MAZARELLE’S OFFICE

  Though Molly didn’t know what to make of the news that Sean was in France, she thought it important to tell the inspector right away. She also told him about her father’s falling-out with his partner over his dealings in stolen art. Molly couldn’t believe Sean murdered her father and mother, let alone their friends. That in some way he might be at the bottom of what happened, however, she accepted as a distinct possibility.

  Mazarelle received her information with more than routine interest, his eyes fixed on Molly, streams of smoke shooting up from the bowl of his pipe. He was open to following up any outside lead that seemed promising. Recalling the accident in Schuyler Phillips’s rented Mercedes, he wondered if her father had been the intended victim after all. He asked how long Sean Campbell had been in the country, which she didn’t know, and then took down a description of him, the address and phone number in Manhattan of the Reece-Campbell Gallery. Mazarelle assured her that if Campbell was in France, he’d find him.

  They stood up and shook hands. She was almost as tall as he was. No ring on her left hand except a small one with an oval peridot birthstone that matched her green eyes. Independent, intelligent. A Leo, if he believed in such nonsense. He supposed that back home in the States she had a lover. More than one, probably. She’s good material for love, he thought. He liked the easy way she moved, the way she lit up a room when she walked in, her courage. To have both her parents chopped up like hamburger and, rather than go home and grieve, to be so strong, so determined to get justice … Yes, a remarkable young woman. He’d seen the interview with her in the morning issue of Sud Ouest. Underneath all that beauty she was tough as a tank, and she didn’t miss much. As long as she stayed out of trouble, Mazarelle didn’t mind in the least having Mademoiselle Reece in the neighborhood for a while longer.

  26

  BENIDORM, SPAIN

  The weathered kiosk near the beach in Benidorm—open only summers—sold newspapers from all over Europe and lottery tickets for anyone feeling lucky. Reiner gathered up copies of the International Herald Tribune, Le Mond
e, La Dépêche, and Las Provincias from Valencia. Three of the four carried stories about Ali Sedak: “Handyman Named Prime Suspect in Taziac Murders.” He’d been taken into custody by Inspector Paul Mazarelle, head of the police special task force investigating the crime.

  That was all Reiner needed. With the papers under his arm, he blew into the lobby of the Gran Hotel Delfin and hurried to the phone booth, pulling the door closed behind him. Now the Frenchies would pay, or he’d close their account permanently. Either way, Reiner knew it’d be his last call to this Paris number.

  He recognized the voice that came on instantly. Pellerin wanted to know where he was.

  “Did you see the papers?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “It’s all over. Now you’ve got what you asked for, and they have their murderer. Time to pay up.”

  “That’s not what I ordered.”

  Reiner didn’t care for his peevish, constipated tone. “As I told you, I had to make some adjustments.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get your money.”

  “Today.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “How long does it take to make an electronic transfer of funds? A few seconds?”

  “The banks are already closed for the weekend. It’s too late. Besides, we have some unfinished business to discuss with you.”

  Reiner didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Unfinished business?”

  “I’ll meet you halfway. Bourges. The Hôtel de Bourbon. It’s convenient, right near the railway station. How’s Sunday for lunch?”

  The Frenchman seemed to assume that he was still in the Dordogne. “What about the money?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get it. Then we’re on for lunch. Good. They have a splendid restaurant, the Abbaye Saint-Ambroix, with the best foie gras anywhere. One’s mouth fairly drips.”

  Pellerin, the gourmand. As usual, the French flaunting their stomachs like jewel boxes. Reiner had no pretensions about food; he kept his machine running smoothly even if it meant yogurt and nuts. Though by no means eager to return to France so soon, and fully aware that this might be a trap, Reiner was willing to meet him halfway. Especially for the money.

  “D’accord,” he said, and proposed one small change in their plan. They’d meet in the cathedral rather than the hotel. He preferred a large public place and Saint-Étienne at the top of the hill was one of the largest Gothic cathedrals in France.

  “But it’s huge. There’s no privacy.”

  If Pellerin assumed that its size eliminated the church as a choice, he was wrong. As far as Reiner was concerned, it was just right. He promised he’d be in the Jacques Coeur chapel of the cathedral at noon and, before Pellerin could say anything, hung up.

  On his way to the front door of the hotel, Reiner breezed past the manager, who greeted him warmly. “No tennis today, Senor Kämpe?” the manager asked.

  27

  ENCOUNTER AT THE OLD MILL

  Reluctantly, Favier gave Molly directions. He seemed to disapprove of Thérèse as much as Duboit hated her Arab husband. Were they all racists around here? Molly wondered. In any event, it was none of the hotel manager’s business where she went or why. Anything she could do to aid the inspector with his investigation, she was eager to do. And the wife of Ali Sedak seemed a good place to start.

  It was a short, pleasant drive, showy crape myrtle trees lining the road, their leaves shimmering gloriously in the sunlight. The old stone water mill she was looking for struck her as charming rather than what Favier called délabré, and, as she drove up and parked next to the dusty white VW, the butterflies fluttering across the shallow stream added to the quiet, picturesque scene.

  When Thérèse came to the door, she stood there with her blouse open, nursing her baby, and sized up her visitor. Molly introduced herself, asked if she had a few minutes to talk. The name at first meant nothing to the young mother until Molly explained who she was. Thérèse’s eyes shifted about uncomfortably as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

  She finally nodded and went back inside with the baby.

