Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  “I think Monsieur Arsov changed his mind. That’s what he meant in his note. He had been too strict. When I told him about the thefts, he may have wondered if it was you. That’s why he wanted to talk to me. He wanted to help you.”

  “That’s brilliant. Too bloody late now.”

  She wondered if Mulholland was right and it was possible that someone looking for him had killed Felicity, mistaking her for the man. However, she’d had some experience with the Russian mafia—at the points where they intersected with financial crimes—and didn’t think this was their style, at least not in Switzerland. They were more likely to either wait for Mulholland to leave the country and make a spectacle of his death, or lure him away and dump the body somewhere. They wanted to be able to bank in Switzerland and would keep a low profile in the country. At the same time, a clean kill with no grand gesture wasn’t their style either.

  “You don’t know what it’s been like.” Mulholland placed a palm flat on his chest and pressed. “I swore that once this was over I would get a job in a bank, or an insurance company, working nine to five, or whatever people do. But it never ends.” He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. “I’ll never set foot on a yacht again, or ski, or borrow money.”

  Agnes watched him fumble for another cigarette and was moved to pity. He inhaled deeply, his hand no longer shaking.

  “That day was one dismal failure after another. Every minute I was one step farther down the path of no return. Jesus, I was starting to have dreams that the police would arrest me. Bad dreams that ended with a cold dark jail cell. And that day, the day she was murdered, was the worst. That fucking, filthy recluse of a man could save me with a word as easily as most people ordered water in a restaurant, but wouldn’t take the time to see me. Driving me to ruin. Fucking foreigner.”

  Agnes didn’t point out that Mulholland was also a foreigner in Switzerland. The young man spat out a fleck of tobacco, weighing the hand-rolled cigarette on his palm. Agnes saw his eyes dart to his gold case. For a moment he weighed the case in his hand, delaying. She could sense him estimating.

  “Who else could I ask?” he continued. “Someone who wasn’t a fucking Slav. Someone who understood what a gentleman needed and how hard it was to have a name like mine. Fucking Norman conquerors and our legacy, name and land but no money and now not even land. Still, a chap has to order champagne—vintage stuff, not California sparkling wine, and send flowers and fly first class.”

  “Your parents didn’t leave you with any funds?”

  “The last time I saw my mother she was exclaiming about their new airplane. That it was simply darling, perfect for skimming over the plains. Her new Leica camera in its custom leather case, film hanging in canisters from the woven strap. She thought she was a modern-day Isak Dinesen … without the trouble of having to actually live in the country for years or write anything more than a postcard.

  “When the headmaster called me to chapel and told me they’d crashed their second day in Africa, he forgot to mention that I wouldn’t be back after winter break; there was no money to pay the fees and my parents already owed the school for two years. Like the fucking Duke of Edinburgh: proud name, no money, and too many rich connections. Someone should have said sorry old boy but you’re poor and you will have to go to the local comprehensive. Tough luck. Instead, I was sent to my new guardian’s school, expensive but they paid the bills, vacationed on yachts, learned to ski, and maintained my birthright.” He slumped. “At the least the Duke of Edinburgh had the sense to marry a rich woman.”

  “Am I interrupting?” Vallotton asked from the darkness.

  Mulholland pressed back against the wall and Agnes thought he would run if he could only push past them. She explained quickly, sparing none of the details.

  “How much?” Vallotton asked.

  Mulholland mentioned a sum that made Agnes queasy, but Vallotton only looked thoughtful, then repeated his question. Mulholland’s hands shook so hard he couldn’t hold his cigarette to his lips. He tripled the figure, faltering as he spoke. Vallotton raised an eyebrow and looked satisfied this time.

  “You had a long way to go raising the money at that rate.”

  “I only took a few things, enough to show them I intended to pay.”

  “Enough to pay the interest, maybe,” Vallotton said. “How were you selling them?”

  “I didn’t have to, I would hand over whatever I had and they would credit me for it.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to Daniel?”

