A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  ‘Because Inspector Richelieu wishes to divorce your sister.’ Droit blanched. ‘I think he plans to marry his colleague, Joanna Best.’

  ‘Does he now? When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Can he be stopped?’

  Antony shook his head. ‘Of course not, and I would advise against making a fuss as, apart from the house in Rue Cremieux, he will continue to pay for your sister’s medical needs even after they divorce.’

  Droit pondered the news. ‘Richelieu is bloody wealthy. Can we squeeze a better deal than just the house and the cash?’

  Antony was both shocked and impressed. ‘Greed is usually the domain of lawyers, Monsieur. Besides, the Parisian house is worth a lot of money.’

  Droit thought it over. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Say nothing and do nothing. Just take the money and run.’

  Droit was wary. ‘Will we ever hear from the man again?’

  Heron-Royhay smiled. ‘Indeed. There is plenty of publicity to come from his suing the authorities for his false arrest and imprisonment. It was a fascinating scandal and one which should generate a lot of money from book, film and television deals.’

  ‘More money for Inspector Richelieu. His estate grows by the day.’

  Antony hesitated. ‘It does but not everything is his to command.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Pierre has given me authority to act as his agent in certain matters.’

  Florent stared at the scheming lawyer. ‘And for which you will be paid a fee.’

  The lawyer sniffed. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire, Monsieur.’

  Florent too had a scheme of his own but preferred to keep it quiet. He said nothing to the lawyer. The two men were like peas in a pod.

  Droit and Heron-Royhay—deux bâtards.

  Chapter 15

  HIS BIRTH CERTIFICATE read Wesley but everyone called him Wes. He killed people for a living. His career sort of chose him; bullied at school, bashed by the old man, dysfunctional family, joined gang of thugs, and worked his way up to assassin. He was good, no, perfect. Apart from knowing guns and being fit, he lacked emotion; a robotic psychopath. Wes could kill without feeling. He did not care. Pleas from the victim meant zip. Nothing said, trigger pulled, end of.

  Wes was average everything—height, weight, looks and attire. He was invisible in a crowd. His acting skills were top class and if he ever fancied a life upon the wicked stage, he would have been a natural.

  He preferred having only one employer because that limited his chances of being knocked after a job—so long as he succeeded.

  Wes got a call from his boss, Larry “The Bitch” Connolly. The job appealed. The target was a rat, a stool pigeon, a grass. But he wasn’t stateside. Vlad, now James, skedaddled to Australia. Wes once heard the word Australia but thought it was in Europe.

  ‘You ever been Down Under?’ asked Larry.

  ‘Nah,’ replied Wes knowing the less he said, the less likely his ignorance would jump up and start singing.

  ‘You’ll need a local guy to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need no-one,’ protested Wes.

  ‘Just to drive you round, and get to the kill spot. When you find the mark, only you will do the business.’

  More protesting. ‘I tell ya, Mr Connolly, I don’t need no-one.’

  ‘They drive on the wrong side of the road in Australia, Wes. They have kangaroos, footpaths and bonnets. What’s a footpath, Wes?’

  The killer surrendered without grace.

  He took the Vlad package of photo, name, place of employment, air ticket and the name of his criminal contact Down Under—Desmond Spear. Wes liked his fee.

  ‘You call Des, Mr Spear. He’ll supply your driver and piece.’

  ‘I want me own piece,’ said the non-stop protesting Wes.

  ‘Oh great,’ moaned Larry. ‘You don’t drive to Australia, Wes, you fly. So how do you get your piece through security? Use y’brain.’

  Vlad slept rough. He was terrified of any assassin but more so of his own stupidity. He went to a Sydney park where he once enjoyed a picnic, and hid in some bushes. Sleep was difficult coming in snatches. Any sound woke him. When he finally got to sleep, he overslept. Rush hour sounds jolted him awake. He peed where he’d slept, brushed his wavy locks and headed for Sydney Central railway station.

  He reckoned a big city was his best chance of disappearing, and knew Melbourne was about the same size as Sydney. Besides, Sasha’s sister, Zoe lived there. He fronted the ticket window.

  ‘A ticket to Melbourne. What time’s the next train?

  ‘You’ve just missed the morning train, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The next train leaves at 8.42 tonight.’

  Vlad swore under his breath. The sooner he was shot of Sydney the better. His assassin could land in Sydney any time. He did. Wes was due to touch down in eight hours. If only Vlad knew.

  The employee sold Vlad his economy one-way ticket, and the American went to find the Gents. He washed and removed his shaver. He stopped. A beard might help his disguise. Hirsute it was. He paid for a locker, stored his rucksack and devoured breakfast courtesy of Macca. He made sure his sunglasses never left his face, found a mini mart and bought fruit, water, sandwiches and chocolate. His jacket pockets bulged. Survival became his raison d'être.

  He wandered into the city and sat in a corner of a coffee shop. Ten hours before his train. What to do? A mobile advertising board went past promoting a new movie. That settled it. He remembered a cinema complex he went to with Sasha, and settled in for the first screening. He saw three movies with pit stops in between. If asked to crit any of the films, he would’ve failed miserably; his mind being elsewhere.

