by John Gubert
As usual in the off season, the local policeman was going to be more at home directing traffic than solving murder cases. That would make the idiots more likely to accept our story. We needed a quick explanation. I needed anything to stop this becoming a long running saga. If we played our cards right, we could pull it off.
I quickly turned to the shivering girl, “Where are you staying?”
“At the Rue de Provence, in St Tropez. I was going to move on to Nice tomorrow.”
“Did anyone know about Nice?”
“No. I had not booked even. At this time of the year there is always room.”
“Come back with us and we can help you. But get away from the police. We can’t spend time at the police station.”
“What about my aunt? She’s dead,” sobbed the girl.
“You can’t help her then. But tomorrow we must leave. It’s safer for you and we need to as well. Trust us.”
The policeman came to us and asked what had happened. It was fairly evident but we gave our side of the story.
“We were just driving out when a car drove in at speed. It all happened so quickly. I tried to avoid it and hit the lamppost. Then I ducked and so did my wife as guns were fired. Then they left. There was shouting. We heard their car leave. When we looked up the older woman was lying against the car and the girl was screaming and sobbing in terror. My wife went over to comfort her.”
“Are you acquainted with the girl and the older lady?” asked the policeman with strange formality.
“No. They were in the restaurant and so were we. We all left roughly at the same time. Our car was closer and we must have reached it before them. We were about to drive away.”
My wife added, “It was strange. When they drove away one man was yelling that they got the wrong one.”
“I didn’t hear that. I heard shouts and shouted conversation. I must have been too shocked.”
The girl had recovered well. “Why me?” she cried. “I was on a tour. I wanted a break. I was visiting my aunt. I had not seen her in years. She is only a distant relative. Her sons live in Paris. She is a widow. Who could have done this? Why did they do this? My father will be...” She did not finish. Undoubtedly her father would react, but as I discovered later, hardly in sorrow, as he appeared to have been the cause of the shooting. The policemen were not to know.
Others in the growing crowd embellished the story. People who had been miles away appeared to think that they were on hand. One added to Anne-Marie’s story and asserted that the tall dark assassin had shouted out “Shit we screwed up. It was the wrong one. It was the wrong fucking bitch.”
The police appeared to be pleased with this line. I supposed that murder in error was better than a gangland killing. By now they were loading the old lady’s body into the ambulance and surrounding the car and its immediate area with a fence of police tape. They called for forensics on the radio and asked what they should do with the girl.
I intervened and said, “Look, the poor kid has just seen her aunt killed. She saw little. She is in a state of shock. We are willing to take her home. I assume she has family there. Why don’t you just get her details and talk to her tomorrow?”
The police seemed to buy the idea. I saw no reason to give the police an inkling of our earlier conversation. “Can we take you home? Do you have friends or relatives here?”
The girl was sharp. She was really in shock but she knew she had to continue playing along. “We were on our own. I had come down for a break. Tomorrow I was supposed to leave. I don’t know anyone here.”
Anne-Marie looked sympathetically on. “Would you like to come back with us? We have room. Perhaps we should pick up your things and then you can stay with us overnight.”
I shuddered at the thought of hitting their apartment alone in the dark. You never knew what those thugs would do. “Perhaps it would be better if you went back tomorrow. I am sure we can fix you up for the night. You are shivering. Officer, Can we take her?”
The girl seemed to agree. She said nothing. The policeman turned to me and asked for my address. I gave it to him and said that we were planning to leave the next day.
“I think it is an open and shut case, Monsieur, obviously one of mistaken identity. It is all so unfortunate; so very tragic. We should meet tomorrow morning to complete the formalities with the young lady,” he added.
I was surprised how eagerly he had swallowed the story. I had been concerned that he would latch onto the case. Perhaps he would have dreams of hitting the headlines in a great crime that he alone would resolve. I had though over-estimated the man’s ambition. His main concern, as I overheard him later note to another of the policemen, was that he was a bit late for his “cinq a sept”. I thought back to my office days in Paris in former years and remembered that was the French jargon for a bit on the side. The guy had a mistress waiting and was getting itchy. No wonder the criminals usually win!
