CHAPTER 9

 

 

Madame stood there, smiling, waiting for instructions, so I smiled back and indicated Amy’s door. She tapped, and Amy called out, “Who is it?” and Madame gave her the glad tidings in French.

I set my book down and waited while she headed back downstairs. Amy came out the door, looking anxious. She saw me and averted her eyes for a moment, embarrassed. Then Hélène appeared in her own doorway. “Isn’t that Victor Orsini downstairs?” she asked.

“Yes. He’s here to see me.” Amy looked at me nervously. “It’s all right. I’ll be okay here.”

“I know,” I said. “Labrosse told me what really happened last year.”

Amy bit her lip and said nothing.

Hélène had come down the hall to join her. She had changed into blue jeans and a T-shirt but still looked like something out of Vogue. She touched Amy on the arm and spoke to her rapidly. Amy turned and answered also in French, then said to me, “I don’t need your judgments.”

“Judgment isn’t part of my job description. I’m here to keep you safe. Maybe your old buddy downstairs can give us an idea of who’s after you.”

“Hélène and I will speak to him alone,” she said quickly.

“Fine. I’ll be right outside.”

Amy waited until Hélène joined her, and when they passed me, Hélène put her hand on my arm and smiled. Amy saw the move and flicked a disbelieving glance my way. Did her dishy friend see something in me that she hadn’t? I just stood back and let them go ahead.

Hélène led the way into the drawing room, and I was close enough to catch a glimpse of Orsini. He was sitting in an armchair but stood up when they entered. Then Hélène shut the door behind her, and I wandered out of the house toward the front, where Orsini’s car was parked.

His driver was right out of a Renoir movie, about my age, chunky, dressed in a dark suit. He had left the car and was leaning against a tree, smoking Gitanes, the pack stuffed into his top pocket. Armand’s chauffeur had come around from the back and joined him; they were chatting together like old buddies. It made me wonder whether they were two of a kind, that the wine business was rougher than I’d imagined. Did Armand’s chauffeur provide the same kind of muscle for his boss that his buddy did for Orsini?

I took a chair on the terrace, under the awning, and waited, looking as innocent as I could manage. They glanced my way, and the chauffeur said something that made the other guy snort on his cigarette smoke, blowing it out of his nostrils like Puff the Magic Dragon. It figured that they had me marked out as a cream puff, the dumb boyfriend who didn’t share their knowledge that Amy and Orsini had been playing Mom and Pop the year before.

After about ten minutes, Orsini came out, with Hélène and Amy beside him. Amy was carrying her purse, she was planning to go with him. I sauntered down toward them, sizing up Orsini. The likeness Cahill had given me was accurate except that the man had preserved his strength in a way the computer couldn’t calculate. He was obviously in his late sixties, but he still had a lot of the husky peasant vigor of his youth.

“Going somewhere?” I asked Amy.

“Yes. I’ll be gone for a while.” She smiled disarmingly.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No.” She snapped the word nervously. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

I smiled back just as brightly. “It could be.”

Orsini asked her something in French, and she replied, waving at me. Then it was his turn to smile. He said something else, and Amy translated, “M’sieur Orsini says no.”

“I’m working for your uncle, not for Mr. Orsini.”

I took another couple of steps toward them, and Orsini snapped his fingers to his chauffeur. It was time to earn my pay.

The chauffeur came for me, moving fast, expecting me to back off and start pleading with Orsini. I could read the pride in his eyes. He would squash me in front of his boss and two attractive women, the stuff that daydreams are made of.

I stood, left foot forward, as if I’d changed my mind in mid-stride. My right hand was down by my groin in case he kicked out. I needn’t have worried. He was planning to shoo me away by force of will. He grabbed the lapel of my jacket with his right hand and raised his left forefinger to jab in my face. Reacting to that kind of approach is something you learn in your first hour of hand-to-hand combat. I grabbed his wrist with my right hand, pivoted, and bent down, sending him flying over my head to sprawl on the gravel.

Most fights end there. The thrower stands and waits while the throwee scrambles to his feet and heads for the horizon. This guy had more to prove. He picked himself up and turned, his nose streaming blood. I spoke to Amy over my shoulder. “Tell your buddy to call this guy off before I hurt him.”

