The Paris Directive

by Gerald Jay

  “Yes … So what?”

  “Look at the picture, Hubert! Look at him. The long straight hair, the athletic build, the intense gaze. And the age somewhere between thirty and forty. Think, Hubert, think! Who does he remind you of?”

  “Please, I’m in no mood for games. What are you driving at?”

  “Don’t you see? All we have to do is tell German Interpol that Dieter Koenig has been seen in the vicinity of Taziac and traveling in France under an alias. Then they immediately alert French Interpol headquarters in Lyons, reporting the sighting of Koenig and his role in the Karlsruhe murders. When Lyons puts out its alarm for the escapee, the message is: ‘Armed and dangerous, use extreme caution.’ Et bien, Hubert, you know very well how our local hair-trigger gendarmes operate—shoot first, get drunk after. And that, cher ami, will be that.”

  Hubert, his head resting on his fist, had been listening in rapt attention to Pellerin’s plan, and his orbicular face beamed as if a black, all-consuming storm cloud had lifted. As his friend got up to make his call, Blond watched him go, admiration filling his eyes to overflowing like tears. Perhaps now they might actually be able to afford the résidence secondaire they had only dreamed of.

  46

  BACK TO THE WALL

  When Bandu dropped him off at the commissariat, Mazarelle rushed upstairs to his office without saying hello to anyone. His men in the squad room—not to mention Rivet—might get the wrong idea about his bare feet. Besides, he’d no time or desire to explain. He tiptoed past the commissaire’s open door and, slipping into his own office, quietly closed his door. From the bottom drawer of his desk, he yanked out an old pair of beat-up loafers—two large black gunboats—that he kept there for torrential rains and other emergencies. No socks, but Mazarelle never aspired to sartorial perfection. He was no peacock.

  The inspector felt better with shoes on. The next thing he did was call PTS in Toulouse. Didier couldn’t believe that Mazarelle was out of the hospital. He’d heard that he was almost at death’s door. “What a constitution!” he cried good-humoredly, marveling at the man.

  Mazarelle had no time for his bullshit. He asked if it was true that the twelve-gauge shotgun he sent down was the one that killed Phillips.

  “Absolument, mon vieux! No question.”

  “And no fingerprints at all?”

  “That’s what’s unusual. Someone—whoever fired it, most likely—wiped the weapon totally clean. I checked it myself.”

  “And the Mannlicher-Carcano?”

  “Also clean as a whistle. Somebody didn’t want to leave any tracks behind.”

  “Thanks.” As Mazarelle put down the receiver, he was thinking over what he’d just been told. The twelve-gauge shotgun was definitely the murder weapon but with no prints, no trace of the shooter, it wouldn’t be easy to link the murderer to it.

  The inspector then called the Taziac gendarmerie and asked to speak to Captain Béchoux. When Béchoux heard who it was and that he was in his office, he was incredulous. He’d known that the Bergerac doctors at the Centre Hospitalier were good but had no idea they could work miracles. Béchoux said, “I went over early this morning to see the wall. That was a terrible accident you were in. What were you doing there at that hour of the night?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “My men who called for the ambulance gave me a very gloomy report. You were lucky those two kids found you when they did. They saved your life.”

  “What two kids?”

  When the captain told him who they were, Mazarelle began gradually to piece together in detail the series of events from the previous evening after he’d left the Café Valon. So, he told himself, there you are, Mazo. You and your snap judgments. Maybe she’s not such a scatterbrained kid after all. In fact, maybe the only one dans la lune is the gaga inspector.

  Mazarelle dialed Louise at her bakery, and Gabrielle picked up. She was thrilled to hear his voice sounding very much alive and that he was out of the hospital. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll go get my aunt.”

  “No, don’t bother.” Mazarelle explained that he was calling to thank Gabrielle and her friend Félix, said it was the least he could do. They’d saved his life. He was grateful. “Yes, very,” he told her.

