The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “Ow, you’re hurting me!”

  “Shut up,” Hugo snapped. “We’ve been nice and polite, we even said ‘please’ a couple of times. So now you can sit down and keep quiet while my colleague gets his search warrant and we have fun taking this place apart.”

  Garcia closed his mouth, obviously trying to hide his surprise at Hugo’s response to the old man. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and snapped them efficiently around the shocked Capron’s wrists. As the jeweler sputtered with outrage, Garcia steered him to a chair and plopped him down, none too gently.

  “You can’t do this! Go get your damn warrant but leave me and my store alone until you have it. This is illegal, you can’t hold me here like this, you have to go away until you have the authority to—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hugo said. “But that’s not how it works, you don’t get time to hide or destroy evidence.”

  “What? No, I wouldn’t—”

  “Ta gueule!” Garcia snarled. Shut the fuck up. He turned to Hugo. “You OK to hang out with this idiot until I get back? If the warrant’s drafted, which it should be, I’ll find a friendly judge between here and the prefecture, I should be back within the hour.”

  “Sure.”

  “What if I need to pee?” Capron whined. “I can’t sit here for an hour like that. C’est pas juste.”

  Hugo looked around, then spotted the perfect solution. He grabbed it from a tabletop and put it between Capron’s feet. “Porcelain, late nineteenth century. Not handmade because, well, they needed to mass produce these. Everyone had a chamber pot back in the day.”

  Garcia’s eyes sparkled with delight and he clapped Hugo on the shoulder as he made for the door. He flipped the sign from Open to Closed as he went out, giving Hugo and André Capron a parting wave as he shut the door behind him, the tinkle of its little bell making Hugo smile again as the outraged old man shoved the chamber pot away from him with little pokes of his foot.

  Hugo spent his time nosing around the store. He pretended to be browsing but he wondered if maybe he could recognize other valuable, and potentially stolen, items. His best bet, he thought, was with the used books, an area of antiquity in which he had some knowledge. He picked books from the shelves one by one, opening the front covers of those he recognized to see whether they were first editions before turning them over in his hands to check their condition. Most were battered, reprints, and moderately worthless, but a couple were worth the price Capron was charging. One was a copy of Der Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse, a first edition published by Berlag in 1927.

  Hugo held it up so Capron could see it. “Original dust jacket?”

  The old man nodded. “Good condition, too.”

  “Eight thousand Euros seems a little steep.”

  “So don’t buy it.”

  Hugo flashed an evil grin. “I wonder. It’s probably evidence, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Hey, don’t you—”

  “Stolen from some collection somewhere, I’d bet,” Hugo interrupted. “Like this one.” He slid another book from the shelf. Where There’s a Will by Rex Stout, very much the sort of book Hugo would buy and read. “First edition, published by Farrar & Rinehart in 1940,” he read aloud. “Love the Nero Wolfe mysteries, and I’ve not read this one.”

  “Take these cuffs off and leave, you can take the book with you. Compliments of the house.”

  “Two thousand Euros, you’re asking?” Hugo looked up, mock surprise on his face. “Wait, are you trying to bribe me?”

  “It’s a book. Take it and go, leave me alone, will you?”

  “I sure would love to own this book,” Hugo mused. “Shall we see what else you have?”

  “Take two books,” Capron said, “three if you must.” Hugo wondered at the note of hope in his voice, as if the question wasn’t whether Hugo could be bribed, but how much it would take. If he’d had any doubts about Capron before, this wheedling attempt to buy his momentary freedom dispelled them. And because his freedom would likely be fleeting, Hugo was sure he wanted it to destroy evidence—specifically records of the purchase of that necklace.

  Hugo was sliding the books back into place, watched by a rapidly deflating Capron, when the front door opened and a large, shaven-headed man stood there looking into the store, his bulk filling the doorway and small eyes blinking as they adjusted to the dim interior.