Amy spoke, but I didn’t hear Orsini answer. I flicked a glance around. Everyone else was still where I’d seen them last. I had been half-expecting the Armand chauffeur to butt in, but they were all standing back, so I concentrated on the first one again. He slid his hand into his pocket and came out with a knife. He flicked a button, and it opened with a neat little click. He was about ten feet from me, too far to spring but close enough to posture. He crouched, tossing the knife from hand to hand lightly and smiling. He was good with knives, his stance told me, and my time had come. Behind me I heard one of the women shriek. Out of my own vanity I hoped it was Hélène, anxious for me.

I beamed at the gladiator like a proud father and opened my jacket so he could see the butt of my pistol. “A bas,” I said. Down.

He looked at me very hard, his hatred as sharp as the blade of that knife, but after thirty seconds he dropped it. I made a little shooing motion with my hand, backing him off. He did so, walking back with tiny steps until I was able to come forward and pick up the knife.

I shook my head sadly and turned toward the nearest tree. The distance looked right, so I flicked the knife, and sure enough, it turned over three times and stuck into the trunk. To make my point I went after it and bent it sideways until the blade snapped, then tossed it back to its owner. Finally I turned to Orsini. “Je vais avec vous.” I’m going with you.

He hadn’t seen the gun. As far as he was concerned, I’d done a lion-taming trick, facing down his man through strength of will. On top of which I’d demonstrated that I could handle a knife. Tricks like that impress Corsicans. His face did not change, but he shrugged, and I opened the back door for Amy to get in. Bloody Nose almost ran to the car to open the other back door for Orsini, and then the pair of us got into the front seat.

Orsini was sitting behind his driver, so I turned sideways in my seat to keep an eye on both of them at once. Orsini was looking at me with amusement in his eyes. He continued looking at me as he spoke to Amy in his growly French.

“Mister Orsini wants to know if you would like to work for him,” she translated.

It might have been blarney, but I didn’t insult him. His driver would be looking for the first chance he got to square accounts. Having Orsini on my side would cut the risks a little. “Tell him I have a job right now. When it’s finished, I’ll talk to him.”

She translated, and he grinned at me, showing yellow teeth. Then he gave the driver an order, and we set off.

I wondered where we were going. Not to an assignation, that was certain. If he’d been planning to replay last summer’s date with Amy, she would have taken time to change and pretty up. This had to be business.

After a while I relaxed enough to sit more normally in my seat. It didn’t seem likely that Orsini was going to stick a gun in my ear. Amy had probably told him why I was there, which would have amused him. It seemed he was doing her some kind of favor, and I wondered what it was.

From time to time he gave the driver directions, and we wound through a maze of little roads until we came to a house on its own. It was small and had a well-kept flower garden around it. At the edge of the garden was a line of lavender bushes in bloom, outlining the property. Beyond that were vineyards.

The driver pulled in and got out to open Orsini’s door. I did the same on my side, opening the door for Amy. “Where are we?” I asked her.

“Raymond Longpré lives here; he’s on my list,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“You’re going to talk to him? After what Labrosse said?”

“Mr. Orsini is with me; that makes it all right.” She glared at me. “Don’t make things difficult, John. I’m in no danger.”

“Fine. I’ll wait with the car.”

She and Orsini walked up to the door and knocked. A dog woofed inside. It sounded elderly and ill-tempered, but when the door opened, it came out wagging its tail. An old man was with it, and he did a double take when he saw Orsini. But it wasn’t fear in his eyes, it was pleasure. They shook hands enthusiastically, and Orsini called to his chauffeur over his shoulder. The man opened the trunk and took out a package, which he carried to Orsini.

Orsini handed it to the old man, and he opened it and smiled, showing the same caliber of dental work I’d noticed on Constance at La Fongeline. He spoke rapidly, gratefully. I caught the word tabac. Orsini had brought him something for his pipe. This trip had been planned in advance.

The three of them went into the house, and the chauffeur eyed me warily. He was still angry but was cooling off. He wouldn’t try anything; it was fence-mending time. I handed him my handkerchief. “Pour votre visage.” For your face.

He took it, nodding, and went to crouch beside the outside mirror on the car, spitting on his finger and dabbing at the dried bloodstains with the handkerchief. When he was cleaned up, he stood up and handed it back to me with a curt “Merci.” Then he took out his cigarettes and proffered them. I smiled and shook my head, stretching my French to explain that I didn’t smoke.

