The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  “That’s the point,” Hugo said, smiling. “You trust me, right? And don’t worry, I wouldn’t suggest this if I thought there was any more danger to anyone.”

  “Oh, so the killer’s dead, eh? Jill Maxick killed Baxter, Silva, and then herself.”

  “Now who’s figuring it all out?” Hugo said. “Meet me at the hotel at five o’clock.”

  “Wait, if that’s the answer, why can’t you just say so?”

  “Simple,” Hugo said. “You missed one little piece of the puzzle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Hugo knew he was pushing his luck. But he also knew everyone was safe, and he really did want to do it this way. He wanted everyone in the same place so he could see their reactions, make sure he hadn’t missed anything—particularly another relationship between the various parties, something that might reveal itself with a look or a shift of the body. With a suspect pool this small and with the relationships secret and intertwined, he couldn’t be too careful. Plus, Camille Lerens was humoring him, and he couldn’t have done this without her agreement.

  They gathered in the hotel’s conservatory, all eight of them: Hugo, Ambassador Taylor, Camille Lerens, Paul Jameson, Helen Hancock, Lionel Colbert, Michael Rice, and Buzzy Pottgen. Outside were four plainclothes officers, lounging in the courtyard, keeping a subtle eye on the gathering just in case. And twelve more uniformed officers were guarding the exits of the hotel, placed by Lieutenant Lerens just in case. Only with all that security had she agreed to Hugo’s idea. The two cameras recording the event were also her idea, and a fitting touch after the secret recordings of Helen Hancock, Hugo thought.

  He watched everyone as they took their seats, trying to read their expressions. Buzzy Pottgen was curious, her gaze flitting around the group and then lingering on Hugo, the way he was accustomed to her doing. Mike Rice was curious, too, but trying not to show it. Calm and poised, he sat down and looked at Hugo.

  “Not serving us tea?” he asked.

  “Maybe later,” Hugo said, standing to let Helen Hancock slide past him.

  “You didn’t say other people would be here,” she said to Hugo.

  “Sorry about that,” Hugo replied, and watched her settle on the sofa beside Buzzy. Jameson perched himself on the thick arm, giving Buzzy a small smile when she looked up at him.

  Lionel Colbert was the last to arrive, and the least happy. He dropped down into a wicker chair and draped one leg over the arm. He glared at Hugo and then Lerens, and Hugo reminded himself that despite his tough-guy stance, they all knew about Jill Maxick’s death, which meant this man had just lost someone he cared about.

  When everyone was seated, Hugo began. “Thanks for coming. This is an unusual situation, but I felt like everyone deserved an explanation of what’s been going on.”

  “If you know,” Colbert said, “shouldn’t you start by saying, ‘You’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered you all here . . .’?”

  “Perhaps,” Hugo said. “But this isn’t a game. Three people are dead, and their killer needs to be brought to justice.”

  “Sounds like you’re wanting to bring Thomas back from Germany,” Colbert said.

  “Hey, laddie,” Jameson said quietly. “Shut yer trap and listen.”

  “Thomas left not because he’d done anything wrong,” Hugo went on, “but because he’s scared. Fortunately, there will be no more murders.”

  “How do you know?” Rice asked.

  “Because the killer is in this room.”

  “What the . . .” Colbert said. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “No,” Hugo answered calmly.

  Helen spoke up, and Hugo saw that she was pale, scared. “Wait, I thought Jill was the one who . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “She killed Andrew Baxter, yes. And there’s a chance that she killed Ambrósio Silva, but I’m not so sure about that.” Hugo’s eyes roamed the group. “I was hoping the person responsible for his death would fill in that part for me.” He paused for effect, and everyone looked around at each other.

  Helen Hancock spoke first. “Hugo, why are you doing this?”

  “I’ll answer that later, I think,” Hugo said. He didn’t want them on guard. If he was wrong and there was another angle to this, he wanted to see it come out as he spoke. “Let’s just say it seems appropriate given the setting and the people involved.”

  “Well, it seems cruel to me,” Pottgen said. “I mean, you’ve put me in a room with a killer; how’s that a good idea?”

