The Paris Directive

by Gerald Jay

  “Call it simply professional judgment and based on everything that I’ve heard thus far. You see, I also work in the area of criminal law.”

  “Yes, I read about that in the paper.”

  “As a prosecutor in New York, I’ve met all sorts of criminals who claimed to be innocent. Some with no more credibility than Klaus Barbie. But in this case I’m inclined to believe the suspect.”

  “You realize, of course, that he’s been indicted and the evidence against him is not unpersuasive.”

  Her visitor paused, choosing her words carefully. “I think it’s possible that he’s being victimized.”

  “A conspiracy?” she asked, studying the pretty young woman and weighing the seriousness of her charge.

  Molly explained that she’d spoken to Ali Sedak while he was being held at the local commissariat, and she had taped the interview. Pulling out her recorder, she played excerpts. She didn’t believe that this frightened little man was capable of murdering those four people. And certainly not alone. Then she mentioned the phone calls to Ali’s house made on Schuyler Phillips’s stolen cell phone. They were made at about the same time the killer was using her father’s stolen MasterCard to withdraw money from his account. If it had been Ali calling his wife, she said, he wouldn’t have immediately hung up. More likely it was someone attempting to throw suspicion on him. Molly concluded Ali was probably telling the truth. “I suspect the caller was trying to frame Ali, make him a pigeon.”

  “Aha!” Leclerc nodded and considered how to begin. From another room, whoever was playing had moved on to a new challenge—a Bach partita, this time—but was finding it heavy going. The music kept starting and stopping.

  “As I said before, the evidence against Ali Sedak at this point in our investigation is persuasive. But,” she added, “by no means conclusive.” And she hoped Mazarelle would soon give her a tighter case against the accused. There were questions still to be answered. Among them whether Ali’s dealer, Eugène Rabineau, had played a role in the crime. Did he, despite his denials, actually sell Ali Sedak the five kilos of hashish the police found outside his house? And if Sedak was a dealer, who were his clients?

  “Speaking of which …” The momentarily distracted speaker sighed as the pianist, clutching at straws, groped repeatedly for the right notes. Madame le juge began again. “Rabineau, according to his clients, left for Marseilles on business the day of the crime and did not return until the following afternoon. An alibi, yes, but not what I would call airtight.”

  No, definitely not airtight if junkies were providing Rabineau’s only alibi. Molly shared Leclerc’s interest in the drug dealer. She was wondering how to find him, when whoever was playing inside brought a fist down thunderously on the keyboard. Within seconds, she heard approaching footsteps and the door at the far end of the living room flew open, daylight flooding in.

  The young, curly-headed blond woman was furious. She stood there in her bare feet wearing a tangerine tank top and strawberry panties, a refreshing fruit salad of summer colors. Molly thought she had a cute figure. Her hostess couldn’t seem to decide if she wanted to introduce the newcomer. Whether Blondie was her daughter or girlfriend, she was obviously a volcano—an anarchic force in an otherwise peaceful landscape. Molly was reminded of Lola Lola in The Blue Angel. Hands on hips, Blondie snapped “Pardon!” and slammed the door behind her.

  Christine Leclerc winced and smiled. “My protégé,” she acknowledged.

  Molly didn’t laugh at the word, but really! It seemed so old-fashioned.

  It was Thérèse who told Molly where she could find Rabo. A bar opposite the Bergerac train station called Le Cyrano in a shabby section of town with racist graffiti scrawled all over the sidewalk, the walls.

  Molly drove slowly past the few taxis lined up in front of the station and parked outside Le Cyrano, the big neon sign above its name advertising Amstel. Going inside, she went over to the bar and sat down. The slight breeze from the open windows that looked out onto the street felt good. They were the only windows. The feeble yellow light from the globes on the walls merely heightened the dinginess. There were some people at the tables, but with the weekend train schedule, business was slow. The bartender, a moonfaced dreamer in a red-striped vest, appeared glad to see her.

