To Make a Killing

by K. A. Kendall

  “I can assure you, Madame Fourcard, the murders of Madame Chaboulet and Mr. Russell are so unique, that they must have been committed by the same person. I understand that it must be difficult for you to be asked to look once more at a shocking episode which everyone is trying to move on from.”

  “But I cannot tell you anything that has not already been told to the French Police.”

  “It is my hope that the details of this latest murder will help you to look upon the tragic death of Madame Chaboulet in a new light, and perhaps even help to clear up the mystery of her death.”

  “I really am afraid your visit will be in vain, Inspector Keane.”

  Keane paid no attention to his momentary degradation, but tried another tack, “I can only imagine the Chateau’s business and the whole atmosphere at the chateau must have been badly affected by her death. I am convinced, Madame Fourcard, that if we can shed any new light on the circumstances surrounding her death, it can only be of benefit to everyone involved.” Keane knew it would have been catastrophic to add “assuming she was innocent”, so he let it remain as conjecture.

  “Very well, Inspector Keane. I will help you in whatever way I can. You will be very welcome as our guest. Until tomorrow. Bon voyage!”

  Keane let out a long, slow sigh. In spite of their hard and sometimes inspired work, he felt they were still a long way from making an arrest. At that moment, an out of breath Hayes knocked on the door as he entered the office.

  “I’ve got it all arranged” Gasp, gasp. “All packed. Flight leaves in two hours.” Gasp, gasp. “Here’s the itinerary.”

  “Good. Have you got the evidence with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alright, Ian. You take care of yourself down under, and let’s get the blighter who’s done this.” A cordial pat on the back would have been appropriate, but Keane remained seated in his chair; he was just too old-school. Instead he smiled his sincerity, Hayes smiled back and left the office with the words, “I’ll be in touch, sir.”

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, 19th September, afternoon

  It was rapidly approaching 12:15. Keane knew exactly where Angus would be, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to get hold of him. Fortunately, the golf course was on the way home to Ascot, so he could save some time.

  As Morgan rolled up at the packed car park, he estimated that Angus would probably be teeing off on the 15th hole around about that time. He began making his way across to the clubhouse, when he remembered that today was the first day of the club championship. He had scratched his own entry at the beginning of the week, but he knew Angus was keen to get a good result after last year’s disaster. Keane rushed inside the clubhouse to check Angus’ starting time: 12:42! Drat it! He’d already started. He ran out and over to the first tee. From there he could see the unmistakable figure of Angus, below his tartan cap, striding up the first fairway; or rather over to the deep rough on the left-hand side of the first fairway.

  Keane saw that the next group were waiting for Angus’ group to hit their first shot. So he grabbed the opportunity and made a dash towards Angus. Bewildered protests followed him from the men on the tee, so he tried to make light of his clear break of protocol: he held up his own reading spectacles and shouted back to them, “He’s forgotten his glasses! He’ll never find his ball without them!”

  Keane ran off towards Angus who was deeply immersed in finding his ball. “Are you playing your usual Titleist, Angus?” cried Keane.

  “Morgan! What the devil are you doing here? Don’t tell me there’s an emergency!” commanded Angus.

  “No caddies allowed, Angus!” ribbed one of his playing partners.

  “Just get your head down, man, and help me find this ball” was Angus’ response to the other player.

  Keane got straight to the point as Angus scoured the thick grass, “I’ve had to send Hayes to Australia to follow up on a lead there, and I have to go to Bordeaux, where it turns out there was an identical murder one year ago.”

  “And you want me to take charge while you’re away?”

  “Yes. I’ll be back tomorrow around midnight.”

  “Five minutes are up!” shouted the other playing partner.

  “Six foot to your left.” Whispered Keane. Angus stepped over to the patch which Keane had verbally indicated, lifted the grass gently and saw the unmistakable tartan cap emblem of his ball.

  “Found it!” replied Angus. “Off tae France with ye.” Angus’ accent had a habit of growing broader, when he played golf, especially when things were going well.

  Keane retreated ten yards and watched the big man swing and heave a huge sod out of the ground. Angus picked up his bag (trolleys were for girls), turned, winked to Keane and moved off to see his ball land short of the green and run on up towards the flag.

  *********

  Jenny was not pleased. It was bad enough that he now wanted to go on an 8-hour drive to Bordeaux with only three hours of sleep, (and that was probably a tall tale judging by the look of him). But that he wouldn’t have time to drop her off in Paris to visit Elaine was the limit of unreasonableness.

  “Look, you say yourself, I need a few hours’ sleep before I can drive, but if I do that, it will make it even later, and then I certainly can’t go via Paris” argued Keane. He could understand why she was disappointed, but she had to understand that she couldn’t have it both ways.

