Werewolf Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  He would much rather remain awake through the night, mixing, kneading, baking, but his father, also Antoine, would have none of it. Once—once—when he was fourteen, the younger Antoine had allowed the brioches to burn. The son’s penance was now in its seventh year, and showed no sign of abating.

  “As a baker,” father repeatedly said, “you are a good truck driver!”

  So the son rose in the darkness, loaded up the truck, and made delivery to the hotels in town, to the châteaus of the rich. It was the honor of Martin et Fils to be supplier of bread and pastries to Monsieur le Baron himself. It was a matter of young Antoine’s personal honor that he had never been late with a delivery, through snow or rain or anything nature might send.

  Then he scrupulously returned to town, and opened the shop, which he manned until the afternoon. He had earned no praise from his father for this, but no blame either. Young Antoine knew it was a matter of time before his exile would be over. If Martin et Fils were to continue, the fils must know how to bake!

  As he drove along the roadway that led to the tradesman’s entrance at the rear of the château, Antoine noticed a splash of red across the road. It did not occur to him that the puddle might really be blood until he had nearly driven in it.

  He pulled the truck over to the roadside. He opened the glove compartment and removed a large knife. He left the truck with a mixture of French compassion—some poor creature has been struck by a car, perhaps it will be necessary to put it out of its misery—and French practicality—that much blood must mean a deer at least; if it is not too badly mangled, there will be fresh venison for the Martin family.

  He followed the blood across the road toward the château fence. He saw nothing there but what looked like a bundle of rags. He was astonished that the baron’s staff would allow such a thing so near the baron’s property. Young Antoine would tell them of this when he completed the delivery.

  Yet where had the blood come from? Antoine walked closer. He now saw that the bundle of rags was a man, a man who had fallen at an angle, his face toward the fence, his head and neck twisted sideways.

  Antoine saw what had happened to that neck. His legs turned to water. He staggered backward until he hit the fence. His body jolted forward with an electric shock.

  He fought off the disorientation; he was a strong young man. “Loup-garou,” he breathed. “Werewolf.”

  He crossed himself three times, once each for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Added an extra for St. Denis, patron of France.

  If he’d been listening closely, he might have heard bells and sirens from the château, but he could take neither his eyes nor his stunned mind from the sight before him.

  16

  THOUGH THE WINDOW ALARMS at Château Benac sounded only in the guard’s office, the alarms from the fence seemed designed to shake the very mountain on which the château sat.

  The noise jolted Janet out of a sound sleep. She nudged her husband. “Ron, for God’s sake, wake up! Don’t you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Bells and sirens.”

  “You always make me hear bells and sirens, baby,” he said, and she hit him.

  “Someone’s set off the alarm,” she said. “Wake up.”

  Ron willed one eyelid up. The other shot open when a man’s voice began screaming in terror.

  “What’s he saying?” Janet demanded.

  “Got me,” Ron told her. “French stuff. I’m going to see what’s going on. You get decent, then stay with the Professor. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Ron had stepped into pants and shoes as he spoke. He grabbed his glasses and pulled on a shirt on the way to the door. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Close the window and turn the alarm back on.”

  “I will. Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ron said sincerely, and he was gone.

  As he sped down the hallway, Ron stopped outside Professor Benedetti’s door just as the old man poked his head outside.

  “What is this commotion, Ronald? Not your window again, I trust.”

  “No, Maestro. This is from outside. And there’s a man outside screaming. I’m going to investigate.”

  “Go. I will join you as soon as I am dressed.”

  “Right,” Ron said. He started off.

  “Wait!” the old man said.

  Ron turned around. “Yes?”

  “Check on Dr. Romanescu. Make sure he is all right.”

  “Right,” Ron said again. More proof that the old boy is a genius. They’d been nervous about Romanescu’s safety all along; then when a disturbance comes, the guards rush to the site of the alarm (they certainly hadn’t shown up here), Ron himself plans to fly to the site of the alarm, and only Benedetti remembers about the most likely target.

  Dumb, Gentry, he told himself. Real dumb. The fact that you were sound asleep basking in the afterglow of having made love to your wife was no excuse.

  Says you, Ron thought.

  He had to wipe the grin off his face as he knocked on Romanescu’s doors.

  “Dr. Romanescu?”

  No answer. He knocked harder and called the name again.

  Still no answer. This time he pounded on the door and shouted the Romanian’s name.

  He tried again, but he was already sizing up the door. Solid oak, hard as iron. Heavy hinges, massive lock. They knew how to build châteaux in those days. This was going to be more than a little difficult to kick in. He’d need a good push off the opposite wall, and the perfect leg piston-action even to have a chance. Probably break his foot in the process.

  Probably walk into a room full of trouble, too. Why didn’t he answer?

  He’d take one last shot at pounding and shouting. He did, sighed, and began backing against the other wall when a voice came from inside the room.

  “Yes? Yes? Why are you pounding? What do you want?” The voice was strained, querulous, and breathless at the same time.

  “It’s Ron Gentry, Doctor. There’s been some kind of incident, and I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  Ron could hear locks clicking and bolts sliding back. Finally the door opened a little, and one gray eye peeped out.

