I read on, pausing occasionally to decipher Henri’s writing. I was thoroughly engrossed in Henri’s notes when I heard a car starting up outside. I stopped reading, cocked my head like a dog, and listened.
After a moment, I heard the noise again, and this time it sounded distinctly human.
“Henri?” I said loudly, my eyes roving around the store.
I heard the noise a third time, and it sounded like a groan.
“Is that you?” I stepped around the counter and poked my head into the back room. Nothing but a wood table, and an organizer box containing scissors, knives, other tools, and pens.
And Henri Benoit lying in a crumpled mess on the floor, his legs tucked underneath him at an awkward angle, his bifocals broken on the floor near him. A pool of blood had formed underneath his head. In a cursory glance I couldn’t see where he was wounded, but his white ponytail was turning a dark shade of crimson.
“Henri!” I shouted, dropping on my knees beside him. I gently touched his shoulder and looked into his eyes. They had a glassy sheen to them.
“Oh no!” My hands shook as I placed a finger to his neck. A faint pulse beat against my skin. Henri was alive, but just barely.
I had to try three times before I could get my cell phone out of my pocket, and I chided myself to calm down as I dialed 911. The operator spoke in a gravelly voice as she took down the address. She said she was sending an ambulance, and told me not to touch Henri. She tried to keep me on the phone, but I hung up.
“What happened?” I asked Henri.
His near lifeless form didn’t move, but his eyelids flickered, reminding me, strangely enough, of an old movie reel in slow motion. I watched his chest. It rose a millimeter, then sank again. Over and over.
“Come on, Henri. Hang on.” I sat back on my haunches, feeling totally helpless, and waited.
Finally, faint sounds of sirens permeated the silence.
“They’re coming,” I murmured to Henri. His face was pale, and it seemed that his breathing grew even shallower.
The sirens’ blare grew louder, and then the floor vibrated as trucks rumbled slowly to a stop out on Broadway. I left Henri and ran out to the front of the store.
“He’s in here!” I bellowed, frantically waving my arms toward the store entrance. As the rescue workers hopped out of the ambulance, a police car screeched to a stop in front of the fire truck.
I guided two firemen, a trio of paramedics, and two police officers to the back of the store. Two paramedics rolled a stretcher covered with white sheets between them. On it they had piled a couple of boxes of supplies. They hurried around the display cases to the back room, leaving the stretcher by the counter.
“Step back here, sir,” said one of the firemen, an ox of a man with thick arms and a large square jaw, as he pushed me back.
“What happened to him?” one of the paramedics asked me.
“I don’t know. I came in and heard him back here.”
I stood just outside the door and watched as the paramedics set to work on Henri. One put a pressure cuff on his arm, and another carefully lifted one of Henri’s eyelids, shining a flashlight in his eyes.
“Do you know him?” The third one, a woman, glanced up at me as she prepared an oxygen mask to put over Henri's nose and mouth. The other two talked to each other in clipped tones.
I nodded mutely.
“Do you know his health history? Is he allergic to any medications?”
“No,” I said, my voice faltering. “I don’t know.” I knew very little of that kind of information.
“Do you know what happened here?” one of the officers asked me, oblivious to the conversation I’d just had. I had to look up to answer because he was so tall and thin.
“No,” I muttered, my attention riveted to Henri and the rescue work.
I was vaguely aware of the officer talking to his partner while I watched the paramedics. After a minute of hurried but efficient work, the woman spoke into a small, square mike attached to her shoulder. She waited for a response before placing a towel under Henri’s head. She barked a couple of orders, and the other two assembled a makeshift carrier underneath Henri.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
One paramedic, so young I wondered if he was still in high school, turned to me as they lifted Henri with the makeshift gurney and settled him onto the stretcher.
Instead of answering my question, the paramedic said, “What’s his name?”
“Henri Benoit.”
“Are you a family member? His son?” the female paramedic asked. Her bright red hair belied her calm, bedside tone.
“No. I’m a friend,” I said. “Is he going to be all right?” I asked again.
“At the very least he’s sustained a head injury. We won’t know the extent until we can get him to the hospital for tests.” The woman held back as the other two paramedics started rolling the stretcher out of the store. “We’re taking him to St. Anthony’s Central,” she said as she followed them. “You know where that is?”
“Yes,” I said as I followed them, keeping vigil until Henri was safely installed in the back of the rescue vehicle. The fire truck and rescue vehicles blocked one lane of traffic, and people gawked as they slowly drove past.
The engine started up, and the rear doors of the ambulance slammed shut. I stared into the back window. Henri lay with the oxygen mask over his face. The paramedics continued to attend to him as the truck pulled away, engine grumbling and sirens wailing. The fire truck took off, and I stood in the street until the hoses and ladder disappeared from view.
“I’m Officer Hammer,” the tall one said as he pulled me back to the sidewalk.
“Officer Grossman,” the second officer said to me. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” He was in his late forties, with chubby cheeks and a spare tire around his waist. Tufts of gray hair fell in a mish-mash way as he scratched his head. He held out a meaty hand, indicating that I should accompany him back to the shop.
