“To what do I owe this honor?” she asked.
“I am Inspecteur Henri Marnier,” said the older police officer. “This is my associate, Maurice Delgado. We believe you can help us in an investigation we are conducting.”
“Really?”
“Do you know Mademoiselle Tanya Gerard?”
Anne grew tense.
“I’m her best friend. Is she in trouble?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. Please answer my questions first. When did you last see her?”
Anne didn’t like this at all, and she was becoming worried.
“She was here about two weeks ago. I don’t remember the exact date. She wanted to consult with me regarding an impending trip to Russia to direct a play … She wasn’t here for long. Or since.”
“Was it customary in your relationship that she stay for just a short while? Did you quarrel?”
“We never quarreled. She was in a hurry because she had a new lover waiting for her.”
“A lover?”
Anne gave a sad smile.
“Tanya is never without lovers—at least one at any given moment. This time she was in a hurry because her current lover was waiting for her impatiently in her flat.”
“Do you happen to know who this lover is?”
Anne was getting more and more worried.
“No. Before she left she said he was a student named Lucien, about twenty years old, and that he was waiting for her in her apartment.”
The two policemen exchanged glances.
“And then?”
“She hasn’t called me since then. And I had no intention of interfering with her love life. Please remember, she is over forty, and boys in their twenties are not very … anyway, yesterday I wondered what could possibly keep her from calling me for so long, so I phoned her.”
“You spoke with her yesterday?”
“No. She didn’t answer the phone, and I left her a message to call me. It seemed pretty natural—she is usually at the theatre in the evenings. But this morning I paid a visit to her flat while on my way to the university. I rang and knocked several times, but there was no answer. So I assumed she was either in a deep sleep after a night of debauchery with her student lover, or that they had gone away for a while.”
“Was there anything special about Mademoiselle Gerard when you last saw her? I mean her dress, her hairdo—was anything different or abnormal?”
“No. Well, I saw her new pendant for the first time that evening.” Anne described the amulet as best she could.
Delgado flipped through a notebook he was holding.
“One of Ms. Gerard’s neighbours tells us that she saw you leaving the flat this morning.”
“What?!” Anne was stunned. “She must have been mistaken. I stood in front of a closed door, ringing and knocking loud enough to wake the entire building. The neighbor probably saw me when I had given up and was in the process of leaving. She probably assumed I had just come out of the apartment.”
Anne felt a threatening chill enveloping her.
“Has something happened to her?” she asked in a low voice.
The inspector cleared his throat.
“Madame, Tanya Gerard is dead. She was murdered in her bed.” Anne felt she was about to faint but kept her seat with an effort. Her face went ashen and she shut her eyes. The penny dropped.
“Are you suspecting me of murdering my best friend?”
“It may seem that way,” the inspector said. “We also know that long ago she was engaged to be married to your now-deceased husband, and that you stole him away from her. In my book that is not the description of a ‘best friend,’ wouldn’t you say?”
Anne felt the compulsion to slap this offensive policeman but she curbed the urge. She felt she needed a glass of water and a good lawyer. But for now she had to dispel these ugly allegations.
“Yes, she was a good friend of my late husband, Colonel Raoul Dupré. But her goal in life was the stage—she was married to the theatre. She never wanted to be tied down to one man—she wanted to be as free as a bird. You can confirm what I say with anyone who knew her. It was I who released her from any obligations toward Raoul and she was eternally grateful to me for that. We have been fast friends ever since.”
Anne took a deep breath and pointed a finger at the inspector.
“Now you tell me—what happened? When? And why?”
“I am sorry to report to you that her throat was cut with a razor. Her body was discovered this morning after you left. The neighbor who saw you leave called the police and complained that there was something funny going on in the Gerard apartment. She said she heard loud knocking and when she looked out she saw you leaving in a hurry. Our people are currently checking out the apartment. That’s all we have right now.”
The inspector got to his feet, copied immediately by his associate.
“I must request you not to leave Paris until further notice,” the inspector said. “Also, please visit my office tomorrow at any time you find convenient to be fingerprinted.”
Anne was thoroughly shaken. Now she was regarded as a suspected criminal.
“Am I accused of murder?” she muttered.
“I did not say that, Madame. I said that an investigation was being conducted and that your presence may be required. Naturally, we shall need to compare all the fingerprints found at the scene of the crime to anybody who could have been there, which includes you. I trust you understand the circumstances we all find ourselves in. Thank you, Madame, and good day.”
After the two police officers left, Anne stood dazed for a couple of moments. She felt she had to defend herself against criminal charges—had been forced to protest her innocence, and needed to prevent the besmirching of her name. She felt ashamed and sullied to the depths of her soul. She imagined herself losing her position at the university, her pictures in the newspapers under sensation-seeking headlines, the jeers of the public….
But now it finally hit her. Tanya was dead. Her best friend—murdered. She blamed herself for not encouraging her to travel to Moscow.
