by Rickie Blair
All we wanted was our money.
He put his coffee to one side and leaned his head on his hands. Our money. It always came back to that.
The morning passed in a blur of phone calls as Thérèse arranged a flight for her sister and roused Jourdain’s assistant, Nina, to help with funeral arrangements. There had been a long-distance argument with the New York police about an autopsy, followed by entreaties to their lawyer. But even the formidable Thérèse had to admit such an indignity was unavoidable.
Other than seeking his consent to pay for these arrangements, the women had ignored him. Berthe made him lunch. After pushing the food around on his plate, he dressed and left for the office. On the train he considered calling Fulton, but decided it was a conversation for a more private place.
By the time he arrived in La Motte-Picquet, the streetlights glowed yellow against a cobalt blue sky. He unlocked the front door of Banque de Roche Noire and waited for the elevator, too tired to climb even one flight of stairs.
Nina greeted him at the door to his office, looking distressed.
“Monsieur de Montagny, I am so sorry.” She took his coat and hung it in the closet. “How is Madame?”
“She is grateful for your help, as am I. You have been kind to wait for me, Nina, but there’s no reason to give up any more of your Sunday. Go home.”
“There are papers to sign, for the Michaud family—”
“Leave them with me and I’ll sign them before I go.” He walked into his office and sat at his desk. Nina placed the papers before him and stood, watching him.
“Did you cancel my lunch appointment and make my apologies?”
“I rescheduled for tomorrow morning. I told them only a brief meeting.”
He nodded and pulled open a desk drawer. “Go home.”
She turned to go.
“Wait. Where is my fountain pen?”
Nina turned and pointed at his pen, lying in the open drawer.
“And the ink is on your desk.”
He tried to chuckle, but his throat was dry.
“What would I do without you? Do I have any writing paper?”
She smiled and pulled open another drawer, which held sheets of monogrammed vellum. Nina pulled out several sheets and laid them on his desk, then moved the inkstand closer to his hand. Jourdain watched her quick precise movements and looked up at her.
“How long have you worked for me, Nina?”
“Thirty years, Monsieur.”
“That’s a long time, is it not?”
“Oui, a long time.” She studied his face. “Are you well, Monsieur?”
“I’m fine. Please, go home.” He reached for the first sheet of vellum.
Hours later, Jourdain laid down his pen and rubbed his wrist. He folded one page, slipped it into an envelope, sealed it, and wrote ‘Thérèse’ on the front. Then he straightened the thick stack of sheets that were covered with his elegant handwriting and slid them into a brown cardboard binder. He wrapped the binder’s string around its fastener and left it on his desk.
He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Eleven p.m. Time to call Raymond.
Fulton’s voice boomed from the phone.
“Bonjour, mon ami. How are things in Paris?”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you lie about Brigitte?”
“Is this about that girl again? Keller said something about her, but I swear I have no idea what he was talking about.”
“She’s dead.” Jourdain reached for the envelope addressed to Thérèse and leaned it carefully against the base of his desk lamp. The dark blue ink glistened under the light.
“Good God, Jourdain, I’m sorry. I thought he was lying.”
“I’ve written it all down. Everything, from the beginning. It’s all here.”
“What are you talking about? Jourdain? Are you there? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Goodbye, Raymond.”
“What the—”
Jourdain hung up the phone and pulled the cord from the wall. Then he opened the wine cabinet beside his desk and took out the first bottle to hand, a Bourgogne blanc. For once, he had no interest in the vintage. He removed the cork and placed two wine glasses on his desk. He poured burgundy into one and walked to the mantel where he stood, sipping his wine and studying the silver-framed photos.
After a few minutes he returned to his desk and took a prescription bottle from the top drawer. He cradled it in his hand, scrutinizing the label. Thérèse had insisted he visit their doctor for sleeping pills. Night after night he had lain awake, tugging the comforter this way and that, lost in a fog of memories and regret. With his wife asleep, he would slip out of bed and walk downstairs to sit in the leather wing chair in his den. He would stare out the window until dawn etched the outline of the hawthorn branches and chaffinches began to sing.
The downstairs buzzer sounded, and he looked up. His late appointment had arrived.
Jourdain tromped down the stairs and opened the front door. Back in his office, he pointed to the chair opposite his desk, poured a second glass of wine and held it out to his visitor.
“Please, sit.”
“I have many questions.”
“I know. And I intend to answer them.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ruby stumbled to the door of her hotel room and opened it.
“Come in, Hari. I’m not ready yet, sorry.” She rubbed her forehead, gesturing at the phone. “Would you order coffee, please?”
When she emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later in a hotel robe, Hari was sitting at the table under the window, spreading marmalade on a croissant. He picked up the empty wine bottle from the floor and waggled it at her.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” He replaced the bottle, poured a second cup of coffee and pushed it to her side of the table.
Ruby sat down and reached for the cup. She gulped, closed her eyes, and sighed. Replacing the cup on its saucer, she held up two fingers.