  “C’est fermé,” Hugo said. “Come back tomorrow.”

  He chided himself for not locking the door. He’d assumed the sign would suffice, but before he’d finished speaking Hugo knew this man wasn’t here to browse for antiques.

  The man didn’t move at first, then slowly stepped into the store. He stopped when he saw André Capron on the chair, hands pinned behind his back, but it was the old man who spoke first and as soon as Hugo saw what was happening he moved.

  “Allez, allez!” Capron hissed, but the order to leave and Hugo’s sudden movement confused the younger man, who froze, giving Hugo time to slide between him and the front door.

  “Bruno, I assume?” Hugo said.

  “Who . . . who the hell are you?” His voice was like gravel, rough and scratching. “What’s going on? Papa, are you OK?”

  “The police,” Capron said. “An American policeman. The real ones are on their way with a search warrant.”

  Bruno’s eyes narrowed, then moved left and right, and Hugo knew he was figuring his chances.

  “Don’t.” Hugo kept his voice firm. “Your father’s not going anywhere with those cuffs on, and it’s generally a bad idea to assault members of law enforcement. Even if you win the fight, which you won’t, the men in blue who back me up will be less than gentle when they catch up with you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You’re selling stolen property. Property from a murder scene, no less.” The first comment didn’t seem to faze Bruno, but the second did.

  “Murder? We don’t know anything . . .” His words tailed off and he looked at his father, as if for confirmation that they really didn’t know anything about a murder. When he looked back at Hugo his eyes flickered with confusion and, Hugo thought, fear.

  “Probably true. But when you buy stolen goods without asking too many questions, the chances are pretty good you’re going to find yourself neck deep in a situation you didn’t create.”

  “Monsieur,” Capron senior said, “leave my son alone. He knows nothing about anything, just leave him alone.”

  Bruno drifted closer to his father, the look of confusion lingering, and Hugo moved with him.

  “But that’s not true, is it?” Hugo said. “You told us he’s the one who brought the necklace here in the first place. Which means he knows something about that, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Necklace?” Bruno looked back and forth between them. “What necklace?”

  “Be quiet, boy,” Capron snapped, but the real message was in his eyes, or maybe in the tilt of his head, a message that Bruno picked up a split second before Hugo, a fraction of a moment that gave him a head start to the back door. Bruno took off like he’d been scalded, putting six feet between him and Hugo and getting lucky when his hip thumped a display table, shifting into Hugo’s path and tipping half its contents onto the floor in front of him.

  Hugo launched himself after Bruno and managed to turn sideways, avoiding the table that half blocked his way and hurdling the old school bell and the photo frames now littering the floor. He hit a patch of clear floor as he bore down on his quarry, but then Bruno side-stepped right, taking him around his father to the office, swinging himself through the doorway. When Hugo tried the same maneuver Capron kicked out, catching Hugo’s left shin and sending them both crashing to the floor. The old man wailed like he’d been slashed with a knife, a disconcerting noise that combined with Capron’s scissoring legs to hold Hugo back long enough for Bruno to disappear from view. The back door slammed and in desperation Hugo bucked to free himself of Capron, jabbing him in the chest with an elbow.
He scrabbled to his feet, clear of the old man, who yelled obscenities at the top of his voice as he squirmed on the floor, but when Hugo finally made it out into the side street Bruno Capron was gone.

  Hugo swore. They’d catch up to Bruno if they needed to, sooner or later, but Hugo’s pride had taken a blow and no doubt both Garcia and Tom would have a thing or two to say about this. Although Garcia, at least, would try to be polite.

  Hugo headed back into the store, checking his watch. Garcia had been gone for thirty minutes, and was hopefully on his way back. André Capron was lying on his side on the floor and Hugo stood over him, debating leaving him there for the duration. But it wouldn’t look good, he knew, when Garcia and his men showed up to find old Capron writhing around amid his precious antiques, no doubt complaining about police brutality. That was a mess of paperwork Hugo could do without, so he hauled the man to his feet and picked up the chair. He plonked Capron back down onto the hard wooden seat, resisting the urge to wipe the smirk off his face.

