After listening to the evening news on France 2, Mazarelle turned off the TV as if he were slamming a door. The reporters had nothing new beyond what had already been disclosed. The first serious case to come along here since he arrived, practically right on his doorstep, and they give it to the local gendarmes. He supposed that was only fair under the circumstances. First come, first served. Still and all, it was a pain in the ass. He had to get out of this place. While Martine was still alive he had a reason for being in Taziac, but not now.
Everything about this trim, stone house reminded him of her. Small wonder. It was Martine’s house, and her family’s before that. A jewel beautifully renovated about fifty years ago on the Place Mestraillat, a lovely, quiet corner of the village. He pushed the lace curtain aside and gazed out at the dark, empty, windblown street. The three Callery pear trees surrounding the old stone pump shimmered in the starlight.
Mazarelle went over and sank down into his large, red, overstuffed armchair. It seemed as grossly out of place here as he now felt. They had brought the chair from Paris along with their other furniture. No sooner had he sat down than Martine’s cat showed up. Climbing onto his lap, Michou snuggled against his belly and made herself at home. He envied her.
For the past three days all he could think about was L’Ermitage. The TV newscasts and newspapers were full of it. A grisly business. Three of the four foreign visitors staying there had been found bound and gagged in different rooms in the house, their throats cut, and no sign of Monsieur Phillips anywhere. According to the Taziac gendarmes, he seemed to be the leading suspect. Mazarelle wondered what evidence they had.
Even though he’d notified them immediately of Monsieur Reece’s stolen Visa card and missing money and that Reece had identified the person at the ATM in Bergerac as the L’Ermitage handyman, there was no mention of Ali Sedak. But it was still early days. They were bound to latch on to him sooner or later. Though not directly involved in the investigation, the inspector supposed it was his personal contact with the victims that quickened his pulse and ironically made him feel a little less dead himself.
From the shelf holding his large record collection, Mazarelle selected one of his Columbia Jazz Masterpieces. The Benny Goodman Sextet, featuring for the first time Charlie Christian. The year 1939, with France and Europe on the eve of disaster. As soon as he sat down, Michou was back on his lap to listen. Michou loved jazz. And the incomparable Benny was playing “Memories of You,” his clarinet floating each liquid note so effortlessly, so wistfully that even a dumb, self-absorbed cat could appreciate it. And following Benny came Hampton with his luminous vibraphone and Christian, the young genius of the electric guitar, to weave their spell.
Michou stretched herself luxuriously as Mazarelle, lost in thought, rubbed her belly. She was a lovely animal to look at—a rich satiny gray with big pointy ears and a mincing feminine walk—but she came at a cost. The back of his chair was as clawed and shredded as the one in Proust’s cork-lined bedroom that they had seen in the Musée Carnavalet in Paris. Then there was his allergy. His sneezes arriving not in single bursts but whole fusillades. And having felt the preludial itch, Mazarelle in anticipation was reaching for his handkerchief when the telephone rang.
It was Rivet, and completely unexpected. Mazarelle shut off the record player. The only time his boss had ever called him at home before was to offer condolences when Martine died. Though they were hardly friends and Rivet was inclined to be an ambitious pompous ass, the youthful commissaire was always correct. They got along. Rivet had approved his transfer from Paris despite Mazarelle’s reputation as a hotshot. The commissaire didn’t mind having another experienced man on the force as long as he was clear about who was in charge. Familiar with the petty fiefdoms of police bureaucracy, Mazarelle, busy with his sick wife, had stayed out of Rivet’s way.
Mazarelle placed his hand over the phone until he finished sneezing and, wiping his nose, snuffled a hello.
“What was that?”
“Sorry.”
“You sound like you’re coming down with a cold.”
“No, only my damn allergy.”
“Oh yes. You should take care of that. Anyhow, I just got a call from Périgueux. The procureur isn’t satisfied with the people in charge of investigating the Taziac murders. He said the ministry in Paris recommended you, if you were available. He’d like you to take over the investigation immediately. Does that appeal to you?”
“If not, I should be a hardware salesman.”
“I thought so. I told him I had no objections. He’ll be expecting your phone call early tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“I’ll be happy to do what I can, naturally.”
“Don’t forget. He said early.”
“Right.”