  “No one can hurt you, believe me,” Hugo said. “You might be feeling a little uncomfortable right about now, but no one here is in any danger. And since every one of you has, at some point in this investigation, lied to me or withheld important information, I don’t feel too bad about making you uncomfortable.”

  “How do you know we’re not in danger?” Hancock asked. “You didn’t frisk us or anything.”

  “I know because Jill Maxick was murdered. And because her murder was much more planned out than Ambrósio Silva’s was. Our killer isn’t the compulsive or immediately lethal type of person. No, more of a ‘careful plotter.’” Hugo cast his eyes over each of the guests, Taylor, Hancock, Pottgen, Colbert, and Rice, watching carefully for any physical response to his revelations.

  “Hugo, seriously, cut to the chase,” Ambassador Taylor said.

  “I will. Starting with Andrew Baxter’s murder. He was killed because he bought the spy camera that went into Helen’s room. Poor guy probably had no idea that’s what it was going to be used for; he was just on a paid errand for someone who knew he needed money.”

  “You’re saying his murder was carefully planned?” Taylor asked.

  “Yes. Made to look ambiguous, though, like it could have been a crime of passion, or even a gambling-related murder.”

  “And Silva’s murder?” Taylor asked.

  “Like I said, not as well planned. Cleverly carried out, though, for sure. Again, ambiguous enough and with countermeasures to allow for some confusion on our part, right, Camille?”

  “‘Confusion’ might be a little strong,” she said. “‘Uncertainty,’ perhaps.”

  “Fair enough,” Hugo said. “Uncertainty it is.”

  “So who killed him and why, smart guy?” Colbert snapped.

  “I think Silva was killed because he found out what was going on. Maybe he wanted in, maybe he was going to tell the police, we might never know.”

  “And what is going on?” Pottgen asked. “What did Ambrósio figure out?”

  “Let me get straight to the point,” Hugo said. He’d noticed Lerens fidgeting, like she suddenly thought this wasn’t a great idea, and he didn’t want her pulling the plug or getting into trouble for it, plus, he wanted to make absolutely sure that there were no more surprise relationships that might indicate that his suspicions were misguided. “This is about money. Specifically a lawsuit that was going to be filed in the near future.”

  “This is about suing Helen?” Taylor ventured.

  “No,” Hugo said. “It’s about Helen suing the hotel.”

  “But I’m not.” All eyes swiveled to her, and she looked around. “I mean, I was thinking about it, yes, but I haven’t.”

  “Not yet,” Hugo said. “And the truth is, you were thinking about it a full year before the spy camera was put in your room, a full year before the tape appeared online. And you told Jill about your plan, because you needed her help.”

  “Wait,” Taylor said. “You’re saying Helen is . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “She’s responsible for all of this, for everything that’s happened—to Baxter, Silva, and Maxick.” Hugo watched, scanning the group for their reactions. Surprise was the only one he saw, reassuring him that nobody else was party to this macabre plot. So he continued, “And for the sake of the legal case that will be built in the coming weeks, I suggest, Lieutenant Lerens, now would be the best time to escort Ms. Hancock to a police car and your headquarters.”

  H
elen Hancock had turned ghost-white, and everyone in the room stared as she rose slowly to her feet. Her mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out, and it was only the quick reflexes of Lionel Colbert that stopped her from cracking her head on the tile floor when she fainted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  They gathered at the prefecture the next morning and did things properly, by the book, and Lieutenant Lerens was a lot more comfortable. Hugo was, too, in truth. He’d been grateful for the lieutenant’s cooperation the previous day, but he’d also known it wasn’t a game, and he didn’t want to jeopardize their case. He’d not seen anything in that room to counter his theory that Hancock and Maxick had been the only ones in on the scheme, which is why he’d ended the confrontation as soon as he could. He’d always tried to help the victims of murder maintain dignity, and he was loathe to veer away from that principle. Maintain dignity, too, even for Helen Hancock, despite everything.

