The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel

by Pryor, Mark

  “What do we have here?” Hugo said. With gentle fingers he slid a miniature panel aide and peered in. “Small box. How interesting.”

  Delacroix, perhaps to make up for his mistake, reluctantly handed Hugo a fresh pair of gloves. Hugo held up the tiny box, undoing the catch and opening it for them to see. Flakes of red wax fell as it opened.

  “Hair?” Lerens asked.

  “A lock of hair,” Hugo said. “A significant lock of hair, I’d have to say.”

  “To whom?”

  “That I don’t know,” Hugo admitted. “Not yet, anyway. I’m sure your lab people can go to work on it, come up with something.”

  “You’ve no idea whose hair it is?”

  “No,” Hugo said. “I really don’t. Looks old, that’s about all I can say.” He looked at the crime scene tech. “It’s all yours. The box, too.”

  Delacroix nodded and went back to covering up the chest, quick and efficient hands securing the evidence like a disgruntled Santa’s helper wrapping a gift. He sealed it with police stickers that he’d already written on, large rectangles of paper that marked date, place, and item. He put the small box and its contents into an evidence bag, sealed it, too, and made a note on an evidence label which he fixed to the front. Then he picked up his bag of tools and signaled the uniformed officer to follow him with the packaged chest, leaving Lerens, Tom, and Hugo with a curt nod and his nose in the air.

  “Can you forward those photos to me?” Lerens asked. “As you said, the lab people will work on the hair but I need to confirm it’s the chest from the Troyes robbery.”

  Hugo concentrated as he clicked on his phone until the pictures whirled away into the ether. “Done.”

  “Thanks. That’s strange, don’t you think?” Lerens said, perching on the edge of the sofa. “First the hair and then . . . no prints at all?”

  “It is,” Hugo said, “but it might tell us something important.”

  “Might?”

  Tom groaned and dropped into one of the chairs. “When he says it like that, it means he won’t tell you yet.”

  “Why not?” Lerens looked at Hugo. “We’re sharing here, aren’t we?”

  “Sometimes he only says things when he’s sure,” Tom said. “It’s this thing he does, very annoying.”

  “Hugo?” Lerens said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I think I can make an exception this time,” Hugo smiled. “And it may be completely wrong. But I’m thinking it wasn’t Natalia who put the chest up there.”

  “No?” Lerens said. “Why not?”

  “A couple of reasons. First, if she has a shoe fetish, why not sell the chest and buy more shoes. It has to be worth something, right?”

  “A pair of boots, at least,” Lerens agreed. “What else?”

  “Well, if there are no prints then someone wiped it clean. And the person who wiped it clean, I would bet, is the same person who put it up there. Agreed?”

  “So far, so good.”

  “Good. Next step, it doesn’t make sense for that person to be Natalia because if she didn’t want to be connected with the chest, she wouldn’t wipe her prints off it, she’d ditch it completely. Sell it or throw it away.”

  “Or at least hide it somewhere else,” Tom said.

  “Precisely,” Hugo agreed. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

  “We figured she hadn’t done the Troyes robbery, certainly not by herself,” Lerens said. “You’re saying that the lack of prints confirms she has an accomplice.”

  “Right,” Hugo said. “I’d also guess that because our girl was left holding the box, so to speak, and a box without prints that she couldn’t sell, Natalia was second in command.”

  “To whom?” Lerens asked.

  But Hugo was staring at the ceiling, nodding to himself. “There is one other possibility, of course,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Lerens asked. “Or should I say, who’s that?”

  “Hmm?” Hugo looked back at the policewoman. “Oh, just a thought. I probably shouldn’t say until I’m a little more sure.” He stood and took out his phone. “Excuse me, text from the ambassador. Ah, looks like I’m heading back to the Crillon, our dear senator is safe and sound.”

  “Wait,” Lerens said, “your other idea, the other possibility. What is it?”