  “Not bloody likely he’d be able to help.”

  “But a good problem for him to tackle. Might have thought of something. At least he’d understand. My father bailed him out enough times. He’d be sympathetic.”

  “I was going to ask Arsov. That’s where I was the day she was killed. I asked to see him, but he didn’t have time for me and I waited around, thinking I’d catch him outside. I had to do it then, I had my nerve up and couldn’t wait; they’d been threatening for weeks, well months, but lately they seemed serious.” Mulholland sat and placed his head in his hands. “I thought it was me they were after, then I saw the police and found out she died, and saw the coat she was wearing. It was mine. With the storm I thought they were aiming for me and got her instead.”

  “Good lord, at least Daniel borrowed from a bank or friends.” Vallotton stood silently for a moment. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Mulholland looked like he would faint with relief. “They’re desperate men. Russian mafia, and they’ve threatened to kill me.”

  “I’m sure that somewhere in our past we’ve dealt with worse.” Vallotton nodded to Agnes. “We need to get back to the search.”

  For a split second Agnes saw fear in Mulholland’s eyes. She thought of Mimi and her stomach clenched. They needed to find the girl. Thomason had arrived across the frozen ice, perhaps someone else had as well. For the first time she realized that kidnapping was a possibility.

  Twenty-nine

  They had finished their assigned area of the château and Julien Vallotton left to report to Madame Puguet. No Mimi. Agnes reconsidered the idea of someone crossing the ice and kidnapping her. Thomason making it across was unlikely enough. Two people doing it defied the odds. Besides, the Russian mafia didn’t operate that way in Switzerland. Frustrated with waiting, she pulled the diary from her pocket. The corridor was dark but she had a flashlight and several oil lamps burned at intervals. It was enough to read by. It was strange to think of Arsov as young and in love. Moreover, it warmed her to know that he had found someone to love his entire life.

  She flipped past where she had read earlier. The ink was faded and difficult to read, but she was more familiar with the young woman’s handwriting now. She tilted the book toward the light.

  Tonight is my last night here, and I’m filled with joy that I will see Marcel soon. He and Madame have decided that I must go to Switzerland and I know that I can be strong for the journey. I must be; although some days I feel more tired than I admit. Everyone does so much. They help so many people, while I am only a burden. Marcel will not let me say this, but I feel it. I have promised him that in Switzerland I will go into the mountains for good clean air to defeat this horrible sickness and thinking about our future gives me strength. When next I write I will be in another country, reunited with him, and all will be well! My only sadness is that I cannot take Frédéric. He is safe with his new family, and I would put everyone in danger by contacting him. Madame is right that he is too young to be worried by news of my illness. He was terrified when he left us, and hearing that I am ill would only frighten him again. He is surely happy with new brothers to play with. Safe and happy. When this war is over, he will join me and Marcel and we will start our new life together.

  Agnes smiled. To think that the diary had survived a war. She was reminded of her mother’s advice to keep a journal. Perhaps there was merit in the idea. On the other hand her mother wanted her to record her feelings in the wake of Georg
e’s death. Those were days she didn’t want to remember in detail.

  Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor and she raced to finish reading the section.

  She has given me a ring to show them when I arrive, as a token. It is a kind of code between us all and I must not lose it.

  “Inspector, I need to talk to you.”

  The young maid, Marie-José, stepped near and Agnes slipped the diary in her pocket, annoyed by the interruption. “Did you find Mimi?” she asked.

  “No. That’s why I’m here.”

  Agnes tamped down the dull panic in her gut. The château was enormous. Dozens of people could hide if they wanted to. It was more and more likely that Mimi had gotten trapped or had fallen through the floor in some unused part of an attic. A thousand scenarios were possible, each preventing her from coming out of hiding. They needed daylight to search again.

  “What will happen when you find out who killed the woman?” Marie-José asked, nervously twisting the strings of her apron.

  Agnes shifted mental gears. “Jail, trial, and then prison if we’ve done our job right.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought it of anyone I know.”