  Perhaps it was his serious (almost contrite) tone, which was so unlike his usual bantering style in their chats, that made her feel so uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. Gabrielle couldn’t believe that after what he’d been through the inspector had called just to thank them. Before hanging up, she said, “I found your Swiss Army knife with the flashlight. Don’t worry. I’ll keep it safe for you. Okay?”

  Mazarelle left the office early that afternoon and drove back to Taziac to visit the crime scene while there was still light enough to see. But first he dropped in at the Café Valon for a quick glass of rouge, some goat cheese, and a few questions. The wine and cheese were no problem for Mickey. But when it came to providing any new information about the long-haired stranger, he’d nothing to offer. The guy hadn’t been in, but Mickey hadn’t forgotten. The black-and-blue marks on his upper arm were a reminder. The inspector told him that was why they were there.

  Mazarelle found it curious that one day the fellow seemed to be everywhere, and the next he’d fallen off the face of the earth. His men had turned up not a trace of anyone fitting his description working as a stonemason at any of the medieval restoration sites in Taziac. But when the inspector approached the house of wooden heads and saw the pile of stones and rubble from the collapsed wall that had very nearly taken his life, as well as the fluttering yellow tape that Bandu and Lambert had strung up around the crime scene, he’d the same uncanny feeling of being hunted that he sensed in the McAllister house. Oh no, this was no accident.

  Lambert reported that Bandu had returned to the commissariat. Their analysis was that one of the wooden braces holding up the rear wall must have shifted or been somehow dislodged, and once the wall began collapsing inward the other beam followed. As to what caused it, they’d no idea. The inspector listened patiently to his account and said nothing. The only unusual items among the heavy stones at the crime scene was a large shoe, which Mazarelle promptly claimed as his own, and a crushed corrugated box.

  The inspector took the badly mangled box with its shreds of clinging tape and studied it closely. Though he couldn’t be sure, he believed that this was the box in which Michou had been held captive. Printed on the outside of the box was Le Creuset. The sight of it made his flesh creep. Strangely enough, he’d seen that name on a box in a house he’d been in not long ago. But where? He felt certain there’d been no Dutch oven in it, but if he could recall where he’d seen the box, maybe he’d have some idea how Michou got inside. If he could only remember where.

  “You didn’t happen to find a dead cat, did you?”

  “Here at the crime scene?”

  The inspector nodded.

  The dour Lambert glanced nervously at the heap of stones. “No,” he said. “No fatalities of any kind. Though there did seem to be some stones with bloodstains.”

  Mazarelle’s fingers shot up to the bandaged stitches on his forehead. “The blood was probably mine,” he acknowledged. He hoped so anyway. He’d hate to have lost that cat.

  Before leaving he told Lambert to take photographs of the crime scene and call it a day. He was going back to the commissariat. He walked down the alley to the Place Mestraillat. He’d parked his car in front of his house, next to the old stone pump. What caught his eye wasn’t the car but the cement step beside the pump. Children loved to jump off that step when Michou wasn’t stretched out on top of it soaking up the last sunbeams of the day. Which was exactly what she was doing now as she waited to get into the house for something to eat.

  Mazarelle grabbed her, hoisted her up for a hug, overjoyed to find the smug, grossly overweight animal none the worse for wear. He stroked her belly. Pressing her to his face, the two of them danced cheek to cheek. Michou whined, making it clear that she was f
ar more interested in eating than dancing.

  “Okay, okay. Hold on!” He pushed his key into the lock, threw open the door. Actually more than a little surprised with how pleased he was to have her back again and discover that he wasn’t sneezing.

  Though early evening, it was almost as light as late afternoon and hot, despite the breeze, when Reiner arrived to pick up Molly. Madame Charpentier’s bakery was still open. Through the front window he could see the old bag jabbering with a customer about to leave, while behind the counter the cute young blondie was busy straightening out the pâtisserie in the showcase. He held the door open for the woman with the packages. She smiled and dubbed him très gentil. Inside it wasn’t too uncomfortable—there was a fan turning quietly in the corner—and the lip-smacking smell of yeast, cinnamon, and raisins overwhelmed his taste buds. Reiner was getting hungry.