  “Let me check a few things, first,” Hugo said. “Don’t want to besmirch someone with idle theories unless I have evidence.”

  Tom stood and shrugged at Lerens. “See? Didn’t I tell you? Very annoying.”

  Hugo ignored him and spoke to Lieutenant Lerens. “One other thing. Do you think you could track down Georges Bassin’s sister? I have a phone number for her and left a couple of messages, but she didn’t call back. I really need to ask her something, it’s very important.”

  “Absolutely. Text me her full name and phone number, and any other information you have, and I’ll get right on it. We have a unit dedicated to finding fugitives. They’re fast and exceptionally good.” She paused. “Any chance you’ll tell me what you intend to ask her?”

  Hugo shook his head. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind.”

  “There, and I’ll say it again,” Tom said. “Very fucking annoying.”

  Hugo walked into the lobby of the Hotel Crillon and was met immediately by Felix Vibert. The dapper Frenchman shook Hugo’s hand and smiled at the surprised look on Hugo’s face. He gestured to an empty couch to one side of the large foyer.

  “We should talk before we see Senator Lake,” Vibert said.

  “Sure.” Hugo followed him to the couch and sat. “The ambassador called me; I didn’t realize you’d be here, too.”

  “I know. The ambassador is being smart. He’s also had orders from your State Department to try and make the best of a bad situation.”

  “Which is?”

  “All talks about the future of the Guadeloupe Islands have been suspended.”

  “For what reason?”

  Vibert smiled. “Officially, we have been unable to reach an agreement. Which is, of course true.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Your senator rubs people the wrong way. Since he’s been here, the Tourvilles feel like their hospitality has been abused, and that Senator Lake’s erratic behavior here in Paris makes him an unsuitable emissary for the United States.”

  “Erratic seems a little strong,” Hugo said. “Best I can tell, he’s been wandering your beautiful city while he waits for the talks to resume. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “You are a loyal man, Hugo. But it’s been decided and I’m here to break the news to Monsieur Lake.”

  “The ambassador didn’t mention that, either,” Hugo said mildly.

  “So call him. Believe me, it’s not a duty that I’m looking forward to. I’d welcome the opportunity to leave it to someone else.”

  “Why you?”

  “Henri and your ambassador agreed that if a lower-level negotiator and Senator Lake approve a momentary postponement of talks, it comes across as being informal and therefore more likely the talks will soon resume.”

  “And will they?”

  “Who knows.” Vibert smiled. “I’m low-level, remember.”

  “Right, of course. I guess I’ll leave you to your informal chat, though I might wait around down here to see how he takes it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Hugo had a thought. “Let me ask you about something else, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “You remember I asked you about that sailor’s chest?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Good.” Hugo pulled up the photos of the chest found at Natalia Khlapina’s apartment. He held his phone so Vibert could see each one as Hugo flipped through them. “Do any of these jog your memory at all?”

  “Ah, yes.” Vibert held up a finger. “I do remember seeing that, and not just before dinner. It was in the hallway at one point, someone had brought it into the house and . . .�
� he furrowed his brow. “And Henri asked one of the servants to move it. At the time I assumed it was his, obviously, as he told the girl where to put it. Yes, that’s right.” He looked up at Hugo. “You should ask Henri, I think it’s his.”

  “Thanks, I will. And you’re sure it’s the same chest.”

  “Looks exactly like it, but maybe they’re all the same. I don’t know, I’m not an expert.”

  “I’m not either, but it looked like the same one to me. I just wanted to confirm.”

  “What does Henri’s sailor chest have to do with anything?” Vibert asked.

  “Great question.” Hugo smiled and hoped it was enigmatic. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  At his apartment, Hugo yearned for the familiar warmth of a glass of single malt and a few moments alone to think. He’d considered stopping to buy a bottle, maybe keeping it in his room, but the thought made him feel dishonest and disloyal. When he got in, Tom was sipping milk and watching the second half of a soccer game.

