Nicholas Marten 01 - The Exile

by Folsom, Allan

  “We are dealing with murder, Monsieur Marten,” Lenard said flatly.

  Marten kept his eyes on Lenard. “I’ll say again, Inspector. In the future, if you have a question that has to do with me, I would appreciate it if you came to me first.”

  Lenard ignored his comment. “I would ask you to look at some photographs.” He fingered the manila envelope and looked to Nadine and Lady Clem. “You may wish to turn away, mesdames. They are rather graphic.”

  “And I’m rather fine the way I am.” Clem had lost none of her fire.

  “As you wish.” Lenard glanced at Marten and opened the envelope, then one by one placed a series of photographs in front of him. They were crime scene photos taken in Halliday’s room at the Hôtel Eiffel Cambronne. Each photo had a date and time code in the lower right-hand corner.

  The first was a wide shot of the room with Halliday’s body on the bed. The second, of Halliday’s opened luggage. There was another angle of Halliday on the bed. And still another and then another. Then Lenard selected three of the photographs.

  “In each we see the dead man, the bed, and the nightstand behind it. All taken from a slightly different angle. Is there anything you find noticeably different from one to another?”

  “No.” Marten shrugged. He knew what was coming, but he wasn’t about to show it.

  “The first pictures were taken as you and Dan Ford arrived. The last was taken some twenty seconds after you left.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “In the first pictures you will see an old and rather substantial daily calendar or appointment book on the nightstand. In the last it is no longer there. Where is it?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because either you or Dan Ford took it. And it wasn’t in Monsieur Ford’s car or anywhere in his apartment.”

  “I didn’t take it. Maybe somebody else did. There were other people in the room.” Marten looked to Kovalenko. “Did you ask the Russian?”

  “The Russian did not take it,” Kovalenko said without emotion, and Marten watched him for a moment longer. There was something in the way he stood leaning against the window casing with his arms crossed over his chest watching them. It reminded him of the feeling he’d had when they’d first met at the Halliday murder scene. Kovalenko looked soft, even academic, but he was far from either and was now, as he had been then, digging for something more. Maybe even more than he’d told the French police. What that was or what he thought Marten knew that he wasn’t revealing wasn’t possible to know.

  What was clear was that it had been Kovalenko who learned about his relationship with Clem, tracked her down in Amsterdam and learned she was on her way to Paris, and then persuaded Lenard to apprehend and question her under whatever French law applied and then bring her here. It was the same thing they had done to him when they’d brought him to the murder scenes at the river and questioned him afterward. They wanted to see how she would react and then how he would react to her presence and the way she had been treated. If it seemed extreme, it was, and it meant whatever Kovalenko was after was larger than a few murders. And obviously he didn’t care what buttons he pushed or on what level, because he certainly would have known who Clem was and who her father was.

  “You packed two pieces of luggage when you left your apartment to come here.” Lenard was suddenly looking at Nadine. “What did you put in them?”

  Marten started. This was what he’d been afraid of. Nadine was in no emotional state to be interrogated. There was no way to know how she would react or what she would say. In one way he half expected her to tell Lenard exactly what she’d done. In another, he realized she had been strong enough to do what she had done in the first place and therefore was prepared to be questioned by the police in the event it came to that.

  “Clothes,” she said impassively.

  “What else?” Lenard pressed her.

  “Just clothes and toiletries. I packed mine and put Monsieur Marten’s into his own suitcase, as I believe you asked me to do when you so hurriedly took over my house.”

  Marten smiled to himself. She was good. Maybe she’d learned that self-assurance from Dan, or maybe that was what Dan had seen in her to begin with. He knew then she had done this for Dan, and for Marten, too, because of their friendship and because he would have wanted her to.

  Abruptly Lenard stood up. “I would like to have my people look through the apartment.”

  “This is not my apartment,” Nadine said. “The permission is not mine to give.”