Putting down the phone, Mazarelle sprang up from his chair lightly, as if free of the accumulated deadweight of pain, loss, and boredom that had clung to him since Martine’s funeral. He felt a new surge of excitement, a half-forgotten sense that all wasn’t over for him. Perhaps there was something to look forward to after all—the pleasure of tracking down whoever was responsible for these three savage murders and the satisfaction of bringing him, or them, to justice. There was something else too. L’Ermitage, he reminded himself, was the sort of high-visibility case that might resurrect a fading career. The sort of case that with any luck could soon return him to Paris. But in order to conduct a major crime investigation, he’d need as much help in the way of resources as he could get from the procureur. He’d know soon enough.
Mazarelle considered his pipe rack on the shelf, a xylophone of shapely pipes and subtle woods, and plucked out his long-stemmed meerschaum. Curved like a saxophone with a large, deep écume de mer bowl. He tamped down the tobacco and joyfully lit up, wondering who it was in the Ministère de l’Intérieur who still remembered his name.
Up the next morning at the crack of dawn, Mazarelle waited until a decent hour before placing his call. Phillipe d’Aumont was the procureur of Périgueux, the d’Aumonts a well-respected family in the region. Though he’d never met the man, Mazarelle was aware that Phillipe’s father had been an eminent judge and supposed the son was also well connected.
The procureur said he had been expecting his call, actually sounded pleased to receive it. Not only did he know who Mazarelle was but he was delighted to discover that Mazarelle was now working not far away in Bergerac. And close to the scene of the crime. It was reassuring, he said, to have a man of his skills, his reputation taking over the inquiry into these ghastly Taziac murders. D’Aumont promised him his complete support.
Whether it was the man’s easy charm or merely his innate noblesse oblige, Mazarelle distrusted him from the start. And his skepticism was justified when the procureur’s “complete support” proved vague on the numbers. Pressed by Mazarelle, d’Aumont finally committed himself to a task force of twenty judiciary police and technicians. But then removing his velvet glove, d’Aumont made it very clear that in exchange he wanted results.
“This job gets top priority. You’ll have to drop everything else you’re doing.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want action, Inspector. Paris wants action. Remember that four foreign nationals are involved in this ugly business. The press will be after us like mad dogs. Local politicians are already complaining about how this will kill their tourist season. It’s like a plague. And especially bad now when unemployment is breaking our backs. Oh yes,” he added, “one thing more. Make absolutely certain you keep me informed of your progress. Don’t fail me, Mazarelle.”
Recognizing the peevish tone, Mazarelle liked d’Aumont a little better. From top to bottom in major cases, everybody always had a gripe. But pressure was something the inspector had learned to live with in high-profile homicide cases over the years—the biofeedback of experience—and he handled it well.
Mazarelle’s next call that morning was to Duboit. Bernard Duboit was a young cop the older man liked and trusted. Though not terribly ambitious or always dependable, he was actually a pretty good cop, well liked by his friends at the commissariat who called him “Doobie,” and someone whose loyalty in a pinch could be counted on, a quality that Mazarelle prized. Besides, there was something else. Bernard and his wife, Babette, had gone to Taziac high school with Martine, and when she returned from Paris—years later and seriously ill—they couldn’t do enough for her. In a difficult situation they’d been very kind, unlike some of her old friends, and Mazarelle was grateful.
He knew that Bernard, who now lived in Bergerac, would probably still be at home at this early hour because he was usually late to work and always with some lame excuse: an argument with his wife, his youngest kid sick with a stomachache, the older one with an earache, or he himself wasn’t feeling so top-notch. This time it was the toilet. It had backed up and shit was floating all over the bathroom floor.
“Call a plumber,” the inspector advised. “Right now I want you to go to the gendarmerie in Taziac and ask Captain Béchoux for his report. I expect to have it on my desk when I get to the office. Understood?”
“What sort of report?”
“Don’t be a jerk, Bernard. We’re taking over the investigation of the L’Ermitage murders from the gendarmes. The procureur has instructed Captain Béchoux to prepare an account of what they’ve done so far. Get it for me.”
“That sounds great. But why can’t you go and get it? You’re right there in Taziac.”
Mazarelle sighed. Though he’d a good heart, young Duboit had some authority issues that needed tending to. There was this curious father-son element that had crept into their relationship. Maybe it was partially his own fault because he’d never had a son. Or a daughter either, for that matter.
“Just do it, Bernard. Do it for me. Okay?” He’d no desire to rub salt in Béchoux’s wounds by personally showing up to take the defeated captain’s sword. Duboit was still whining like a teenager forbidden to use the family car when Mazarelle hung up.