26
They patched her up at Hôtel Dieu and gave her a cane. She returned to the flat by the park and lay in bed all Sunday. On Monday morning she limped to her desk.
Claude watched. Did not request a briefing, didn’t say a word.
Identité Judiciaire used the Aebischer/Bettelman ballistics profile to establish that the shells they’d recovered from the streets of Klein Basel were from the same general batch — numbers filed by the same hand, even with the same tool. But where did that point? Neither of the two men who’d sent a French cop diving into the chilly Rhine could be R — not according to her own sighting of a delicate boyish figure naked on a rock, much less the slight, sloppily dressed man contemplating art for hours on the Kunstmuseum security log.
She made a call to VigiTec. ‘For the record, the ordnance you purchase for your people: it’s numbered and logged?’
‘Of course.’
‘Some of your people are good with guns, beyond shooting? Maintenance, and the like?’
‘We have many ex-military. They fit right in.’
‘Can you send a list?’
‘I suppose I could. Progress, madame Inspector?’
‘Perhaps. Our shoemaker’s almost ready.’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘I will, Herr Taub.’
She sat there. Waiting. But Beppi Crerar failed to report.
Beppi’s recorded chat with an unknown man at Max’s bar pointed to the elusive R at Zup with Martin Bettelman. That was progress. But the recorder and anything of forensic value it might contain was lost in the Rhine, in the pocket of the inspector’s beloved blue mac.
Come on, Beppi!… They needed to know more about the unknown man who promised to pass a message along to R.
‘Immoral bastard.’ Instructing Judge Gérard Richand deeply resented Beppi’s blatant breach of trust. He would write an order for Beppi Crerar to be collected and placed in garde à vue.
When, later that day, they received word from Basel City police that a Bernard Crerar had been fished out of the Rhine on Sunday morning, it touched the inspector’s fragile spirit. Befuddled with guilt and creeping desperation, Aliette picked up the phone. The ID was confirmed — one very defining physical characteristic left her in no doubt. Did she know him?
‘He’s on our books, yes…’ They asked her to hold.
The next Swiss voice was not so polite. ‘Inspector Nouvelle, is it? Inspector Morenz, Basel City. What was he up to?’
Automatically, she lied. ‘I wouldn’t know, Inspector. The name came up from downstairs. He’s one of our contacts. I called to find out for sure…What? Out of his mind from a night on the town and straight into the river? That’s poor Beppi, all right.’
A pause. No doubt Inspector Morenz was trained to hear an automatic lie. He decided to challenge. ‘That, and minus an ear. Someone sliced his ear clean off, then threw him in. Any thoughts on that, Inspector?’
A pause — to squelch a rush of horrified bile. Then, ‘None, Inspector. No idea.’
‘I’m sure. Well, Inspector, we’ll be looking into it. If you can find anything that might place your poor Beppi here last weekend, we’d be very glad to know.’
She promised. Thanked him. Sat frozen. She was not solving this. She was making it worse.
Poor Beppi. Someone had not been fooled at all by her little ploy. Someone was quite intent on warning her away. And now Inspector Morenz would be looking into it. Bad judgment. Totally bad. She felt like quitting then and there. Going home. Or somewhere. Leave! — get away from this place. This love-foresaken life. It was clearly time. It was all she wanted to do.
But no. The case. The shoemaker. She had not been raised to walk away half-done.
Judge Richand was not overly bothered by the news. The Beppis of the world failed to touch his heart. ‘People like him are their own worst enemy.’ He shrugged at her whiny self-recrimination, dismissing her insistence that it had been a bad idea, a stupid decision. ‘Not at all.’ Gérard was grim, righteous. ‘A logical step in the right direction. Sad, but useful.’ It had been his decision too, after all. Picking up his pen, ‘Finis. No more talk of Monsieur la Braguette.’
‘His name is Bernard Crerar.’
‘Whatever.’ He would not play her miserable game. ‘Bon. The way I see it, now you have to confront the two gentlemen who run this place.’
‘Gérard! How can I possibly go back in there?’ Fretting, hating Gérard, morale in the toilet.
‘As yourself, of course. A police officer. Full view. An interview regarding a crime.’
‘And Boehler’s man?’ The nasty-sounding Morenz. ‘I bet my name’s at every checkpoint.’
‘They’re only Swiss, Inspector. You have your mandate. Use it.’
Thus goaded, she went — she knew she had to. But alone, on the noon bus next day.
***
The door to Zup was open. The place was empty, gloomy in the early afternoon. They were behind the bar, unloading the dishwasher. They stopped their work, watching her limp toward them. Max said, ‘Bonjour, Lise. What happened to your leg?’
‘Work. And it’s not Lise, Max. It’s Aliette.’ She showed her ID card, her mandate, and came straight to the point. ‘Forgive the deception. Or don’t forgive. In any case, I suppose you know by now Martin Bettelman was murdered.’ They knew. ‘Now Beppi Crerar has been too.’
‘Murdered? When?’