We packed the girl into the car and drove towards our home. She sobbed gently to herself but I could see she was tough. With possibly a Mafia father, and definitely a crooked one, she would have needed to be. I wandered if we would find out what lay behind her story. Somehow it hadn’t rung entirely true. But that could wait. It would have to wait.
RE-UNITED
They were actually quite sweet. They could have walked away. But I was concerned about two things.
My aunt had noticed them and had immediately said that they were running from something. The woman had started nervously in the restaurant whenever sirens were heard in the distance. The man looked too carefully at people when they came into the restaurant. And he seemed only to relax again when he realised that he did not recognise them. But then he had acted out of character at the shooting. Why? If they were fleeing the law, they would want nothing to do with the police. Who were they? I would need to find out.
I also did not want them to know that I had been the one who had stolen the recording. I had tried to use it to get some money from my father. I wanted to get out of the house. I didn’t want to be surrounded by thugs. I shuddered at the thought of some forced marriage to the scion of one of his circle. I had reckoned that a few million would give me independence. I had stayed with my aunt by chance. I had arrived in St Tropez on a whim, waiting for a response from my father. I had called my aunt who insisted that I stayed with her. She had seemed pleased to see me although we had never been close.
And then she had seen the video. She picked it up accidentally. How could I have been so careless as to leave it lying around in my room? The stupid bitch had planned to take it to the police. She must have called them to arrange a meeting and hinted about the reason. Somehow they had got the message to my father. She may have told the police about me and my role. If so, I was in trouble. More likely though, she did not tell them about me. Otherwise they would have got me. I had recognised Bruno. He wouldn’t have missed. I started crying, out of anger, out of frustration.
Anne-Marie looked back and sought to comfort me. She thought that I was mourning my aunt. I was sorry that she had been killed. But why on earth had the stupid cow done what she did? There must have been a reason. It must have been something that had happened in the past. She risked her life to get her revenge. The problem was the tape would always be like dynamite. The police could have the full story. Surely they would look for the tape. How would we get out of it? When would they realise who had been killed? When would they learn who I was?
We drove down the winding hill and across the flat peninsula to St Tropez. Their house was a pleasant villa. It had a good view down to the bay. It was a decent place for a holiday, but little else. I still felt suspicious. Somehow it did not all fit together.
“Would you like a drink?” said Jean Pierre.
“A virgin Mary, please, with lots of spice,” I answered. Then I took the plunge. “You’re not French. Why have you got French names?”
“What do you mean?” was the sharp response. “Why do you think we are not F
rench?”
“Your English is too good. I hardly heard you speak French although you obviously can. You chatted quite a bit with the police.”
“We lived a long time in England. We are French originally. We came from Martinique.”
“My father was a plantation owner and my husband’s were teachers,” Anne-Marie added quickly. She was not convincing. Spoke too quickly, too glibly. I decided that I should accept their explanation. I did not want to upset them. I would snoop around later.
I downed my drink and felt the spices in the smooth juice burn my throat.
“I would like to get some sleep,” I said. “Would you mind? Perhaps we could talk tomorrow? I really can’t take any more today.”
Anne-Marie was immediately sympathetic. “Of course you can, my dear. Let me get you some wash things and a nightdress. You will be sleeping in the spare room that is opposite our bedroom. If you need anything or want to talk or anything, just knock on our door.”
She returned with a black slinky nightdress, a bit tight on me but a decent fit I thought. She also had a towel and a new toothbrush. “The bathroom is just here. Don’t forget, call if you need anything. Sleep well. Or would you like a tablet?”