There was a bench under an apple tree, and we sat on it side by side, looking out over the sloping vineyards baking gently under the sun. The other guy smoked, and I filled my time wondering why Orsini was doing this for Amy. Was it a first move toward asking her out to a replay of last year’s frolic? That didn’t seem likely. He was a pimp by profession. He wouldn’t bother carrying her books like this. He’d expect to snap his fingers and have her in bed. No, something unexplained was going on, and I wondered what.

By the time my buddy had smoked five cigarettes and was getting restless, Orsini and Amy came out with the old man, who was all smiles and handshakes and kisses on the cheek for her.

She left first, coming to the car, where I joined her. She was rewinding her tape recorder. “So Orsini is helping you with your research. That’s friendly,” I said.

“More than that. Valuable.” She was animated again. “I learned more with him along than I’d ever have got on my own.”

“Like what?” I could see Orsini turning away from the door and the chauffeur making a beeline to open it for him.

“Like the fact that Le Loup was real. He really did kill those Germans.”

She got into the car, and Orsini joined her. The driver and I got in, and we drove back to the château.

“Are you going out again tonight?” I asked.

“Not tonight, no.” It was a careful answer. I read into it that she would be seeing Orsini again. I wondered if she still felt the same attraction to him. And I wondered even more what dear old Eric would say if he could see her now. Behind me, she and Orsini were chatting sporadically, her French too fast and his too heavily accented for me to understand.

When they fell silent, I half turned and asked her, “Can you ask Mr. Orsini a question for me?” My job didn’t call for detective work, but I wanted some answers.

“If it’s not personal,” she said.

“Ask him if he’s got any idea who came after you and why?”

“I already did.” She sounded smug. “He says he knows the names of the two men but not who sent them. It wasn’t him.”

“And did you ask who might have killed Pierre?”

“He doesn’t know that either.”

“And you believe him.”

“He’s a businessman,” she said primly. “I’m sure he does some heavy things when he has to. But he has no reason to kill a historian.”

“Does he know who might?”

Before she could answer, Orsini cut in, and she spoke to him first. Then she said, “Mr. Orsini says you ask too many questions.”

There was no sense in rocking the boat, so I sat back and enjoyed the ride. Back at the château both Hélène and her father were sitting on the terrace. Hélène stayed put, but Armand walked down to the car and spoke warmly to Orsini, who did not bother getting out of the car. I was reminded of some speakeasy owner trying to win points with Al Capone. Amy got out of the car but stayed there until Armand had finished apple-polishing.

I left them there and walked up to the terrace. Hélène indicated a chair next to her, and I sat. She leaned over and put her hand on my arm. It was the “Hands off, he’s mine” signal a high school girl might have used at a dance. I wondered why she was playing the whole thing so broad. In fact, I wondered why I’d been allowed into her boudoir at all. I’ve had a lot of success with women, but I’m not vain enough to think I’m gorgeous. It was flattering that Hélène had found me suitable to be her sexual partner, but I wasn’t going to fool myself that she’d fallen in love with me. She was playing some game. “You were magnificent when that man attacked you,” she said, and I just grinned.

She slapped my arm playfully. “Don’t be infuriatingly English. You handled the knife like a Corsican. Where did you learn that?”

I gave her the standard army reply. “Long service in bad stations.” She laughed out loud. Like most women with good teeth, she had a very melodious laugh. Amy flashed a glance at her and then turned back to the conversation at the car.

After chatting a minute or so, Orsini ended the conversation, his window purred up, and the car pulled away down the drive. Armand stood where he was until it had left the gateway and then came back to the terrace with Amy. His face was like granite. He spoke briefly to Hélène and went inside. Hélène called out something to his back and then waved Amy to a seat. “Was your afternoon well spent?”

“It was wonderful. The old man told me things he never would have said if Victor hadn’t been along.” She was working hard at looking enthusiastic, but I could read the uncertainty in her eyes. Why was Hélène making such a show of interest in me? From her attitude toward me earlier I knew she wasn’t jealous, yet that was the way she was acting.

Hélène was languid. She didn’t overplay her attention to me, but it colored her actions. “And was this information valuable?”

“Yes.” Amy had apparently decided to be all business. “It gave me a confirmation that Victor was Le Loup.”

Hélène smiled. “With lots of murders, this book of yours could become a bestseller.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat.” Amy threw herself into the role of writer. “The dean and all those stuffy people at U. of T. would hate me, but it wouldn’t matter. I’d have the freedom to do what I wanted from here on.”

“Is he coming back again?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” Amy said briefly.

