He hung up the phone.
Jacqueline stared at the dead receiver in her hand, then slowly replaced it in its cradle. "I can't believe it," she said. "The fool. Why did he go back there?"
"What happened?" Wyrdrune asked.
She told them what Renaud had said.
"Jacqueline," said Modred gently, "please don't take offense, but are you quite certain about this?"
She stared at him. "What are you saying? You think Max did it?"
"I don't know Max Siegal," Modred said. "I know only his work and what you've told me about him."
"And my word isn't good enough for you, is that it?" she said.
"No, that's not it at all. You should know better than that," said Modred. "But you yourself said that you hadn't seen Max Siegal in some time. It's possible that he might have had some sort of mental breakdown and—"
"Max Siegal is as sane as you and I," she said. "He's not a killer. And what about the runes?"
"There is that," said Kira. "You're sure they were the same?"
"I drew them for Renaud myself and he said they were identical to the marks found on the first victim's body," said Jacqueline. "Max couldn't possibly have known about them."
Modred nodded. "That's true," he said. "It seems Max Siegal made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Twice."
"I can't understand it," Jacqueline said. "Why on earth would he go back there? And threatening the girl with a knife, that simply doesn't sound like Max. He's temperamental, true, and he's been in fights before, but he's never hurt a woman. He isn't like that."
"If Max Siegal's innocent, then his only chance to prove it is to remain in jail," Modred said. "He will be arraigned, but it will be a long time until his trial. If what we suspect is true, then the killer will surely strike again before then."
"So Max's only chance to gain his freedom is for someone else to die," Jacqueline said.
"It would seem so," said Modred, "at least for the moment. But even if the killer doesn't strike again—and if we're right, that's an extremely unlikely possibility—then there's still the fact that the evidence they have against Siegal is still purely circumstantial. Powerfully circumstantial, perhaps, but nevertheless not conclusive."
"I have to go and see him," Jacqueline said.
"-They probably will not admit you," Modred said. "Let's not rush into anything. Do you know who his attorney is?"
"No," she said, "but I can easily find out."
"Do that. If he's reasonably competent, then perhaps we can work with him. If not, we'll get someone else to represent him."
"I'll get August Chautrand," Jacqueline said. "He's always represented me. He's the best criminal lawyer in France."
"Good. Give him a call. In the meantime, what can you tell me about this Inspector Renaud?"
"Not very much," Jacqueline said. "I've only met him once. Polite. Charming. He seemed like a reasonable man, but now he simply refuses to listen."
"Has he called in the I.T.C. or anyone from the French Bureau of Thaumaturgy?" Modred asked.
"I don't know," she said. "When we last spoke, he said that if what I told him was true, it was his duty to call in the I.T.C, but now it seems he's satisfied that no magic was involved."
"He may be determined to make the case himself, without having the I.T.C. or the Bureau take it away from him," said Wyrdrune. "In that event, he's going to wind up looking very foolish when the Dark Ones kill again."
"No, not the Dark Ones," Modred said. "At least, not personally. It would appear as if they're working through an acolyte. That would be their normal pattern. Send someone else out to do their killing and feed off the life energy released until they've accumulated sufficient power for mass slaughter. Until then, they will conserve their energies."
"You think there may be more than one?" said Kira.
"I hope there's only one," said Modred, "but there may well be more. At this point, there's simply no way of knowing, so we might as well assume the worst. Have any of you had any reaction from your runestones?"
Kira shook her head. "Not me."
"Me, neither," Wyrdrune said.
"Nor I," said Modred. "That means they can't be very close. Or their power isn't great enough yet, which would work in our favor. "
"Have we landed yet?" said Merlin, as Billy yawned. "Where are we? Are we in our hotel already?"
"Good morning," Kira said.
"I thought I told you to wake me when we landed," Merlin said.
"What for?" said Billy. "So you could just start in bein' a bloody pain again?"
