Swiss Vendetta--A Mystery

by Tracee de Hahn

  “All ready to start,” Petit said. “Carnet has a plan and if we could get a couple of people to help—”

  “Not now,” Agnes interrupted. Quickly she explained the situation to them. “When was the last time anyone saw Monsieur Estanguet?”

  Carnet turned on his heel. “I’ll check the man’s bedroom to see if he’s there. If he’s not, I’ll start searching for him. I’ll get Madame Puguet to assist.”

  “André,” Agnes said. “Go to Arsov’s, quickly. Wake them up. Put the butler and Nurse Brighton on alert but say nothing to the old man. There’s nothing to be gained by frightening him. Stay close. I believe Estanguet has already killed once.”

  Petit sprinted away, leaving the rest of the room frozen in a tableau of concern.

  “We have to do something more to find her. Can we get dogs?” said Daniel. “What did mother’s family raise, bloodhounds?”

  Winston walked the length of the room. Agnes glanced at the animal, then at Julien Vallotton. Together they looked at the dog.

  “He’s not a bloodhound,” Agnes said speculatively.

  “I’ve taken him hunting,” Daniel said. “He’s got a good nose.”

  “MC, call him,” Vallotton said.

  Agnes held the stuffed animal out to Winston, wondering if the Great Dane even noticed the toy, his eyes were so focused on hers, like he was thinking. The humans stood transfixed for a moment. Everyone stilled, as if waiting for magic, then Winston turned away, his large form moving at the languid pace he usually took through the household. They let out a collective sigh. Nothing.

  Mulholland crashed a coffee cup onto a table, cursing.

  “I can’t believe Monsieur Estanguet would kill,” Marie-Chantal said. “Madame Puguet knows him, he’s been using the library for months. Are we positive? He seemed like such a kind old man. I can’t believe he would hurt Mimi.”

  “He used his time here to plan his attack on Monsieur Arsov,” said Agnes, keeping her eyes trained on Winston. The dog was at the door, as if waiting on her. He swept his head forward and caught her eye before taking off at a rapid clip. “He’s going,” she said.

  Winston pricked his ears. He lunged forward at a lope. Agnes and Julien sprinted to catch up. Marie-Chantal grabbed the handles of Daniel’s wheelchair and Mulholland brought up the rear.

  Winston led them down a long corridor to the opposite wing of the château. They burst through the door of a large room, rarely used. Agnes stopped when she was across the threshold. Her heart was pounding and she experienced a rapid sense of disappointment. No Mimi. And Marie-Chantal was correct, maybe Estanguet hadn’t taken the girl. Maybe she had created this out of whole cloth based on a painting, a ring, and the idea that someone could change their name.

  The room resembled a medieval banquet hall. In the center stood a long table surrounded by forty high-backed wood chairs. Large Flemish tapestries covered three of the walls. Two complete suits of armor guarded the opposite door. Despite this, the space felt empty.

  Winston walked the perimeter, nose down. Agnes caught her breath and wondered if they were all crazy, following a dog. She held Mimi’s stuffed toy out to him. He ignored her.

  “Who searched this room last night?” she asked.

  “I did,” said Mulholland. He was pale. “With Monsieur Estanguet.”

  They glanced around.

  “There’s nowhere to hide,” Marie-Chantal said. “Under the table. I suppose around the suits of armor. There’s nowhere else.”

  “We pulled out the chairs,” Mulholland said. “Estanguet suggested we see if she was lying on top of them.” He shrugged. “And he thumped the tapestries, but they’re too close to the wall to conceal even a small child. This can’t be where she is. We looked.”

  Agnes did a quick circuit of the room, glancing behind the suits of armor, under the table. She fingered her pocket, wishing for a cigarette. They had to be close. Mimi was in the château, she was sure of it.

  “Do you remember getting lost for a few days when you were small?” Julien asked Daniel. “I was already at boarding school, but the old cook talked about it for years.”

  “I was three? Maybe four?” Daniel replied. “I don’t remember anything other than what they told me later. There was a door open and I wandered in and someone shut it and didn’t know to look for me there.”

  “How would Estanguet know where to hide her?” Marie-Chantal asked. “How could he find someplace we don’t know about?”