  “Amstel,” she ordered.

  He poured her a glass, wiped off the bottom, and placed it carefully down in front of her. Molly smiled, a dazzle of perfect teeth.

  “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “Un certain je ne sais quoi.” He supposed it was the teeth. “From New York?”

  “That’s right. Ever been to New York?”

  “Why would I want to go to New York?”

  Molly was eager to tell him but drank her beer instead. If he’d no idea, it wasn’t worth the effort.

  Molly glanced around the room. As far as she could tell, no Rabo. At least no one who matched Thérèse’s description of him. Though she couldn’t see the face of the guy with his head down on the table sleeping, he had no rings on his fingers, no ponytail.

  “I’m looking for Rabo,” she told the bartender.

  “Who?”

  “Rabo.” Had the inspector been pulling her leg?

  The bartender had no idea that she’d come to Le Cyrano to score. He was happy to be of service. Told her that Rabo had a delivery to make, but he’d be back any minute. “Have another beer. How do you know Rabo?”

  “We met in Marseilles recently.” It was certainly worth a gamble. She didn’t know what she’d do if Rabo actually showed up. “Promised he’d have something for me the next day, but I couldn’t make it.”

  “Neither could he.”

  Molly glanced at the barkeep suspiciously. “How do you know that?”

  “He came back here the same evening. Missed his connection, I heard.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He pointed to an empty table in the corner. “Sitting right there drinking with a couple of mecs he picked up on the road. You know, Corsicans? Small, dark eyes and lips that hardly moved when they spoke. All three swollen with secrets.”

  I’ll bet they were, thought Molly, recalling Corsica’s legendary reputation as the home of bandits and cutthroats. Could they all have been in it together?

  “What time did they leave?”

  The bartender didn’t like snoopy questions. He snatched up her empty glass and pointed to the door. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  Molly found it hard to breathe. The guy who’d just come in was talking to the young couple seated next to the front door. He had the dark, scruffy-looking, sour face Ali’s wife had described. Molly glanced at his ponytail, his rings.

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “Hey, Rabo,” the bartender called out, “a customer here.”

  Getting up, Molly threw back her shoulders and, taking a deep breath, walked straight toward him, her swaying red hair catching his eye. Turning expectantly, Rabo watched as she strode coolly past him and out the front door.

  “Attendez!” he shouted after her.

  Molly was sure that her car was being followed. Caught in traffic and creeping along, she became increasingly nervous. It was a dark sedan, black or midnight blue. She couldn’t make out who was behind the wheel even when she turned around to look. Was she becoming paranoid? Her eagerness to tell the inspector what she’d learned only made her more jittery.

  The cop who took her upstairs wiped his forehead and asked if it was as warm outside as it was in the commissariat. Molly told him that there was a breeze outside. He said in here it felt like a baker’s oven. Molly said that it didn’t smell like one.

  The windows in Mazarelle’s office were wide open, but it was still oppressively humid. The air reeking of stale tobacco. The shrill sound of whistling from the football field downstairs scraped his eardrums. Jacket off, Mazarelle sat working at his desk with his collar open, his sleeves rolled up, and t
he sweat dripping down his back, pasting his shirttail to his thick haunches. The coffee still left in his mug had turned to mud. He looked up as Molly entered and smiled. It wasn’t much as smiles go, but it was the best he could do. There was no question he was glad to see her. She was a woman for whom weekends were made. It was just that he still had about a half dozen things to do before he could call it a day. Mazarelle wondered why she’d come.

  Molly sat down opposite him and said, “You look a little triste, Inspector.”

  “Just my mustache.”

  She laughed, and the fizzy sound of her laughter made him feel ten years younger.

  “What brings you here on a Sunday?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think Eugène Rabineau may have had more to do with the L’Ermitage murders than Ali Sedak.”

  Mazarelle heaved a sigh of resignation and accepted the inevitable. He was getting pissed off with her meddling. Though he knew better, he’d hoped that this might have been a social visit.