"Now you listen here, you young guttersnipe—"
"Not now, Ambrosius," Modred said. "It can wait. There have been new developments. We have to formulate a plan of action."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Merlin.
'"Ow's about keepin' quiet?" Billy said sourly.
"For the moment, nothing," Modred said. "I have to think. In a city like Paris, the Dark Ones could be almost anywhere. For the time being, I don't think we can expect any cooperation from the police."
"Maybe we should call Blood and have him get in touch with Renaud," said Wyrdrune.
"Let's hold off on that for now," said Modred. "If Renaud becomes convinced that necromancy is involved, as he inevitably will be, then we already know the first thing he's going to do is call in the I.T.C. and they're not liable to be very cooperative. There's also the fact that I'm wanted by them."
"But they don't know you're Morpheus," said Kira. "They don't even know what Morpheus looks like."
"Just the same, I'd rather not have them underfoot," said Modred. "Their sorcerer agents are very competent, but their bureaucracy gives them tunnel vision. The longer we have to operate unimpeded, the better our chances are."
"So what's our first move?" asked Wyrdrune.
"Well, since it doesn't seem as if we can expect any cooperation from the local authorities, we'll need more help," Modred said. "I'm going to call Makepeace and have him fly out as soon as possible. Then I'd like to have a look at the scene of the murders. There would have to be some thaumaturgic trace emanations on the site, even if they're very faint. Perhaps we can pick up something."
"That might be risky," Kira said.
Modred shrugged. "At the moment, we have nothing else to go on."
There was a sudden commotion in the hall outside their room. Wyrdrune went to the door and opened it. The broom was out in the hall, wrestling with a maid. They were both shouting at each other, Broom in English, the maid in a torrent of rapid French.
"Broom! What the hell are you doing?" Wyrdrune said. "Let go of that woman!"
"Me let go of her? She keeps grabbing me! Will someone for God's sake tell this person I'm not part of the cleaning equipment?" said the broom, appealing to them for help. "This crazy woman's stuck me in the closet four times already and each time I manage to get out, she yells and shoves me right back in again!"
"Pardon, madame," said Modred to the maid in flawless French, "but I believe that broom belongs to us."
The maid stared at him wide-eyed. "To you, monsieur?"
"Yes. It does not belong to the hotel. As you can see, it is a rather special broom. Could we have it, please?"
"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I thought it was one of the new cleaning tools. We have recently had our vacuum cleaners animated, you see, and I thought this was some sort of new attachment. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked from the broom to Modred, embarrassment plain on her face.
"A completely understandable mistake," said Modred. "Please think nothing of it. You see, my friend here is an adept and the broom is his familiar."
"Ah! Mon Dieu!" she said. "I did not know! You won't tell the management, monsieur? I will get in trouble!"
"We won't say another word about it," Modred said. "But perhaps you would be so kind as to inform the staff about our broom, in order to avoid any further misunderstandings of this nature."
"Yes, of course, monsie
ur! And please accept my apologies." She curtsied to him, then, after hesitating uncertainly, she curtsied to the broom, as well.
"What's she doing now?" the broom said suspiciously.
"Just say, merci, Broom."
"Mercy," said the broom.
"Oui, merci," said the maid, and hurried off down the hall.
"Crazy woman," said the broom. "Couldn't she tell I wasn't just any broom, for God's sake?"
"Apparently not," said Modred. "It seems they have animated cleaning appliances in this hotel. She thought you were some sort of vacuum cleaner attachment."
"Vacuum cleaner attachment!" said the broom with disbelief. "They have animated vacuum cleaners?"
"Apparently so," said Modred.
"Feh!" the broom said. "What's this world coming to, I ask you? You mean to tell me I'm going to have to put up with some talking canister coming in here to- make up the room? Gevalt! I never heard of such a thing! You just tell them to keep out of here, that's all. Animated vacuum cleaners, my tuchis!"
"Just stay in the room and you'll be fine, Broom," Wyrdrune said with a chuckle. "Watch some TV or something."