  “Not all killers are the same: some enjoy the act of the crime, others strike in the anger of the moment. Our job is to find justice for the victim.” Agnes hesitated, remembering the first night, when Marie-José recounted Nick Graves leaving the library. The girl had the same nervousness about her tonight. “That’s why we keep asking questions.”

  “I’m engaged,” Marie-José said.

  Agnes waited patiently.

  “He’s nice enough, and will inherit his father’s butcher shop, which is a nice living. We’re planning to stay with my parents for a bit, then move somewhere nearer Lausanne for a few years. I’d like to be nearer the city; more things to do.”

  “Was your fiancé here the afternoon Mademoiselle Cowell died?”

  “No, he doesn’t come down here.” Marie-José looked horrified. “Madame Puguet is strict about visitors, says if we want visitors we should work in a tearoom. It’s not Alfred at all, it’s me.”

  Agnes didn’t move, afraid to startle the girl. A confession? She desperately hoped for one, at the same time she desperately wanted it to not be this plain young girl.

  “I shouldn’t have thought it, what with Alfred loving me like he does, but he was so handsome and has this spirit about him and Alfred is so predictable.” Marie-José pressed her palms to her eyes and stood that way for a minute, then she seemed to work through her agony. “With Mimi missing and everything so serious I need to tell you what I didn’t before. I wanted him to notice me and he did, he asked my name and told me I looked nice and followed me down to the kitchen one day.”

  “Who?”

  “Nick Graves. Him following me that time made me feel good. Special. When he left the room the other afternoon I made up a question to ask him.”

  “And saw him with Mademoiselle Cowell?” Agnes hardly dared breathe. This could be it. The evidence they needed.

  “No, he’d left, like I told you. But I also left. I went to his room and he wasn’t there. I took his cuff links, the ones he only wears at dinner, with his family crest, and when he came through the blue room next to the library I pretended I’d found them when cleaning. I asked if they were his. He knew I’d invented the story. I could see it in his eyes and I was ashamed and said I’d put them in his bedroom right away and did he want to come with me. I sort of meant to be sure I returned them, but he knew it was an invitation.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Like something out of a bad movie.”

  “Did you go to his room together?”

  “No, he laughed at me. I threw the cuff links down on the carpet and ran out the other way. The blue room is connected to the east wing with a narrow corridor that we use when we do the cleaning, and I ran that way, thinking to have a few minutes alone, but I heard Madame Puguet and knew that if she saw me there I’d catch it. She knows our schedule, and I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the east wing that time of day. I couldn’t explain to her; I would have been so ashamed and she might have dismissed me. I went down the hall, and thought to go through the fur vault and down the other stairs. Not likely anyone would see me there. I grabbed the doorknob but it didn’t turn and I thought it was stuck. I yanked it and realized it was locked. Then I heard a noise. Like something dropped or shattered.”

  “Like a hand mirror?”

  “Could have been. That’s when I panicked. Whoever was in the room had heard me tugging on a locked door where I shouldn’t be, so I ran for the stairs and back to my work. I came to your room the other night to tell you, but you didn’t come to the door, and the marquise came up the stairs. I had to leave.”

  Agnes wanted to tell the girl that she was the reason for a bad night’s sleep, but she tempered her voice. “This all occurred the day Mademoiselle Cowell was murdered?”

  “Yes, Madame, I mean Inspector. When you questioned Monsieur Graves I should have said that I left him by the library in the blue room and that he couldn’t have gotten to the fur vault before me. I suppose I wanted him to be in a bit of trouble for how he treated me. I don’t know if there was more than one person in the room or if it was even Mademoiselle Cowell, but it wasn’t me, or Monsieur Graves.” She paused and added grudgingly, “Or Madame Puguet.”

  She started and Agnes turned to see Vallotton approach.

  “I’ll go now,” Marie-José said.