  “So did Lake go apeshit?” Tom asked.

  “Nope. I waited for Vibert to break the news and hung out just in case, but apparently he took it pretty well. Said he’s ready to get back to the United States and do some real work, was actually quite polite about the whole thing.”

  “That’s pretty fucking weird,” Tom said. “As volatile as the man is, I’d have thought . . . Oh well, guess we should count our blessings.”

  “Guess so.” Hugo dropped into an armchair and kicked his boots off. “Can I run something by you?”

  “Need me to switch the TV off?”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind.” He waited for Tom to find the right button on the remote and kill the screen. “Thanks. Did you see the crime-scene photos or police report on the Bassin murder?”

  “I took a look several days ago. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. I never really analyzed it the way I usually do, just accepted the general consensus that it was a murder–robbery.”

  “Dude, come on.” Tom spread his hands wide. “Stuff was stolen and a woman was killed, that’s the definition of a murder–robbery. We all accepted the general consensus because that’s what it was.”

  “I know. But that’s the conclusion. I like to make my own because there’s more to a crime than a conclusion.”

  “I never did dig the theory of criminality, all that philosophical shit.”

  “Shut up, Tom, you had the highest test scores in that class at the academy.”

  “I did? Cool. Carry on then, I’ll see if I can help.”

  “Look, the point is, just because it ends up as a murder–robbery, doesn’t mean it was meant to be one. That the suspect intended to do one or both of those things.”

  “Sure,” Tom said, “he meant to steal but the old lady stumbled on him, and splat. It’s still the same crime, whether he intended it going in or not.”

  “Two assumptions in there, my friend. Sure, most likely the murder wasn’t planned, but everyone takes it for granted that the intruder always intended to steal the chest and its contents. What if he intended to take and return it?”

  “Return it? I can answer that: thieves don’t borrow stuff, they steal it.” Tom’s eyes widened. “Ah, you think he was after the chest itself, not the jewelry. And once discovered he figured, screw it, I’ll keep the whole lot for my trouble.”

  “Something like that. But there’s another assumption, remember.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, think back to the crime scene. What did they find?”

  “An old and very dead woman with a pillow over her face and pieces of a broken vase nearby.”

  “Which tells you what?”

  “Hugo, for fuck’s sake, just spit it out. I hate it when you give me the Socratic treatment like this, I have no idea what it tells me. Nothing, except that a woman died from a pillow over her face and the killer didn’t like vases.”

  “I’m just trying to see how this played out. The medical examiner said that the killer probably hit the woman with the vase, fracturing her wrist, and then smothered her.”

  “OK. And that means what to you?”

  “I’m wondering why the killer hit her with the vase. An old woman, weak. She didn’t have a weapon.”

  “She was holding a phone?”

  “They found one on a side table, no prints, so possibly she was trying to call for help when she was hit, and afterwards the killer moved the phone and wiped it down. But why hit her with the vase instead of just taking it out of her hand?”

  “No clue. Where are you headed with this, Sherlock?”

  “To the manner of death. Who gets smothered, Tom?”

  “Old people and kids.”

  “Right. And who does the smothering?”

  Tom frowned in concentration, then looked up at Hugo. “Oh. Of course, the vase and the fact she was smothered. Damn, of course.”

  “Right. The killer wasn’t strong enough, or confident of being strong enough, to take the phone away. And not strong enough to kill in the way you’d expect when surprised like that—Collette Bassin wasn’t beaten to death or strangled.”

  “I’d have gone with strangled,” Tom nodded. “Old lady, hardly able to fight back, weak little neck. Best choice, most obvious choice.”

  “Unless,” Hugo said, “you’re a woman. Much easier to lay on top of her and hold a pillow over her face than strangle, which requires arm and hand strength. Even if your victim’s old.”

  “Our killer is a woman?”

  “I think so. And not Natalia Khlapina.”

  “Damn,” Tom said, then smiled. “I bet you could use a drink right about now.”