  “He’s been in the library for months,” said Agnes, eyes trained on Winston. “Maybe he learned something there. Documents that show the château’s evolution. Hidden passages, places built over. I keep finding concealed stairs. There are tunnels you had forgotten about. Maybe we didn’t search everywhere.”

  “The American might have helped him,” Mulholland said.

  “What do you know about him?” Agnes asked.

  “Unwittingly helped him. Nick Graves is doing research on the construction of the château.” The Vallottons looked at Mulholland, startled. “I can read,” he said. “And sometimes when I can’t sleep I wander the library. His notes are laid out on one of the tables.”

  Winston rubbed his head along the largest of the tapestries. Six meters long and four tall, it covered the length of one wall. Agnes noticed that the woven hunting scene was complete with mounted horses, running dogs, and fearsome wild beasts, and she hoped that wasn’t what attracted Winston. He walked up and down the length of the fabric, nose down, inhaling huge drafts of air. Under the pressure from his head the entire scene rippled. Suddenly he stopped, drawing in a torrent of oxygen through his nose. He held his breath for a second, then moaned, sitting.

  “There,” Agnes pointed. “He’s found something.”

  Julien ran to the end of the tapestry and hauled the edge away from the wall. It was heavy and he could only move it a hand’s width from the stone. “Hand me a light,” he called.

  Agnes knelt to peer beneath his outstretched arm, attempting to help hold the fabric. Her flashlight beam caught the outline of a slight recess in the wall several meters away. Winston pushed underneath and Agnes followed. The fabric’s weight pressed against her head and shoulder, and she had difficulty edging forward. In front of her, the dog’s nose was pressed to the ground and his back end quivered.

  “He’s got the scent,” Agnes called out, her voice muffled. “There’s a door. It doesn’t run all the way to the ground, that’s why no one saw it beneath the bottom of the tapestry. What’s behind this wall?”

  “A billiard room is on the other side,” said Daniel, “but between this room and that, the wall is more of a thickness. There’s a spiral stair up and a small water closet, some built-in cabinets further along.”

  “There’s room in the thickness then, for concealment,” Agnes said.

  Julien Vallotton slipped behind her and held the light while she ran her hands along the wood surface. She found a ring latch flush with the wood. She pulled and turned the ring, but it was locked. She pulled again and tried to rattle it loose, but the door was solid and the lock held.

  “There’s no key. Mimi?” she called out, pressing her mouth to the juncture of door and wall. Nothing. She called out again.

  Vallotton joined her. “Mimi!”

  “She can’t hear us even if she’s there,” said Agnes, ducking from beneath the tapestry. She motioned to Marie-Chantal.

  “Watch your head,” Daniel Vallotton hollered to his brother.

  Mulholland joined the women and together they yanked. The rod holding the tapestry pulled from the wall and a thousand pounds of cloth crashed to the ground in a thunder of dust. The iron rod and brackets slipped past Julien Vallotton’s head and landed on top of the heap of fabric. They stood still for a moment, stunned.

  “More notice next time,” Julien Vallotton said before turning to pound on the door.

  Agnes grabbed an iron fire poker from a cold hearth, then leapt over the pile of cloth. Julien stepped si
deways. She judged the heft of the poker then swung. It crashed into the metal fitting of the old lock. She struck again but the iron pieces wouldn’t dislodge.

  “Mimi?” she called out again, swinging violently. Winston waited until the poker was lowered, then pressed his nose to the door and sniffed loudly.

  “Wait,” said Julien. “Listen.”

  They held their ears to the wood. There was a muffled cry.

  “It’s her,” he said.

  “Someone get the doctor,” Agnes called over her shoulder.

  Marie-Chantal and Mulholland ran for help and Agnes wiped perspiration from her brow. Julien took the poker. On the third strike, the lock dislodged and he wrenched it from the casing. The door fell open. Agnes swung her flashlight beam into the darkness and followed him down the steep irregular stairs, nearly pushing him over in her hurry. It was a small slice of dungeon, unchanged since ancient times, isolated from the larger sections by modifications long forgotten. It was very dark and the air was moist and stale. It felt like fear.

