Reiner couldn’t believe his eyes when he returned to his hideout and found the gun case in the living room empty. He’d thought that his biggest loss that day was a football game. The two rifles were nowhere in the house. If he’d any luck, they might have been stolen. A larky visit from their carousing French neighbors perhaps, or the local teenage scum scrounging for knickknacks to pawn. But given how cleanly the guns had been taken—no signs of break-in—both were highly improbable. More likely, and much more dangerous, was that Mazarelle and his flics had been there.
When Reiner returned to Taziac, he thought his one problem was the Reece woman. He’d believed that his handyman scenario had worked perfectly—that Mazarelle was content with Ali Sedak as lone perpetrator of the L’Ermitage murders. Yet, along with attending to the Reece woman, almost out of a mix of habit and caution, he’d also been watching the inspector, tracking his movements. A useless time filler, Reiner thought, while he waited to finish the other job. But he now realized that he’d been too easily swayed by the newspaper accounts of Mazarelle’s great success. Then to learn—from the inspector himself—that Mazarelle was apparently not satisfied! Reiner supposed that, like the stubborn American woman, Mazarelle would probably never quit his hunt for the killer.
Well then, he’d simply have to take care of both of them. Reiner welcomed the opportunity. Felt energized by the risk he was taking in staying on in this house. And by the pressure of time. He guessed it’d take no more than a day or two before analysis of the guns would help the flics discover that their murder case had spread next door. Soon they’d be back in force and swarming. He knew he could meet the challenge, but he couldn’t afford to waste a minute.
Tonight it would be Mazarelle’s turn. Tomorrow the orphan. He’d do both in his own way, with care—after all, he was an artist, not a butcher. So what if everything he did wasn’t a masterpiece? How many Sistine Chapel ceilings did Michelangelo paint or how many Guernicas Picasso? He already had some exciting ideas percolating. In no time he’d have a custom-made plan set up for each of them. But both plans would have to be foolproof this time. No fuckups like the failed cave fiasco or the Phillips job—he still couldn’t believe what happened there and how he’d lost control. In the current circumstances, he’d have no second chances.
It wasn’t often that he had such a worthy adversary as the inspector. Though there was no money in his removal, which of course was an ugly blemish in any plan, Reiner was already anticipating the thrill of the challenge. He’d begin with what he’d been given. Late that night Mazarelle would be going for dinner at the Café Valon. Stuffing himself with duck confit, that well-known favorite of his. Plus a bottle of wine, to add to the several cognacs he’d had earlier in the day. Which would mean a full stomach, a slow step, and a pickled brain on his way home. So far so good!
Okay. So he’d be walking back alone, perhaps humming some American ditty to himself. The inspector, he’d read, loved American music. And as usual at that late hour, he’d take the shortcut down the gravel-covered alley to his house on the Place Mestraillat. Reiner had watched him take this route before. There were no streetlights in the narrow alley, no signs of life from the three, empty medieval buildings—one dating back to the fourteenth century—under reconstruction. The only light came from the rear of the few houses that were occupied. Based upon the way the weather had changed that late afternoon—the wind kicking up the dust and storm clouds gathering, filling the sky with enormous dark towers—it promised to be a moonless night. Perfect for what he had in mind.
But first he’d need a large cardboard box. It didn’t take him long to find just the ticket under the kitchen sink. He pulled out a brown corrugated box, the name Le Creuset printed all over it and designed to hold a large Dutch oven. Reiner emptied out the sponges, oven cleaner, floor wax, paper towels, rubber gloves, and jumbo plastic garbage bags. He lifted the empty box. The size looked right—big enough to hold a small pit bull or a medium-size cocker spaniel. After some minor adjustments, he thought, it should work beautifully.
Then, soon as it got dark, he’d leave to set the stage and wait for his leading actor to step from the wings. And after he’d said his piddling farewell lines, it’d be “Auf Wiedersehen, cher monsieur l’inspecteur!”