“Did you know him?”
“Yes,” I said, coming out of my shock. I gave him as much detail as I could about Henri.
“What happened?”
I launched into an explanation as Officer Hammer came in. While Officer Grossman and I talked, he tramped to the back of the store.
“Henri was expecting me,” I said. “We were going to talk about a poster he was appraising. When I came in, I thought the shop was empty, so I waited. After a few minutes, I heard Henri. I found him on the floor like that, and called for help.”
“Where did you think he was?”
“Outside in back. That’s where he parks.”
If the explanation satisfied Officer Grossman, he didn’t show it. He jotted down my answers in a tiny notebook.
“Place is clean,” Hammer said. “No sign of forced entry, no sign of a weapon, and the cash box under the counter’s got a wad of cash and a few checks in it.”
“They could’ve taken some memorabilia,” I said.
Hammer shrugged. “We won’t know that until the victim…” he paused and cleared his throat, “until Mister Ben…” he stumbled over the name, “until your friend can do a thorough inventory.”
“Do you have any information about his family?” Roberts asked me.
“His wife’s name is Evaline.”
“We’ll need to get in touch with her,” Hammer said.
“I’ll call her,” I said. “It’ll be much easier to hear this from me.”
“Do you know Mr. Benoit that well?” Roberts continued. He pronounced the name perfectly and received a glare from Hammer for his efforts.
“We’re friends,” I said, stretching the truth.
“Okay,” Roberts hesitated, but both he and Hammer looked relieved. Better for me to deliver the news about Henri than them.
“Can you lock up here?” This from Roberts.
“Sure. I’ll take care of everything.”
“We’ll wait.” Roberts took a relaxed stan
ce and crossed his arms. They obviously weren’t going to leave me here alone. I couldn’t blame them. Hammer asked for my personal information, and didn’t seem impressed when I handed him my business card.
“Doing a little snooping?” Hammer tucked my card in his pocket.
“I was here on business,” I said.
“How about an ID?” Hammer asked.
I dug out my wallet and handed him my license. He wrote down everything and handed it back. “You’ll stay in town, right?” He said as if he were speaking to an imbecile.
“Of course.” I was getting irritated, knowing full well they thought of me as a suspect.
They spent a few more minutes in the back of the shop while I tried to find Henri’s home phone number, but I could feel Hammer’s eyes on me as I went to the counter and found a Rolodex. Silently thanking Henri for holding on to some old-fashioned ways, I spun the wheel until I found the “B’s”, and in seconds I was dialing Henri’s phone.
“Allo?” a light and airy voice asked.
“Mrs. Benoit?”
“Yes?”
I identified myself. Although I had never met Henri’s wife, she obviously knew who I was, because she immediately began discussing how much Henri liked talking old movies with me. I had to interrupt her to tell her about Henri.
“My Henri! Is he okay?” Her accent was not as thick as Henri’s, but her fear and concern sizzled through the phone lines.
I explained what I knew and told her where the paramedics had taken Henri. I said that I would close the shop and meet her there as soon as I could, and hung up.
For the first time since I found Henri, I let my nerves settle. I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Focus, I thought to myself.
I tiptoed into the back office, watching the officers. Hammer was speaking into a radio, probably getting a background check on me, and Roberts was examining the back door.
I stood near the spot where Henri had fallen and let my eyes wander around the room. I didn’t see anything out of place, at least from what I remembered of the room. I didn’t see my poster, but Henri could’ve had it stored somewhere, awaiting my arrival. The pens and paper that he kept on a shelf above the table appeared undisturbed. The trashcan on the floor was tipped over and a few crumpled papers were strewn out, but nothing else seemed wrong.
Except for the spot of blood soaking into the carpet. I shook my head in dismay. Who would do such a thing to someone like Henri? A robber?
I eased out of the office and made my way through the rest of the store, but I didn’t see anything missing from the display cases. But there were so many items. How could I know if something was stolen?
I felt helpless, and hoped Henri would be all right.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Time to go, buddy.” Hammer emerged from the office. “Let’s lock this place up.”
“I don’t have a set of keys,” I said. “For the deadbolt,” I explained.
Roberts poked his head out. “Do the best you can.”
I pulled down the shades in the front windows and on the door, flipped the sign hanging in the window from “Open” to “Closed”, and locked the doorknob. I then went to the back, where a series of switches controlled the lighting throughout the shop. I flipped them off, watching the room grow dark from front to back.
Since Henri’s burglar alarm system was easy to activate, I turned it on, Hammer watching my every move. I had to hope that Evaline would know the code if someone had to get in before Henri became conscious, but Henri had way too many valuable things in the store that needed to be protected.
“That’s it,” I said. Hammer and Roberts waited for me to exit, then followed me out the door.
The beeping of the alarm signaled, and I let myself out the back door and walked around the building to my car. The officers waited until I pulled out into traffic before they returned to their car. I needed to find out what happened here, if for no other reason than to clear my own name.
