The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “I see. I have no clue whether it was a newly purchased piece or had been here for decades.”

  “Ask Henri?”

  Not a chance. “When he’s not so busy, maybe I will. It’s not a big deal, I was just curious.”

  She gave a delicate shrug as she left the library, leaving Hugo to ponder his next move. His first thought was to go to the seat of all knowledge in a place like this, the place where secrets and gossip unfurled like spring flowers: the staff. More specifically the kitchen, which Hugo knew would act as the fulcrum for the people who worked inside and outside at the chateau. His hesitation was the promise he’d made to Tourville. If Alexandra and Vibert mentioned to Henri that he’d been looking for something in the house, it would be no big deal. But pestering the staff was an entirely different matter, he could hardly claim to have accidentally wandered into the kitchen and made polite chitchat with the maid or groom about a Tourville antique. And it wasn’t just a matter of getting away with this line of questioning. Hugo didn’t like being coerced into a promise not to investigate, but once he’d given his word, he didn’t want to go back on it any more than he had to.

  The alternative wasn’t much more appealing. Two days, maybe even three or four, wasting away at the house while the talks dragged on and he passed his time walking circles on the estate or plowing through books here in the library. Wonderful options for a long weekend, but frustrating in the extreme when there was work to be done in Paris.

  He pulled out his phone and called Capitaine Garcia. “Any progress?” Hugo asked after brief pleasantries.

  “Non, pas encore. Right now, I’m concentrating on the jewelry. Some of it is pretty distinctive and so we’re contacting as many places as possible here in Paris to see if they’re reselling it. The burglary unit here has good contacts, they do this sort of thing a lot.”

  “You think whoever stole that stuff would just show up at a used jewelry store and peddle it?” Hugo was doubtful.

  “I’ll be honest, Hugo, yes. For one thing, there aren’t a lot of options for really old, recognizable pieces. Some of the stuff that was taken can probably be resold pretty easily but a lot of it, well, for the thief to get anywhere close to what it’s worth he’d have limited choices.” Garcia chuckled. “When I say limited, of course, I mean dozens in Paris, but you get the point.”

  Hugo had never been involved with art and antique theft or even regular burglaries, so he was happy to take Garcia’s lead. One thing bothered him, though. “Tell me this, Raul. If you know where the bad guys sell the fancy jewelry, isn’t it easy to track back and figure out who’s selling to them?”

  “No. I mean, if we set up cameras outside all their stores, maybe, but then they’d do business in the local bar. These are the people who recognize quality merchandise but happen to be totally blind when it comes to recognizing the people they’re buying from.”

  “Intentionally blind.”

  “Absolutely. They don’t issue receipts or have mailing lists. They do business with some of the same people but are happy to look at whatever walks in the door. And the people who buy from them are the same way, which means an item can disappear from someone’s home and be two buyers deep in a matter of days.”

  “And wherever the police show up in the chain, no one knows who they bought from or where the object originated.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then is this jewelry angle even worth pursuing?”

  “Sometimes it can be. Usually not. But we have an advantage in this instance, a little twist that might loosen a tongue or two in that chain.”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “The threat of a murder charge.”

  “Exactement. For a foreigner you are very intelligent, Hugo.”

  “Thanks, I say the same about you on occasion. Anyway, let’s hope you’re right and the specter of murder makes a difference. If you’re going to get any hits, when do you expect that to be?”

  “Within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. The unit’s been hammering hard at their known dealers and we only need one lead to get moving.”

  “Good. In that case, I’m headed back to Paris. If we get something, I want to come with you.”

  “Fine by me, but what about your senator?”

  “He can do without his minder for a day, he’s in his element right now. Probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  “And if he does?” There was mischief in Garcia’s voice.

  “If he does, mon ami, then I won’t be here to incur his wrath, will I?”

  The call came through at a roadside café outside Mantes-la-Jolie, as Hugo held the door for a young couple holding hands and blissfully unaware of the gesture. When his phone buzzed, hope flashed that it was Claudia but the name on the screen was Garcia’s.

  “Hurry,” Garcia said when Hugo answered. “Are you close to Paris?”

  “Forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on traffic. Have something?”

  “Yeah, a piece of jewelry from the Troyes murder. A shop in Butte-aux-Cailles. Since you’re on your way, you might as well meet me there.”

  “OK, text me the name of the place and an address,” Hugo said.

  “One hour?”

  “I’ll be there. Don’t go in without me, I’ll never forgive you.”

  Hugo drove carefully; he always did when he was going somewhere that mattered. He could have sped, probably, as he was in an unmarked police car, but he’d learned that the cops who patrolled major highways were not always as obliging with their brethren as they might be. Once, he’d been running late for the funeral of a colleague who’d retired and soon after died in a car accident in North Carolina, one of the agents who’d taken Hugo under his wing at Quantico. Hugo had been high-tailing it along I-40 near Raleigh when he was pulled over by a state trooper. Pale-faced and military-smart, the trooper had been robotic behind mirrored sunglasses as he ignored Hugo’s explanation for cresting fifteen miles per hour above the speed limit. Trooper Anderson—Hugo could forever picture the sun glinting off his nameplate—took his sweet time with Hugo’s license and then requested his FBI credentials, studying them the way a toddler stares at an ant hefting an entire leaf; part amazement, part amusement, and no hurry to do much of anything. Hugo had arrived at the funeral late, embarrassed, frustrated, and a living example of the haste-makes-waste motto.