  Molly reached into her shoulder bag, switched on her tape recorder, and followed her into the house. Sitting down opposite her at the table, she admired the mother’s cute, black-eyed child in his blue blanket. “Quel beau bébé!” Molly gushed, by way of warming her up, and asked his name, how old he was. She congratulated Thérèse on her baby’s beautiful disposition.

  Sometimes, Thérèse told her. She asked for the diaper on the back of the chair next to Molly. Tossing it onto her shoulder, she placed the infant on top and patted him on the back. Her uncombed hair, which covered the side of her face, parted as she straightened up and Molly noticed the large purple bruise on her cheek. Her husband had left her a going-away present. In Molly’s job she’d seen too many women who had been turned into human punching bags by the creeps they loved. With a temper like that, maybe he was the murderer.

  Thérèse wanted her to know she was sorry about Molly’s parents and their friends, but Ali was innocent. Completely innocent. He didn’t even know about the murders until she told him. And at the commissariat in Bergerac, they’d refused to let her see him, talk to him. She couldn’t even give him a comb, a toothbrush, anything. Thérèse had no idea how long he was going to be kept there or what to do next. They had hardly any money. She couldn’t afford a lawyer. Her eyes reddened, and with a corner of the diaper she wiped away the tears.

  Molly, despite her carefully cultivated professional caution, was touched and she sympathized, but didn’t know how far she could trust Thérèse. Molly asked about the events of the night of the murders and Thérèse told her what she’d told the police. Ali came home late that night—around 9:30 or 10:00—with a bad back. He had a couple of beers, ate hardly anything, and went right to bed.

  It wasn’t until later, when Molly asked if anything else had happened that night, that Thérèse remembered the telephone calls. Two of them maybe twenty-five minutes apart. The first about 1:00 a.m. She’d been sound asleep, and when the phone rang it was like an electric finger touching her heart. Each time she picked up the receiver no one was there. Some breathing, that was all. No, she’d no idea who it was or whether it was important. But Ali had heard nothing, never budged, and, going back to sleep, she forgot.

  There was a vulnerability about Thérèse that Molly liked. They talked softly while the baby slept, and time slowly slipped away until they were interrupted by the sound of distant motors growing louder. The sleek machines roared up into the front yard amid swirling dust, and the riders, revving their thunderous engines, shut them off. Friends, Molly supposed. Time for her to go. Thanking Thérèse for her help, she opened the door.

  Three motorcycles. Two Yamahas and a Scout. The three riders in black boots, faded jeans, helmets. The big, bearded one had a bull neck with a chain draped around it from which hung an Iron Cross. The two in black T-shirts were thin, wiry, and had tattoos all over their skinny arms. They might have been twins. All three helmets were stamped SHARK, as colorful as fireworks with flashy streaks of white, green, red, and yellow. France loved her athletic clubs, she thought, bicycle clubs, football clubs, sailing clubs. They were members of a motorcycle club—a bit oddball perhaps, like the Stanford marching band. What troubled her was that they didn’t take off their helmets, and because of the tinted visors she couldn’t see their faces.

  Molly looked again. What at first glance had seemed amusing wasn’t funny at all. These guys were grief. And if Ali Sedak wasn’t there, they’d settle for the Arab son of a bitch’s French squeeze or anyone else on the premises.

  Without actually running, street-smart Molly began to walk quickly to her rented car, fumbling for the car keys in her shoulder bag. The three of them shouted after her, calling her a melon lover and telling her to slow down, not so fast. They wanted to know if she still had something left between her legs for a Frenchman. Molly pulled the car door open and was about to jump in when she felt herself being gra
bbed from behind. It was one of the thin ones. His bony fingers clamped around her waist, he yanked her away from the door. Wheeling around, Molly raked his neck with her car keys and he began to bleed. His copains howled. As for him, he seemed surprised, then smacked her across the side of the head, slammed her against the car.

  Thérèse screamed as she stood in the doorway clutching her howling baby. “Casse-toi, vous fils de merde!”

  The three of them turned. “Look who’s there. The bitch herself.” They began walking toward her. “And that must be her boyfriend’s bastard. Willya look at that kisser on him? How can a kid with a mug like that be French? And living off us too on welfare. It’s disgusting!”

  Before they could grab her, Thérèse slammed the door and bolted it closed. The bearded bruiser pounded on the wooden door. Its frame shivered. Hinges groaned. He picked up a rusty lead pipe and joined his buddies, who were smashing the headlights of Ali’s white VW. Hovering over the front trunk, he beat on it viciously, as if Ali were trapped inside.

  Molly snatched up her fallen keys, threw herself into her car, and locked all the doors. Though the engine started up almost instantly, it seemed to take forever. The three bikers suddenly looked up, and Molly, wide-eyed and scared out of her wits, shoved the car into gear. Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, she held it there as she raced down the road, her eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror. Once after rounding a bend, she glanced back over her shoulder and thought she saw them coming after her, pitiless as Nevsky’s knights, their helmets glittering in the sun.

  As soon as she was safely back in her hotel room, Molly dialed Mazarelle. The inspector was glad to hear from her. That is, until she told him where she’d been.