  “Thank you,” Agnes said, “and I will want Officer Petit to speak with you. He’ll get a signed statement.”

  Marie-José nodded to Julien Vallotton and fled down the hall. Agnes hoped Vallotton brought good news. It didn’t look like it from his expression.

  “They are checking the outbuildings again,” he said.

  “I don’t believe Mimi could have left the château,” Agnes said.

  “That’s what Carnet said. That there aren’t any footprints he and Petit can’t explain. None made by a small girl. Mimi would have had to literally walk in someone’s footprints without leaving an impression and either go up the hill—which is impossible without the right footgear, and even then it is rough going—or to Arsov’s.”

  “Did someone check there again?” Agnes asked.

  “Yes, when they checked the outbuildings the first time. And at Arsov’s there aren’t hidden rooms and abandoned dungeons. They would have found her. Besides, they keep the doors locked. She couldn’t have entered without being noticed.” Vallotton moved to stare out the window onto the lake. “Maybe there are Russian kidnappers.”

  “Unlikely, although I think you should let Mulholland sweat it out for a few more hours.”

  “He’ll sweat regardless. He’s lucky to be alive; although they probably thought he was likely to find a way to pay, and they want their money.”

  “You’ll give it to them?”

  “It’s theirs. He wasn’t being blackmailed. They made a loan and gave him terms. He owed them.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “What’s a human life worth?”

  Agnes drew in a breath.

  “He’s a boy—” Vallotton started.

  “He’s nearly thirty.”

  “Age doesn’t make a man. It doesn’t matter. He’s my aunt’s godson, I have to keep him safe, for her.”

  “From thugs.”

  Vallotton grinned. “I’ll talk to Daniel and see what he can come up with. He’ll probably think of a way to pay back the money and give the impression that they’ve been serviced by the devil. Be good for him. Give him something to think about and speed up his recovery.”

  “It must be nice to have enough money to buy your way out of trouble.”

  Vallotton looked at her. There was a strange calm in his eyes and she regretted her words. “I mean most people wouldn’t be able to extricate themselves from the mess Mulholland has created.”

  “I would think you of all people would understand that m
oney can’t solve all problems.”

  A tsunami of thought swept through her and she wondered how he knew about George, her boys, and her mother-in-law. These were her troubles, and all the money in the world wouldn’t have made it right. A strange expression flitted across his face, she thought it was comprehension, then sorrow. Swiftly it was gone and she doubted herself.

  Men’s voices reverberated against the halls, breaking the solitude. Shouts. Bodies hitting furniture.

  “Your lies. You fu—”

  “Uh-oh,” Agnes said, moving swiftly toward the voices. Vallotton followed close on her heels. They recognized the voices. Thomason and Graves. Fiancé and former lover.

  Thomason had Graves in a headlock, momentarily startling Agnes, who assumed the stocky American would be a match for the slimmer Brit. She wedged herself between them but they either didn’t notice her or didn’t care.

  “Bastard. Lying…” Thomason’s words ended in a grunt as Graves slammed him into Agnes and both of them into the wall.

  She tried to make herself heard above their shouts, elbowing Thomason to move aside. The men were too locked in combat to hear, speak, or see.

  “This will stop.” Julien Vallotton’s words were low and cut like a knife through the air. Thomason and Graves froze, released their holds, and stepped away from each other. No longer trapped, Agnes sagged against the wall, breathing heavily. Vallotton stood a few feet away, his posture, tone, and gaze conveying the kind of disdain that made regiments cower. Agnes struggled to catch her breath, wondering if there was a training course for this kind of command. When she regained her composure, she looked at Vallotton again and decided it took about a thousand years of absolute certitude.

  Vallotton took Thomason by the elbow and guided him down the hall. Agnes held out a hand to stop Graves from walking away.

  “Time to tell the truth,” she said. “What happened the day Felicity Cowell died?”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “No, but you haven’t told us everything. Now is the time.”

  Graves massaged his knuckles as if he’d hurt them in his brawl with Thomason.