‘Probably Friday, after he left here.’ She decided not to mention that Beppi had been there on her direction. The less deceived and invaded they felt, the better. She was following up on a second murder linked to the murder of Martin Bettelman. Her information led her to understand that Beppi Crerar had been partying at Zup on Friday night.
Max was shocked into silence. Adlehard glared. ‘French aren’t very honest, are they?’
Aliette met him head on. ‘Honesty is relative, monsieur.’
‘Slimy cop.’
Sure, sure, slimy cop. ‘Are you going to help me?’
Max slowly rotated a dish towel around the inside of a wine glass. ‘I can see how someone would get mad enough to kill Martin. But why kill that Beppi? I liked him. I mean I think I liked him. What was not to like?’
Adelhard huffed, ‘Yes, and you liked Martin.’
She cut in before they could start bickering. ‘Who did Beppi leave with Friday night?’
The two Swiss looked at each other. ‘Fred,’ Max said.
‘Fred… The one in the bow tie? I remember him. Him and Greta Garbo.’
‘Just Fred,’ Adelhard sneered, ‘…hoping for something. Disgusting. Unnatural.’
For all his leering Heidi act, Adelhard would fit right in with the righteous Gérard Richand. Interesting where male insecurities aligned. ‘I gather they’re regulars. Yes?’
‘Very,’ Max admitted. ‘Spend a fortune. And add a certain class, I’d have to say.’
Adelhard did not agree. ‘Anyone who does not like Klaus Nomi is a peasant. Money and evening gowns cannot hide the fact.’
Aliette waited for an explanation.
Max slid the glass into the rack, began to polish another. ‘Greta couldn’t handle Addie’s music, so they left. Fred came back later, near closing, when things were quieting down. Your Beppi was far gone by then, and alone. Fred took care of him. They left together.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Said he was going to take him home to Greta.’
‘But who are they?’
Max shrugged. ‘Fred and Greta.’
‘I mean during the day.’
‘No idea.’ Accurately reading her doubting gaze, he added. ‘Because they don’t want us to know, Inspector.’ He slid the next glass into the rack. ‘And we don’t really need to, do we?’
Aliette supposed not. She asked for a glass of beer. It was provided. She pressed the issue. Did either Fred or Greta ever mention what business they were in? Where they lived? Any names they happened to drop from time to time? Max and Adelhard told her: Rich. Corporate, for sure — probably from Gellert or the like, an haute bourgeois Basel quarter. The way Fred talked — you could hear it. But Greta too: used to giving orders. Pick a business that fits with that.
She sipped her beer and scribbled. ‘The art business?’
Adelhard shrugged, ‘Why not?’
Max said, ‘I heard Fred say he sometimes dabbles. I mean, he said it to Beppi. Beppi said he and Martin had some kind of deal going. He wanted to find Martin’s client.’
‘So do I.’ Aliette studied her notes. ‘Martin never came back here after he broke with Max?’
‘One night,’ Adelhard responded. ‘In August. With his new petit ami.’ A new boyfriend.
‘Swiss or French?’
‘French. Son beau petit Robert. Didn’t stay long. Everyone was pissed at Martin.’
‘Young? Bone white?’
‘Beautiful,’ Max whispered, sounding slightly spooked by the thought of French beauty.
Adelhard, past his pique, held his Max’s hand on the counter. ‘We never saw Marty again.’
Robert. It sounded like the truth. ‘So where does Justin Aebischer fit in?’
‘Justin?’ Max paused to place it. ‘Justin was way back last winter… before New Year.’
‘After Greta,’ specified Adelhard.
‘Greta was with Martin?’
‘Greta’s been with everyone,’ sniffed Max, eyes sliding sideways toward his lover.
Adelhard shrugged. ‘Hearts are tricky things. We provide a room in the back.’
Aliette finished her beer. ‘Have you seen them this week? Greta…and Fred?’
‘Fred Astaire?’ Max prompted.
‘Ah.’ Remembering how her mother loved to watch those movies.
Adelhard thought about it. ‘No, we haven’t… Have we?’
‘No,’ Max confirmed.
Presenting her card, she implored the two proprietors of Zup to call her if Fred or Greta made an appearance. ‘Doesn’t matter what time, I’ll get it.’
Max took her card, smiled. A real French cop. ‘You never said what happened to your leg.’
‘Oh, line of duty.’ She hobbled out, then to the bench, where she waited for the bus.
***
So: Robert. A name. And French. But at what price?
Bernard Crerar came back to France, minus an ear. Beppi’s mother lived south of the city, in a village in the Sundagau. But Inspector Aliette Nouvelle did not have the guts to go to Beppi’s burial, let alone talk to his maman. Pleading too much to do, she sent Bernadette Milhau.
Gérard Richand said, ‘Buck up, Inspector. This is not like you at all. What matters is, What now? You know the ground. You choose the best way forward.’ He sat, pen poised, awaiting her call.
‘We look for a French boy…man, whatever, called Robert. He is our suspect.’
He made a note. ‘Very good.’