Death at the Clos du Lac

by Adrian Magson

  But why end up dead afterwards? A killer killed? It didn’t make sense.

  He checked through the jacket pockets in the wardrobe. Nothing there. He went through the rest of the room, then walked through and checked Paulus’s trouser pockets, careful not to disturb the body. Nothing there, either. No cash, no wallet. Then he had a thought. He checked the belt. It looked like service issue, the leather in good condition apart from a two-centimetre stretch just above the left hip, where it was slightly distorted and shiny.

  Paulus had been wearing a hip holster. So where was it now?

  He stood back, puzzled. The place was clean. Too clean. ‘We need to call this in,’ he said, and led the way out of the house.

  ‘There’s no car,’ Claude observed, stubbing his toe on a well-worn rut at the edge of the lane where a vehicle had been parked. ‘So how did he get around?’

  ‘He was killed somewhere else,’ Rocco said. ‘No blood spillage and no signs of a struggle. The car will have been dumped.’

  He drove fast past the collection of houses, and saw no sign of the inhabitants. They were probably out in the fields by now, working. He’d send someone back later to see if anyone had heard or seen anything.

  As they hit a straight stretch, another car approaching from the opposite direction sped by, kicking up a column of dust. It was a dark Renault saloon with two men inside.

  ‘Cops,’ Claude said, turning to look back. ‘Somebody beat us to it. Shouldn’t we go back?’

  Rocco shook his head. ‘No. Not cops.’ More of Levignier’s men, he was certain of it.

  The vultures were gathering.

  They were halfway back to Poissons when Claude suddenly slapped his knee in frustration. ‘Hell, I must be getting old. What an idiot!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The nurse – Dion. I thought she was screaming for the police when I first heard her.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘I just realised – she wasn’t calling the police. She was calling him – the dead man: Paulus.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘We have all reasonable grounds for taking this over as a murder enquiry.’ Rocco was in Massin’s office, having driven straight to Amiens from Berlay. Also present were his deputy, Commissaire Perronnet, tall, aloof and keeping his own counsel as usual, but ready to support Massin, and Captain Canet of the uniformed branch. Slightly flushed of face and stocky, with a well-developed stomach, Canet was genial enough and inclined to favour action rather than talk. Massin had listened to what Rocco had reported, before calling in the other two in for a council of war and despatching a clean-up team to the Paulus cottage, including Dr Rizzotti.

  ‘You’re probably right, Inspector,’ Massin agreed smoothly. ‘But I’ve already had instructions from Paris.’ He gestured at the telephone on his desk. ‘Commandant Levignier is in charge of the investigation regarding all matters related to the Clos du Lac – including the subsequent death of the security guard. If required we are here in a support role only.’

  ‘That’s just my point,’ Rocco argued carefully. ‘The murder of Paulus took place outside the sanitarium. It’s a civilian matter, which places it within our jurisdiction.’

  Massin said nothing, but looked at the other two officers for their opinions. Perronnet wagged his head from side to side, signalling indecision. Canet nodded and patted his stomach subconsciously. ‘I agree with Rocco, sir. The second murder might be connected with the sanitarium, but it did happen outside. We have to have some autonomy, surely.’

  ‘That may be true, Captain. But we don’t know where the shooting took place. We have only a brief examination of the scene at the Paulus residence to go on, although,’ he tipped his head towards Rocco, ‘I’m not suggesting you’re wrong, Inspector.’ He chewed his lip.

  ‘We should not ignore the question of jurisdiction,’ Perronnet conceded reasonably, drawing a startled look from the other three. He was not well known for voicing any opinion in contradiction to Massin. ‘What I mean is,’ he hurried on, ‘what if other deaths were to occur – although God forbid that they do, of course – involving people related to this place but unconnected with the first murder? Where do we draw the line? And we are bringing the body of Paulus back here, are we not?’

  Rocco sighed inwardly at the convoluted argument and wondered whether Perronnet wasn’t merely playing an even field, trying to remain uncommitted in what could become a prolonged argument. But he decided not to let the opportunity offered go by.