  “It’s not mine either, but if it’s alright with Armand, go ahead,” Marten said. “We have nothing to hide.” He saw Nadine glance at him in alarm, but he didn’t respond.

  “Help yourselves,” Armand said.

  Lenard nodded at Roget and the detective got up and left the room. The two uniforms went with him.

  Marten had done what he had to immediately take away any suspicion and trusted Lenard’s men would do their search quickly and confine it to the apartment itself and not venture out into the freezing cold of the courtyard. The trouble was Nadine didn’t know the materials were hidden away. She’d done well and she was strong, but her glance at Marten had revealed her anxiety. Lenard was still in the room; so was Kovalenko. The longer the search took, the more nervous she would become and they would see it. He needed to do something to ease the tension and at the same time learn something.

  “Maybe while your men are tearing things apart you could tell us something about what you found when you went over the cars,” he said to Lenard. “After all, I was there at your invitation.”

  Lenard stared at him for a brief moment, then nodded. “The body in the second car was indeed the man called Jean-Luc.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A salesman for a printing company. It’s as much as we know so far.”

  “That’s all? You found nothing else?”

  “Perhaps it would not be inappropriate, Inspector,” Kovalenko said from where he leaned against the window casing, “for us to share our information with Mr. Marten or Mrs. Ford.”

  “As you wish,” Lenard acquiesced.

  Kovalenko looked to Nadine. “Your husband did not struggle long, but he did manage to do so long enough to force his assailant to press his hand against the window glass on the driver’s side. A few moments later the killer rolled the window down so that the river water would fill the car and sink it. In doing so he inadvertently helped preserve his own evidence by taking the glass out of the rush of water.”

  “You’re saying you have a fingerprint?” Marten worked deliberately not to reveal the jolt of excitement that shot through him.

  “Yes,” Lenard said.

  Marten glanced down the hall. Lenard’s men were still there. He could see two in the kitchen, another entering the bathroom, another still standing in the door of the den where he had gone over the files and slept. How long were they going to take?

  Marten looked back and saw Lenard glance at Kovalenko. The Russian nodded, and Lenard turned to Marten.

  “Monsieur, I could put you under arrest for suspicion of removing evidence from a crime scene. Instead, and for your own well-being in the face of what is going on, I will politely ask you to leave France.”

  “What?” Marten was completely taken aback.

  Abruptly Lenard stood. “The next Chunnel train leaves for London in forty-five minutes. I will have my men take you to it and see you on board. To make certain you arrive safely we have asked the London Metropolitan Police to meet the train and after that the Greater Manchester Police to advise us upon your arrival there.”

  Marten glanced at Kovalenko, who pushed away from the window and walked out of the room. So that was what Kovalenko’s nod to Lenard had been about. The Russian had learned all he could and had no more need of Marten, so he gave Lenard his blessing to get rid of him.

  “I’ve done nothing,” Marten protested. The swift arrival of Lenard and Kovalenko had proven his instincts right, and hid
ing the files away outside of the apartment had been a prudent move, but Lenard’s action was wholly unanticipated. The police were still there and being extremely methodical. If Lenard’s men escorted him to the train right then and they kept on the way they were, eventually they would go out into the courtyard. Once they did, and found the files, they would be in touch with the London police, who would put him under arrest the moment he stepped off the train and send him straight back to Paris.

  “Monsieur Marten, perhaps you would prefer to wait in a jail cell while your protest is discussed with the examining magistrate.”

  Marten didn’t know what to do. His best bet was to find a way to stay there and hope Lenard’s men found nothing. At least he could retrieve the files right then. It was true that if he left and they found nothing, he might find a way to have Nadine or Armand recover them and ship them to him in Manchester, but that would take time, and there was every chance they would still be watched.