  “An incident? What kind of incident?”

  “I’m on my way to find out,” Ron told him. “But we thought it would be a good idea to make sure you’re okay, first.”

  “I’m fine. I give you my word. Go away.”

  “I’d like to see you, sir.”

  “I am not a vision of loveliness at this hour of the morning, young man.”

  “Oh,” Ron said. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is there someone in there?” Ron had visions of some maniac, desperado, or terrorist in the room with the old man, holding a gun on him, telling him to make the nosy intruder go away.

  “Is there what?” Romanescu demanded. “Someone in here with me?” Amazingly, the old man began to laugh. “No,” he said. “There is not. Unfortunately, those days are long past. All right. Come in. If you must.”

  The door opened wide and Ron stepped in. The commotion could be heard plainly through Romanescu’s open window, fluttering a little as the breeze blew the curtain back and forth. The screaming voice had been joined by two stern, angry voices, undoubtedly the baron’s guards.

  “Forgive me if I seem rude,” Romanescu said. He still seemed to be out of breath. “I was sleeping, then suddenly the screaming, the shouting, the bells and sirens—it was like Romania in the bad days. Then when you came pounding on the door and calling my name, I had visions of the secret police!”

  Ron felt like a louse. He, who had grown up secure in a free country, had never considered the effect a knock in the night could have on a man who’d spent his adulthood under one of the most repressive regimes in human history.

  “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Romanescu went on.

  “Look,” Ron said, “I’m really sorry, but when Professor Benedetti knew something was up, he told me—”

  “It’s
all right. It is I who should be sorry. When I found out it was only you come for me, and not the secret police, I was so relieved I became—what is the word—surly? Can you understand how that might be?”

  “Sure,” Ron told him. “It happens all the time.”

  Ron listened. The shouting and screaming were still going on. “They should have calmed down a little by now,” he said. “May I look out your window?”

  It was Ron’s turn to be rude. He didn’t wait for permission. He went to the window and swept the curtain aside with one arm.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  It so happened that Romanescu’s window was the one closest to the part of the fence that had been tampered with. Ron could see now, under the perimeter lamp, the baron’s two guards being held at bay by a wild-looking young man with a knife. And all this was being played out on the shores of a veritable ocean of red liquid. Ron had the nauseous suspicion that it was blood.

  He turned to Romanescu. “He might not be alone,” he said.

  “Who might not be alone?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just lock the window after I’m gone. Find somebody to stay with—the baron, Levesque, a servant, it doesn’t matter. We’ll keep you safe, okay?”

  “Yes. I’m in full agreement with that. But what—?”

  Ron was up on the windowsill. He turned, and grabbed the inside of the sill with both hands. “Quickest way,” he said. The he slipped off.

  Ron dangled by his fingertips for a few seconds, then let go. He reminded himself before he did to bend his knees on landing, and was glad a split second later that he had taken his own advice, because there was decorative gravel against the building under the window, and while that stuff would give a little with impact, it wouldn’t give much.

  Ron tested his ankles, found he hadn’t done either of them any damage, then took off across the yard.

  The place was full of hazards. There was a wet spot by a garden hose outlet in the middle of the grounds. Just past that, Ron tripped and went down when he stepped on something hard. He cursed, reached around for what he’d tripped on, and found it. A three-pronged garden cultivator. Ron supposed he should have been glad he’d stepped on the handle—those nasty, curved prongs would have gone right through his shoe and foot at the speed he’d been traveling—but he didn’t feel especially grateful, just frustrated. He flung the cultivator back in the direction of the gardener’s toolshed, where it undoubtedly belonged, then continued. He was more cautious, this time.

  By the time Ron got to within sixty or seventy feet of the fence, he decided he was grateful for having tripped, after all. Slowing down had given him time to think, and thinking had shown him the folly of charging up like the U.S. cavalry when all the action was on the other side of the fence. He stuck to the shadows, watched and listened. He was able to get right up to the fence about twenty feet from the scene of the action without anyone there noticing him. They were, after all, preoccupied.

  One of the men was a baker. At least, he was dressed in white like a baker, and he was standing in front of a bakery truck, and that was a bread knife he had at the throat of one of the Baron’s Finest. The other of the baron’s guards was pointing a gun at the two of them.

  The fourth man present was the source of the redness. The shadows were such that Ron couldn’t make out many details, but the man was obviously messily dead just inches from the baron’s fence.

  Ron didn’t speak French, but he knew enough of tones and faces and body language to figure out what was going on.

  The baker was the screamer. His position was that if the other guy didn’t drop the gun this second, his partner would be sliced up better than a fresh, Sunday morning pain.

  The guy with the gun was the shouter. He was the baron’s guard, goddammit, and nobody would get away from him, and if he didn’t release his hostage this second, he would fill the air with bullets, and to hell with the consequences.

  It hadn’t been audible at the house, but the guy with the knife on his neck was contributing to the colloquy, as well. He was a moaner, and his position was, Jesus, please, get me the hell out of this.

