by León Melín
“Yes, a double murder.” They eyed him almost with respect. Lucas looked at the handcuffs and overalls and didn’t feel worthy of it. “The newspapers have already hung you – all we need to do is open the door to them. The public will do the rest. Just admit the first murder as well.”
“No, I don’t admit either murder. The second was self-defence. You’ve seen how he tied me up. How helpless I was.”
“No, we have seen nothing of the sort. A bum was found dead in a car you stole and filled with tape and a sleeping bag which anybody could have placed there.”
“Well, I can see how you might think that, but I didn’t run away. I called the police and . . .”
“A member of the public called the police.”
“I was still getting out of my tape. I asked him to call the police.”
“You would have to, wouldn’t you ? Otherwise you would have to kill him, too. And you couldn’t because the Head Mistress had taken your gun. Good thing, too, or we’d have had three deaths to hang you for.”
“Your fingerprints were on the bat.”
“I’ve told you, I picked up the bat. If it wasn’t such a long time ago, I’d still have blood on my hands. But you haven’t found any blood on my suit – I was wearing the same suit when you arrested me.”
“Yeah, you stunk.”
“Did you find anything on the clothes ?” They looked at the ground. “Hah !”
“His fingerprints weren’t on the bat – nor anywhere else. And yours were everywhere – including the bedroom.”
“Jesus Christ, leave it out.”
“Leave her out, you mean ?” Lucas didn’t answer. “Now, why would we do that ?”
Lucas had thought things would get easier. With the dead body of the rucksack cowboy, a serial killer of extreme violence and malice, Lucas could have proven his innocence. Instead, he had added to his tally of dead bodies, had admitted one at least, and he could hardly tell the police about the serial killing without implicating Nicole. Would he have to kill again to get free? And if
so, who ? The policemen ? The prosecutor ? Nicole ?
“Did you look at the cowboy’s clothes ?”
“Why do you keep calling him the
cowboy ? He was a bum.”
“Did you look at his clothes ?” They did not answer. “What did his clothes show ? They must have been spattered all over with bits of brain and blood.”
“There was some.”
“That proves it.”
“That proves he was there – you could still have done it.”
“I wouldn’t have left my fingerprints if I had done it. I was in shock. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“You are a lying shit,” said the prosecutor, his face only inches from Lucas’.
- - -
The cell was cold, the bed hard wood. The gold space blanket mocked him. He was still wearing his old suit. Squares had been cut out for testing. He smelled. They had removed his belt and laces, but he still had his murderous shoes. Police wandered up and down the corridor, without interest. He was tired. He was spent. He had no money. No job. No possessions. The newspapers had printed his photo with the double-murderer title. He was at the lowest point of his already low life and he knew it. Could he go any lower ?
Chapter 20 – Life
“How did you manage to do that ?”
They were outside the police station. Nicole had his arm in hers, the sun was shining in her hair, her eyes were moist with pleasure; it was the greatest day in his life.
“I told them I recognised him – he’d been hanging around all the time – even afterwards. He kept himself well hidden, but I could still feel him. When you came back, I was so relieved. He must have been trying to blackmail me, for more – for money or something. Or maybe he wanted to rob the place. I didn’t dare talk to the police, or they might have forced him to act. I couldn’t believe it when you left again – I thought I’d lost you for good. There was no news and then you were the news – the TV was full of you, of how you’d killed someone else, and I knew it was him – he’d disappeared at the same time. Oh, you are so brave – I don’t know how you did it, but I’m so, so oh, thank you.” She kissed him.
Lucas was still just relieved to be out of the police station.
“Will you stay ?” she asked as they drove into the château ? The dogs came running towards them; the sun shone; the flowers were beautiful; it was peaceful and warm.
In the cool, fresh air of morning, a washed and shaved Lucas, wearing gardening clothes, walked freely amidst the roses and clematis,
wisteria and laurel. Maybe he could find peace here. Maybe the police would find out how the cowboy got his business, maybe they would link him to other murders, to other women, to Nicole, to the woman in Rennes.
He walked down the tunnel he was getting to know too well. Beyond, and he was on the footpath and beyond that on the road where he had parked his car, where he had been rolled by the cowboy. Farther on, there was just road and houses. He retraced his steps. The police would have been sure to search these woods but the rucksack cowboy would have had a special reason to come back here, to wait, to stalk his prey.
The rucksack cowboy had seen Lucas leave, taking the bag of money. Had seen him enter the tunnel, maybe even seen him descend it. He would have been too slow to catch him before getting to the car; wrong-footed, he would have panicked, having lost the money and left himself open to a witness.