  Moreover, what was going on was happening here in Paris, not Manchester. Lenard himself had said the murdered Jean-Luc was a salesman for a printing company. That substantiated the fact that he had delivered the first menu to Dan Ford, which meant there was every chance, as he had thought before, there was a second menu, and that second menu was what Ford had gone to get from Jean-Luc when he was murdered. And tonight in Paris was the occasion of the first menu—the Romanov dinner, which Peter Kitner was to attend.

  Better to try to stay and hope they don’t find the files, Marten thought. If they do, whether I’m here or in England, they’ll lock me up anyway. If they don’t and I’m in Manchester, too much time will pass. More than that, Lenard will make certain a warning is sent to French Immigration—meaning trying to get back into the country once I’m out will be very difficult.

  “Inspector, please.” Marten took the only avenue he had left, Lenard’s mercy. “Dan Ford was my closest friend. His wife and family have made arrangements to have him buried here in Paris. I would very much like to be permitted to stay until then.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lenard was abrupt and final. “My men will help you gather your belongings and see you to the train.” He looked to Lady Clem.

  “With all respect to you, madame, and to your father, I would suggest you accompany your friend on the train and afterward make certain he does not attempt to return to France. I would hate to see how the tabloid press would react should they learn of our investigation.” He hesitated, then half smiled. “I can already imagine the headlines and what a clamor, warranted or not, they would cause. To say nothing of the exposure of what”—he glanced at Marten—“seems to be a rather confidential relationship.”

  52

  GARE DU NORD. STILL THURSDAY, JANUARY 16. 10:15 A.M.

  Inspector Roget and two of Lenard’s uniforms escorted Nicholas Marten and Lady Clem through the crowd of waiting passengers and down the platform alongside the Eurostar, the high-speed Paris-to-London Chunnel train.

  Marten walked as if he were in handcuffs and a straitjacket, helpless to do anything but what he was told. At the same time he kept a careful eye on Clem, who was ready to explode but so far had managed to keep silent, no matter her rage. Probably because she knew what Lenard had threatened about the British tabloids was true. Their livelihood was built on just this kind of stuff, and they would have a field day with it. And Clem well knew that her father would be more than embarrassed, he would be enraged—demanding to know what the damn hell had gone on. When he found out, he might very well demand a public apology from the French government, which would enliven the tabloid coverage a hundredfold and make a mess out of their life in Manchester, to the point where, because of university rules, either Lady Clem would have to resign or he would be forced to leave the school, or both. Moreover, the paparazzi would instantly be on their doorstep, and their photographs would be plastered everywhere, even across the U.S. tabloids. And for Marten that brought the risk that someone on the LAPD would see them. So if things were bad, they threatened to get a great deal worse if Clem exploded. Thankfully, she hadn’t. Quite obviously Lenard had known exactly what buttons to push that would keep Clem and the entire affair silent.

  That aside, the two most important pieces of information—Raymond’s LAPD files found on the computer disk inside Halliday’s appointment book and the clear fingerprint that Dan Ford had somehow forced his killer to leave against the Peugeot’s window glass even as he was being murdered—had been left behind; one, in the green trash bag hidden in Armand’s courtyard fountain; the other, in the investigative files of the Paris police. Together they would have revealed a definitive truth: that either the fingerprints matched and Dan Ford’s killer had, without doubt, been Raymond; or that they didn’t and the present madman was someone else entirely. But it was something he would never know without revealing the materials to the police—and that was something he couldn’t do. If he did, the materials would immediately be confiscated and he would be thrown in jail himself for, as Lenard said, “removing evidence from a crime scene.” Right away he would be wholly out of the picture, trapped in the machinery of French jurisprudence, and most likely waiting for someone from the LAPD to arrive to question him further. So instead, the files, at least when he had left the apartment, remained hidden and he was on his way out of the country.

  Suddenly Roget stopped beside car number 5922.

  “We are here.” Abruptly he turned to Marten. “Your passport, please.”

  “My passport?”

  “Oui.”

