Werewolf Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  Levesque ignored the phones for a few seconds, and allowed himself a fantasy. The fantasy was that the helicopter the baron had purchased from the army still carried its complement of guns. Levesque would have the pilot take him aloft, and he, Levesque, would personally shoot down those vultures who prefer to think of themselves as “journalists.”

  He smiled sardonically, and thought of what this latest atrocity had done to him. Most of his recent fantasies had been about getting acquainted with Dr. Karin Tebner of the United States.

  With a sigh of resignation, Levesque went back to the phones. You could keep the press out of your physical presence, but you couldn’t, as the Americans said, stonewall them completely, because then they would guess. The guessing would be attributed to “observers” and “informed sources,” but it would be guessing all the same. A form of blackmail. The “observers” and the “informed sources” never guessed that the situation was under control, or that an honest effort was being made to correct matters. They always guessed desperation, dark conspiracies, and dirty work.

  Levesque supposed one wrote what one was used to in one’s own life.

  In any case, it did not do to deprive the press of some comment. It wouldn’t forestall the guessing, but it would ensure that one minuscule percentage of what the public received was a message he wanted to send.

  A blanket press release wouldn’t do it, either. Everyone wanted to claim an “exclusive interview,” even if you told each of them the same things.

  Which Levesque was busily doing now.

  No, the baron was not a witness to the crime. Yes, the baron was horrified. No, he does not fear for his own life. Yes, Dr. Spaak’s loss is a tragic one; he was one of the world’s top scientists, or he wouldn’t have been invited to participate in the Olympique Scientifique Internationale. No, the baron does not regret sponsoring OSI; he regrets that some evil person or persons has ruined it. Every step is being made to safeguard the people of OSI and Mont-St.-Denis; please talk to official police sources for details. Every effort is being made to apprehend the killer; please talk to official police sources for details. The baron has every confidence in the police. The baron also has every confidence in Professor Niccolo Benedetti, who, you must remember, has been in Mont-St.-Denis less than one week.

  There was a lull in the calling. Levesque went to the window for a breath of air and saw the Professor crossing the grounds with Dr. Romanescu.

  Another phone rang. Levesque cursed under his breath and went back to his desk. He reached out his hand automatically, before he realized that the light and characteristic buzz had him reaching for the green phone.

  The green telephone was the direct line from the offices in Paris. It was never supposed to ring on Sunday, except in cases of dire emergency. In all the years Levesque had worked for the baron, the green phone had always kept the sabbath silently.

  Levesque stared at it. He was perfectly willing to concede that he was in fact, in the middle of an emergency, but the emergency was here, not in Paris. Had something else happened up there? God forbid.

  Levesque’s hand was trembling as he picked up the receiver. He managed to keep the tremor out of his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Monsieur Levesque, this is Jefy, assistant manager of the Paris office. I came in today to clear up the Algerian reports for start of business tomorrow—”

  “Very commendable of you,” Levesque said. His fear was giving way to irritation.

  “—but that is not why I have called, sir. There has been a visitor to the office. He insists on speaking to you personally. He says the ordinary lines are busy.”

  “They are busy, Jefy. Extremely busy. Right now, they are ringing. That is the squeal of a hungry journalist. Tell your visitor—”

  “But Monsieur Levesque, he is—”

  Levesque heard heavy footsteps, then a low voice saying, “Give me that.” There was an “oof” from someone, probably Jefy, and a new voice came on the line. Levesque recognized it before the second word.

  “Levesque, the young genius. I have called to discuss the terms of your employment.”

  “I am already quite happily employed, Monsieur Caderousse.”

  “And I am sure you will continue to be. The demise of Monsieur le Baron’s business holdings is not your fault. I know how instrumental you have been in helping him to be the nuisance to me he has become.

  “Starting tomorrow, when the markets open, I will proceed to maneuver things—in a completely legal manner, I assure you—so that the grand Baron Benac will be forced to sell out to me. I may not get it all—the vultures are circling—but I will get most of it.”

  “If the others are vultures, does that make you a jackal?”

  Caderousse laughed, a deep happy laugh. “If you like. A very, very well fed jackal. My point is this. Among the spoils of victory is your brain. I should like you to employ it in my behalf, rather than against me.”

  “Never.”

  “No need to give me your answer now.”

  “I have given you my answer.”

  “You may think better of it when you are reduced to managing a few hotels and the vineyard or two I may let your ridiculous employer keep. By the way, may I speak to him?”

  “The baron is not available.”

  Again, the laugh. “Is he trying to pretend his ship is not sinking?”

  “The baron is in church,” Levesque said.

  “I see,” Caderousse said. “I can see where he must feel that God has a lot to answer for.”

  Actually, the baron had stayed after mass to attend a special service, conducted by the bishop, for the souls of the victims, the recovery of young baker Martin (who was still unconscious), and the rapid apprehension of the killer everyone had come to call the Werewolf.

  The baron truly believed such things would help. Levesque sincerely wished he could, too. Caderousse would laugh.

  “I will speak to you again soon, Monsieur Levesque.” He hung up. Levesque did the same.