  Ron knew that if he (or somebody else sane, a kind of person of which there seemed to be a short supply at the moment) didn’t do something soon, there was going to be a bloodbath here. This would be unfortunate on its own, of course, but also, Ron knew, because it would screw up the investigation of the murder that had already been committed. Ron hadn’t had a close look at anything yet, but he felt in his bones that that one had all the earmarks of the work of the boy they’d been looking for.

  Ron decided to scale the fence. It wouldn’t be too bad, except for the spikes on the top. He didn’t have to worry about the alarm, because that was still clanging and shrieking away, back at the house. And the shock mechanism had to be turned off, or the guards couldn’t have gotten out. There was a slight risk of the guard with the gun spotting him and letting him have it, but Ron didn’t think it was likely that man’s eyes would waver from the bread knife even for a split second.

  Speaking of splits, Ron split his pants going over the fence, but he made it. He sprinted silently across the road, and dove into a ditch that lined the other side. Then he made his way along the ditch until he was behind the bread truck.

  He climbed to road level, then half ran, half crawled up to the truck, and slid underneath it.

  Something hot dripped on Ron’s face. He’d have to tell the baker he had a leaky crankcase. Ron was glad he hadn’t grabbed a good shirt as he inched forward toward the street-side edge of the truck, and the oil drew a black stripe down his back.

  When he got to the point where one more shove would push his head out from under the truck, he stopped and looked at feet. He wouldn’t have much leverage in this position—if he guessed wrong, that guard was going to wind up with the knife in his throat.

  Ron had to picture the scene in his mind, and reverse it. Okay. The baker had the knife in his right hand, so...

  Ron reached out with both hands, grabbed the rightmost of the pair of legs clad in white (the gray legs were the guard’s), and yanked hard, as though trying to pull the man clear under the truck.

  The screaming abruptly switched to a cry of shock, and the hand with the knife in it came down to the ground as the baker tried to keep his balance. Ron let go of the leg with one hand, and reached for the knife hand.

  Then he remembered one thing he hadn’t thought of—the other guard had been dying to shoot this guy for at least five minutes. Now that he was down and the hostage was released, would he cut loose?

  Ron wished he knew the French for “Don’t shoot!” “Defense de Turner,” meant no smoking, which was close, but probably wouldn’t get the message across. So Ron stuck to English, and hoped that the guy with the gun had seen enough American movies. Everybody in France had seen dozens of American movies.

  All the while, of course, he kept pulling on the baker’s right hand and leg, to keep the guy off balance.

  Finally, Ron heard a crunch, and the baker fell into Ron’s visible universe—a two-foot-high slot between the truck and the pavement. He fell facing Ron, and the American could see that the young man was glassy-eyed, but breathing.

  Ron scrambled back out from under the truck, and walked around to join Benac’s warriors.

  The guy who’d been held at knifepoint greeted him like a small-scale recreation of Normandy greeting the American troops, falling on his neck, kissing him, blessing him between sobs, burying him in thank-yous. He did everything but ask for cigarettes and nylon stockings.

  The shorter guy, the one with the gun, was slightly less effusive, but he did grin wide and pump Ron’s hand a few times.

  “Great,” Ron said, trying to disengage his arm. “It’s all right. I was glad to do it. I regret that I had but one shirt to give to a gallant ally. Now will you please let go, and let me see if this guy’s all right?”

  They shook their heads sadly, and pointed to the figure by the fence. Th
e one with the gun (the gun still had a little wad of the baker’s hair sticking to it) drew a finger across his throat. The other guy shuddered.

  “Not him,” Ron said. “I know he’s—”

  Ron had walked closer to get a better look at the body. When he got a good look at the face, he said, “Holy Jesus.” He looked again. It was Spaak, all right—“coordinator” of the OSI participants’ investigation. He wanted to be a private eye, Ron thought. The poor bastard fell on his first case. He coordinated everybody into an incredible mess. The more Ron thought about it, the worse it got. This doesn’t make any goddamn sense at all.

  Where the hell are you, Professor? Ron thought.

  With an almost physical effort, Ron pulled his eyes away from the dead Belgian, and walked over to the baker, whose name was possibly Martin, judging from the writing on the truck, and looked at him.

  He was out, and from the look of him, would be out for hours. Blood was still oozing from his scalp, so at least he wasn’t dead.

  “Nice job,” Ron said.

  The guy with the gun agreed. “Nighzh zhob,” he said, nodding. “Très bien.”

  “He might be able to tell us something.”

  “Très bien,” the guard said, still smiling and nodding. Ron resolved at that moment never to set foot in a non-English-speaking country again.

  “If you haven’t left him brain-damaged.”

  More smiles and nods. “Très bien.”

  That was when Ron decided none of his descendants would ever set foot in a non-English-speaking country, either. “Did it occur to one of you mental giants,” he asked, “to phone the police?”

  Ron held an invisible receiver to his ear. “Telephone,” he said. “The police.”

  Faces lit up. “Ahh,” the guards breathed. “Téléphone la police!”

  “Oui!” Terrific, Ron thought. I’m learning French. “Did you?”

  Faces fell. “Non.” There were sad shrugs.

  “Where the hell are you, Professor?”

  This time, he said it aloud.

  17

  “HERE I AM, AMICO,” the familiar voice said.