  Hugo looked through the one-way glass at her, sitting beside her appointed lawyer at a small metal table, waiting, seemingly unperturbed now, but her fainting spell at the hotel was telling. She’d said it was the shock of a false allegation, but Hugo knew otherwise. Either she’d faked it for her own dramatic purposes, or she’d been unable to bear the idea that her callous scheme was about to put her in prison, possibly for the rest of her life.

  The door behind him opened, and Camille Lerens stood there. “You have friends in high places. Plus, you’re our best English speaker, so my boss says you’re in. Let’s go see what she has to say.”

  They introduced themselves to the lawyer, Charlee Brissette, who was one of the best in the city, according to Lerens. Hugo had been warned by several people not to be fooled by the attractive brunette’s friendly and relaxed demeanor. And her English was impeccable.

  “My client says you have made a mistake and is willing to hear you out,” she said.

  “Hear us out?” Hugo said. “I think we’d like to know what she has to say.”

  “About what?” Brissette said. “You have accused her of murder. She has very little to say about it, because she is innocent.”

  “No,” Hugo said gently. “She’s not.”

  Brissette raised a perfect eyebrow. “And what evidence do you have to support that statement? What is, as we lawyers say, your theory of the case?”

  Hugo looked directly at Helen Hancock, who was staring at the table. “My theory is that due to declining book sales, a smaller advance that hurt her pride, and the chance that her French publisher had stopped paying for perks like her hotel room, Helen placed a spy camera in her room with Jill Maxick’s help. She seduced Ambrósio Silva and made sure that film of them having sex made it to the Internet. She was then going to take advantage of France’s very favorable privacy laws to sue a wealthy and proud hotel chain, and settle for a very large sum of money.”

  “Quite a theory,” Brissette said.

  “Quite a plan,” Hugo corrected. “And it had the possible side benefit of boosting her sales, assuming the theory that ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’ is true. Which hasn’t proven to be the case, but it wasn’t the main goal.”

  “My client was humiliated by that tape. To suggest that she was behind its publication is ridiculous.”

  “Not really,” Hugo said mildly. “I didn’t watch it at first. Didn’t see the need. I mean, a sex tape is a sex tape, right? Except I did have to watch it eventually, once I connected the dots. And I noticed that while she was obviously naked, there are no graphic moments of her on the video. Almost like she knew it was being recorded and was preserving her modesty as best she could.”

  “Pure supposition,” Brissette said.

  “Perhaps. But what isn’t pure supposition is the pair of fur-lined handcuffs visible on the tape.” Helen Hancock’s head snapped up, but she stayed silent, so Hugo continued. “Now, I can’t prove this just yet; we’ll have to wait for the forensics people to do their bit, but I remember Jill describing the video to me right after it was uploaded. She mentioned vibrators and furry handcuffs were visible, so I went back and looked at the tape, to see for myself. And, sure enough, just like most of those I’ve come across in my life, yours are pink. I’m betting the fibers found on Jill Maxick’s body and in her closet will match those from your handcuffs.”

  “You can’t test for that,” Brissette said, but her tone was unsure.

  “We’ll find out, won’t we?” He looked at Hancock. “How did you do it, Helen?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” the writer said, her voice wobbling.

  “Yeah, you did. Did you go over there and ask her to help with more research? Let me guess, ‘Put these on for a moment so I can see how someone with handcuffs walks’? Or maybe you had her lay on the ground and told her to try to get up while wearing them? That’d be a good one, laying her on the ground, cuffed. You wouldn’t have to be strong with a knee in her back, would you?”

  “I didn’t . . .” But her voice dropped off, like she didn’t even believe herself.

  “I’m guessing that’s what happened. You had her put on the cuffs and lay down on the floor, and then you surprised her. Your weight on her back and a plastic bag over her head, is that it? It’s amazing how quickly someone can pass out from suffocation or strangulation. And then you just moved her into the closet to stage the hanging, except it’s not so much staged because that’s what killed her. Inventive, I have to say.”

  “Why would my client kill Jill Maxick?” Brissette demanded. “That’s absurd.”