  Damn the man. Damn him. Because he was right. If the Werewolf weren’t captured immediately—within the next day or so, certainly before the authorities bowed to the inevitable and let the OSI scientists go—the baron would be ruined.

  He was too good a man for such a thing to happen to.

  But then, by all accounts, the victims had been too good to be murdered.

  21

  ION ROMANESCU SPENT THE afternoon walking quietly around the grounds of the baron’s château, visiting the locations of the previous night’s remarkable events.

  He was, he had been assured, perfectly safe. Not only was it broad daylight, but a full squad of real policemen now stood watch around the grounds. They had, apparently, been requisitioned from the Sûreté by Captain Marx.

  It made the Romanian smile to think about it. A squad of French federal officers diverted from their regular duties, simply to protect him. And he did feel safe.

  Still, he could be safer.

  Retracing Ron Gentry’s steps across the lawn toward the site at which Spaak’s body had been found, Romanescu found the garden cultivator the young man had mentioned at breakfast that morning. A dangerous thing to leave about. He had found the handle of a hoe, earlier. The brave Mr. Gentry might have broken an ankle if he’d stepped on that.

  Romanescu shook his head in disgust. Carelessness. Things like these should not be left about.

  Well, he thought, no harm done. Since this was Sunday, the gardeners were not working. Romanescu would simply put the things away himself. He brought the cultivator and the hoe handle over to a faucet on the side of the château. The sun made the water run warm, all the better for getting the dirt and mess off the handles.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor!” a voice said.

  The Romanian looked up to see Niccolo Benedetti’s bulky form looming over him. The Italian had his usual knowing smile on, but it was pulled and twisted out of shape by a bandage on the man’s left cheek.

  Still s
taring at the Professor, Romanescu felt his own hand steal to his left cheek, where an identical bandage clung.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you,” Benedetti said. “I wished to talk to you, and the housekeeper told me you were out wandering the grounds. I came to find you. I hope you do not mind.”

  Benedetti took a deep breath. “A beautiful day,” he said. “On a day like this, it is hard to imagine having an unkind thought. How strange it should follow a night like last night.”

  Romanescu found his voice. “What has happened to your face?”

  Benedetti laughed. “An angry lady,” he said. “Not as traumatic as what happened to you, sir, nor as lurid as it sounds. It was a pure misunderstanding on her part. Let no one say Niccolo Benedetti has ever forgotten to be a gentleman.”

  Then the Professor frowned. The bandage gleamed white in the sun against his nut-brown skin. “Why are you working with gardening tools? Doesn’t the baron have a large enough staff?”

  Suddenly, Romanescu felt guilty. The ability to make others feel guilty was a decided asset in an inquisitor. Such an ability had taken men far—Benedetti, had he desired, could have been an important man in the Romanian secret police. Romanescu’s countrymen, even those who should be relatively immune, were conditioned to respond to it, as he was doing now. He vowed to himself not to show it.

  “Tools left around,” he said. “You recall your assistant mentioning he almost stepped on a cultivator. I’ve found these; I thought I’d put them away before anyone got hurt.”

  “Va bène,” Benedetti said. “I will walk with you.”

  They started across the lawn. Suddenly, Romanescu let loose with a little burst of laughter.

  “You know, Professor,” he said. “We are wasting this. We should walk together in Paris, where all the trends are set. We might be able to start a fashion.”

  Benedetti laughed and nodded. “The bandaged cheek look! We could sell designer bandages.”

  “Become rich. Retire to America.”

  “I already live in America. But I shall never retire. I have too much work to do.”

  Romanescu sighed. “I lived for years longing for a chance to do my proper work, and once that opportunity came, I found that the field had passed me by.” He shook his head. “I can’t call myself an astronomer any more—indeed, if I ever could. So I am retired, whether I wish to be or not.”

  He turned eagerly to the Professor. “But I think I should like to come to America. I would prefer not to return to Romania—too many memories.”

  “America would be glad to welcome you, I am sure,” Benedetti said.

  “A penniless old man with no skill? How do you put it in capitalist countries? No marketable skill? I would need help I have no right to ask for.”

  “I have done a favor or two, over the years...” Benedetti began.

  “You would help me? Then I renounce my fears. With the great Niccolo Benedetti on my side, how can I fail?”

  “That can wait,” Benedetti said, suddenly brusque. It was as if he was disciplining himself. He liked to hear people say “the great Niccolo Benedetti” too much to show it.

  “Right now,” Benedetti went on, “I want to ask you about last night.”

  Romanescu made a slight bow. “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Va bène. You were asleep with the windows open last night, then, is that correct?”

  “Yes. I talked myself into bravery.”

  “Did you hear anything before Ron Gentry woke you?”

  Romanescu shrugged. “I am a very sound sleeper. In a police state one learns to ignore much in order to sleep. After he woke me, I heard many things. Alarms, sirens, shoutings, and screamings—”

  “Yes, Doctor, we all heard too much of that. Did you go to the window?”

  “Yes, I did. Even before I opened the door. I wanted to see what was going on. I had a fine view of the fence, as you know. Mr. Gentry looked out a few seconds later.”

  “Did you look away from the fence at all?”