I asked for a tablet, thinking that would make them believe I was asleep fairly quickly. I wanted them to go to bed for I was really exhausted and did not want to fall asleep myself before I had gone through the house. I had to find out who they were. There was an outside chance that they were involved with my father. Somehow, though, I felt that that was unlikely. I quickly brushed my teeth and headed to the bedroom. I pulled off my clothes and went to the window. I opened the window and looked out to the sea, relishing in the cool air that gently caressed all the contours of my naked body.
I had always loved going around without clothes. I felt refreshed and invigorated. There was something erotic about the cool air creeping into my body.
I turned away and quickly shut the window as I thought that we could have been followed. My father’s thugs could be lurking in the garden. For a moment I almost panicked. Then I calmed myself. I still checked the window again. Then I drew the curtains. I pulled the nightdress over my head and realised it was tighter than I thought.
I had inherited my mother’s figure. My last boyfriend had called it voluptuous and I guess that it was. I missed him so much. He had been great. We had been great. Then somehow it had all fallen apart. Not helped by my father who had kicked him out of the house. He had beaten me too and called me a fucking whore in front of everyone. I was twenty. Did he really expect me to be a virgin? Was it so terrible that we were in bed? It wasn’t as if I was a serial man eater like some of my friends. That boyfriend had been one of three, and since him, there had been no one.
I shook these thoughts away. That was the past. I switched off the light and went to bed. I listened carefully for signs that everyone was asleep. I noticed it was nearly midnight. I shut my eyes for a few moments and then woke up with a start. I looked at the clock. It was two in the morning. I had dozed off. But never matter. They would now be asleep and I could start searching for clues. I needed to know who they were.
I crept downstairs. It was light from the moon. I had noticed a small study just off the hall. There was a desk. In it were papers, all in the name of De Roche. There were others in the name of Feraud. He had rented the house for a year in the first name; it wasn’t his house. He was an authorised resident of Monaco through his wife whose parents had lived there. She had been born there. They had an address there. It was an apartment but I did not recognise the street. Mind you, that meant nothing as Monaco is hardly a fun city and I had done little more than pass through on a visit to its casino.
Then I noticed the briefcase. It had a combination lock and was shut. What would be in it? I looked in his passport. Most people used a combination of the days, months or year of their birth on such locks. He was born 14th July 1955. I tried 1407 on the lock. Nothing happened. I tried 1455. Again nothing happened. Then I realised the case was slim, more a lady’s. I picked up her passport. She was born 2nd January 1958. I tried 0201 and heard the pleasing sound of a lock opening.
Inside the case were a series of air tickets. They took them from Madrid to Rio. Then they went from Rio to Miami. And they continued on from Miami to Los Angeles. Finally they took them from Los Angeles to Geneva. There was a list of addresses. Each was a doctor or a hospital. There were three in each location. This was getting stranger and stranger.
I checked the issue dates on the tickets. They were all identical. Three sets. They were for Jean Pierre, Anne-Marie and Charles De Roche. Who was Charles? Anyway he wasn’t around. I thought through my find. The dates on the tickets ran through to Christmas although the last two were open ones.
There was a large manila envelope in the case. Inside it were two sheets of paper. From these I learnt that my mystery rescuers had an involvement with an investment management company, but its name did not ring any bells. Perhaps they owned shares in it. They also had accounts at several banks. I recognised three names including the secretive Banque Fucquet in Geneva and Bankhaus Hochzeit in Zurich. Otherwise the banks were major names, United and so on.
I pondered what this could mean. I moved backwards. A hand clamped over my mouth. An arm pressed down on my throat. I knew the voice that said “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”
I couldn’t place it, but I knew it. It was so familiar. But it was in the wrong place. I knew it so well. But why was it here? And who was it? I knew and yet I did not know. I screamed to myself in anger and frustration.
“Scream as much as you like,” he snarled. “You’ll only wake my parents and they won’t help you. And answer me truthfully or you’ll be pushing up the daisies in the spring.”