  Jenny knew her only chance would be to let him sleep a few hours, and hope he would be more reasonable once he had rested. Besides, it would have been just plain irresponsible for her to let him drive so far on so little sleep. So she gave in. Minutes later he was fast asleep on the sofa, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

  She prepared everything for his overnight stay: razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, towel, change of clothes. It was so simple to pack for men.

  Then it was Elaine’s turn. She arranged some home-made biscuits decoratively on a round, silver platter and wrapped some cling-fill around. She then placed it in a box alongside other edible items she had been putting aside for the first opportunity to visit her; they were mainly tins and preserves that Elaine was particularly fond of.

  She then packed another box with a disparate collection of items that Elaine had been complaining about missing: candles, matches, vitamins, soap, extra towels, toothbrush, tampons, video tapes, diskettes, writing blocks, plastic bags, blankets and a frying pan.

  It was five o’clock and he was still asleep. She knew she had to wake him. She knew he would now definitely not take her. She woke him gently and he came out of a deep sleep.

  “What time is it?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Oh, no.” He said unconvincingly, as he rubbed his face and stretched out. Given the choice of waking up sooner, he would not have slept a minute less.

  “Everything’s ready for you. Just do mankind a favour and take a quick shower, will you?”

  Keane recalled that he had an ongoing disagreement with Jenny. As she was not forcing the issue, he surmised she had given in. He went to take a shower, and though it was just what he needed physically, he still felt rotten. It really was unreasonable of him not to take her. He just hated driving into and out of Paris, but more than that, he felt it was wrong to take her anywhere while he was on the way to interview witnesses. He had always felt it was imperative not to mix family and work. But he still felt bad. She had got everything ready for him for his trip. There were fresh clothes ironed and laid out. He would have to do something to show her how much he appreciated her loyalty and self-sacrifice.

  “Look, I know you don’t have time on the way there,” said Jenny “as it is so late now, but couldn’t you drop off these things on the way back?”

  Problem solved (well, partially), thought Keane. “Yes, I can do that. I’ll do that. I’m sorry, Jenny . . .”

  “Yes, I know.” She paused while he put his coat on and looked for his keys. “The court finds you guilty of letting
down your wife, and sentences you to take her to Paris on the first possible occasion.”

  He smiled back at her, kissed her, grabbed his bags and went out to the car. “I’ll be back around midnight, tomorrow! I love you!”

  “Take care, I love you, too.” She waved as his car pulled away.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday, 20th September, morning

  Keane arrived at his hotel just north of Bordeaux, at 2:30 in the morning, European time. He had thoroughly enjoyed the ride, even if there had only been a few hours of daylight in France, and the last couple of hours had been very tiring. He found it invigorating to extrovert his attention to all the wonderful sights of the French countryside. It had blown away the cobwebs in the corners of his mind.

  He could understand that people flew in order to save time, and clearly you could not drive, say, across oceans; but for him, flying would only ever be a last resort.

  The next morning he rose to the sound of birdsong and the distant rumbling of agricultural equipment. After a brief but enjoyable breakfast he set off for the town of Pauillac. The 60-minute ride was over all too soon, and before he knew it, he was parking outside the local gendarmerie.

  “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Keane. Je veux parlez avec Commissaire Lavalle“

  “Ah, ce n’est pas possible, Monsieur! Commissaire Lavalle est en Paris”

  Keane could not believe it. Had he not made it clear on the phone how important it was that he meet Lavalle? He blundered on in French, explaining about his call the day before. It turned out that the man he was talking to, and the man he had spoken to on the phone were one and the same. The desk sergeant (or whatever the French equivalent was) had understood Keane would be arriving on Monday. Keane cursed his feeble French skills, but he did not give up the ghost. He showed his identification and asked if he could look at the case file. Five minutes and four signed documents later, he was pouring over the file – again cursing his feeble French skills. Fortunately he could understand enough to see that although Monsieur Lavalle was the official officer in charge, it had been a ‘gardien de la paix’ named Marcel Lambert who had done all the donkey work. Asking for Monsieur Lambert proved more fruitful.

  A phone call and 15 minutes later, Keane had arranged a rendezvous and was sitting outside a pleasant café in the middle of town, enjoying the sunshine, the scenery, the ambience, a croissant and a café-au-lait. Up strolled a large, well-fed, well-built, jovial man who was clearly off-duty judging by his casual apparel. Keane estimated the man was in his mid-fifties and a few inches taller than himself.

  He smiled at Keane, having immediately recognized him as the odd one out at the café. His missing front teeth and roughed up ears instantly led Keane to believe he was dealing with an ex-rugby player. He was. Not only that, Monsieur Lambert had even played in England in his youth. It occurred to Keane that, should you have been breaking and entering the local ‘bureau de change’ in the middle of the night, this was certainly not the man you most wanted to see on the end of a shining torch, saying “‘Allo, ‘allo! What eez all zis zen?”

