We drove to an apartment in the 16th Arrondissement that Antoine told me belonged to a friend who’d offered it for a few days. It sat on the second floor of a 19th century classic Belle Epoch dwelling, with high ceilings and tall windows that overlooked a courtyard planted with trees and a knot garden. Antoine’s friend apparently loved books, the walls lined with shelves overflowing with volumes, new and old. Their presence made me miss Cotton even more, who loved nothing more than searching through antique shops and flea markets for rare first editions. Modern furniture offset the traditional moldings, parquet floors, and rugs. It was past lunch time and neither of us had eaten, so from groceries he had in the car we made cheese omelets. Antoine opened a bottle of Sancerre appropriated from the kitchen wine rack. Once the food was ready, we took our plates and glasses and sat down at the dining room table.
“We’re going to have to confront Denton,” he said. “But he’s not going to just open up and admit to what he did. That’s not his nature. Thankfully, he’s something of a braggart.”
“Unlike you?”
“We’re different in so many ways. But he might hint at his plans with the right prompting.”
“To you?”
Antoine shook his head. “Not a chance. To him, I’m the enemy.”
“How well do you know the people in his life? Are there women?”
“He’s gay.”
“Are there men?”
“I’m sure there are quite a few.”
“Anyone that he’s close to?”
Antoine frowned. “I have no idea. We’ve been estranged for a long time.”
“Yet you spoke last week.”
“I had to know if he’d gone after the box.”
“Apparently not.”
He nodded. “Not until yesterday, at least.”
I agreed. Denton Lussac had to be found. And fast. I’d heard Cotton lament many times about involving locals in an operation. Rarely did they prove helpful. But this was not a United States Justice Department mission. And I wasn’t an intelligence agent. Help here would be appreciated. I remembered the card in my pocket Jac L’Etoile had given me with Pierre Marcher’s name and number. I found it and made the call on Nicodème’s cell phone. Marcher answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and who’d recommended him.
“Anything for Jac,” he said. “And she called and said I might hear from you.”
He agreed to meet us within the hour at a local bistro.
The Café Winka.
* * *
Antoine and I entered the café and I searched the faces. The tables were nearly full but there was no question which one accommodated Pierre Marcher. He stood as we approached. He was short and slim with slicked-back black hair. He wore stylish wire-rimmed glasses and where his right eyebrow should have been there was a ragged white scar, like a crack in an otherwise fine piece of glazed pottery. His navy suit fit him well and his starched white shirt looked fresh.
“Inspector Marcher?” I asked.
“Marcher is fine. I’m not with the police anymore.”
We took a seat at the table. A waiter appeared and both Antoine and I ordered coffee. It took the better part of a half hour for us to explain the situation and what we knew, as well as an outline of what we needed to find out.
“I know of your brother,” Marcher told Antoine.
I knew what he meant. Officially. As a former cop.
Antoine seemed to get it too. “My brother’s reputation is not good, so feel free to say whatever is on your mind. We haven’t gotten along for years, nor has he with anyone else in the family. There’s little you could say that would shock or disappoint me.”
“He was on our radar. We questioned him a few times, but could never amass enough evidence to charge him.”
Antoine nodded. “You mean the extortion.”
I looked at him. “What are you talking about?”
“There were rumors that my brother blackmailed several members of the National Assembly.”
“He did just that,” Marcher said. “Unfortunately, we were never able to learn the entire story. None of the members of Parliament cared to press charges. For good reason, I assume, since the dirt was true.”
“My brother is for hire to the highest bidder. And this political season, Madame St. Benedict seems to be the one with the deepest pockets. He’s been working with her for some time. The media has wondered how she’s managed to counter Casimir’s dirty tricks? Her gains in the polls are all thanks to Denton.”
The election had been all the news for the past few weeks. Despite being in office for almost five years, President Yves Casimir had never connected with the people. Terrorism had crippled the French tourist trade, the economy lagged, immigration remained a continuing problem. Relations with the EU and America were strained. Instead of calming fears or providing hope, Casimir chose an indifferent approach, one that had made him immensely unpopular. His opponent, Lydia St. Benedict, seemed his antithesis. A widow, whose husband had died in a terrorist attack in Nice. She’d been at a hotel with their two children, who were in bed with colds, when her husband had gone out for a walk and never returned. What worked against her was inexperience. Along with the fact that Casimir had a reputation for playing hard ball. The pundits were waiting to see if Madame St. Benedict could beat Casimir at his own game. The election loomed less than a week away, the candidates’ last national debate tomorrow night.
“Do you think your brother is after Casimir?” I asked.
Antoine shrugged. “There’s no telling what he’s after, but that Sabbat Box has something to do with it. He came after me for a reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Can you help us out?” I said to Marcher.
The inspector never hesitated. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I understood. “Unfinished business?”
“Something like that.”
I recalled everything that Jac L’Etoile had told me about the powerful hallucinations inside the box. It was clear that Marcher was thinking too. I could almost read his mind. Finally, he glanced my way.
“A man like Yves Casimir is vulnerable in many different ways. Which means a man like Denton Lussac has a fertile field to plow. I agree with Antoine. This is much bigger than finding an old box.”