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘We could end up being expected to clear up the mess with none of the authority to investigate the cause.’

  Massin nodded slowly. ‘I can see I’m outnumbered.’ He chewed on his lip in thought, then tapped his desk with the tips of his fingers. ‘Very well. I will go back to the Ministry and let you know what their response is. But don’t be surprised if they lock us out. This Clos du Lac is clearly a government facility, so we should not expect them to allow access too easily.’

  ‘I’d like to know what kind of facility,’ said Rocco. ‘Drugged patients, armed security, and the presence of three Ministry men within hours of a death?’

  ‘Yes, well, if you’ll excuse the untimely reference, don’t dive deeper than you can swim, Inspector,’ Massin warned. ‘They may not be your favourite people, but they carry a lot more influence and weight than anyone in this room. Push too hard and you might find yourself assigned to some hellhole of an island in the Pacific.’

  * * *

  Outside in the corridor, Rocco nodded at Canet. ‘Thanks for the support.’

  Canet smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll expect you to return the favour one day. Frankly, I like to see the Ministry noses put out of joint now and then; there are some, like Levignier, who treat the uniformed branch like second-class citizens most of the time. Be good to win a point back now and then.’

  Rocco headed for his desk to clear some paperwork. On the way, he spotted the muscular outline of Detective René Desmoulins coming down the corridor. He was one of the best investigators in the region, and Rocco trusted him implicitly.

  ‘You busy?’ he asked.

  Desmoulins smiled shyly, smoothing his thin moustache. For something he was so aware of, it never seemed to progress much beyond a heavy fuzz, but Rocco admired his determination.

  ‘Nothing I can’t drop. Why?’

  ‘I want you to find out everything you can on an André Paulus, former or serving naval cop. Try the records office in Brest.’ He ran through the little that he knew from nurse Dion. ‘Did he leave the navy, if so, were there any problems – the usual background stuff?’

  Desmoulins nodded, committing the details to memory. ‘Will do.’

  Rocco left him to it and went to his desk. It wasn’t long before he got a call from Massin.

  ‘You’ve been given authority to investigate the Paulus death,’ the senior officer told him. ‘But that’s all. Anything inside the facility is strictly off-limits.’

  ‘That was quick,’ Rocco said. ‘Has Rizzotti had a look at Paulus’s body yet?’

  ‘He has. I have him with me. Come to my office and he can tell you himself.’

  Rocco climbed the stairs and found Canet and Perronnet were there, too. Rizzotti grinned when he saw Rocco.

  ‘You’re still dragging them in for me to play with, I see,’ he said, referring to Rocco’s talent for finding corpses. He was a pale individual with thinning hair and wire spectacles, and seemed completely at home when poring over bodies or evidence that needed his opinions.

  ‘Your report, please, Doctor,’ Massin said softly.

  ‘Of course. Well, it’s very simple. The deceased was shot with two nine-millimetre rounds to the upper chest.’ Rizzotti looked at their faces. ‘Anyone want the full medical details? No? Well, that’s it. Whoever did it was very clever, however. Neither round exited the body, yet I found nothing solid to have impeded them.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Massin urged him.

  ‘Meaning that who
ever killed him used reduced-charge cartridges to restrict the range.’ He nodded at Rocco. ‘As I learnt from Inspector Rocco, it’s a method used by professional assassins for close-quarter kills. The lack of blood at the scene would appear to confirm some care was taken in the execution,’ he winced at the unintended pun, ‘although it’s probable the shooting occurred outside the premises. But wherever it happened, there are clear signs of powder burns around the entry wounds, to the clothing and the flesh, suggesting that the killer was standing close to the deceased when shooting him. As near as I can estimate, death occurred during the night, sometime between midnight and 6 a.m.’

  ‘If he was killed elsewhere,’ said Canet, ‘why not leave him? Why would they bother dumping him back at the house?’