  Of course, diplomatic immunity was his current get-out-of-jail-free card, but the ambassador frowned on traffic-related abuses and expected those working for him to abide by speed limits and pay any tickets incurred when they failed to do so.

  The midday traffic was light enough on the way into Paris, though, and he pulled into a parking spot in Rue Samson twenty minutes before his rendezvous with Garcia. He checked his watch and decided to walk a little, physical movement welcome after an hour and some in the car. He’d not visited this part of Paris, though he knew of it. In the southeast of the city, it was a lively hub in the otherwise fairly ordinary Thirteenth Arrondissement. With cobbled streets and more than its fair share of bars, cafés, and restaurants, it was a destination for locals who knew it was there, and for those tourists who looked past the usual guidebooks and didn’t mind venturing a fair few miles from the Eiffel Tower.

  He headed for the neighborhood’s best-known street, Rue de la Butte aux Cailles, a narrow and cobbled lane that rolled slowly uphill. The sidewalk was almost as wide as the road, which had its own lane designated for bicycles—a nod to modernity in a place that seemed to have otherwise lingered in time. The whitewashed shop fronts and old buildings huddled close together as if waiting for the age of glass and steel to pass by.

  His phone rang and he checked the caller before answering: Tom.

  “Hey, Tom. What’s up?”

  “Can’t talk long. Just wanted to let you know we finished the comparison from the staff members we printed at Tourville’s little place. The water glasses.”

  “Great. Get anything interesting?”

  “Nope. No matches. B
e sure and tell Raul, will you?”

  Tom rang off without a good-bye and Hugo smiled to himself as he cut left, down a side street. He admired for a moment the spray-painted image of an eagle clutching a wine bottle, no words or indication as to meaning, just a flash of red on a wall of white, more art than vandalism. Hugo meandered, checking his watch now and again as he headed toward the store where he was to meet Garcia. Maybe it was his imagination, too, but the closer he got the narrower the streets seemed, with more store fronts shuttered up, blank eyes not caring who came or went or what people might be doing.

  Garcia was parked two blocks from the store and hopped out of the car, a twin of the one Hugo drove, as soon as he saw the American in his rear mirror. Garcia leaned on the back of the car watching him approach. “Enjoying the neighborhood?”

  “Never been here before,” Hugo said. “I like it.”

  “I lived here many years ago. When I was first married, actually. Unlike the rest of Paris, it doesn’t seem to have changed all that much, there’s still not a single chain store here, as far as I can tell.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Always makes me like a place.”

  “Agreed.” Garcia straightened. “You going to let me do the talking?”

  “I think I have to, don’t I?”

  “Just wanted to be clear.” They set off toward the store, and Garcia explained the layout as they walked. “It’s a long, fairly thin main room that you walk into off the street. They sell antique furniture, estate jewelry, that kind of thing.”

  “Been in business how long?”

  “Just over four years. They hit our radar a year ago, three pieces of stolen jewelry within three months that our detectives found for sale here. They, of course, claimed they had no idea the items were stolen. And by ‘they,’ I mean the owner and his son, André and Bruno Capron.”

  “Could be true, right?”

  “Could be. Our detectives didn’t think so, and they’re particularly interested in the attitude of people who run places like this. Total innocence usually results in the object being returned to us without a fuss, and the name of the seller being turned over.”

  “They didn’t do that?”

  “No. Not on any of the occasions.”

  “Red flag indeed,” Hugo said.

  They waited on the corner for three bicyclists to breeze slowly by. “Anyway, the layout. There’s the main sales area and just a small office and bathroom at the back, where a fire door leads into the alley where the trash cans are kept. The sales counter is on the right, a glass cabinet that contains smaller and more expensive pieces. That’s where our detective saw the necklace. He’d seen it online and went by to make sure it was still here. The Caprons, by the way, are selling it for two thousand Euros.”

  “That’s what it’s worth?”

  “No idea. But it’s evidence in a murder investigation so if he paid anything like that to the seller, he’s not going to be happy about us taking it.”

  “Do you have a warrant or anything to compel him to cooperate?” Hugo asked.

  “No, I didn’t have time. I don’t need one to take the necklace, and I’m going to rely on my charm for the name and address of the seller.” He gave Hugo a wry smile. “Very funny. I know what you’re thinking, so there’s no need to say it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And yes, someone’s putting a search warrant together right now in the bowels of the prefecture.”

  They reached the store and without pausing walked in, a bell jangling lightly as the door opened. Inside, the place was cluttered but neat, the wide-planked floors cut into narrow aisles by antique furniture and table-top displays of smaller items for sale. A bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes caught Hugo’s eye, and he reminded himself he was there to investigate, not browse. Garcia started slowly down the aisle to the right, so Hugo took the one on the left, their eyes open for the proprietor.