  “Of course, I must have. An astronomer can stare for hours only at the stars.”

  “You saw no one on the lawn, then.”

  “Only your assistant. He went out that same window. A very brave young man.”

  “He is, indeed,” Benedetti said. “Sometimes too brave to suit either his wife or me. Did you hear anything other than what you have already described?”

  Romanescu stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and thought. “No. No, nothing.”

  “And you might not have recognized anything if you did hear it,” Benedetti mumbled. “One thing a man might recognize in the midst of chaos is his own name. Did you hear anyone mention your name?”

  “No, I heard nothing like that.”

  They had reached the shed. It was latched, but not locked. Romanescu opened the door, quickly put the cultivator and the hoe back in their appointed places in the crowded tool racks that lined the walls, then closed up.

  As they walked back toward the house, the Professor seemed lost in thought. Romanescu let it go on for a few seconds, then touched the Italian on the arm and said, “May I, er, ask the purpose of your questions, Professor?”

  “I dislike false assumptions,” Benedetti said.

  “Yes?”

  “And everyone, even my own assistants, seems to believe that whatever went on here last night was part of an abortive attempt to get to you, as the only witness to the first attack. The guards’ being brought here shows that the official police credit that possibility.”

  “I am glad,” Romanescu said distinctly, “that they are here to watch over me.”

  Benedetti once again crinkled his bandage with a smile. “I would not have them go away,” he said. “I could be wrong. But this does seem to conflict with your werewolf theory. I have never heard of a werewolf in legend or fiction who marked out victims beforehand, or who worried about witnesses.”

  “You embarrass me, Professor,” Romanescu admitted. “I had been...Well, perhaps I can make you understand my state of mind. After years of tension in my homeland, I was at last free to come here. I would have no worries; it would be like heaven. Then a great man is murdered virtually around the corner from me; I am myself attacked. A month of pain and anxiety. Then, with the next full moon, it happens again. I snapped. I lived for a time in the fairy tales my mother told my brother and me to frighten us. I am back in reality, now.”

  Romanescu raised a hand. “That is not to say, however, that I am not still afraid. You implied the idea of the killer trying to get me is a false assumption. Why?”

  “What was Dr. Spaak doing here? More specifically, why was he in this vicinity yet outside the fence? If the—I’ll call him the Werewolf for want of a better name—if the Werewolf wanted to kill you, why didn’t he at least try to get in and do something about you? He could not have known the baker would come by and discover the body so soon.”

  “There was the alarm fence,” Romanescu pointed out.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Benedetti said. “Either he knew about the alarm fence, or he didn’t. Either he had a plan to circumvent the alarm, or he didn’t care.” Benedetti shrugged. “Ah, well, perhaps the baker’s setting off the alarm frightened him away. In any case, it will be instructive to question the young man. Why didn’t the Werewolf attack him, too, as you were attacked?

  “No, my friend, I hold to my belief that the Werewolf is doing precisely what he intends to do. And I don’t believe he intends to kill you.”

  “He made a good try,” Romanescu said.

  Benedetti touched his own cheek. “I don’t know about that. What we have experienced is disquieting to see and painful to experience, but when all is said and done, it is fairly minor damage. A slender woman of late middle age can inflict it. Compare that with the torn-out throats of de Blois and Spaak, the immolation of Goetz’s mangled body. I believe our killer could have killed you then, if he’d intended to.”

  Benedetti scratched his chin. “Now
, if I could only figure out why you were spared, perhaps I could lay hands on the killer.”

  The Professor mused for a moment, then shook himself and said, “I’ve quite enjoyed our walk together. I won’t be joining the rest of you for dinner. Take care, Doctor, and don’t worry.” He ambled toward the house with an effortless, ground-eating stride.

  Romanescu stood and watched him go. Somehow, he was not comforted.

  22

  THE BARON KNELT AND listened in the darkness of the cathedral, and for a moment, indulged himself in a feeling of despair and guilt, almost letting himself believe that God had sent the Werewolf to punish him for the pride he had taken in the Olympique Scientifique Internationale. The fear, the suspicion, the failure, the threat of the loss of all his holdings as his public stature waned, all seemed to have been sent to teach him humility.

  But this, Pierre Benac realized almost too late, this itself was pride, a deadly snare of the devil’s. To think that a good God would waste innocent lives and scar the psyches of thousands of people simply to teach one insignificant man a lesson was a fearful sin, and the baron repented of it as soon as it had been committed.

  The baron bowed his head. He realized that the answer to this was not as simple, and as (secretly) gratifying as all that. OSI had been the victim of evil, nasty, skulking, everyday evil, the sort of evil men had it in their power to stop.

  And so, the baron prayed for enlightenment to come. Not necessarily to him personally, whose brain had reeled helplessly since this had all begun, but to someone. And soon.

  Janet had gone to the hospital in order to use the computer to access worldwide case files. She hadn’t even asked first—she’d gotten used to anything the baron was connected with being a first-class job.

  That was the case here. If anything in anybody’s medical computer anywhere could help someone who took sick or got injured on the slopes of Mont-St.-Denis, the folks here at the hospital would have access to it. Whether they’d know what to do with it was another thing.