  After the pleasantries and some polite questions as to Lambert’s rugby days and the nature of his ‘beat’, Keane turned the conversation towards his own case. A frown replaced Lambert’s smile, and he turned his head to the side, looking down, as he recalled the frustration of his own failed investigation.

  “I have read the official report, Monsieur Lambert. What I would like you to tell me is if there was anything you investigated that was inconclusive, and therefore not included in the report.”

  “There had been rumours, but we had no evidence. Some weeks before the murder, a man, a stranger, had asked about Château Plencque and its owner. We could not find out his name, why he was here, where he stayed or how he . . . how he moved . . . non, how he travelled. We could not even get a good description. It seems he was big, dark, maybe thirty, maybe forty years old, and he was not French.”

  “Did he have a Spanish accent?”

  “Perhaps, Monsieur. He said not enough for this to be clear. And people, you know, they are not looking and listening as when they know they are looking and listening to a murderer! They are busy.”

  Keane knew only too well how little attention people paid to others in the hurly-burly of everyday life. “Was there anything else?”

  “One more time a rumour. It is said that Madame Chaboulet was on her way to a rendezvous with an unknown lover. According to the château, she was on her way to a business meeting, but they could not say what was the business of the meeting or who was the business partner.”

  “I see. Was there anything about the scene of the crime, apart from the murder itself, that seemed odd, that is to say, not right?”

  “There was no sign of fighting. Madame Chaboulet died without fighting. It was very difficult to understand.”

  Keane pressed for more information, but Lambert could add nothing more of any value. Instead Keane found himself answering Lambert’s questions about the Kensington murder, as if Lambert hoped that it would shed light on his own case. Even though it was unofficially closed, Monsieur Lambert was clearly not one who readily let sleeping dogs lie.

  The cross-referencing gave no new insight, however, and Keane was soon apologizing for having to move on to his next appointment at the château.

  *********

  The ride to Château Plencque took no more than 10 minutes from the café, but it took even less time than that for the case to take another sudden twist.

  Having set off from the café, Keane had just got into second gear, when his infernal mobile phone rang. He knew he should never have switched it on. It was Angus and he was hot under the collar,

  “Morgan, it’s Angus. About time you switched that bloody thing on. I’ve been trying to get through for an hour now. Someone has used Russell’s credit card. It was registered on a flyswatter on Thursday. I’ve sent Jenkins out to the shop in question. Keep your line open so she can contact you. I’m tying my shoelaces now, and in a moment I’ll be swapping scorecards. The buck has been firmly passed. I’ll call you after my winner’s speech. I take it you have Jenkins’ number?” added Angus as an afterthought.

  “Yes, sir.” Keane just managed to give a confirmation before the line went dead.

  He didn’t know exactly what to think. He hardly dared to hope that this professional killer had made such an elementary slip-up. But then who else could have Russell’s credit card? He knew that Jenkins’ procedure was straightforward, and he would have to have faith in her. He could do little more from this remote location. He pushed the matter – if not to the back of his mind, then - to one of the upper balconies from where binoculars were required to see the stage.

  In fact, as soon as he approached the driveway of Château Plencque, the splendour, the noble history and the fame of his surroundings immediately over-shadowed all other thoughts.

  The gardens were worthy of Blinky’s signature, though he did not recall him ever having mentioned working here. He was received in the courtyard by a domestic employee, and led through a hive of activity into a room at the back of the mansion facing out onto the vineyard.

  Keane had stood by the French doors for several minutes, observing the activity outside, when Madame Fourcard entered and asked him to take a seat. She was about his age and above average height, though her long neck and erect deportment in elegant high-heeled shoes made her appear taller. She was slender and exquisitely dressed as only French women know how. Her straight dark brown hair was drawn back and held by two discretely bejewelled clasps. Her fringe curved all the way down to her immaculately styled eyebrows.

  She had a narrow nose and an olive shaped mouth.

  She addressed him in a deliberate, decisive and clear voice, politely offering him some refreshments. He willingly accepted in the hope that a glass of the château’s wine may find its way on to the tray.

  “You will have to forgive me Inspector Keane, but this is a particularly busy and sensitive pe
riod of the year for us. I’m afraid I will only be able to spare you a few minutes, but once we have finished I hope you will feel free to roam about the mansion and the grounds.”

  Why, when her English is so good, does she continue to call me Inspector, wondered Keane. He decided to press on, now that it had been made plain that time was in short supply.

  “Madame Fourcard, I have read the official report on Madame Chaboulet’s death and I have spoken to the investigating officer this morning. I have just a few questions and I will try not to waste your time. I would like you to tell me if anything out of the ordinary occurred in the weeks before the murder.”

  “It may appear to an outsider that producing top quality wine is a matter of routine, but I can assure you, no one day or week is ever like another day or week.”