  “Why is that, mademoiselle?”

  “I understand that Rabineau claims to have gone to Marseilles and been there the night of the crime, but in fact he returned that same evening with two men.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “They were seen together in a bar opposite the Bergerac train station.”

  “Le Cyrano?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who were they, these men?”

  “I don’t know. Friends of his, I suppose. Well?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the least bit surprised that he was here that night?”

  “But what makes you so certain that means he was involved in the murders?”

  “Why else would he lie about not returning until the following day?”

  Mazarelle scratched his mustache and offered her one possible explanation. “He claims that he just didn’t want to get involved.”

  “You mean you knew all along that he was back the same day?”

  Her lovely green eyes skewered Mazarelle, making him feel even hotter than the room. “No, not all along.”

  “But you knew.”

  “Yes, I knew. We’ve recently been talking to people who were working at Le Cyrano that night. The reason we haven’t brought Rabo in is that all of them—the bartender, the waiters—confirm the fact that he was there all night drinking. He left when they closed at one a.m.”

  Molly’s glance went around the office, looking for a way out. “Well,” she asked, “what about his two Corsican friends?”

  “Now there you may have something. He says they weren’t friends. Claims he didn’t know them. Just two guys he picked up on the road named Georges and Po-Po. Had a couple of drinks together and they left the bar about eleven, he said, heading for Bordeaux.” Mazarelle raised his large thumb—a scarred, stumpy digit—and moved it back and forth over his shoulder.

  “Hitchhiking?”

  “Uh-huh. We have an alert out for them. They’ll turn up.”

  Molly got up to leave, feeling a little deflated. “I just thought you should know.”

  “Look,” he said sympathetically, “it’s clear to me that you’re somebody who’s not likely to get lost. But give us a little credit too. We’re not all Clouseaus.”

  “Yes, of course.” Molly felt embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to …”

  He shook her hand, thanked her. “I understand you wish to help, mademoiselle. I appreciate that. You mustn’t think I’m not grateful. And as for Rabo, don’t worry. We haven’t eliminated him yet, not by any means. Now”—his voice stiffened and he ran his tongue over his lips—“will you please do me a favor and get off our toes? Quit playing detective.”

  When she’d gone, Mazarelle sat down, took out his pipe, his tobacco, and started to fill the bowl. Hating how much he’d sounded like her evil stepfather. He noticed she’d left behind a whiff of her perfume. The sort of delicious scent that might easily turn a younger man’s head with thoughts. Perhaps he’d ask her out to dinner and, somewhere between the amuse bouche and the Monbazillac, tell her once and for all to stop interfering with police business. Or better yet, he thought, just ask her out to dinner.

  PART FOUR

  36

  MAISON D’ARRÊT, PÉRIGUEUX

  The Maison d’Arrêt in Périgueux spread itself out like five splayed fingers of some giant gray beast. Though it was a sun-drenched summer morning with a light breeze that set the tricolor dancing above the Palais de Justice, even spectacular weather could do little to brighten Périgueux’s gloomy Piranesian prison.

  Mazarelle parked his police car opposite the entrance and got out. He looked tired, rumpled, his eyes red-rimmed, as if he’d been working late and sleeping in his clothes. Which he had been, and probably smoking more than was good for him too. But he was feeling better than he looked. Didier, the chief of the Toulouse PTS team, had finally come through for him. The marks on the floor mat in Ali’s VW were, as suspected, bloodstains and the DNA matched that of Mademoiselle Reece’s father. Didier said, “My people have been working around the clock for you, mon vieux. I hope you appreciate it.”

  “I owe you one,” the inspector acknowledged gratefully. Promising that the next time Didier visited the commissariat there was a very good bottle of Black Label he kept in his office for special occasions and that they were going to have the pleasure of polishing it off together. Mazarelle, however, was griped to learn that the chief had no idea what he was talking about when asked if he’d tested the two guns from the McAllister house.