  ‘Now that,’ Rizzotti gave an expansive shrug, ‘science – even my limited version of it – cannot tell you. Perhaps where he was killed was inconvenient for the killer. But that’s up to Inspector Rocco to find out.’ He smiled at Rocco as he handed over the baton.

  ‘There has been a suggestion,’ said Massin, waving his thanks to Rizzotti, ‘that the killing might be a simple case of jealousy. He was rumoured to be involved with the nurse, Dion. Levignier has suggested that might be an avenue worth pursuing.’

  Rocco nearly laughed. ‘Levignier said that? He can’t be serious.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s an explanation worth exploring?’

  ‘Only if Dion was also involved with a jealous hitman. Rizzotti’s right – this has the hallmarks of a professional kill. A jealous lover wouldn’t take all the personal effects the way it was done here. Neither would they bother hauling the body back to the house. And Paulus disappeared in the middle of his shift; it’s too much of a coincidence that it just happened while a murder was taking place at the Clos. He either left his post under his own steam or was forced. Then shot.’

  ‘I heard another suggestion,’ Perronnet put in. ‘That Paulus might have been involved in the first killing in some way. He may have been paid to leave the building in order to leave the way clear, but for some reason became surplus to requirements. It’s a possibility.’

  ‘Where did that one come from?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘I forget. One of Levignier’s team, I believe. It was a passing remark.’

  Rocco wasn’t surprised. It was a reasonable assumption, but all too easy – and far too quick. He sensed an attempt to sidetrack them. Somebody in the Ministry had seen the potential problem in denying access to a normal murder investigation, and was tossing these suggestions out as a concession, a meagre bone to a dog.

  ‘I need access to Inès Dion,’ he said. ‘She’s a material witness to what happened.’

  ‘That has already been agreed. But the director, Drucker, will be there at all times. And you should take another officer with you. I suggest Gardienne Poulon, to avoid any unfounded accusations of pressure.’ Massin’s voice hardened. ‘Make no mistakes, Inspector, and remember what I said: you have been given reasonable access, but do not abuse that permission. You should also not forget that you have other cases to investigate, such as a shooting not far from Poissons. The report is on your desk, I believe.’

  ‘I’ll behave myself,’ Rocco replied. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  He turned and left before Massin could make a comeback. He’d never been in the scouts and doubted they’d have accepted him. But Massin wouldn’t know that.

  He scooped up the report marked urgent from his desk and scanned it on the way around the building, finally locating Alix Poulon in the basement, knee-deep in paperwork. She looked glad of a diversion and dropped what she was doing immediately.

  ‘What are we doing, exactly?’ she asked, as they walked out to Rocco’s car.

  ‘First we’re going to sort out two troublesome brothers who’ve been shooting at each other. Then we’re going hunting.’

  Chapter Eight

  The lunchtime crowds were out in force as two men strolled along the east side of Place de la Concorde in central Paris. Steering clear of the Obelisk in the centre, a focal point for the bulk of tourists, they kept to the outer perimeter, automatically scanning the people around them for familiar faces.

  Both men were dressed in suits and ties, gleaming white shirts and polished shoes, the quality indicating a position above the ordinary rank and file of office workers and bureaucrats populating the area. Neither man had any legitimate reason not to be there, but being seen together, while not illegal or sanctioned, could give cause for interested speculation among those who knew them.

  On their left was a stone wall topped by a balustrade and trimmed hedge around the Tuileries Garden, a good place for a private chat. But the shorter of the two men indicated the broad pavement leading down to the north bank of the Seine. The road here was blocked to traffic and quiet.

  ‘Less likely to be noticed along here,’ he commented briefly. ‘And we can hear ourselves speak, too.’

  His name was Josef Girovsky, and he was a fourth-generation Pole who had never been further east than the Alps. He had the square build and thick, grey hair of his forefathers and the smooth, coiffed appearance of a man of money – something those forefathers would have given their right arms for. Whenever his name appeared in the national press, which was rarely, he was referred to as an industrialist, even a capitalist, with a chain of businesses and joint ventures around the world, from engineering to finance, from farming to fishing fleets. But he preferred the title of investor, for that is what he was. He invested in anything that made money, and he was very good at it.