“Two minutes. And no, I’m not.” She pulled fresh clothes from her travel case and went into the bathroom to change.
“Take your time. I’m early,” Hari called.
In the bathroom Ruby fumbled through her cosmetic bag for headache tablets, swallowed two, and peered in the mirror at her bloodshot eyes. Why did a full bottle of wine make everything better, while an empty one made everything worse? And how long would it take before she got that through her head?
She dressed and returned to the table, drank the rest of her coffee, and tore off a mouthful of croissant before standing up.
“Let’s go.”
Monsieur de Montagny’s office was in a carved limestone building with a wrought iron door and a discreet brass plaque engraved with Banque de Roche Noire. Ruby and Hari walked up a flight of stairs and pushed open a heavy wooden door. A trim middle-aged woman in a black sweater with a yellow silk scarf at her neck smiled at them from a desk across the room. She walked over and held out her hand.
“Bonne matin. Monsieur de Montagny vous attend, je suppose.”
“Bonne matin. Et merci,” Ruby said, “j’espère qu’il n’y a pas un probléme?”
“Non, mais je ne l’ai pas encore vu ce matin.”
At Hari’s confused look, the woman smiled and shook her head.
“I’m sorry. After speaking with Ms. Delaney on the phone, I assumed you both spoke French. I am Nina, Monsieur de Montagny’s executive assistant. I told Ms. Delaney that I believe Monsieur is waiting for you, but I haven’t seen him yet this morning.”
“Is he here?”
“He often comes in late to make calls to New York. Much too late. Sometimes he falls asleep, and I try not to disturb him. But he wanted me to bring you in when you arrived. He was sorry to cancel your appointment yesterday.”
“I hope his family emergency was not too serious.”
“A death in the family. His wife’s niece. Madame was upset, and
he wanted to be home with her. You understand.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ruby said.
They followed Nina into a sunlit room with tall windows and white-painted wood. An elaborately decorated rolltop desk stood on the far side of the room and they walked over to it, their steps muffled by plush carpeting. Ruby was so entranced with the gilt and marquetry on the desk—a genuine Louis XV Bureau du Roi—that she almost missed seeing the man seated in a leather chair behind it. The chair had been pushed back and swiveled around so its back was toward them. De Montagny’s arms hung over the sides of the chair and his head was bent.
“Monsieur?” Nina said. “Your visitors from New York are here.” She turned to them with a smile. “He’s asleep,” she whispered. Nina stepped behind the desk and tapped de Montagny on the shoulder. “Monsieur?”
As Ruby stepped nearer the desk her shoe caught on the rug and she glanced down. Something dark and sticky had soaked the carpet. She looked up as Nina swiveled the chair to face them.
De Montagny’s head lolled back and his eyes stared at the ceiling. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. Blood trailed from vertical slashes on both wrists, soaking his hands and dripping onto the rug.
Nina screamed and Hari caught her as she fainted. He turned to Ruby.
“Call the police.”
* * *
Paramedics lifted de Montagny’s covered body onto a gurney to take it downstairs and into a waiting ambulance. Nina had been taken to the hospital, sobbing hysterically. Banque de Roche Noire employees huddled in groups outside de Montagny’s office, whispering while they waited to be interviewed by the police.
Hari squeezed Ruby’s arm.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said dully. It wasn’t true. Monsieur de Montagny had been so charming on the phone. He recommended a hotel and called the concierge himself to ask that he look out for them. He even sent wine to their rooms. How could he be dead? Her head throbbed and she felt queasy under the forensics team’s glaring spotlights. She pressed a hand against her forehead and stared at the floor, struggling to control her nausea.
A police detective walked over and Ruby looked up.
“There is no reason for you to stay any longer,” he said in heavily accented English. “Thank you for your help. We have your number.”
As the detective turned to go, Ruby placed a hand on his arm.
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, do any of Monsieur’s staff know why he—?”
“In my opinion,” the detective broke in, “this is not suicide.”
“You can’t mean…” Ruby drew a sharp breath and glanced at Hari, who stared at the detective. “How can you tell?” she asked.
“The wounds are too precise. To cut yourself in this way is difficult, very painful. Yet Monsieur de Montagny’s face est tranquille and his hands are placed just so…” He held his arms out to either side to demonstrate.
Ruby swayed and Hari tightened his grip on her arm.
The detective motioned over a gendarme.
“Please allow us to drive you back to your hotel.”
* * *
They stopped at the front desk to order coffee and then went upstairs. Ruby slipped off her blood-soiled shoes and threw them into the wastebasket by the door of her room. She staggered to the bed, leaned back against the pillows, and closed her eyes.
“Aspirin?” Hari asked.
“Please.”
He disappeared into the bathroom and came out with headache tablets and a glass of water.
Ruby swallowed two tablets and put the glass on the night table beside her.
“I don’t get it, Hari. He had a successful business, a lovely family. He was fine when I talked to him. What could have happened?”