His own escape he had probably planned over the wall and he may have expected Lucas, laden with cash, to have struggled over, a good opportunity to tackle him and leave him unconscious or dead on either side of the wall. The cowboy had had only two choices – to wait and see if Lucas returned, ignorant that he’d been seen; or flight. He had fatally chosen to stay, lurking in the area till his first or second sight told him Lucas was back. With his self-sufficiency stuffed into the broad pockets of his rucksack, and sheltered by his hat from the gaze of nosey coppers and locals, the cowboy could have spent the week in these woods. But he must have left a trace.
Dog walkers would have flushed him out from public woods, but these were private, presumably belonging to the château, whose châtelain lay dead in the morgue and whose châtelaine had other things to worry about. The dogs from the château did not cross over here either, and in any case were useless as guardians. Once the police had searched the woods after the murder and Lucas’ incriminating evidence of the broken gate, the cowboy could have moved in to for the perfect hide-away.
In a thicket, under a mound of leaves, Lucas found a sleeping bag with its waterproof cover. He hardly disturbed it, and after checking to see if any identification marks were visible and finding none, he covered it up again with leaves. The rucksack he found nearby, again with no identification, no personal effects.
The khaki bag with the money he found hanging in a tree. The heavy foliage would have hidden it from a policeman’s view if he had been more interested in the ground looking for footprints. The tree was just over a stone wall at the end of the footpath – Lucas must have thrown it over the wall as he started coming to his senses on leaving the dark of the tunnel and the woods, returning to the bright lights of civilisation and morality. One of the handles had caught on a branch too low to be seen from the path, but too high for the police.
- - -
He picked up the bag and sat down again, placing it between his feet. Slowly, he pulled the zip towards himself, opening the bag.
- - -
Twenty bricks. 200,000 Francs. New Francs. 20 Million Old Francs. 20 Million new Centimes. In real money, real notes. Lucas fanned the familiar faces, 50-Franc notes bundled together, 20 Francs, 100 Francs. Real money, real French money; only, since the end of March, only criminals and idiots would still have this kind of money, Francs, not Euros.
200,000 Francs. A good wage if you paid taxes. But Lucas wasn’t going to. Only a Central Bank would accept it now, a central back with anti-money-laundering processes
in place to make sure that taxes had been paid. That it wasn’t lost, stolen or a pay-off for a murder.
And he, Lucas, had his now famous fingerprints all over the money; he, the most wanted man in France. “Ah, Monsieur Lucas, so great to see that you are free again. Yes, sir, 200,000 Francs; that should be no problem, just wait here would you, Sir.” And the phone calls would start, “Yes, Lucas”, “20 Million,” a pay-off, from whom ? For what ? Can it be ?
It was too soon – from hero to most-wanted to hero to most wanted in nine months.
- - -
Lucas had to find out the truth, to understand how the rucksack cowboy had managed to live, perhaps for years, perhaps well, as a professional assassin. How could he have advertised his services, and not been detected by the police.
Nicole refused to talk. “What are you talking about ? Do you think I would murder my husband ? You are crazy ! Get out of my house !” she had screamed, and it had taken him all day to calm her down. He had asked her about the Figaro, and had suggested that that was the way she had contacted the killer. And it was only because of Nicole that he was free from jail. If she went, he would be back inside.
Maybe he had imagined the whole thing ? Could it be possible ? Could he have killed an innocent tramp ? But no, he (Lucas) had been beaten to reveal the location of the money – he had the money still, it was no use to Nicole and she knew it, French francs. It had to be real, and either he was a murderer or the cowboy was a serial killer.
This was the only mystery that remained: who he was and how he managed to find this kind of work. The only clue was still the Figaro, but it didn’t really make sense. Was there really a group of ladies who did in their husbands on command ? Keeping the secret from generation to generation, partly because they benefited, partly because they were too scared to talk. Did women really have that much power ? It turned the accepted stereotype of the wee-wifey on its head.
He had to get to Rennes and see for himself. He would find the woman and this time, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy. He went to sleep feeling a lot more calm than he had done for a long time.
- - -
Lucas had found the woman. He had waited until her husband had left. He called.
“Allo ?”
“Madame Reynaud ?”
“Oui.”
“I’m calling about your advert in the Figaro. I wonder if we could talk ?”
“Yes, Mister . . . ?”
“Luc . . . Look, we can discuss that when we meet. Can we meet today ?”
“Yes, this afternoon.”
He wondered what she needed to do this morning. From the pay-phone, he watched as a few minutes later she drove off into town.
Lucas didn’t know what to expect, but €20 000 would set him up nicely. Not that he was going to do anything – he was just trying to find out how the rucksack cowboy had been contacted by the women. Nicole refused to talk about it – the cowboy had been right, she was traumatised by the murder, would never be able to talk about it, except maybe to suggest to her lady friends how to solve an unwelcome problem.