“Is he really driving all the way from Marseilles to do this for you?”

Amy frowned angrily. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in his timetable, but he happens to be in Avignon for a week on business, and he says he can spare the time.”

“Fine by me.” I stood up. “If you’ll excuse me. I have a call to make to Canada. Will that be all right, Hélène?”

“Of course.” She waved over her shoulder to the French doors behind her. “Use the phone in the billiard room; it’s private.”

“Thank you.”

I stood up, and as I walked away, Amy called out, “Be sure to give her my love, John.” Bitchy, bitchy.

It took me about a minute to explain to the operator whom I was calling and to spell out the number in my lame French. Then the phone rang twice, and Wainwright answered.

“John Locke here, Major.”

“Ah, hello, John. How’s everything going?”

“It’s complicated,” I began. “And I thought I should call and get my orders clarified a little.”

“In what way complicated?” His words were clipped in that truncated way you get these days when they compress a lot of telephone calls onto a single line. It made him sound irritable.

“The party I was sent here to watch out for showed up today. Seemed very friendly. I had a little trouble with his chauffeur, but that was ironed out, and the party took Amy to see one of her contacts. It was all very civilized.”

“You mean you actually met the bounder?” I swallowed my laughter. Nobody has said bounder since 1939.

“Quite the little gentleman. However, there was a complication yesterday. Two men attempted to take our girl for a ride. I stopped them, and the gendarmes have them in custody, but this morning her friend Pierre Armand was terminated, messily.”

There was a silence on the line, but I couldn’t read anything in it. The same technical efficiency robbed it of all potential for meaning. When he spoke again, he said, “Has the family found out?”

“Yes. We’re staying at their château.”

“I must contact Pierre’s father with condolences,” he said, and there was another silence.

“In the meantime, our mutual friend is returning tomorrow for another trip with Amy. He is starting to look harmless here, but I figure someone means her harm or they wouldn’t have made a grab at her yesterday. What do you want me to do?”

“Watch her.” He rapped it out as he might have done to some mother who allowed her child too close to a fire. “I’m not sure what’s happening, but there’s no doubt she’s in danger. This man we’re dealing with is evil. Don’t let your guard down.”

“Do you have any contacts here who might be able to shed light on any of this? So far I’ve talked to a Captain Labrosse of the Gendarmerie. He told me a few interesting things, but nothing that puts a face on the man who means her harm.”

“Don’t be fooled. It’s the person I told you about. He may be acting graciously right now, but you know his background.” He paused again and added pompously, “Napoleon was Corsican, remember.”

“No kidding.” He didn’t rise to the comment, so I asked the question that had been on my mind from the beginning. “Are you likely to be here on business over the next little while?”

“Not until November, usually,” he said. “I try to be there for the Beaujolais Nouveau. But if things are so unusual, I will try to get over for a few days. I’ll check my book at the office tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you could do, but I’m sure Amy would be glad to see you.”

“How is she?” The affection in his voice was as warm as a hug.

“Shattered by what happened to Pierre. Aside from that, she’s professional and distant.” I fed him that morsel to soothe his troubled ego. He had probably thought that proximity would have softened Amy toward me and we were double-bedding it by now.

“Tell her I miss her.”

“I will, and I’ll call again if anything develops.”

“Thank you.” Another silence and then a burst of concern. “I’m very glad you’re there, John. Please take good care of her.” I thought he was finished and was waiting for the click of his hanging up, but he added another sentence. “If you’re forced to take extraordinary measures, you will be compensated.” And then he hung up.

I did the same at my end, frowning at the telephone. What did he mean by extraordinary measures? Was he promising a bonus if I had to kill somebody? Like Orsini, for instance?

I went back out. The women had become chummier in my absence and were talking animatedly. They stopped and looked up as I approached.

“How is she?” Amy asked.

“Eric send his regards and wants me to say he misses you.”

“Eric? Wainwright?” Hélène looked surprised. “Amy has lost her bet, John. She told me you would be calling your petite atnie.”

“That situation is vacant.” I sat down in the same chair and watched Amy regrouping for another attack. Dammit, the woman was jealous. She didn’t want me, but she was angry at Hélène’s taking over.

“You mean that Janet is only a neighbor?” She asked it teasingly, but the claws were out.

“And friend,” I said, “But I think a lawyer would describe it as an arm’s-length friendship. We like the same kind of music.”