Anne had already undergone a traumatic experience in the past when her husband died. But it was different then. Raoul’s illness had developed gradually, and at a certain stage it was clear that the end was near. She lived with that knowledge for several months, knowing there was nothing she could do about it. But Tanya? Her sweet, crazy friend, with all that special charm of hers, with her incredible love for life—that she should die so suddenly? And so horribly?
Anne began shuddering uncontrollably. She rushed into her bedroom, fell on the bed and wept as though her heart would break.
A while later, after she had calmed down somewhat and washed her face, she began thinking of what she should do. Her first decision was to keep this information from her colleagues at the association. Then she considered the possibility of engaging a lawyer. She dismissed this idea for tactical reasons—the police might interpret this as though she had something to hide and thereby enhance their suspicions.
Anne was also afraid that the investigation would interfere with her activities in the association. Right now, there wasn’t much she could do about that. The press would be a real problem if and when they got wind of her involvement in the murder. However, she realized that at this stage the police were not divulging their activities on the topic. They needed discretion as long as they still hunted for the killer. If it was the young student lover that Tanya had described, they shouldn’t have much trouble finding him. He probably left traces in her apartment, so they’ll have evidence to prosecute him. Anne felt that, if the police caught him, they would leave her alone, and her name would not be dragged into the case.
Just the same, Anne felt the need to talk to someone about this turn of events. Someone to consult with, to share the burden. Her first thought was of Martin, currently her closest friend. He was smart, self-controlled, a cool and logical thinker. Yes, of course she knew Sir Cedric far longer, but right now she di
d not want to involve the association board in this matter. Martin was supposed to fly to New York soon, but she would still see him before he left—they had agreed to meet so that he could inform her of the flight plans and the Dodson meeting schedule. Excellent!
The thought of meeting with Martin relieved her somewhat. But I mustn’t call him from my home, she thought. Those policemen were so suspicious that they would probably misinterpret everything I do. I’ve got to think clearly. Perhaps a cold shower ….
Anne walked slowly into the bathroom, undressed, and examined her naked body in the large mirror on the wall. Even with the morose thoughts still pounding in her brain, she found herself focusing on Martin again. Could this body of hers arouse passion in him? Her breasts were full and firm, her waist and hips still had those hourglass qualities, and her long legs had not lost their shapeliness. Although there were a few tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, her face was of a much younger woman.
She got into the shower and turned on the cold water full blast. She gasped at the sudden drop in temperature, but then told herself that that was exactly what she needed. She hurriedly soaped and rinsed herself and then stepped out and wrapped an enormous beach towel around her body. She walked to her bed and lay on it still rubbing the towel over her body. When her hand reached her crotch she felt a long-distant, though familiar, thrill course through her veins.
She stopped the caressing and scolded herself. My god, Annie, you really find the strangest times to get carried away. She had never felt the urge to masturbate. And the few sexual encounters she had had since Raoul’s death were of no consequence whatsoever. Why was it now, of all times, with Tanya’s death so fresh in her mind, that sexual stimulation suddenly reappeared? And with Martin as the object?
She shook off the towel, got up, and still naked picked up her telephone. She recorded a new answerphone message: “I shall be away for a few days for personal reasons. Please do not leave messages. Thank you.” Tomorrow morning she would visit the prefecture, get herself fingerprinted and then make her way to the university. She’d find an empty office and call Martin from there. If he wasn’t at the gym she’d leave a message that she’d be expecting him for lunch at the restaurant—he’d know which one.
And what if the police got wind of this meeting? Anne had never found herself in such a surreal predicament. Well, if they questioned her about it she’d tell the truth—Martin was a relative, and she felt the need to tell him about the nightmare she was going through.
Anne had never met Tanya’s family in Paris. She and Tanya hadn’t discussed them much. She knew that Tanya’s parents lived in Bretagne, in the northwest of France, and that Tanya hardly ever visited them. Once she had accompanied Tanya on one of those rare occasions. Tanya was an only child who became independent at a very early age, much to the dismay of her parents, who considered her wayward. Her few visits always ended in an explosive row, with Tanya exiting with a violent slam of the door. Anne did not remember the address—anyway, it was the police’s job to notify them.
Anne then reconsidered the fact that she might be a suspect—anything was possible with “those retards.” She would need witnesses to refute their charges. Like someone who could testify she had not been out of her flat the evening of the murder. And character witnesses as well, who could attest that she and Tanya had a very close and warm relationship.
And what about Sir Cedric and the admiral? All contact with them should be avoided, at least for the next few days. But when she did meet with them, should she inform them of the situation? They didn’t even know Tanya existed. And if, heaven forbid, the case got to the newspapers and her name and picture, perhaps even as a suspect, were published for all to see—what then?
EIGHTEEN
The next morning Anne dressed modestly, gulped down a cup of coffee and took a taxi to the prefecture. The taxi’s radio had the news on, and one of the items mentioned was of the brutal murder of the well-known actress and stage director, Tanya Gerard, in her Paris apartment. The police were investigating. That was all. Anne let out a sigh of relief—perhaps she had gained another day of quiet.