He talked like Mafia, but he did not sound like them. How though did I know the voice? I struggled to get a glimpse of him. I wondered if he was one of my father’s people.
“Don’t try to look bitch; you’re better off not seeing me, not being able to recognise me.” He had pulled me away from the window into the middle of the small study.
He again asked, “What were you doing here?” I was wondering what to say. I thought how I was going to get out of this predicament. I had been caught looking through confidential papers. What could I say? This must be the Charles I had heard mention of.
I said stupidly, “Charles, trust me...” The arm around my throat tightened. I felt myself choking.
“You know who I am,” he snarled. I thought I heard real fear in his voice. I recognised though that there was more, a strength that I had heard before at home. He would kill if needed, not perhaps without compunction, as my father would, but out of necessity.
I could hardly breathe. My mind ran over recent events. I stole the tape. I had run away. I had turned up in St Tropez. I had gone to my Aunt’s house. Then there had been her betrayal and her death. Nothing was working to plan. No tape, no ransom and now up to my neck in trouble. I struggled to loosen his grip. I heard a tear. The strap of the nightdress fell in two and I felt the flimsy material fall away and the chill air touch my left breast. It no longer felt erotic as it had in front of the window. I thought I felt the chill of death. I could hardly bear my weight. My legs went shaky. Then everything turned black and, for the first time in my life, I fainted.
I don’t know how long it was till I came to. I was no longer in the study. I was on a bed. A cool sheet was over me. The window was open and I could see a tall figure gazing out at the early signs of daybreak.
I moved and the noise alerted him. “Jacqui, what were you doing here? Why were you in this house in a nightdress? Why were you trying to rob us?”
I gasped and felt weak again. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours and now this. It was that Charles. Charles was Charles Ryder.
I looked at Jacqui. Her long dark hair glistened against the white pillow. It was dishevelled, but not untidy. Her face was white. Those big eyes were even
more pronounced than usual. They were dark against a pallid backcloth. The colour was slowly coming to her cheeks but I could see strain marks around her eyes. “Well why are you here. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Jacqui sat up. The flimsy black negligee was still clinging to her body. One glorious breast was uncovered where the strap had torn in the struggle. I looked at her and thought back to the times we had made love. She saw me looking at her, noticed my swallow. She blushed slightly, she made to cover herself. Then she looked up at me with a longing on her face. “Come to me first. Make love to me. Please come to me.” Her eyes were pleading. I could sense her heart beating fast. Mine was too and I wondered if she noticed.
I took a pace forward. She stretched out her arms and, as I bent down, had them round my neck. Her lips, red as wine and glistening with moisture, brushed over mine. I pulled her towards me, gently sliding off the torn negligee. I sensed, through the thin fabric of my shirt, the longing that had waited for so long to be satisfied inside both of us. It had waited unsatisfied since that fateful day the last summer when her father burst into our love making and had brutally torn us apart.
Her hands were on my chest, gently undoing one button after the other. Soon the shirt was on the floor and our almost naked bodies moved closer together. As I stepped back, I looked at her. The bedclothes covered her to her thighs. Her stomach was flat below a slim waist and I could see the swell of her hips and the invitation of her body. With a groan I pulled off my trousers and pants, stepped out of my shoes, moving to her under the bedclothes as she pulled me towards her.
“Darling, I can’t wait. It’s been so long.” I groaned as I felt each part of our touching bodies search out for each other. Nothing mattered any more but the sense of closeness, the feeling of desire, and that renewed sensation of togetherness as we made love. Afterwards, her face was moist with tears and I kissed them away. “Don’t cry,” I said.
“It was just so lovely. It was as if we had never left each other.” We lay together, caressing and kissing from time to time. The sun was now rising over the horizon. We could see the sea gleaming in the distance. I knew that the hills around would soon be noisy with life. But in the room, it was quiet, peaceful and I was fearful of breaking the spell. Yet I knew I would have to.