Gospel Truths

by J. G. Sandom

  Most were in disrepair or crumbling at the joints, beyond salvation. A series of planks spanned the canal, from the street directly to their entrances. Swallows with blue backs weaved the night air. They were harvesting insects off the water. Lyman could hear their wings beat like the pounding of a thousand hearts, close to him, right above his head. One wheeled and almost smashed into the bridge before veering off into the darkness.

  Lyman started down the deserted cobbled street. The houses to his left were occupied, and he could see lights shining from the upper landings, hear television sets. But on the other side, across the water, the houses were abandoned. Most had neither doors nor windows. Some were fenced off, the little plank bridges leading to their entrances tangled with barbed wire. Lyman looked into each one as he passed by, hoping to spy Scarcella in the shadows. Nothing. Only the swallows moved about the silence, flying through the shattered windows, circling through the darkness and then reappearing out of breaches in the walls. Lyman couldn’t see a bloody thing from the street. He would have to pick a plank and try the other side.

  He lifted a leg over the knotted strands of wire guarding the nearest plank bridge. The canal churned by before him, black and forbidding in the waning light. He tested the plank. It seemed strong enough. Bloody hell, he thought, and started across, slowly, carefully. The water sighed beneath him. A swallow darted past his head and he almost lost his balance, straightening at the last moment, his arms extended as though to grasp the air. The door to the house across the canal was only a few more yards away. He took another step. The plank groaned and he felt his foot catch on a streamer of barbed wire. Not now, he thought with desperation. His trouser leg was hooked about the cuff. He lifted it again and the material came free. One step, then two and he was on the other side.

  Lyman paused in the doorway. His breath burned in his chest. A stairway leading nowhere hung from the roof above. The window frames had been removed. Brick ends poked through. Holes opened on the rib cage of the house, revealing beams, gray stone supports. He turned. There, in the distance, like the sound of brick on brick. What was that sound?

  He started up the side of the canal, pressing his back against the house fronts to keep from slipping down into the water. It was coming from up ahead. He reached inside his coat and pulled out his Smith and Wesson .38. The sound was almost regular now, almost the beating of a drum. He paused beside another doorway and then the pistol was inside. Darkness. Emptiness. Lyman lowered his weapon and took a long, deep breath. Then he was past the door and moving on the edge of the canal once more, pausing only as he neared another door. Up went the gun, the step, the turn, the moment in the empty doorway with his shadow up against the light and all that bloody time to aim. He lowered his weapon and breathed. Clack. Clack. He slipped out of the door. Another plank went by, another doorway and he realized with relief that the row of houses was a temporary fear. There was only one door left, and then the street turned, and a wall took over. He waited for the moment. Clack, Clack. The noise began to blend into his heartbeat. Clack. He pushed his back against the wall, facing the canal, his pistol poised before his chin. He sighed and in the turn the gun fell and the eye lined up the barrel and the sight, the bullet and the frightened grimace of the boy who sat before him on the ground. Lyman lowered his pistol, breathing hard. The boy did not even blink. He was sitting with his feet hanging out through a hole in the wall overlooking the canal. A bamboo fishing pole jutted out into the void. There was a net and bucket beside him, and in his left hand, within his tiny fist, a piece of rose red masonry. Lyman slipped his gun into his holster. All he could think of was that raspberry liquor, spilling from that soda bottle on the ground, sliding through the cool glass neck and down into the earth.

  Chapter XVI

  AMIENS

  September 24th, 1991

  THE CAPTAIN IS VERY BUSY,” CORPORAL PINI SAID, stretching to his full height before the door.

  Lyman folded his arms. He wore his green wool coat with the plastic bone toggles and hood. His hair was wet from the rain, his cheeks red from rushing up the stairs. “I don’t care if he’s busy,” he said. “I tried to reach him all last night. Tell him that he’s going to be a damn sight busier if he doesn’t see me now.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector Lyman. He left orders not to be disturbed.”

