Killerfest

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Chandi!”

  He turned from the window and walked resignedly back to the bed, where Lisa was sprawled naked. If she was so goddamn cold, he thought, why doesn’t she pull the covers up?

  “My, my,” she said, “look at you. Talk about a wet noodle.” She reached out a hand and began fondling him. “What’s with you? It was only a fucking game of backgammon. How do you think I felt, having to sit around all night after you got your clock cleaned by that old English fart. He had more hair coming out of his nose and ears than on his head.”

  That was a fair description of the ancient Eastlake, but it did nothing for Khan’s libido. After five minutes of Lisa’s handiwork, he was still flaccid.

  “Jesus,” she said. “Not even half mast. Well, let’s try Plan B.” She sat up and bent her head to him. “Now concentrate, Chandi. Put your mind to it. Or I’ll bite it off.”

  ***

  When Scarne got back to his apartment, he called Gaetan Mendelsohn’s art gallery, only to be told that Mendelsohn was on a business trip.

  “He is in London buying some Simon Fairless seascapes,” one of the gallery assistants told him in excellent English. “They are very popular just now. Do you know Fairless? His work is replete with glistening abstractions.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Scarne said. He didn’t have a clue who Fairless was. “If it’s glistening, I’m listening. Just what I need for the den in my Newport mansion. One of my hedge funds just made a killing shorting alfalfa futures in Australia.When will Gaetan be back? I am flying over from the States and would like to see them immediately.”

  “He is returning Saturday morning. We have an exhibition in the evening. But I’m sure he would like to meet you before the show. Where can we reach you?”

  Scarne gave him his cell phone number.

  “I’ll be in Paris,” Scarne said.

  “Looking for art?”

  “Yes. A nude.”

  CHAPTER 25 - PARIS INTERLUDE

  Next morning, he called Evelyn and Noah, had them put the phone on speaker, and brought them up to speed. He told them to keep an eye out for anyone looking suspicious.

  “Everyone in this town looks suspicious to me,” Sealth said.

  Scarne described Gulle.

  “You should have said inhuman,” Evelyn said. “Be careful.”

  “I’d better get cracking on that partnership agreement,” Noah added.

  “I need another favor from Juliette,” Scarne said.

  “What is it?”

  Scarne told him.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get right back to you.”

  Ten minutes later Sealth called him back with some phone numbers in Paris.

  “She will make the preliminary contacts.”

  ***

  It was still a good time to leave Manhattan. If Chandra Khan was indeed behind the Arhaut and Quimper murders, the easiest solution for his problem would be to add a nosy private investigator to the body count. On such short notice, Gulle would probably get the job. Scarne had a healthy respect for Gulle. One of them would probably be killed. But even if Gulle was captured after any attempt on Scarne’s life, he wouldn’t talk or betray his boss under any circumstances. He had the look of a man who would enjoy waterboarding or having his testicles hooked up to a generator. And no matter what happened, Khan could argue that Gulle had gone berserk and acted on his own. He would say that there was bad blood between the two men. He should have sensed something. Gulle was always a loose cannon. He had to bail him out of trouble before. A real tragedy.

  Scarne knew he had to stay alive and let Khan stew. Hopefully he would do something rash and provide some hard proof Scarne could use. He called Emma Shields in Paris and then booked the 7 P.M. Air France flight from JFK to Charles De Gaulle. He packed and spent the rest of the day at the gym and then at the secret N.Y.P.D. pistol range in the basement of an old Borders bookstore on 21st Street and Sixth Avenue in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, a perk given him by Dick Condon.

  ***

  Scarne’s flight arrived in Paris at just after 10 A.M. on Thursday. Emma was tied up all day, but said she would leave the key to her flat with the building manager. But Scarne didn’t go there immediately. Instead, he went to a small airport bistro, ordered a coffee, and waited.