  “We’ll get him, don’t you worry about that. But you taught him well, scurrying off like a rat leaving a sinking ship.”

  “Nique ta mere,” Capron muttered. Fuck your mother. He opened his mouth to say something else but obviously thought better of it. As he looked away from Hugo, defeated, the phone behind the counter startled them both, a shrill and insistent ring. Hugo let it go to voicemail but a minute later it rang again, then a third time. Hugo’s own curiosity and a worried look in Capron’s eye changed his mind. He reached over and pressed the speakerphone button.

  “‘Allo?” Hugo said, his eyes on Capron whose Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed. Silence filled the store as the person on the other end said nothing.

  Then a voice said, “I’d like to speak to Hugo Marston, s’il vous plaît.”

  It could have been a man or woman, there was no way to tell. Whoever it was had used some sort of voice-changing device, handheld or, more likely, one of the half-dozen software programs that let you talk through a computer to disguise your voice.

  “Who is this?” Hugo asked.

  “If you want any information, you’ll let me ask the questions.”

  The caller spoke in English, any accent obliterated, and that attempt to assert power over Hugo put a malicious smile on Capron’s face. Hugo picked up the phone, which wiped the smirk away.

  “I’m not good at that,” Hugo said, “so I’ll ask you again: Who is this?”

  “Tell me something, monsieur, why are you there?”

  “If you know I’m here, I suspect you know the answer to that.”

  A brief silence. “You are alone?”

  “I’m with Monsieur Capron, but otherwise, yes.”

  “Capron?” The metallic sound of the voice couldn’t disguise a note of concern.

  “André Capron, yes.”

  “Ah, of course.” Was that relief? “No other police are with you, or know you are there?”

  “Just me.” It was a lie, of course, but Hugo didn’t need this person hanging up on him and if whoever it was wanted Hugo to be by himself, so be it.

  “I see. Good.”

  “Who are you and why are you calling?” Hugo asked again.

  “To help you. You want to know where the necklace came from, am I right?”

  “I know exactly where it came from. What I want to know is who took it from the house. From a murder scene. You want to help me with that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I will tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, not like this. I can’t reveal my identity and I don’t plan on being arrested, so I need a promise from you.”

  “What kind of promise?”

  “If we meet, you will promise to hear me out before trying to arrest me and before getting anyone else involved.”

  “You want to meet me?” Hugo didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

  “Yes. Once I explain how the Caprons came into possession of the necklace I think you will have another avenue to chase down and you’ll be happy to let me go. I want to help you, Monsieur Marston, is what I’m saying, but I cannot place myself into this investigation.”

  “Then why not just tell me now, over the phone?”

  “My understanding of the law is limited, but I believe that the police may not base a search warrant or other intrusion on the basis of an uncorroborated and anonymous tip. Do I have that right?”

  The truth was that Hugo didn’t know. In Texas, yes, the caller would be absolutely right. But here? “Possibly, but if we meet and you want to stay anonymous, how does that change anything?”

  “Because I have something to give you, something tangible that will help. I believe I’m right, and I’d think that would be especially true if that information went to the police from an anonymous source and through you, an American.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But can we hurry this up?”

  “I want that promise from you, that you’ll hear me out before you do anything.”

  “Sure. I can promise that.”

  “I also want you to promise that you will come alone and not tell anyone. No one at all.”

  “Seems like that wouldn’t be too smart on my part. Cops do that in books and movies, real police don’t do that. It’s stupid and dangerous.”

  “Not for a man who carries a gun.”

  “Not possible. This isn’t my investigation, and I don’t get to charge off by myself making secret meetings to get evidence. Or leads. Whatever the hell you say you’re offering.”