"Oh, swell," the broom said. "I finally get a trip to Paris and he says stay in the room and watch TV! I could have done that at home! Besides, I don't speak a word of French. How am I supposed to understand the programs?"
"Maybe we can get a bilingual vacuum cleaner in here to interpret for you," Wyrdrune said with a grin.
"No, thank you very much," the broom said with a sniff. "Never mind me. You just go on about your business. I'll find some way to occupy my time. After all, it's only Paris. The Eiffel Tower is just a bunch of girders, the Champs-Elysees is just a street, the Louvre is only a museum. We've got museums back home in New York. It doesn't matter. I'll be fine. I'll find something to do. Don't worry about me."
Wyrdrune rolled his eyes. "Mother," he said, "you've got a lot to answer for."
Modred chuckled. "Don't worry, Broom. We'll find something for you to do. Perhaps we'll hire a guide to take you on a tour. Would you like that?"
"You don't have to go to any trouble on my account," the broom said.
"It's no trouble at all."
"No, that's all right. I'll just stay here. I'll do some knitting. You just go have a good time. Never mind about me, I'll be fine."
"Broom . . ." said Wyrdrune. "Stop it."
"Well, all right, if you insist, I'll go on a tour. But you're sure it won't be too expensive? Maybe just a little tour?"
"We'll work something out," said Modred. "In the meantime, I suggest we have some dinner. The cuisine in this hotel is excellent. We are in Paris, after all. Then, afterward, we'll take a short trip to the Rue Morgue."
"You've done very well, Jacques," the Dark One said. "Very well, indeed. I see that we were right to choose you."
Jacques sat on the couch in the luxurious apartment, staring at the floor. "She was so young, so pretty. . . ."
"And so strong," she said, coming up to stand before him. "The young ones are fresh," she said. "Their life energy is the most vibrant. Their blood courses powerfully through their veins."
"Blood," said Jacques, still staring at the floor. "There was so much blood. . . ."
"You will grow used to it," she said, dropping her hand to rest on the back of his neck. "It was not so hard, was it? The second one was easier than the first. And the third one will be easier still. And after awhile, it will trouble you no longer. You will even learn to take pleasure in the kill."
"I did take pleasure in it, God help me," said Jacques. He stared at his hands. "I keep washing my hands, but I can still feel the blood upon them." He shivered. "It frightens me. I know it's wrong, terribly wrong, and yet, I find myself enjoying it. The way I enjoy making love with you. I cannot think straight, I cannot eat, I cannot sleep. I keep thinking about those poor young girls. I did not want to do it, but I couldn't help myself. . . ."
She sat down on the couch, next to him, and put her arm around him. "Would you rather go back to the way you were?" she said. "Is that what you want? To be old and decrepit once again, diseased and lice-ridden, crawling through the sewer tunnels like a rat? Is that what you want?"
"No," he said with a shudder. "But perhaps I would be better off."
"Better off in the filthy, stinking sewers than in this beautiful apartment?" she said. "Better off dying down there like some vermin-ridden animal instead of living like a handsome young gentleman of means? This is only the beginning, Jacques. You can have your old life back again and more. You will be better than you ever were before, better than you could have dreamed! We are not ungrateful. We reward those who are loyal to us. Tonight you will be back upon the stage once more. You will be the star of the Paris entertainment world! You will be wealthy, sought after and admired. Isn't that what you really want?"
"Yes. No. I don't know," said Jacques. "I don't know what I want anymore."
"You still want me, Jacques, don't you?" she said, pulling him close and kissing his cheek, lightly flicking his earlobe with her tongue.
He felt the irresistible, overpowering desire for her flow through him once again and he threw his arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her passionately.
"God help me," he said. "Oh, Leila, what have you done tome?"
"Not a fraction of what I'm going to do, my love," she said softly, kissing him deeply and pushing him down upon the couch.