  Ten minutes later a swarthy young man walked by him. He was wearing jeans and a oversize, three-quarter-length pea coat. Paris, which is roughly on the same latitude as Toronto, can be cool in June, and was this day, although Scarne suspected that there was another reason for the bulky coat. The man returned.

  “Monsieur Scarne?”

  Scarne waved him to a seat. The man didn’t offer his name, and Scarne didn’t ask.

  “Coffee?”

  “Qui. Merci. Parlez vous francais?”

  “Enough so I don’t order an elephant a la mode by mistake in a restaurant,” Scarne said. “But I’d rather speak English.”

  “No problem. My boss said your French is barbaric.”

  Scarne thought that was a bit harsh, considering that he had managed to get his euphemistic points across a few hours earlier when he had called the number Juliette Boudin had given him. Juliette had many contacts on both sides of the law in France. As is often the case, it was someone on the criminal side of the line that was proving most useful.

  A waiter appeared and Scarne ordered two more coffees. He waited until they came and then said, “What have you got for me?”

  The man reached inside his coat and took out a package, bound with twine.

  “I almost shit my pants on the Metro. I had put this on the seat next to me and two cops wanted to know if it was mine. I thought they were going to ask me to open it. There was a bombing last week in the Arab quarter and the flics are very nervous. I don’t blame them. I hate all this terrorist business. I miss the days when you could look at an unattended bag on a train or bus and think to yourself ‘I'm going to take that’.”

  Scarne laughed. He took the package and put it in his small Dakota suitcase. He knew it wouldn’t be checked on the train he planned to take to Brussels. Travel between countries in the European Union was as easy as going from New York to New Jersey.

  “One more thing,” the man said.

  “Yes.”

  “My boss said to tell you that he considers that he has repaid his debt to Inspector Boudin. He wishes her well, but he does not expect to hear from her again.”

  “I’ll pass along the message.”

  “Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir.”

  ***

  Scarne was still sleeping when Emma got home. He vaguely heard the shower and then felt a warm and slightly damp body slide into the bed next to him. He could feel her breasts against his back. She kissed his neck and slid her hand down his body and cupped him. After a few minutes he rolled over and they kissed. She raised a leg and he entered her.

  “I’ll have to tell Mendelsohn’s assistant that I found my nude,” Scarne said.

  “What the hell are you talking about,” Emma said. “Oh, never mind.” She moaned. “Tell me later.”

  ***

  Scarne was in the shower when Emma stuck her head in the bathroom door the following morning.

  “Jake, Elizabeth Morlach is on the way up. She’s coming up for coffee. Make sure you’re decent.”

  After drying off, he threw on a pair of slacks and a shirt and went out to the dining room, where a slim woman in a track suit was putting croissants on three plates on a table already set with coffee cups, milk, sugar, butter and jam. He could hear Emma doing something noisy in the kitchen.

  “So, you are the infamous Jake Scarne,” she said, walking over to him with her hand extended. “Emma has told me all about you. And, of course, I’ve heard all the wild tales through the grapevine. Although from the look of you, I’d say they aren’t so wild. You appear tough as nails.”

  Her hands were soft, and her smile warm. Elizabeth Morlach was even more attractive in person than the photos
Scarne had seen in the media. Her blue eyes were set wide apart under pale blond eyelashes that matched her shoulder-length hair. But underneath that fairy-princess appearance, Scarne knew, was a steel mind and burning ambition.

  “I’m not so tough,” Scarne replied. “I eat quiche.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to settle for croissants and cinnamon scones.”

  “Emma cooks for me occasionally. I’m used to roughing it.”

  “I heard that,” Emma said as she came out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee.

  It was against the law in Paris to make a bad croissant and, surprisingly, Emma’s coffee was good. The three of them chatted amiably while they ate. Finally, Elizabeth Morlach said, “Emma tells me you are in Europe hunting for the people you think really killed Sebastian.”

  The surprise must have shown on Scarne’s face because Emma laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Jake. Nothing will appear in one of the Morlach Fleet Street tabloids. Liz and I have an agreement. Everything we discuss is confidential, unless we both agree it’s not.”