  “That’s a shame. I really want to help, but your promise to listen before acting doesn’t mean much if ten policemen are waiting with their guns drawn and handcuffs at the ready. I need to believe that once you get this information, if you are satisfied with it, that I will be free to go.” Another pause. “I also have a certain reputation to uphold, and the fewer people who know that I’ve come across details of a crime, the better. These are things you will understand when we talk.”

  “I already told you, I can’t—”

  “Enough.” The ephemeral voice cut him off. “You have no choice. I will give you an address and you will meet me there in thirty minutes. If you are not there I will wait for five more, then your lead disappears. And if I see anyone else but you, I will disappear even quicker.”

  Hugo grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled the address down. “How will I recognize you?” he asked.

  “That’s easy, just find the pavilion and I will be right there,” the caller said. “Not to mention, of course, we had dinner just a few days ago.”

  Hugo had meant what he said, real cops didn’t do this sort of thing alone and he’d been so intent on catching every word from the caller that he’d forgotten about Capron. If nothing else, Garcia would have to send someone to babysit him until the warrant arrived.

  “You are leaving?” Capron asked, hope shining in his eyes.

  “Yep. But not planning to take the cuffs off, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “You have to, you can’t just leave me like this.”

  “I know.” Hugo smiled and pulled Capron to his feet. He paused when he realized he didn’t have Garcia’s key for the cuffs, but he could spare his own for an hour or two. He dragged the grumbling Frenchman to a back corner where he’d seen an Aga for sale, an old coal-burning stove with two hot plates on top and a sturdy metal rail for hanging tea towels, or even clothes, for drying. “Don’t make this stuff like they used to,” Hugo said. “Solid, dependable.”

  “Non, monsieur, just let me be, this isn’t right.”

  “Right? It’s perfect.” Hugo hooked one cuff to the chain connecting Capron’s wrists and secured the other cuff to the Aga’s rail. “You can stand, sit, hell if you can find some coal you can make a cup of tea while you wait.” He patted Capron’s cheek. “See? Cooperation is always much more convenient for everyone. Think about that for next time.”

  Hugo turned and walked out of the store, ignoring Cap
ron’s outraged protestations. Outside, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. “Raul, where are you?”

  “Sorry, my first choice of judge wasn’t available. I should be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Change of plan.” Hugo was striding and knew his breathing must sound ragged.

  “Everything OK?”

  “Yes. The phone rang while I was waiting, someone claiming to have information about the necklace.”

  “Vraiment? Who?”

  “Someone I know, apparently. He used a voice-changer, I couldn’t tell.”

  “Or she, then.”

  “Right. Anyway, he or she wants to meet me to hand over some evidence in person.”

  “I’ll meet you there, give me the address.”

  “That might be a problem. Whoever it was insisted I come alone. Thinks I’m the only one who knows about Capron, is my guess, and wants to stay out of the investigation.”

  “Alone isn’t good, Hugo. Alone is never good. Or smart.”

  “I know.” Hugo grinned. “I wasn’t planning on it. But just you, OK? If a horde of uniforms show up we may well lose this lead, and unless you can shake something loose from Capron, I think I’m right in saying this about our only one right now.”

  “Very true. I’ll have another detective serve and execute the warrant, she knows a little about the case.”

  “OK.” Hugo hesitated. “She’s good? The Caprons are old school, she needs to be prepared for that.”

  Garcia’s chuckle came through loud and clear. “She’s tough, all right. Came up from Bordeaux about a year ago after shutting down their gang problem almost single-handedly. One or two stragglers came after her, mon ami, at her home while she was planting roses. The word in the office is that she disarmed and beat them both with a pair of shears and a rake.” He lowered his voice and Hugo could detect both humor and truth in his next words. “Even I am a little intimidated by her.”

  “You, mon ami?”

  “Yes. She’s not just physically tough. I don’t know how to put this, except to say her journey from patrol officer to detective has been far from easy.”