At the meeting, Mme Reynaud was quickly in tears: confused story, gripping his arm, pleading with him to help her. Her husband beat her, mistreated her, threatened to kill her if she tried leaving.
“Well, I may be able to help you, there.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you.”
“But I need your help as well – how did you find out about me ?”
“What ?”
“I want to make sure my security has not been compromised. There has been a lot in the papers recently. How did you know how to get hold of me ?”
“The hairdresser.”
“The hairdresser ?”
“Yes, you know.”
“How do they get involved ?”
“They’ve always been involved. Don’t you know ?”
“Well, I didn’t realise it was so generalised. How long has this been going on ?”
“Oh, for ages. At least 2000 years.”
“2000 years ?! What ??!!”
“Of course – you think we women have done nothing all that time ? The Capetians, the Valois, the Sun King, the wars of religion, the Revolution, the Empires, the Republics – do you really think we women would have been interested in all that ?”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“We wouldn’t be interested in all your wars, politics, crimes, business; we have our own lives to lead – we just don’t write about it, like you men.”
“What have you been doing ?”
“Oh, just the usual – getting married, having babies. But we always had our support network – women could only rely on each other – plus a few gay friends, who, you know, understand about dressing and hair. It started with contraception and abortion, I suppose.”
“Contraception, 2000 years ago ?”
“Of course. What do you think ?
“In those days, husbands married late and died young, so there was no need to worry about them. Nowadays, they marry young, live long and after they’re 50, they stay at home. What a disaster ! What are we to do ? By the time they die a natural death, we’ld be too old to enjoy life. Something had to be done. Through the hairdressers we heard about this special service.”
“For only 200 000 Francs, you could have him removed ?”
“Yes, well, not with the Euro it’s gone up to € 25 000, but that was the idea. Only, no-one knows who does it. So your secret is safe. We only know how to get in touch. There are various ways . . .”
“Like ?”
“Well, like the Figaro. Of course, if a man asks a hairdresser, they won’t admit to anything. After 2000 years of persecution it will take more than a few years of legalised homosexuality to make them forget. You pigs (sorry) have made them suffer so much.
“So, you will do it then ? Quickly ?”
Suddenly, the front door opened. They both heard it simultaneously and turned towards the door of the room.
“My husband,” she whispered in fear.
Lucas was trapped, unarmed. The door swung open and in walked M. Saint-Jean. Lucas screamed.
- - -
“What is it ?” It was Nicole. Lucas was sitting up in bed in a darkened room. He could feel he was in bed, Nicole lay naked beside him, burning skin against his cold damp. There was no-one else in the room.
“Are you all right ?” she asked, holding his arm.
“Yes, I’m here, I’m still here. Everything’s OK.”
- - -
It was how many days since the 24 Hours ? How many hours ? How many lives ? Lives lost ? Loves won ? The painful noise, the crowds, the beer, the urine, where were they now ? Then, he had slept well, eaten badly, drunk a lot and walked care-free if not exactly happy. Now, he walked with a spiritual limp, ham-strung by indecision, circumspection; he slept fitfully, ate not at all and hardly drank except to excess.
The newspapers did not quite know what to say. Only a few days ago, Lucas was the worst criminal in history, and slowly the journalists who had written those stories had to accept that the man was more and more a hero. Not quite, but nearly. There were too many loose ends to the story, too many unanswered questions. And old, unanswered questions popped up as well, from old cases, the recent ones in Paris and the country, where it never seemed clear if he had really solved something or not. Overriding all the speculation and open questions, were the undisputable facts: he had killed two people; he wasn’t going to be prosecuted for either; Nicole was a beautiful woman; she lived in a castle. Lucas was clearly someone to respect; at least, to show respect to, a man who had killed two people, one with his bare hands, well, with his leather-soled shoes. But people like simple stories, so journalists write simple stories and make up the rest, and Lucas’ story became simpler and simpler with each passing day.
- - -
He walked gingerly past the hairdressing salon. Could there really be a secret world – of sin, of murder, of hair ? That nobody talked
about ? Nobody wrote about ?
“What can we do for you, Sir ?” The young man in the tight trousers and loose-fitting shirt, open at the collar and, indeed, three buttons down his chest, smiled at Lucas. His hair was sharply cut, his tan was a shade too brown, even for this summer, and his shoes too noticeable. Even the man’s belt had been carefully chosen to match the colour of his shoes. What evil was hiding behind that innocent question ?
“Oh, nothing, I was just looking ?” and he walked on.
Some things were better not known.