  The minute Madame Charpentier saw him, she told Gabrielle to call Mademoiselle Reece. When Molly came down, she had on the one all-purpose dinner dress she’d brought with her, a short black shift with spaghetti straps, and black sandals, plus her gold teardrop earrings. Gabrielle thought she looked chic. Molly asked him if he’d heard the news about Ali Sedak’s suicide and told him the little she knew. Reiner showed no emotion. He listened like a judge, without comment, but he didn’t miss a word.

  Louise Charpentier made no secret of her feelings. She thought it awful the way they treated immigrants in France, grossly unfair how difficult it was for Arabs to get papers, to get work, to get a break, disgusting how they were always the first to be suspected when a crime was committed and the last to be treated like human beings rather than dirt.

  Perhaps it was his silence that caused her to ask, “What do you think, Monsieur Barmeyer?”

  “I think …” Reiner said, choosing like Iago not to wear his heart on his sleeve, “I’d like one of your best baguettes for dinner.”

  “They’re all the same,” she snapped, a sour expression on her face. Louise Charpentier didn’t care for either smoothies or trimmers.

  “The best bread I’ve ever tasted,” Molly offered, trying not to offend Pierre as Gabrielle handed him a fragrant baguette that was still crisp from the oven and took his money.

  Molly knew Louise could sometimes be impatient, even blunt, but wondered why in this instance she seemed so put out. Lifting the key from the hook behind the counter, Molly said, “I shouldn’t be too late. I’m going to Pierre’s place near L’Ermitage.” At the door, which he held open for her, she stopped and turned, sensing that something was troubling her new friend. It was clear that the two women, so different in age, temperament, and background, genuinely liked each other. Molly called to her, “He’s doing the cooking tonight, Louise. I hope he’s as good as he thinks he is. Wish me luck.”

  Before returning to the commissariat, Mazarelle, with no time for a nap, had a shot of whiskey. Then he swapped the old rain-stiffened loafers he’d been wearing for a comfortable pair of running shoes he used when taking his 120 kilos out for a stroll. Not that his ankle was still bothering him, because by now he’d almost forgotten about it. But the rest of his physical parts—especially his aching back and stitched-up face—had known happier days. And the accumulated heat in his office didn’t improve his condition one jot. Taking his pipe from the ashtray, he lit up by plunging a match into the tobacco left in its half-filled bowl and burning his index finger.

  “Merde!” He threw down his pipe and was sucking his finger when the telephone rang.

  “Yes?” he barked angrily.

  “That you, Paul?”

  Recognizing his friend Couterau’s voice, Mazarelle forgot the pain in his finger.

  “Did you find anything, Daniel?”

  “Maybe. We made a sweep of our files and came up with a single Pierre Barmeyer. He might be the guy you’re looking for. A thirty-six-year-old teacher in a Strasbourg lycée. Could that be the one?”

  “A teacher? Do you know if he’s away on vacation now?”

  “Yes, he’s away. Permanently. Pierre Barmeyer died last year in a rock climbing accident in Switzerland.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Gstaad. Next time I hope you’ll give me a live one. Now can I go home?”

  “Thanks, Daniel. I owe you one.”

  Whoever this Barmeyer was, Mazarelle feared he was bad news. Using an assumed identity—and having authentic papers to prove it. He was either hiding something he’d done or, worse yet as far as the inspector was concerned, something he was about to do. The thought that the mysterious Pierre Barmeyer and the stranger he met at the Café Valon who’d played pool with Ali might be the same person made his eyes smart—like in a scrum when you’re blindsided and get a fist in the face. Some freak blow out of the blue. Mazarelle had to warn Molly at once, put her on guard without scaring her out of her wits. He prayed that he hadn’t waited too long to insist that she go back home.

  Louise Charpentier answered the phone. Molly had left with Pierre Barmeyer about a half hour ago. Asked if she knew where they went, Louise said they were going to his place for dinner.

  “And where’s that?”