  “I was under the impression that Morlach and Shields families are bitter rivals. Your newspapers and other outlets compete against each other.”

  “Our fathers dislike each other.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a word I would use,” Elizabeth Morlach said. “Despise is better.”

  “Someday Liz and I may also be at each other’s throats,” Emma continued, “but until then, we have a lot in common.”

  Scarne looked at the two women, both of whom had probably been cosseted but shunted aside by their male-dominated families. Emma, he knew, had a tough time after her husband died and only came out of her shell because she wanted to ensure that her own daughter had a place at the table. As it turned out, Emma was savvier than her brothers and, to his credit, Randolph soon recognized that. The Morlach clan was probably a tougher nut to crack, but recent stories in the financial press seemed to indicate that Elizabeth had clawed her way past two brothers and was now the heir apparent to the media empire run by her father, Rupert. Scarne would have bet the Hope Diamond that each woman used some of the “confidential” information they traded to solidify their respective positions.

  “Speaking of throats,” Elizabeth said, “was there anything about the Quimper murder that didn’t appear in the press. I’ve heard rumors.”

  The detail about the crown roast has been suppressed, partly out of concern for Quimper’s family and partly because the Bascombe didn’t want to take the dish off its menu. Scarne told them the full story. Both women stopped eating.

  “Don’t you want that scone, Emma?”

  She passed it to Scarne.

  “You really think that Chandra is behind it,” Elizabeth asked. “It’s hard to believe. I’ve met him a number of times. He plays hardball, but he’s so sexy and charming.”

  “I don’t think anything,” Scarne said. “I’m just following a hunch and a rather tenuous lead in Brussels.”

  “Forgive me for asking. But why did you stop here in Paris instead of going straight to Belgium? I mean, Emma is delightful, but aren’t you afraid that Khan, if he is guilty, will take steps to cover his tracks.”

  “I’m hoping he, or someone, does just that. I just want to give them time to think about it.”

  As the implication of that statement sunk in, Elizabeth Morlach stared intently at Scarne.

  “Isn’t that rather cold, Jake. Immoral, maybe even illegal. Someone might get hurt, even killed. ”

  “We’re not talking about Nelson Mandela or Mother Teresa, Elizabeth. And you will forgive me if I don’t take a lecture on morality and the legal system from a Morlach too seriously.”

  She looked as if she had been slapped. The Morlach family’s legal troubles in England, which included indictments of many of their top editors and the disgrace of several cabinet members, was still an open wound. They stared at each other. Then, she smiled.

  “I guess I deserved that. Emma said you can be a hard case.”

  “He’s just angry, Liz,” Emma said. “He lost a client. It’s happened before, and there was hell to pay. Isn’t that right, Jake? Even though it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Sebastian Quimper was a literary fraud and a lecher,” Scarne said. “Every time I dealt with him I needed a drink or a shower, sometimes both. But that didn’t mean someone had the right to do a John the Baptist on him. Not to make a point about religion. Not to eliminate the competition. Not to scuttle a goddamn merger. Not for any reason. He didn’t deserve it. Not on my watch, or anyone’s watch.” The tone in Scarne’s voice quieted the women for a moment. He reached over and poured them all some more coffee. “In any event, the man I have to see in Brussels is away on business until Saturday. He’s in London, picking up paintings by someone called Simon Fairless. Not much I can do about that.”

  “Oh, I like Simon’s work,” Emma said. “And they are very reasonable.”

  “What will you do when you find these people,” Elizabeth said. “Arrest them? On what grounds? Do you even have any jurisdiction in Europe?”

  Emma laughed.

  “Jurisdiction? He’s not a cop, Liz. He’ll get them to tell them what he wants to know.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Then he’ll try to goad them into doing something stupid, so he can kill them.”