  Agnes moved her light back and forth and cried out when she saw Mimi’s slight form lying on the bare rock. The little girl looked up, her face swollen with tears. Winston reached her first, leaping down the stairs in his excitement. Mimi clutched his furry sides and Agnes ran her light up and down them both, hoping the girl wasn’t injured.

  “Where’s Elie?” were Mimi’s first coherent words and Agnes wanted to cry with relief.

  Marie-Chantal and Doctor Blanchard arrived at a run and Julien held Winston back; the animal clearly felt that a thorough licking was all that Mimi needed. Agnes trusted the dog’s instincts and felt a great lightness. The girl would recover.

  They draped a blanket over Mimi and Julien gathered her in his arms and carefully climbed the steep stone stairs.

  “He shouldn’t have put me there. I was hungry and cold.”

  Agnes backed away. The girl was safe but the man was still out there. Angry. Desperate. And if she was right about this, she was right about everything.

  Thirty-three

  Agnes didn’t pause to ring the doorbell. She shoved the heavy double doors of the mansion open, surprised they were unlocked. The household was strangely silent. She wondered if Petit had them corralled together in the salon, his idea of a subtle guard. Pausing in the marble entry hall, she reminded herself not to frighten a sick old man with her concern. Mimi was safe and there was no reason to think anything had happened at the Arsov mansion.

  A glance down the long corridor confirmed she was wrong. Arsov’s butler lay partially concealed behind one of the tall porcelain urns, legs askew, head tilted unnaturally against the marble baseboard, a smear of blood on the cream-colored surface. His chest rose and fell evenly and Agnes ran past him, afraid for Petit, now certain that she was right and that there was no more time. Veering toward Arsov’s bedroom she broke into a sprint, scanning each room as she passed, hoping to find an ally. But dawn was just breaking and the household was asleep.

  She reached the open door to the bedroom and stopped to listen. Silence. She crept forward, hidden by the large tri-fold screen, not wanting to lose the advantage of surprise. Across the room, in her line of sight, André Petit lay on his back, skin scraped off the side of his head. She nearly cried out. A small marble bust lay nearby on the floor. She narrowed her eyes and studied his chest. He was breathing. She thought of his two-day-old son and hoped beyond all hope that he was not critically injured.

  Beyond her line of sight, she heard a man’s voice followed by a faint cry.

  “Murderer,” Estanguet said.

  Agnes darted around the tapestry screen. At the far end of the room, Frédéric Estanguet pinned Arsov against the deep bed. The old man’s face was pale gray and his eyes were closed. Agnes saw the glint of a long knife in Estanguet’s hand and she leapt forward. He saw her and flicked the blade toward Arsov’s throat. She halted, the element of surprise lost.

  “He killed my sister,” Estanguet said. “Took the last family I had.”

  The tiniest thread of blood appeared on the pale blue silk of Arsov’s pajamas. Agnes watched in horror as it blossomed across his chest. Agnes knew there was no time to reason with Estanguet. Arsov was too weak. She grabbed an antique bronze inkwell, took aim, and threw it. The metal struck Estanguet’s head, knocking him to the floor. The dagger flew from his hand. Seizing the opportunity, she lunged, but Estanguet scrambled to find his weapon and Agnes felt his hand come in contact with her ankle. Pain seared her leg and she was thrown off balance. Blood sprayed the floor and she realized he had sliced her calf. With her other foot, she stepped on his wrist, but he was strong despite his age and pulled free, throwing her against a table. Glass shattered.

  Lying on her back, scrambling to avoid Estanguet, she searched for a weapon. Anything heavy or sharp. Estanguet laughed, a sickening sound of hysteria, and slashed at her chest with the dagger. She kicked him away and pain shot up her injured leg like fire. She clambered to her feet, her head reeling. “Your sister wouldn’t want you to do this. This doesn’t honor Anne-Marie’s memory.”

  “You don’t know what he did to me. Sent me to live with those terrible people. I heard my sister cry, she didn’t want to send me away and he took me. Then he made me an orphan.”

  “War is terrible. Many children lost their parents. No one wanted this to happen to you. Anne-Marie cried because she knew she would miss you, but she knew it was for the best. A new family. A safe family. You were safer away from Resistance operations.”