  Louise wasn’t sure. She recalled Molly saying that he was staying at a house not far from L’Ermitage.

  Mazarelle felt a bone stuck in his throat.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, no. Ask her to call me at home when she gets back.”

  “I’ll probably be sleeping, but I’ll leave a note.”

  “Merci bien, Louise.”

  Whatever his real name, Pierre Barmeyer was his man. He was using the McAllister house as his hideout. How was it possible that Mazarelle had been in there and not found him? How could he have forgotten that it was there in the kitchen he’d seen the Le Creuset box? How had he not recognized that it was the musty smell of the McAllister house that he sniffed on the stranger’s leather jacket in the Café Valon? No wonder that house seemed to be stalking him, that stranger in the café, eyeing him with amusement. Goddamn it, they were! Shoving himself away from his desk, Mazarelle thundered down the stairs and rushed into the shadowy office of his task force, which at that hour was empty.

  The only lights came from the three spectrally glowing computers that Roger Vignon had set up in the middle of the room. One ran CHARDON (Comportements Homicides; Analyse et Recherche sur les Données Opérationnelles Nationales), their special software for identifying perps by finding similarities in criminal operations. Another used ANACRIM (Analyse Criminelle), the first-rate national gendarmerie system for hunting serial killers. The inspector had managed to wheedle it out of the tin soldiers at the start when he and his men, suspecting that the murders at L’Ermitage might not have been committed by locals, were still following a two-track investigation. And the third, a police computer, contained le réseau Rubis, the Ruby Network.

  Mazarelle flipped on the overhead fluorescents, sat down at the police radio, and tried to reach Duboit, but there was no answer. “Come on, Bernard, where the hell are you?” Wherever he was, Mazarelle assumed that he was tight on Barmeyer’s tail and keeping a close watch on Molly. He hoped to hell that he hadn’t fallen asleep or gone into a café for un petit verre. Then he remembered Duboit’s mobile and dialed that number—also with no success. In a last-ditch effort to reach him, the inspector left a call on his beeper, which Bernard sometimes wore on his belt, but Mazarelle wasn’t too hopeful.

  Tired of wondering whether to stay put and keep trying to reach Duboit or go after him, the inspector went to see if there was any coffee left that was drinkable when the ringing began. Since leaving Paris, he hadn’t heard that sound often. It was one you didn’t forget or confuse with a phone call. There were no routine messages on the Ruby Network. They all were important, but some were ringing and urgent, and a few were very urgent—the screen pulsating with flashing lights and sound. This one from Interpol headquarters in Lyons was très, très urgent: Dieter Koenig, escaped German serial killer, rumored sighted near Taziac. Koenig beli
eved to be armed and dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution. Photograph follows …

  Mazarelle had no time to wait for pictures. He hurried back upstairs and yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk. His silver .38 Special was dusty, which made it seem only a little heavier than it was. Wiping it off on his sleeve, he cracked the revolver open and spun the empty cylinder. It looked okay. He tore open the box of bullets, took six, and loaded them into the cylinder. Grabbing a handful, he dumped them into his jacket pocket and stuffed the gun into his waistband. On the desk, Martine, smiling mischievously at her husband the famous homicide detective, watched him go.

  47

  THE OWLS IN THE CUPOLA

  Reiner pulled off the road at the gravel pit. “I missed the turnoff,” he explained. Backing his Renault around, he waited for the car that had been following them to pass.

  Molly was annoyed. “Why doesn’t he put on his lights?”

  Reiner suspected it was the same car that had been following them on the way to Les Eyzies.

  When they drove back, she wasn’t surprised that he’d missed his turnoff. It was completely unmarked and, even though still twilight, it was impossible to see any house from the road below. The narrow dirt road zigzagged dizzyingly to the top of the hill, where the dark, secluded, three-story house was set back in a sea of high grass like a crouching animal. As soon as he shut off the engine and they got out, Molly could hear the crickets, smell the lavender. A large sprawling country house, but it didn’t seem as if anyone was paying much attention to it.