  Sixty seconds later Marten and Lady Clem were seated in standard class seats, with Roget and the two uniforms in the aisle in front of them discussing the situation in French with the train’s ticket collector and one of its security guards. Finally Roget handed the ticket collector Marten’s passport and told Marten his passport would be returned to him when the train reached London. Then he wished him a pointed bon voyage, looked at Lady Clem, and left, along with the uniforms.

  Afterward the security guard and ticket collector fixed them with a stare and then they, too, turned and walked off, glancing back as they reached the end of the car before walking through the sliding door into the car beyond.

  “What was it?” Lady Clem looked at Marten.

  “What was what?”

  “The whole time the police were showing you the photographs and afterward when you were arguing with them, something was going on between you and Nadine.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes, there was.” Clem looked up at the boarding passengers, then back to Marten. “Nicholas, this train, apart from most others traveling to and around the U.K., is on time. It will leave at exactly ten-nineteen, which means you have”—Lady Clem looked at her watch—“about thirty-five seconds before the doors close and it begins to move.”

  “I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about.”

  Clem leaned in and lowered her voice, her British accent increasingly clipped. “Inspector Lenard came to Armand’s apartment looking for the late Mr. Halliday’s address book. Obviously whatever is in it is important or you, or Nadine, wouldn’t have hidden it away.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Twenty-five seconds.”

  “Clem, if I had given it to them”—Marten was whispering—“at this moment Nadine and I would both be in a French jail, and you might very well be with us.”

  “Nicholas, maybe Inspector Lenard has found the book and maybe he hasn’t. But I know you are a very bright man and would have hidden it well. So I think it’s best to assume he hasn’t and make one last try to retrieve it before he does. Twenty seconds.”

  “I—”

  “Nicholas, stand up and get off the train. If the ticket taker or security man comes I’ll say you’re in the loo. When we get to London I’ll tell the Metropolitan Police you suffer terribly from claustrophobia and couldn’t possibly survive a thirty-mile ride through a tunnel a hundred and fifty feet beneath the English Channel without having a seizure.
You had no choice but to get off the train before it left, promising me, cross your heart, you would take the next flight to Manchester and inform Inspector Lenard the moment you got there.”

  “How could I fly to Manchester? I don’t have a passport!”

  “Nicholas, get off the fucking train!”

  53

  Peter Kitner watched the black Citroen sedan pass through the gates and start up the driveway toward his extensive four-story home on the Avenue Victor Hugo. In it would be Dr. Geoffrey Higgs, his personal bodyguard and chief of intelligence. By now Higgs would know whether his greatest fear was true—that the man who had spoken to him from the darkness behind the media lights at the Hôtel Crillon was who he had finally admitted to himself it might be.

  “How could he know about Davos?” His son, Michael, had pressed him in the limousine as they’d left the Crillon. And he’d snapped, “I don’t know.”

  The trouble was he did know. And had known even then but had refused to acknowledge it, even to himself. But finally he had, and had asked Higgs to find out what he could and as quickly as possible, most especially if the questioner had planned to attend the forum at Davos himself.

  Alfred Neuss and Fabien Curtay were dead, and the Spanish knife and the reel of 8 mm film Neuss had protected for so long were gone, taken by Curtay’s killer. Other than Neuss and Curtay and himself, only two others knew the knife and film existed, the two people who he was certain had them now—the Baroness Marga de Vienne and the man to whom she had been legal guardian for most of his life, Alexander Luis Cabrera. And it was Cabrera, he was certain, who had spoken from behind the lights.

  Michael’s words echoed again. How could he know about Davos?

  Kitner sat down behind his massive glass-and-stainless-steel desk. Maybe it was a guess, he thought. Maybe Cabrera just assumed he would be attending the World Economic Forum in Switzerland, which he had not done in years, and wanted to toy with him by getting the media fired up. It had to be that, because there was no way he could know. Even the Baroness with her extensive reach and connections could not know. What was to really happen in Davos was all too secret.