She had her fingerprints taken, leaving her fingers smudged with ink. After cleaning them with a special lotion provided by a kind police officer, she made her way to the street. Wondering whether she could find the fortitude to stand in front of her students, she made a sudden resolution and, for the first time in her life, walked into a nearby bistro and downed a shot of cognac. A passing taxi then took her to the Sorbonne.
Before her first lecture, Anne found an empty office and immediately called the London gym. John answered the phone and identified her voice at once. No, Martin was not in. He had caught a morning flight to Paris to meet with her for lunch. He’d be away for three or four days. Was it something urgent? Anne replied that it could wait until their meeting and hung up. She felt much better now—good cognac and good news made excellent partners. Her first lecture of the day began with a beaming smile.
Anne was particularly pleased to see Martin at lunchtime. Finally, after hours of worry and self-doubt, she could unload her burden to a friend, hear what he had to say and perhaps get a word of advice, too. Over lunch, Anne covered all the details of Martin’s forthcoming trip to the US—she wanted to put these items behind her so that she could discuss Tanya with a mind free from distractions. Once she had all the necessary information for her call to Dodson later that day, she told Martin every little detail about the murder and the investigation.
“I called the gym from an empty office at the university—nobody could know about that. I’ll do the same to call Dodson, or use a public telephone. Now, please tell me what you think of Tanya’s case.”
Martin listened all the while without any change in his attitude. He continued with his meal as if Anne was talking about the weather. When his plate was clean, he laid down his fork and knife, wiped his mouth with a napkin, carefully folded it and gently replaced it on the table. Then he began talking—more as if to himself than answering a question.
“If you have never been inside Tanya’s apartment, the police will not find any of your fingerprints there. On the other hand, there will be a lot of Mister Lucien’s fingerprints all over the place, as he spent a lot of time there. That, however, on its own, does not indicate that he is the murderer. Nevertheless, they will have to remove you from their list of suspects. In my opinion, when the police visited you at your apartment and interrogated you, they already knew you were not the killer. Their attitude and manner of speech, that feeling they induce in those they talk to as if they were suspects—that’s routine police academy. ‘Scare the interrogatee, make him believe he’s a suspect and he’ll spill his guts trying to clear himself.’ And that’s what they did to you. I don’t believe you’re being followed or that your phone’s been tapped. One of the reasons is that they don’t have enough manpower for such trivial tasks. I suggest you calm down and return to your normal life. If they do continue to pester you, you should tell them very clearly that you demand that your name not be made public, and that if through any action on their part you should lose your job, you would have no choice but to sue them in a civil court and demand compensation for a lifetime of salaries. Sometimes this puts them off. That’s my diagnosis for now. We’ll discuss this further when I return.”
Anne felt as if a guardian angel had just made a revelation to her. With her confidence now restored, she felt she could face any adversary.
“You have no idea what a calming effect you’ve had on me. I’m so glad I met you before you left. Otherwise I’d remain in this nightmare for a few more days.”
She wanted to add how much she admired his level-headedness and lucid thinking—in fact, how much she really liked him—but just then Etienne brought their dessert to the table and rescued her from being melodramatic.
When they parted, she bestowed a whole-hearted kiss on him leaving her cheek on his for several seconds.
On her way home, Anne bo
ught the latest edition of Le Figaro. Then she found a public telephone and settled the arrangements with Andrew Dodson in New York. Once home, she opened the newspaper and immediately found the article she was interested in.
The Préfecture de Police is still investigating the death of actress-director Tanya Gerard. Mlle. Gerard was murdered in her residence in rue Mozart two nights ago—her throat was savagely slashed with a man’s razor. The door to her dressing room and the mirror opposite it were smashed. Bloodstains were found on shards of the mirror, and fingerprints were found on several articles in the apartment. The police have no doubt that Mlle. Gerard was murdered by a lover who resided with her at the time. It appears that the victim had locked herself in the dressing room during a fight with her lover, who subsequently broke down the door, dragged her to the bedroom and committed the crime.
The police suspect a man, allegedly a young student, who was staying at her apartment for some time recently. The public is requested to assist the police by submitting any information regarding the identity, whereabouts and/or the description of this man.
Anne put the newspaper down. Her name was not mentioned—that alone provided a modicum of relief. They suspect a student—quite understandable, as it was I who told them about Lucien. He won’t be hard to find—and if he’s the killer, that’ll be the end of the story. But what if it’s not Lucien? It certainly isn’t like Tanya to have only one lover for over two weeks. So let’s take this a step further. Tanya’s entire world was the theatre. Possibly the killer, student or otherwise, was an admirer of hers and used to hang around that area, either attending shows, visiting the dressing rooms, or waiting at the artists’ entrance. Somebody might have seen him. I wonder if the police are thinking in this direction. Oh, well, I certainly don’t want attention drawn to me—let the police do their job, they do it best anyway.
Global Conspiracy Page 12