  She sensed that Estanguet was torn between targets. His eyes darted between her and Arsov. She gripped the side of a table for balance.

  “He sent me away to be a slave. Those people. The Estanguets,” he spat, “they made me work for every scrap of food. I slept in an attic, did the hardest farm chores. The other kids beat me up. He did this to me.”

  The red stain on Arsov’s chest expanded, no longer a blossoming flower but a river. “Your sister loved Monsieur Arsov,” Agnes said. “They tried to do what was right for you. It was wartime, there were no perfect solutions, particularly for innocent children. They thought the family would take care of you. Treat you like the son they had lost.”

  Estanguet lunged for her. She moved quickly, dodging his blade and sidestepping the table, practically falling onto Arsov’s bed. The old man’s eyes fluttered.

  “Anne-Marie?” he said weakly. “Frédéric?”

  “Yes, me,” Estanguet said. “The little boy you sent away. The little boy who had to change his name—”

  “Frédéric?” Arsov repeated.

  Agnes pulled her scarf off and pressed it to Arsov’s side, trying to staunch the blood that now dripped from his chest to his legs. “He thought he was saving you,” she said. “The invasion threatened.”

  “What do you know?” Estanguet raged. “Those people were not my parents and they never let me forget it. Their oldest son threatened to hand me over to the Nazis and they didn’t stop him taunting me. Every day I lived in fear. I knew what the monster Nazis were and every day I thought I would be sent to them. To be tortured and killed. Even after the war, when the boys at school mocked me for being circumcised, they did nothing to protect me. And when my false parents died, they left me with nothing. A teenage boy with no name of his own and no family. They made me take their name and I had nothing left. I was no longer Frédéric Faivre. What boy understands this? Why should this be forgiven? Why should this man live to be old, rich, doing whatever pleases him, when she is dead and I am alone? I was alone my entire life. He took everything from me. My name, my family. The life that should have been mine.”

  Agnes felt woozy and understood that blood was pooling in her shoe. The cut to her leg was deep. Estanguet had lost touch with reality overnight. His eyes were no longer those of an elderly villager, they were crazed.

  “I took what he loves,” he said. “Let’s see how he feels when Mimi is never found. I was never found. No one ever came for me. No family
claimed me after the war. She will die and he will always know that he killed her. He won’t know where she is but he will know she is dead. This is my revenge. He came here with his trucks of antiques and here, in Switzerland, I will have revenge for what happened all those years ago.”

  “But we have found her,” Agnes cried. “She is safe and unharmed.”

  “You lie. You’ve searched. I helped, and no one knows where she is.”

  “In the dungeon. We found the door behind the tapestry. She is safe.”

  Estanguet howled like a wounded animal. He stalked toward the bed and flicked the tip of his knife toward her.

  Agnes kept her body between him and Arsov to protect the older man, pressing her shoulder into Estanguet’s chest, grappling for his knife, knowing Arsov was losing consciousness and couldn’t sustain another injury.

  Estanguet stopped aiming his knife at the other man and turned on her. The movement caught her off guard and she lost her hold on him. The blade sliced into her and she spun away. Falling. On her hands and knees she looked over her shoulder and saw Estanguet lean over Arsov. She struggled to breathe, wondering what was wrong. Everything seemed heavy. Gripping the handles of Arsov’s wheelchair, she pulled herself up. First to her knees. She heaved with pain.

  Estanguet pulled Arsov to a sitting position, holding the old man, whispering into his ear. Tears rolled down Arsov’s face and Estanguet dropped him to the bed and ran for the door. Agnes tried to follow him, to pull herself up, to stand, but she couldn’t. She felt something sticky under her shirt.

  Estanguet reached the tapestry screen at the entrance to the bedroom and stopped to take one last look at the man he had hated for so many decades. The blanket on Arsov’s wheelchair slipped and Agnes lost her grip. Her head hit the seat. It hurt. She opened her eyes, then she smiled.

  Nurse Brighton walked through the door carrying a tray of the morning’s medicines and Agnes tried to call out a warning, but the nurse saw Petit on the floor and screamed, dropping the tray. Estanguet twisted to grab her, his knife at the ready.