Chapter
FOUR
Michel Fremont had accumulated more stored-up hatred in his seventeen years than most people experience in an entire lifetime. He had grown up in a sick, abusive atmosphere, with an emotionally deadened mother who sold her body on the streets to support her drug habit and a father who was a sadistic alcoholic. He had never experienced affection. He had never known what it meant to feel wanted. He knew only anger and resentment because that was all he ever got and he gave it back in spades.
When Michel's father came staggering home after the bars had closed, the shouting and the screaming would commence, with his father demanding money and his mother refusing to give him any, afraid that she wouldn't have enough to pay the rent and buy her drugs—never mind the food, of which there was never enough. His father would start beating her and she would put up token resistance, suffering the treatment long enough to make him think that he had pummeled her into submission, whereupon she would part with a portion of the money she had earned, hoarding the rest in various hiding places around the house. Michel's father would then pocket the money and start looking for Michel, to thrash him for good measure before he went to sleep.
Michel would hide, under a bed, inside a closet, behind a chair, and occasionally his father would fail to find him before he passed out on the couch, or on the bed, or often on the floor, and for at least one night, Michel would escape a beating. But it was a very small apartment and there were few places to hide. More often than not, Michel was pulled out from his place of sanctuary and "taught a lesson." Violence was the only lesson he had ever learned and he had learned it very well.
At school, he was surly and rebellious, indifferent to his lessons and meaner than a junkyard dog. All the other children were mortally afraid of him and, as he grew older, a good number of his teachers learned to fear him, too. They were secretly relieved when one day he failed to show up for school and never came back again. No one even bothered to report him for being truant. Nor did he bother to go back home. His father had beat him once too often and Michel had waited until he passed out on the floor, then he had stuck a knife between his ribs and stopped his snoring permanently. He had then gone to finish off his mother, but she had already saved him the trouble. He found her dead in her bedroom, of an overdose.
Michel never felt the least bit Of remorse. For a while, he was afraid that the police would catch him, but it never came to that. It was not the sort of crime that received a great deal of priority. A prostitute dead of an overdose and a convicted felon stabbed to death. Perhaps one of her
Johns had done it. Perhaps she had killed him and then drugged herself into oblivion. Either way, nobody much cared. They were the sort of people who would not be missed. The neighbors had said something about a boy, and he was listed as being missing, but there were more runaways living on the streets of Paris than the police could ever hope to find and so they didn't bother looking very hard. Michel was simply another casualty of a squalid family life.
He survived by stealing. He tried picking pockets, as many of the young street urchins did, but he found it far easier simply to select vulnerable victims, knock them down, kick them until they stopped straggling and then relieve them of their valuables. He had soon organized a small street gang of young hellions, keeping them in line with his father's time-honored methods. He taught them how to gang up on their targets, how to hit and run so they were never caught. The young runaway girls who gravitated to his gang were taught his mother's old profession, with a twist. They enticed the customers with their youth, luring them with promises of cheap, illicit sex to a place where the boys could stomp them into the ground and take their money. Occasionally, some of these girls would strike out on their own, finding it more profitable to actually deliver the goods and keep all the money for themselves. To keep that from happening too often, Michel made a habit of knocking them around every now and then, just as his father had done with his mother, until they coughed up some money. Most of them soon found it prudent to have some money on them to surrender, just in case Michel demanded an accounting. He was cold and vicious, without an ounce of compassion in his twisted soul, and he was afraid of nothing.
Until he met the Dark Ones.
The two old gentlemen were shuffling down the street, walking arm in arm. They looked like a couple of old queens, out for an evening's promenade. They were well dressed, which meant they probably had money. They should have known better than to be out at night in such a neighborhood, but perhaps they were out cruising, looking for some young flesh to fulfill their twisted appetites. Perhaps they thought that being together would provide them with some measure of protection. Well, thought Michel, the old fools would soon find out how wrong they were.
[Wizard of 4th Street 04] - The Wizard of Rue Morgue Page 6