Before Hari could answer, a staccato tap on the door was followed by a white-jacketed youth pushing a trolley with sandwiches and coffee into the room. The youth filled their cups, nodded at them, and left. Hari took his coffee to the table under the window.
Ruby picked up a sandwich and returned to the bed, chewing, but the baguette and Gruyère turned to rocks in her stomach. After a few bites she gave up, tossed her sandwich into the wastebasket and leaned against the headboard.
“Keller had an account with Banque de Roche Noire and he’s missing,” she said.
“So?”
“His girlfriend had an account with Banque de Roche Noire and she’s dead. Monsieur de Montagny, the founder of Banque de Roche Noire, is also dead. And according to the statement Mrs. Keller gave us, Banque de Roche Noire is a division of Capital Street Management.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Did Benjamin Levitt ever mention Banque de Roche Noire?”
“Not that I recall.” Sipping on his coffee, Hari reached for another sandwich.
“But he was looking into Capital Street Management, correct?”
Hari looked up, startled.
“Yes, definitely. Capital Street was Ben’s obsession for over a year. He insisted the Castlebar Fund was a fraud. But no one believed him. I heard Fulton threatened to sue and that’s why Ben stopped talking about it.”
“Could Ben have been right about the Castlebar Fund?”
“It seems unlikely. He never proved anything.”
“So,” Ruby counted on her fingers, “one, two, three, four people with links to the Castlebar Fund are either missing or dead. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“A lot of people have links to that fund. Investors, advisers, staff, their families, their friends.”
“It still seems strange to me.”
Hari cocked his head and looked at her.
“I have a few contacts in Paris. People I’ve met at conferences. I’m not sure what we might learn from them, but I can ask. After that, though, we’re going home.”
“Not before paying our respects to Madame de Montagny.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Yes, I am. Her husband had agreed to meet us and was very gracious about it. It’s the least we can do. I’ll make an appointment for tomorrow. After that, we can go home.” Ruby glanced at the clock by her bed. It was already mid-afternoon. She stretched out on the bed with a heavy sigh. “But for the rest of today, I’m not leaving this room.”
Hari held up a finger and frowned.
“One moment, please. Are you suggesting we question a grieving widow about her husband’s business affairs the day after his death?”
Ruby closed her eyes.
“Of course not. It’s a social call.”
“Why do I not believe you?”
She opened her eyes, sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Now that you mention it, there is one thing.” She retrieved her handbag from the floor and took out her cellphone. After scanning through her photos, she held up the phone. “Look.”
Hari peered at the screen.
“Is that the mantelpiece in de Montagny’s office?”
Ruby nodded and his jaw dropped.
“You took pictures when we were in his office, with his body, waiting for the police? You took pictures?”
“Was that wrong?”
“Well … well…” He tried unsuccessfully to marshal more words.
“Never mind being indignant, Hari, look at the picture.”
He glared at her and lowered his head to stare at the screen.
“I give up. What am I looking at?”
“It’s what you’re not looking at. See the back row, near the middle? That big empty spot?”
“So?”
“That mantel is packed with photos. They’re practically falling off the edge. So why is there an empty space at the back?”
He looked up at her.
“Because one’s missing.”
“Yes. And look at this.” Ruby scrolled through her other photos and held up the phone again. This one showed the top of de Montagny’s desk and part of his arm. Hari bent to look at it and gave an exasperated shake of his head.
/> “Bloody hell, Ruby. You took photos of the body, too?”
“Look at the desk, the desk! The middle, to be exact.”
Hari took the phone from her and held it under the lamp for a better look.
“That’s an empty picture frame.”
“And it’s the same size as that blank spot on the mantel. So where did the photo go?”
“He might have been changing it.”
“Then where’s the new photo? Why isn’t it on his desk?” She shook her head. “No. Someone took that picture and left the frame behind. Someone who was in his office last night. Someone who…” Ruby winced and covered her mouth with both hands.
Hari handed her the phone.
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you. If someone took the photo why leave the frame? De Montagny’s wife must know who was in that picture. Probably a lot of people do. If the killer is in it, taking it would only point back to him.”
“I think it’s a warning.”
“A warning? De Montagny is dead, not much point warning him.”
“No, but Leta said de Montagny and Fulton are partners, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“Whoever took that picture might be planning to send it to Fulton.”
Hari looked unconvinced, but before he could reply his cellphone rang. He answered it, listened, and glanced at her with a puzzled look.
“Could you repeat that?” He handed her the phone. “It’s the Paris police, I think, but I can’t understand them.”
Ruby took the phone from him.
“Hallo?” She listened for a few minutes with her forehead furrowed. “Merci. Thank you for letting us know.” She hung up.
“Well?”
“They’re testing de Montagny’s wine glass for barbiturates. There was an empty prescription bottle on the floor and the contents were more than enough to kill someone. They can’t be certain until the blood tests are back, but it looks as if he was unconscious before his wrists were slashed.”