  “What about you?”

  “Yep. I could always use one but you know what gives me great satisfaction?”

  “Waking up sober every morning.”

  “Well, there’s that,” Tom said. “But there are also times like this, when I know you’d love a nip of whisky and you can’t. Denying you those moments of pleasure is a fine motivating force for sobriety.”

  “Glad to help,” Hugo said, reaching for his phone as it rang on the coffee table. He didn’t recognize the number. “Hugo Marston.”

  The voice sounded distant, but the connection was good. “Monsieur Marston. My name is Marie Bassin. A police lieutenant gave me your number and said I should contact you immediately.”

  “Madam Bassin, thank you for calling. I’d left you a couple of messages, did you get them?”

  “Messages? Oh no, I’m not very good with voicemail. Prefer texting, sorry.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’m investigating the death of your mother, so first let me offer my condolences.” Hugo ignored Tom, who rolled his eyes at the formality.

  “Thank you, that’s kind. Do you have news?”

  “Actually, I have a question. Did anyone visit your mother, either when you were there or not, before she was killed?”

  “They already asked me that,” Marie Bassin said, a note of impatience in her voice. No doubt she’d hoped for news, not duplicative questioning. “My brother and I would take her to dinner on Friday nights—together when we could or just one of us. But other than us and the people who work there, I don’t know of anyone who visited her in the weeks before she was killed. Maybe they did, but I wasn’t there if it happened, and she never mentioned anyone.”

  “What about before that, and not just a few weeks. Six months before, maybe.”

  “I don’t know how that could be helpful, but again I don’t recall . . . Oh, well, there was someone. Two people, now I think of it. Five or six months before, but that can’t be related.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I’m struggling to remember their names, I’m sorry. They were there doing research.”

  “What kind of research?” Hugo asked.

  “Into our family, oddly enough. Some sort of medical people they were.”

  “Doctors?”

  “Yes. Well, medical professor
s, the older one told me. I spoke to her and my mother spoke to the younger one.”

  “Her?”

  “They were both women, yes. Very nice, too, I’m just sorry I can’t remember their names.”

  “You don’t need to, Madam Bassin,” Hugo said. “I know exactly who they are.”

  “Holy shit,” Tom said. “Alexandra Tourville? Why the hell would she kill that old woman and steal the chest?”

  “It contained something that she wanted. Something she wanted very badly.”

  “The lock of hair?”

  “Now, that I can’t answer.”

  Marie Bassin clearly hadn’t known, either. Hugo had deflected her questions about her mother’s death by asking about the chest. According to Marie, it had been in the family forever. Her mother used it to keep her jewelry and said Marie could have it once she was gone. A few cryptic comments about it being a family treasure as well as holding the family treasure, but nothing specific. Marie had known it contained secret compartments, but she’d not known how many or how secret they really were. She’d assumed not very. As for the lock of hair, at first she’d been as surprised as Hugo but then a memory came back to her. “My mother . . . oh, I wish I could remember. She once talked about a man named Louis in connection with the chest. I don’t know his surname, I’m sorry, and I don’t know if it was a friend or . . . or even a lover. I just don’t know. Could it be his, whoever he is?”

  Maybe, Hugo had told her. Maybe. And maybe a dead end.

  “Even if it’s the golden locks of some long-lost lover, or even a bastard child,” Tom said, “how the hell do we find out? Is it time to have Lerens pull Alexandra Tourville in?”

  “I think she has to. But I want to confirm one thing first.” Hugo dialed a number and waited for a moment.

  “This is Henri Tourville. Monsieur Marston?”

  “Yes. How are you, sir?”

  “In the middle of something, I’m afraid. How can I help?”

  “I have a quick question. There was an old sailor’s chest at your house for that first dinner. Felix Vibert and I were admiring it in the dining room.”

  “That was a sailor’s chest? I thought it was for . . . well, I had no idea what it was for.”