  “Never mind,” Mazarelle said, “I’ll see that you get them. The twelve-gauge shotgun may have killed Phillips.” Duboit, he thought, shaking his head. Why the hell couldn’t he surprise me and do what he was told?

  As for madame le juge, he got what he expected from that party too. “Qualified” approval. She’d sent on his interim report to the procureur who would handle the case in court. Mazarelle didn’t need her telephone call to know she’d want a signed confession and Sedak’s head on a platter before she’d be satisfied. They always wanted the same thing—more and better evidence. QED. How could he blame her? When you’re dealing with people’s lives, you don’t want to make mistakes and cut off the wrong leg, administer the wrong anesthetic. But he’d found the law a little more complicated than medicine. Even a signed confession wasn’t always a guarantee of guilt. Yet he’d almost be happy to settle for that, and now with the proof of Reece’s blood in Ali’s car he felt he just might get the confession that had eluded him.

  The uniformed guard at reception glanced at the inspector’s ID, listened to the reason he was there, and told him to wait. Mazarelle wondered why he was getting the fish eye. Putting the phone down, the guard said someone would be there in a moment to fetch him. The prison director wanted to see the inspector.

  Mazarelle blew out his cheeks. A bother, he thought. He’d no desire to waste time chitchatting with the top brass. Straightening his old, creased jacket, he was buttoning it up when the director’s flunky came to show him the way. Though Mazarelle fully expected to be kept waiting outside the headman’s office, cooling his fanny, he was shown right in.

  The director came forward, pumped his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, monsieur l’inspecteur. Your work on the Taziac murders has been in all the papers.”

  Mazarelle wondered why the man seemed so nervous. Did he want an autograph? Something was eating at him.

  “Of course I know your Commissaire Rivet. He’s quite a young man for such an important position.”

  “Yes, he is young,” Mazarelle agreed, his eyelids growing heavier by the second.

  “The truth is, I rarely get down to Bergerac. The job here keeps me much too busy. We may not be as large as Rouen or as overcrowded as La Santé but we have our share of fights, rapes, drugs, self-mutilations. Every day we’re being sent more and more psychos by the courts, and there are far too few of us to deal with them. I suppose it’s the same
all over France.”

  Though the handsome, white-haired director had a sonorous radio announcer’s voice, it didn’t completely put Mazarelle to sleep. He reminded the director why he was there.

  “My appointment this morning to see your prisoner, Ali Sedak, is for ten o’clock.”

  “Oh yes, the captain of the guards told me about that. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  “Bad news?”

  “At nine twenty-seven this morning prisoner Sedak was found on the floor of his cell covered in blood and barely conscious. His wrists had been cut.”

  Though he’d sensed bad news, Mazarelle had no idea how bad it was going to be.

  “Cut with what?”

  “A double-edged razor was on the floor next to him.”

  “How did he get a razor? Didn’t you have him under suicide watch?”

  “Malheureusement, non. If we had to put every cuckoo here under twenty-four-hour surveillance, we’d need an additional platoon. Alas, monsieur, we don’t have that kind of budget.”

  Mazarelle demanded, “Where is he now?”

  “We, of course, immediately called for an ambulance, and he was taken to Centre Hospitalier in a comatose condition. A few minutes ago I learned that the doctors were working on him in the emergency room, and he seemed to be responding.”

  Mazarelle headed for the door. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Before you do, monsieur l’inspecteur, a few seconds more of your time. As I’m sure you’re aware, this sort of thing can do no one any good. In such a situation one naturally must be as discreet as possible. It’s not good for me, not good for this institution, not good for Périgueux. I’m sure you understand.”

  “And what if he dies?”

  The director paused, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Mazarelle was amazed. All those snow-white hairs and nothing in his head. Mazarelle limped hurriedly out the prison gate to his car. As he sped, siren blaring, toward the hospital, he thought that if worse came to worst, he still had a chance for a deathbed confession.