  “Don’t you understand? This is bloody serious.” He laid a hand on Pini’s shoulder for emphasis but the corporal shook it off.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” the Frenchman hissed. “You’re not in England anymore. As if that would make a difference, the way your own department talks about you. Face it, Lyman. You’re not anybody’s favorite.”

  Lyman grabbed the corporal by the lapels of his uniform and pulled him close. “Now you listen to me, you little bastard. One man’s already died in this town. You were lucky with him. He was a little bastard, too. But he won’t be the last one unless you get off your prissy little ass and do something about it.”

  The door swung open behind Corporal Pini. Captain Musel stood in the doorway dressed in a white undershirt with a hand towel draped across one shoulder. “Bravo, Inspector Lyman. Very dramatic. Yes, very theatrical. A second career, perhaps, when this one’s over.”

  Lyman pushed by Corporal Pini and entered the captain’s office. Musel closed the door behind him. “Sit down?” he said, pointing at his desk. “Or perhaps you’d like to smash something up first. Maybe a bit of furniture.”

  Lyman dropped onto the chair before the captain’s desk. Musel shook his head. Then, with a smile, he walked back into the little bathroom just behind the file cabinets.

  Lyman watched him wash his hands. “I want to know about Maurice Duval,” Lyman said, finally. “About his accident in Austria.”

  Musel bent down to rinse his face and Lyman noticed rolls of fat rippling the undershirt around his waist. “What about Duval?” he said, tamping his face with the towel.

  “He and Jacques Tellier were partners. Your own man, Poincarré, identified his car.”

  “Yes, so I heard. So they knew each other. Is that a crime?” The captain hung the towel on a hook behind the bathroom door.

  “Of course not. But what about Maurice’s death in Austria, and that robbery at his father’s office?”

  “What the hell do you want from me, Lyman?” Musel said. He slipped a shirt across his shoulders. “Charles-Philip Duval never reported a robbery. Never. He denied it ever happened. And as far as his son Maurice is concerned, his death was declared an accident months ago. There were dozens of witnesses. He was drunk. He ran out into the street without looking. It happens. Look, without some evidence of a crime, I don’t initiate a case. I’ve got too many other things to do, too many real crimes, with real criminals and real victims to contend with. It was his own damned fault. He brought it on himself. He had absolutely no respect for Charles-Philip, none whatsoever.”

  “Just how well, exactly, do you know Monsieur Duval?”

  Musel stepped forward menacingly. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I know him. So what? Amiens is a small city. He runs an important business here in town.”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Yeah, well you can stop fucking wondering.” The captain pointed his finger at Lyman’s face. “What do you get out of this? That’s what I’d like to know. It sounds to me like you have a lot of nasty little suspicions and not much else. Why are you pushing so hard? I’ve tried to be patient with you, Lyman. I really have. I asked you to be careful. I told you I didn’t want any trouble, and the first night you’re in town one man is almost strangled, and another falls to his death after you take a shot at him.” The words caught in his throat and he turned swiftly on his heels. For a moment he stood there without speaking, his back to Lyman, simply buttoning his shirt. Then, when he had tucked it in, he moved back behind his desk and sat down, his chair creaking underneath him. “I’ve done everything that Paris and you
r own department have asked of me. I’ve extended every courtesy. What else can I do?”

  “You can show me your file on Duval.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Musel reached over for his telephone. “Get me what you have on Maurice Duval,” he barked into the receiver. “There,” he said, hanging up. “Are you satisfied?”

  Lyman frowned. “Look, Captain. I know that it doesn’t seem like much,” he said. “Just a lot of loose ends. I know that’s how it must appear to you. But the case is really there now. I know it is.” He paused. “Otherwise Scarcella wouldn’t be here.”

  “Scarcella! Here, now?” Musel looked horrified. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m almost certain.”

