The police gave them time for the funeral and family gathering and several acquaintances, including Deirdre’s. She was buried with an honor guard for her wartime duty, a flag given to her parents at Gregory’s request. He rejected a burial at Arlington, believing she did not belong there after what the family discovered. He kept wondering when the truth would emerge either through police or investigation or a curious reporter. The museum Board had already decided to do nothing more for now but to write off the money, until, if ever, the police found Étienne. They would, however, look for the owners of the questioned pieces.
The FBI followed leads after examining the car. Unfortunately for Étienne, a woman who checked out the car remembered his accent and was able to describe him. They surmised he left in a private plane. They contacted Interpol. A bulletin described him and that he was wanted for theft, assault on a policewoman, and a possible murder. The search included all countries from which he and Deirdre had either stolen or bought antiquities.
A year passed. Étienne vaguely felt he had succeeded in hiding his identity, neglected his wife left in France. Within that year she contacted the police about her missing husband. However they were of no help, although they had received notice he was an unapprehended murder suspect.
~
Aware that possibly Interpol could be searching for him, he had hidden in an old narrow street where he felt no one would think to look. For further cover, he had also taken up with a Greek woman who lived with him. He began to learn the language with her help. She reveled in her fortune at having become the mistress of a wealthy man. Occasionally, she wondered why he wanted to live in the ancient city.
“Why do we not move out into the countryside? There are houses, or you could build one. We could overlook the sea, enjoy the weather more, the beauty.”
“No. Just pay attention to what we’re doing now. You make me feel inadequate asking such questions.”
She laughed, annoying him. “Inadequate with what you have down there. I love it,” as she moved from under him and bent to put him in her mouth. “Don’t be angry. I’ll soothe you. See. I’m unselfish; get you back in the mood.”
He moved away, slapped her, shouting, “Don’t ask me to build you a palace. Is that supposed to be payment for sex? I like it here. This is Rhodes for me. No more questions. We live here. If you don’t like it, then get out.”
She started crying. “That was cruel. Your temper seems to be getting worse.” She was right. He was beginning to worry there was no other place to which he could flee and increasingly felt cornered, not only by his crime and the possibility of being found but also by this woman who was already irritating him.
Unaware, of course, how he felt, she continued, “And if you keep it up, to hell with you and your money. I’ll leave. Find yourself another screw.” She jumped from the bed.
“And where do you think you’re going?” He grabbed at her, caught her by the waist, scratching her.
She pulled further from him. “You go to hell.” She went to the closet and started to get her clothes, knowing he would stop her.
“You think I care, Irene? But get away from those clothes. I bought them.”
“You want me walking out of here naked?”
“Why not? The police would have a fine time. Perhaps you could pleasure them.”
“You bastard.” She picked up a shoe and threw it. It hit above the eye.
“No one does that to me.” He jumped from the bed, grabbed her breasts and pulled. She screamed at the pain. He struck her. She screamed more loudly, tears flowing down her cheeks. “I’ll kill you.” She twisted away from him, ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, ran back at him. As he quickly reached her hand, the knife struck and cut his lower arm.
“Bitch. I’ll kill you.”
Frightened, she backed away. She saw a dress on the floor. Reached for it before he could catch her and ran to the door somehow managing to slip into the dress as she got to the street, screaming she was being attacked. People looked from windows. One person only, gently stopped her. “Your face, woman. Go to the police.”
Irene, shivering, was fearful of reporting him. “I can’t do that. He’ll kill me.”
“You must go. Come. I’ll take you.” She unconsciously followed the man, trembling. At the police station she told of the fight, describing unknowingly the man they had heard about from Interpol.
The police did not wait, went to the narrow street, banged on the door and arrested him. It was then they looked through their bulletins again. Soon newspaper headlines appeared in Rhodes, in France, in the United States and elsewhere, SUSPECTED MURDERER, FORMER HERO OF THE FRENCH RESISTANCE, IN CUSTODY.
A dead woman and a live, beaten lover, and deserted wife testified about and against a past Maquis leader now wanted in the United States. After extradition proceedings that he naturally fought, Interpol sent him to Boston where the FBI met and took him to maximum security Suffolk Bay. Eventually, after evidence and trial, Étienne Moreau received a life sentence and imprisoned in Leavenworth where the past, rage, and time eventually ended his luxurious post-war days.
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