  They found old man Capron in his office, totally absorbed by whatever was playing on the screen of his laptop. He snapped it shut when Garcia poked his head into the tiny room, his eyes alight with surprise at the intrusion. “Oui? Can I help you?”

  Garcia and Hugo held up their credentials and Capron squinted to study them from eight feet away.

  “You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Garcia said. “Showed up on your online catalog and we need it back.” He put his badge away and handed over a computer printout of the necklace.

  Capron wrinkled his nose as he looked over the paper. “You people come in here claiming things are stolen. How do I know you are not stealing from me? Where is my compensation?”

  Garcia bristled. “I imagine it’s in the profit from the stolen items you manage to sell before we show up.”

  Hugo glanced at Garcia. It was unlike his friend to be so confrontational, especially from the word go, but this was the French detective’s show, not Hugo’s.

  “I steal nothing, and if I sell stolen property I do so without knowing it.” He rose and walked past them into the shop. “I want a receipt for this, my insurance company insists.”

  “You’ll get your receipt. Where is the necklace?” Garcia asked.

  Capron walked behind the sales counter and fished a bunch of keys from his pocket. He bent down and unlocked the sliding glass back of the case where his smaller and pricier items were on display. With a grunt he reached in and carefully scooped up the necklace, laying it gently on a velvet cloth.

  Hugo looked back at where it had lain to see the price. “Two thousand Euros?” he asked.

  “Bien sûr. This is entirely made by hand here in France, it’s solid eighteen-karat gold. And look at these, seven of them I think, fine hand-crafted needlepoint flower sections, each one in a hand-made gold frame.” He glanced up, as if he were talking to prospective buyers. “You can see, it has five strands of chain connecting each section, and the catch here has its original enamel trim.”

  “Distinctive,” Garcia said to Hugo.

  “Definitely,” Hugo agreed. “How old?”

  “I would think mid-eighteenth-century, something like that.”

  “Seems to me, it’d be a lot more expensive than just two thousand,” Hugo said. “All that quality, its age.”

  “You’re an expert, are you?” Capron said, not hiding a sneer.

  “Should be pretty easy to check, and if you’re selling it for half price, well, I’d think that’s good evidence you know it’s stolen.”

  The sneer dropped from Capron’s face and his eyes darted between the two policemen. “I charge what the market will bear. If something is worth more, well, I mean . . . if people won’t pay what it’s really worth, what am I to do?”

  “What indeed,” said Garcia. “Now for the important question. Where did you get it?”

  “I don’t know.” Capron straightened up and sighed. “You always ask me that and I never tell you. In this case, I don’t know but my customers would not be my customers for long if I kept giving their names to the police.”

  “No, they’d be in jail,” Garcia snapped. “And you really think we’re just going to take ‘I don’t know’ for an answer?”

  “You’re going to have to. My son brought this piece in and he didn’t tell me who he bought it from.”

  “You must have paperwork showing that,” Hugo said.

  “Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t. It’s not required by law, you know.”

  “Where is your son?” Garcia demanded.

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “With a girl. Buying antiques. At the movies.” Capron shrugged. “He is a grown man so when he goes out he doesn’t ask my permission and doesn’t tell me where.”

  “Non? Maybe we’ll put a police car out front until he comes back. Could be inconvenient for any customers coming in, they’d all have to be questioned, asked for identification. How does that sound?”

  “You do what you have to. And so will I
.”

  The two Frenchmen were squaring off across the counter and Hugo could see this going from unhelpful to disastrous. Whatever was eating at Garcia had devoured his objectivity, his professionalism, and if he kept this up it could easily derail the investigation.

  “Look,” Hugo said, “this necklace is more than just stolen property. The owner was murdered during the theft. Which means Capitaine Garcia is right, we can’t take ‘I don’t know’ for an answer. Whoever sold you this could have murdered an innocent woman. At the very least, your son is a link to that person.”

  Doubt flitted across Capron’s face. “What murder? I don’t know anything about that.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Hugo went on. “But this necklace cost a woman her life, and right now it’s the only lead we have. So I’ll ask you this time: Who sold it to you?”

  Capron’s face hardened. “And I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t know because my son acquired it.”

  “Call him,” Hugo said. “Or show us the paperwork.”

  “I will not call him because he’s busy. And if you want to see the paperwork, you’ll need a search warrant.”

  “No!” Garcia slammed his fist onto the counter. “You will show it to us now!” The capitaine’s face was red with anger, his body taut as he leaned over the counter toward Capron. “Now, damn you, and if you don’t I’ll put handcuffs on you until the warrant gets here. And maybe forget to take them off after we’ve torn this shack apart.”

  Capron flinched at Garcia’s anger, but it had the effect Hugo was afraid of: the store owner became more belligerent himself. “Get out of my store! You come in here and make accusations with no proof, you don’t have the right to treat me like this.”

  Garcia was huffing mad and even Hugo was done being polite. If there was one thing that riled him up it was a crook acting indignant, and this old coot was playing the injured-businessman role to the max. Hugo scooted around the counter and took Capron’s arm.