  He was also ruthless about increasing his reach for more.

  ‘So where’s Levignier?’ he asked. ‘Why couldn’t he come like he usually does?’

  ‘What’s the matter – are you worried about being seen with me?’

  His companion was tall and slim, with thinning hair and a chillingly direct gaze. He possessed a lazy smile that rarely left his mouth yet never quite managed to touch his grey eyes. And he had about him a stillness that made other men very wary indeed.

  ‘If I knew who you really were,’ Girovsky muttered with a touch of acid, ‘I might. But you haven’t told me yet.’

  ‘Because you have no need to know who I am. I’m simply a functionary – a messenger. I work for Commander Levignier.’ In fact, the tall man was known mostly by the name Delombre, which he enjoyed for its double meaning; his work was predominantly in the shadows, so therefore entirely appropriate. At other times, when it suited him, he used other names, each fictitious and disposable, like a cheap suit. He worked a decent rifle shot away from where they were now walking, in the depths of the Ministry of the Interior in Place Beauvau, in a department few people knew about, and which Girovsky only knew of at arm’s length.

  ‘What happened at the sanitarium?’ he asked. ‘I received a rambling message from Drucker. He’s not supposed to contact me. What does he hope to gain?’

  Delombre gave a small sigh. ‘I know. He panicked when he couldn’t contact us, so he chose you instead. It’s the people we have to work with, you see.’ He smiled without humour, his cold eyes resting for a long moment on the Pole. ‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’

  ‘The same way the guard was taken care of? I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘If you don’t have the stomach for the answers, you shouldn’t ask the questions.’

  Girovsky’s head swivelled at the abruptness of the response. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Think about it. I’m sure you’ll understand eventually.’

  ‘I don’t like your attitude.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’ Delombre stopped, forcing Girovsky to halt and face him. He waited for a pretty young woman with a student’s satchel over her shoulder to go by, his gaze drifting down to slim, bare legs, lightly muscled, then said, ‘Do we continue with this or not? Because we can always abandon it and close it down, you know.’

  Girovsky gasped. ‘You don’t have that authority!’

&nbs
p; ‘Not directly, not here and now. But I know somebody who does. Only…’ He hesitated and stared up at some pigeons flying overhead, their wings a muffled beat of panic.

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’d like the consequences of our stopping things right now simply because you don’t approve of our methods. And I’m pretty sure your business colleagues would be very cross with you. Actually, speaking of them, I’m surprised you weren’t on the flight to China with the rest of the trade party. Were you not invited?’

  Girovsky’s face coloured at Delombre’s mischievous tone, but he held himself in check. He cleared his throat, the action of a realist faced with little alternative. ‘My presence is not required at this stage, that’s all. I have colleagues on the trip, naturally, but it was not thought… necessary for me to go until the talks have progressed further.’

  ‘I see. You mean the others know how to use their chopsticks.’ Delombre yawned, ignoring the other’s protest. ‘Still, I know what it’s like to live in the shadows, being shunned by polite society.’ He chuckled, and Girovsky grunted angrily at being the object of this man’s sarcasm. His press coverage over the years had not been entirely kind, due to both his ancestry and his business methods, and he therefore operated behind the scenes where the media was concerned. The opening trade talks involving the Chinese government were a prime example, and one where he was forced to take a back seat for the time being.

  ‘Very droll.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘I must go – I have appointments. Tell Levignier that we must continue, of course. I’m concerned, that’s all. There’s a great deal riding on this project, and the Chinese won’t wait while we sort out our internal problems. If they sense trouble, they’ll pull out and take their business elsewhere. We can’t have that.’

  ‘The Chinese.’ Delombre’s lips twitched. He turned to stare across the city rooftops at the hazy shape of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It looked glorious in the sunlight and he wished for a moment that he was over there, enjoying watching the pretty girls with their skirts gusting in the breeze rather than here with this toad of a man. ‘Yes, we mustn’t upset them, must we?’