*****
“A friend of mine was brought in a while ago,” I said to the emergency room nurse at St. Anthony’s Central a half hour later. “His name is Henri Benoit.”
“Oh, are you Reed Ferguson?” an accented voice behind me said.
I turned and gazed into the tear-filled mocha eyes of Evaline Benoit. She was a petite woman not much taller than five feet. Her long silvery hair was pulled into a bun with an expensive mother-of-pearl hairpiece holding it in place, and dangling from her ears were round blue earrings that matched her dress.
“Yes.” I bent down and Evaline rose up on her toes to plant a light kiss on both my cheeks in European fashion.
“They don’t tell me anything about my Henri,” she said, holding a small white handkerchief to her lips, muffling a sob.
I murmured assurances while she wept into the hanky, then guided her to a couch in the waiting area. After a few moments she composed herself, drying her eyes and blowing her nose.
“They say that Henri must have tests. They need to see what has happened to his head.”
“Someone hit him on the back of the head,” I said. She nodded, the hanky halfway to her face.
“Were there any other injuries?”
“They do not think so. But they don’t tell me.” Her body shook.
“Let me see what I can find out.”
She thanked me profusely. I went to the desk and spoke briefly with the nurse.
“They’re completing tests right now,” I said when I returned. I sat down next to Evaline. “We should know something soon.”
“You are such a nice boy,” Evaline said. I tried not to blush. “Henri, he likes you very much, and I can see why.”
I thanked her, but she was already lost in her concerns, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall. We waited in silence until a doctor came out to tell us that Henri was in the ICU.
“Your husband has sustained a head injury. X-rays showed a hairline fracture above the left temporal lobe, and right now he’s in a coma. We won’t know the extent of brain damage, if any, until he wakes up.”
Tears rolled down Evaline’s cheeks. “Brain damage?”
“We don’t know anything yet,” the doctor stressed. “He may be just fine. We’ll be monitoring him, but right now all we can do is wait.”
“Can I see him?” Evaline asked.
“Certainly.”
We stood up as the doctor left to talk to the admitting nurse.
“I’ll leave you with Henri,” I said. “I’ll come by here tomorrow to check on you.”
“Thank you.” Evaline stretched out an arm and patted my face.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
She shook her head. “No. I have called our daughter. She lives in New York, but she will come out now.”
“Good,” I said. The doctor escorted her to an intensive care area, and then I left.
*****
Halfway home my cell phone rang.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Jack Healy said when I answered. “Do you ever go to your office?”
“I’ve had a busy day,” I said, not wanting to explain the events of the last few hours. It was after nine, but weariness was setting in, and it felt like the middle of the night.
“Have you found out anything more?”
“I checked on Samantha’s alibi. I doubt it would stand up in court.”
“She could’ve killed Ned,” Jack said, an edge in his voice.
“It’s possible. Or she could’ve set him up. But I don’t have any proof of that.” I kept my answers short. With everything that had happened to Henri, I wasn’t prepared to give him an update just yet. But I had to admit that Samantha made a likely candidate. And I couldn’t brush aside a feeling that I’d missed some piece of information, something that didn’t set right.
“What more do you need?”
“More than I’ve got, Jack. This is all speculation. You can’t charge her with a crime if you don’t have proof.”<
br />
“It’s not like she’s going to come out and tell you she killed Ned,” he snorted.
“Look, I’m running down a few things now,” I said. “Give me a few more days, and I’ll be able to give you a point-by-point account.”
“You’re making progress?”
“Yes,” I hedged a bit. I was making progress, but wasn’t sure in what direction just yet.
“Fine.”
Jack didn’t sound fine, but what else could he say? He was smart enough to know I was right, but desperate enough to want to hang Ned’s death on the first likely candidate. Not a good combination.
The moon shone brightly in the night sky as I pulled into my alley garage. I walked through the backyard to the front porch, where metal stairs led up to my condo.
I checked the mailbox by the Goofball Brothers’ door and was starting upstairs when I heard their door open.
“Dude, how’s it going?” Deuce came out on the porch, wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off jeans. “We’re going to go play some pool. You want to come?”
“I’m tired and it’s late,” I said. “But thanks.”
“It’s only nine-thirty.” Deuce looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “It’s not that late.”
“Thanks, but I’ve had a long day. You might want to get dressed first.” I smiled at him.
“Yeah, I will.” Deuce stared at me for a second. “Are you okay?” He took a step closer to me, squinting. Then his eyes widened in surprise.
“Hey, man. You’re hurt!” He pointed at my side.
I gazed down and saw a spot on my shirt. I hadn’t noticed it before. I tugged at the fabric, examining the reddish-brown stain, and with a sudden pang of sadness, realized it was Henri’s blood. I had no idea how it got there. I didn’t remember touching him, or the pool of blood on the carpet, but I must’ve.
“I’m fine,” I reassured Deuce. “A friend of mine was hurt today.”
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