  “For one, very simple reason. She’s not good at sharing. Maybe there’s more to it. It’s possible that Maxick got greedy and wanted a larger slice of the pie than they had initially agreed to . . . but it comes down to the same thing: Helen wanted to keep her murderous secret to herself, and she had no desire to share the proceeds of this scheme. She doesn’t like to share. She happened to mention that to me more than once, which I found interesting.”

  Brissette looked at him. “Why would a casual remark like that be interesting, exactly?”

  “People assume it’s the lies that catch people out, and sometimes it is. But I’ve noticed that when people are lying, trying to deceive and sell a story or an image, they rely a lot on the truth. After all, the truth is easier to remember, right? But like tics, or tells, when someone repeats something about themselves like Helen did, I try to notice. She told me twice that she doesn’t share. In the moment, it didn’t mean anything and so I took it to be true.”

  “That seems like a leap,” Brissette said.

  “Maybe. On the other hand, she was looking at getting millions of euros from a lawsuit; why give half to someone else? Think about it. Who was naked in front of the world? Whose plan was this? It was Helen’s body online for the world to see, and her idea. I can easily see why she’d resent sharing. And not only does she lose all that money, but someone who knows she planned this is alive and kicking. Like I said, maybe Jill demanded a larger share, got greedy. Maybe she threatened to blackmail Helen for a larger share. Maybe Helen lives in an imaginary world where no one else matters, not really.”

  Hugo paused, and they sat in silence for a moment. Then Camille Lerens said, “Anything you want to say, Madame Hancock?”

  “It’s not true, any of it,” she said, her voice still weak, her eyes again fixed on the table between them.

  “Then explain why you have a letter from an attorney named Lisa Bowlin Hobbs who works for the international law firm of Kuhn Hobbs. In that letter, she advises you on libel, slander, and especially on issues of privacy law.”

  “It was research,” Hancock said. Brissette put a hand on her arm.

  “Yeah, I knew you’d say that. The thing is, Helen, the letter is dated about a year ago. Your manuscript makes no mention of any kind of civil law about privacy or defamation. Nothing like that.”

  “Stories change. Authors always go in different directions than they intended,” Brissette said. “You can’t seriously suggest that
because my client didn’t stick to her original story idea, she’s guilty of murder?”

  “But here’s the thing. I checked, and most authors, including Helen—contrary to what she told me—turn in story ideas to their editors. That’s how they get new book deals.” Thank you Emma, for your publishing contacts, Hugo thought. “So, with her publisher’s cooperation, I looked at her proposals for future stories. None of them had a story about privacy laws. Especially in France. None. And on top of that, I know this wasn’t friendly research, because Kuhn Hobbs represents you. You are a current client, which I found out when I tried to have someone sue you. They wouldn’t take the case; they were conflicted out. That doesn’t happen with casual, friendly research. Now, I don’t know if we can subpoena their correspondence with you—”

  “You can’t,” Brissette snapped.

  “I think with a warrant we can,” Lerens said. “Evidence relating to the planning of a murder is unlikely to survive attorney-client privilege.”

  “It would,” Brissette said. “If such evidence existed, which it doesn’t. All I hear is guesswork.”

  Hugo turned to Lerens. “You have the handcuffs?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  He turned back to Helen Hancock and her lawyer. “Good, then the forensics will give us a little more than ‘guesswork.’ They’ll start by matching the pink fibers, and I’m pretty sure we’ll find Jill’s DNA on them.”

  Helen Hancock’s head fell, and she muttered something unintelligible to herself.

  Brissette looked at Hugo. “And what’s your theory on why she would have killed Monsieur Silva?”

  Hugo spoke to Hancock directly. “That was some clever thinking, to steal the gun. What happened, did he figure out what you were up to?”

  “Address your questions and comments to me, please,” Brissette said firmly.

  Hugo ignored her, but when he spoke his voice was softer. “I bet that was the hardest of them, wasn’t it, Helen? He could be a hothead, but you genuinely liked him. That’s why you got possessive of him with Buzzy. This was more than just a fling, wasn’t it? But why kill him? Did he demand a cut? Threaten to blackmail you?”