  CHAPTER 26 - BEST LAID PLANS

  “I’ll cancel all my meetings for today,” Emma said after Elizabeth Morlach left. “I thought we could stay home and have lots of sex.”

  “You haven’t forgotten how easy I am,” Scarne replied. “That’s a good thing.”

  “I want to take a shower. Why don’t you join me?”

  “I just took a shower.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Good point.”

  Fortunately, the airy two-bedroom apartment Emma rented in the 10th Arrondissement near the Place de la République had a large bathroom, with a shower unusual for Paris, in that two normal-size human beings could fit in it without breaking a rib or dislocating a shoulder — or given their coital exertions — something more vital. An hour later, in bed, underneath several pop art paintings that made him dizzy to look at, Scarne said, “When did you learn how to yodel?”

  “What are you talking about. I don’t know how to yo ….” She laughed. “You bastard. Are you making fun of my passionate responses?”

  “Is that what that was? I thought it might be a call to the hounds.”

  “I know. I just adore sex. My orgasms seem to be more intense now.”

  “You are reaching your sexual peak.”

  “You on the other hand ….” She looked down. “What do you call that? Jet lag?”

  “Hey, give me a break.” He rolled on top of her. “I’ll show you jet lag.”

  His cell phone rang. Ordinarily, at such a moment, he would have let it go to the answering service. But given the time difference with the States, and his current assignment, he thought it might be important. He snatched it off the night table.

  “How romantic,” Emma huffed.

  Scarne ignored her. As it turned out, it was a local, European call. He saw the name. He put the phone to his ear. Just to be annoying, Emma began to aggressively move her hips. And then, for added effect, made believe she was yodeling. He put his free hand over her laughing mouth.

  “Mr. Scarne, this is Claude from the Mendelsohn Gallerie. I just heard from Gaetan. His trip to London was successful and he is cutting it short. He will be back this afternoon. He will be quite busy but he said he can see you the first thing Saturday morning if that is convenient. And he would like you to be his guest at the exhibition and cocktail party Saturday night.”

  Scarne, who had no intention of attending either, said he would be delighted. After he ended the call, he looked down at Emma.

  “I have to go to Brussels immediately.”

  “Damn it! That’s not how I intended to get screwed this afternoon
.”

  “The best laid plans,” Scarne said, “pardon the pun.”

  “I understand. But, please, just finish what you started.”

  “Only if you promise not to yodel.”

  “Oh, suck farts,” she said, pulling his mouth down to hers.

  ***

  Because Brussels lies almost at the midpoint between Paris and Amsterdam, it is well served by trains. The Thalys rail system offered hourly high-speed connections all day long. Scarne caught the noon bullet train out of Paris Gare du Nord station and an hour and 15 minutes later arrived at Brussels-Midi, the modern complex serving south Brussels. It was a short taxi ride to his hotel, the Marivaux at Boulevard Adolphe Max. When he got to his room the first thing he did was unwrap the package he’d been given in Paris. In it was a black Beretta Nano, a pocket-sized 9mm automatic pistol. The serial numbers had been burned off. He hefted the gun in his hand and whistled. It couldn’t have weighed more than a pound and would fit easily in his jacket pocket. He jammed the six-round magazine in the automatic and worked the slide. He put it in his pocket and practiced taking it out quickly. The Nano’s extremely low profile prevented a snag, as did the fact that unlike many pistols of its type, it had no slide catch on the side. Scarne would have liked something with a little more punch, but he knew it would probably do, unless he ran up against a water buffalo.

  He called the Mendelsohn Gallerie and, not giving his name, asked for the owner. He was told that Mendelsohn wouldn’t be in until 4 P.M. So he killed time researching Mendelsohn and his gallery on the Internet. There was a lot of information about Mendelsohn’s military and government service, with glowing articles about his transition from “the black arts” to “the real arts.” He was, it seemed, a pillar of Brussels society. If Juliette Boudin’s information was correct, and Mendelsohn ran a string of assassins on the side, Scarne knew that there was no better cover than respectability.