  Lyman described the incident at the Bishop’s Palace, the solitary figure in the crowd, the chase by the canal. When he had finished, Musel leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling for several seconds without speaking. “Scarcella,” he said finally, the second syllable receding, falling off into another pause. “Yes, well, that would be wonderful, but ‘almost’ is a funny little word. Once again you have no evidence, nothing concrete.”

  “How can you say that, especially after your own people opened that picnic basket? You read Jacques Tellier’s letter. You saw what he told Pontevecchio.”

  “If Tellier is meant to add credibility to your story, then you might as well start packing, Inspector Lyman. You’re living in a house of cards. Anyone could claim what Tellier claimed. Does that mean that I should pull my men out of the streets to chase him down?”

  The door opened behind Lyman and Corporal Pini strode in. “The Duval file, sir,” he said.

  “Very good.” Musel held out his hand and Pini gave it to him. “That will be all, Corporal. Thank you.”

  The young policeman tossed a scowl at Lyman as he turned to leave.

  “Look here, Pini, sorry about before,” Lyman said. Each word was like a pebble in his throat. “I guess I lost my temper a bit.”

  The corporal nodded and continued out the door.

  “Inspector Lyman?”

  Lyman turned. Musel was holding the folder out across the desk.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  A single sheet of paper slipped out of the file. Lyman tried to catch it but it wafted in between his hands and landed on the floor. “This is it?” he said, incredulously. He picked the paper up between two fingers. “This is the whole file?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lyman dropped the sheet onto his lap. Three paragraphs. Single-spaced. That was all.

  “As you can see,” Musel said, “it was a party that went too far, that simply got out of hand and ended in tragedy. Duval was staying at the Hotel International in Lech, Austria. It’s a ski town, one of those jet set playgrounds full of chalets and teahouses.

  “On February 27th, he and some other men were having a party in his room. Apparently the party got a little loud. Some people complained. I think it was only eleven or so in the morning. Well, as it turned out, one of the maids came in to clean the room and when she did Duval jumped up out of nowhere, thrust her aside, and stumbled out into the corridor.” Musel threw his hands up in the air.

  “The place was a shambles. There were broken glasses and tipped ashtrays everywhere. And a lot of liquor. Dozens of bottles, according to the maid. Even the bed had been stripped down,” he said. “The other two men were surprised at first. Then, apparently, they just shoved her onto the bed, laughing the whole time, and followed after Duval. They were drunk too, it seemed. Anyway, there was a big scene on the stairs and the lot of them ended up down in the lobby. Someone called security but by the time they arrived it was all over. They say Duval walked out into the street. He was killed almost instantly.”

  Lyman scanned the document. It was incomprehensible. There were sentences without verbs, pronouns without definition.

  “He was struck by a car,” Musel continued, “a Volkswagen, driven by a couple of American girls who claimed they had come to Lech on holiday. Which they probably had, since the back of their car was full of ski equipment. They were just frightened tourists. Unfortunately the body then bounced into a truck going the other way. Duval never had a chance. If the first blow didn’t kill him, the second one surely did. He was dragged eleven meters before the driver—a local man—finally managed to bring the truck to a halt against a snow bank. The body was thrown up by the rear tires over an embankment, and down into the river below. That’s where it finally came to rest. The officer in charge said you could follow the trail in the snow, there was so much blood.”

  Musel sighed. Lyman closed the file and tossed it back onto the captain’s desk.

  “He had identified himself,” Musel concluded, “as Maurice Duval when he checked into the hotel, and the police later found his passport confirming his identity. The other two men disappeared. Duval had been at the hotel nine days, but no one claimed to have seen him much because he didn’t ski. He kept to himself in his room.” Musel shrugged. “That’s about it. The autopsy revealed that there was a large amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. Nothing much else, I’m afraid.”