Hélène grabbed the lifeline and hauled the conversation back out of dangerous waters. “And what kind of music is that?”

“Baroque mostly.”

“Not rock?” Amy had realized she was getting out of line and was apologizing to Hélène with the question.

“No. I guess I burned my ears out on the stuff when I was a teenager.” Not the real answer. I don’t like rock music because it’s overpowered by the bass line. I think the beat of a piece of music should be like the shell of a pie, supporting the structure, not the main ingredient. But they didn’t want my philosophy. They wanted to talk, and soon Amy lapsed into French, so I excused myself and took a walk around the grounds, assessing each of the windows on the second floor the way a sniper would.

Being on my own gave me chance to do some thinking. On top of the major problems of the day, I was concerned about a couple of smaller things, both of them involving Hélène. To start with, why was she so dry-eyed about her brother’s murder? Her father was shattered, but she was showing no more concern than she would have for a dead dog on the highway. And secondly, why had she volunteered the dance of the seven veils for me? Hell, she had to have guys waiting in line, rich men, movie stars, you name it. Did she prefer what must have looked like rough trade? Or was she more deeply affected by Pierre’s death than she had let on and had taken the consolation of the nearest pair of arms? Baffling.

The women went in after a while, and I followed, heading up to my room, picking up my book from the second landing. I expected to be on guard all night outside Amy’s room, so I took the opportunity to grab a catnap. Then I showered and changed my shirt and jacket and headed back down to the billiard room to wait for dinner.

There was a full-sized table there, and I set up the billiard balls and spent a mindless half hour practicing cannons. At one point, the eldest of the children of the house timidly stuck his head into the room. He was nine or so, and I figured he played in here whenever the Armands were away and his mother’s back was turned. I waved him in and played him a couple of games. By the time we’d finished, his brother and two sisters were sitting watching us like the three wise monkeys.

At seven, Amy came in for me. “Hélène father isn’t having dinner. We were planning to go into town.”

“Fine.” The kid was ahead at that point. He would be a real shark by the time he reached his teens. I told him we were going and gravely handed him ten francs. Not a fortune, but his eyes lit up, and then he timidly refused it. I winked at him and stuck it into his shirt pocket. I like kids.

We drove to Vaison-la-Romaine and had an excellent dinner at the same restaurant where Orsini had made his move on Amy the year before. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and we were back by ten-thirty.

Hélène suggested a nightcap, but Amy demurred. She was tired, jet lag, she explained, but I figured she was grieving for Pierre. That was when Hélène made her announcement.

“I have been thinking about what John said about the window in your room,” she said. “I think you should have my room, and I’ll take yours. Nobody will come after me.” Madame was passing the door as she spoke, but Hélène ignored her. As far as I was concerned, it was risky now. This ruse would only work if nobody knew about it except us three.

Amy protested, but not for long. She was obviously drained from the day’s unhappiness, and she wanted to sleep. I went up with them and moved her stuff into Hélène’s room.

Then Hélène and I went back down to the drawing room and had a cognac. She didn’t say or do anything to reflect what had happened in her room earlier that day, so I held my tongue and enjoyed the drink. At eleven, she stood up and yawned. “Come on,” she said. She went upstairs, and I followed her. I’d made up my mind to stay outside her door. As far as any outsider was concerned, this was still Amy’s room, and somebody might come in there looking for her. That they found a beautiful blonde instead of a striking brunette would not stop the average sensual hood from doing something naughty. I had to be on hand.

When she reached her door, she turned. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I’ll be out here if anything happens.”

She smiled a deep-down smile and said, “But how can anything happen if you are outside?” She pushed the door open and indicated that I was to enter.

I went in and quickly cased the room. Nobody was hiding anywhere. I turned to tell her this, but she was already half-undressed, moving with the practiced speed she would have used if she had been alone, not attempting to get my hormones tap-dancing.

She stripped and slipped into bed, naked, then patted the bed beside her. I can take a hint. I quickly stripped, putting my clothes over a chair where I could find them in the dark if I had to. Then I switched off the light and quietly slipped my pistol from its holster and pushed it under the pillow.

Our lovemaking was slower this time, more like an old married couple than two virtual strangers. She was controlled, making no attempt to try anything athletic. When it was over, she slipped her hand into mine and started talking, very softly, so that I had to keep my ear almost against her lips to hear her. It was all very romantic, right up to the moment when she told me she wanted me to kill Orsini.