  Lyman shook his head. “Naturally,” he said sarcastically. “Musel, you know as well as I do that this report is bloody rubbish. Of course they didn’t find anything. They didn’t want to. You said it yourself: Lech is a tourist town. The last thing they need is some scandal, even the hint of a scandal. I want to talk to that maid myself.”

  “You want to call Austria?”

  “I’ll pay for it, if that’s what’s worrying you. In cash.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated, Inspector, but that wasn’t my concern. I simply don’t see the point. After all, the accident occurred months ago. I’m sure the maid’s forgotten everything by now.”

  “Maybe.” Lyman leaned forward in his chair. “May I?” He reached for the phone.

  Musel shrugged.

  It took Lyman several minutes to find the number and get through to the Hotel International. At first he was afraid that the maid might have been a seasonal employee, a French or Austrian student looking for a free pass to the ski lifts. But when he finally heard her voice he knew his fears had been unfounded. Christina Kung was going nowhere. She answered his questions in French as if she had answered them a hundred times before, and indeed, Lyman realized, she probably had. Her story was almost identical to the captain’s. Yet something in it nagged at Lyman.

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle Kung?”

  “Madame Kung.”

  “Yes, Madame Kung. Just one more question if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you say he didn’t like to be disturbed, it must have been a nuisance getting in to clean his room.”

  “It certainly was. He never left it.”

  “Then why did you decide to clean it then, especially when you heard there was a party going on?”

  The telephone lay dead in Lyman’s hand. Only a distant crackling marked the open line. “You know,” she said at last. “Now that I think about it, I guess I was a bit surprised myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the first time that I passed the room there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. He always had it out. Then, oh, about twenty minutes later, as I was pushing my bin along the corridor to get to the laundry chute, I noticed it had been turned. Now it said ROOM SERVICE REQUESTED. I’d already done the rest of that corridor, so I thought I might as well do his room too. Sometimes, when people have parties, they like to have extra ice—that sort of thing.”

  “And that’s when the man pushed by you? Duval, I mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What did the other two look like?”

  “They were South American, I think. Maybe Iranian. I’m not sure. One of them at least. Dark. You know the type. They threw me on the bed.”

  “Yes, I heard. Dreadful. Did they ever find out who they were?”

  “I wouldn’t know. They left before the police could q
uestion them.”

  “Didn’t the police check the register?”

  “You’d have to talk to the manager about that.”

  Lyman waited as Madame Kung passed the telephone. “Yes?” a man’s voice echoed down the line. “Zimmer, here. Hello?”

  “Ah, Monsieur Zimmer. First, let me thank you for all of Madame Kung’s assistance. Very helpful. She’s a credit to your hotel. Really.”

  “Yes, well, you’re quite welcome. Is that it?”

  Lyman moved the receiver away from his ear. “Not quite,” he said. “Would you mind terribly going back over your register to the time just before Duval’s accident. Around February the twenty-seventh, I think.”

  There was another long pause. Lyman raised his eyebrows and Musel frowned back. “Hello,” Lyman said. “Hello, are you still there?”

  “Just a minute,” came the reply. “Right. I have the pages here.”

  “Who were the two men with Duval, the ones who left without checking out, without paying? You should have that on record.”

  “What about them?”

  “What were their names?”

  “Let’s see. Yes, here they are. One was called Ian McKenzie, and the other,” he said, pausing once more, “Aldo Barbarosso. Yes, that’s it.”

  Lyman froze. “What was that name again? Did you say Aldo Barbarosso?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Zimmer. Thank you very much.” Lyman hung up. “Aldo Barbarosso. Ring a bell, Musel? Sound familiar?”

  Musel dropped his head so that his chin disappeared, layer by layer, into his open collar. He closed his eyes.

  “Come on, Musel. What are you going to tell me now? That it’s just coincidence. Aldo Barbarosso. Aldo Barbieri. They’re almost identical. I’ll wager anything you like that it was Scarcella’s man having cocktails with Duval. My friend with the wing-tipped shoes.” Lyman smiled. “Anything at all.”