  Wes landed at Sydney airport. He loved his work but hated having a partner. In this case, the partner was a local punk who waited in Arrivals to collect the hired gun. Reece “Rabies” Horton thought of an idea, which was rare for him and dangerous. He found a dumped food carton, made it flat then wrote WES in big letters.

  Wes approached from an angle, fuming, and snatched the sign.

  ‘Hey,’ yelled Rabies making a second blue. He advertised the criminal’s arrival and then attracted attention with his vocal reaction.

  Wes moved to one side forcing Rabies to follow. ‘Listen shit-for-brains, why don’t you get the airport to make an announcement?’

  Rabies hated being criticised and especially hated sarcasm. ‘How else was I gunna find ya?’

  ‘Where’s the car?’

  This was not a warm handshake and a “did you have a nice flight?” greeting. These men would never be bosom buddies, and war broke out when Rabies hit the remote and Wes headed for the driver’s door.

  ‘Oi,’ barked Rabies, ‘I’m drivin’.’

  Wes remembered the bit about driving on the wrong side of the road. He swore and got in the other side.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight, arsehole,’ said the visitor, causing Rabies to be tempted to use the piece he was to give to the passenger on the passenger. ‘You do the driving, I kill the president. Capiche?’

  Rabies knew the odd gangster movie and got the drift. He kept chewing but grunted and drove.

  ‘Now where’s me piece?’

  ‘What, now? I’m driving.’

  Wes growled. ‘Where is it?’

  Steering with one hand, Rabies undid his jacket. ‘Left side.’

  Wes leant across and removed the gun, a Beretta M9A3. He bent forward and checked the weapon close to the floor. Satisfied, he looked at Wes. ‘Slugs?’

  ‘Right inside pocket.’

  Wes took the 10 round magazine and prepared his armoury. Rabies drove to a cheap motel where Wes checked the room.

  ‘What now?’ asked Rabies hating the subservient role.

  ‘Take me here.’ He showed Rabies the address of the estate agency where Vlad worked as James. They arrived. Wes got out, studied the photos of houses in the window then entered.
r />   ‘Good afternoon, sir, how may I help?’ beamed the receptionist with unnaturally white teeth.

  ‘The house in Cleveland Street; can I take a look.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. When would suit you?’

  ‘Today, this afternoon, as soon as possible. I’m a busy guy.’

  ‘Certainly. May I have your name and number.’

  ‘Yeah it’s Hank Greenway.’

  ‘And your mobile please?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your mobile phone number.’

  ‘You mean my cell.’ He told her. ‘Look a friend of mine bought a house from you recently and she told me the agent she dealt with was a fantastic guy. Could I have him show me the property?’

  ‘I can try. Who was the agent?’

  ‘Ah, …’ He looked at his phone. ‘He’s an American like me called James Anderson.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, James doesn’t work here anymore.’

  Wes moaned in silence. ‘Damn. My friend only dealt with him a coupla weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, James’ mother is ill and he flew home to Canada suddenly.’

  Wes played it cool. ‘No problem. My friend might have been mistaken. She said he was American.’

  ‘No, Canadian.’

  ‘Never mind. So I meet the agent at the property in say, one hour.’

  ‘No problem, Mr Greenway.’

  Wes got in the car grinding his teeth. ‘All set?’ asked Rabies.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘Back to Canada.’

  ‘What, you come all the way out here and the schmuck’s in your joint?’

  Wes pondered, mumbling to himself. ‘Unless that’s what he wants us to believe.’ He looked at Rabies. ‘I need to talk to an agent from that realtor’s office.’

  Rabies frowned. ‘What’s a realtor?’

  Wes remembered the address of one of the rental properties in the window. ‘Where is 24 Bayswater Road?’

  ‘Not far,’ replied Rabies. ‘You wanna go there?’

  ‘No, I was just testing your geography.’ He snapped. ‘Drive!’

  They drove and Rabies felt his rage festering; it was that damn sarcasm. They found the apartment. Wes read the board and saw the name of a female agent and her number. He stood on the nature strip and called her. She answered. He told her he was outside the apartment right now. She told him she would be there in ten minutes.

  Wes approached Rabies and made him lower his window.

  ‘I’m gunna look at an apartment. Drive up the road but be ready when I call.’

  Rabies looked at Wes, shook his head, and drove. Wes combed his hair then stood facing the display board. After a few minutes, a car pulled up and the agent, Fiona, hopped out and called.

  ‘Mr Reynolds?’

  Wes turned and smiled. ‘Hi.’

  They walked to the apartment and Wes turned on the charm. He gave some tale about being transferred from the LA office and needing a smart apartment. Inside Fiona led Wes from room to room. They came back to the kitchen and Wes stood in the doorway blocking the only exit.

  ‘I don’t want the flat,’ he said in a calm but eerie voice. He drew back his jacket revealing his gun. Fiona was instantly afraid.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Give me your phone.’ She did then stepped back, shaking. ‘Tell me what I need to know and we both walk away.’

  Fiona struggled. ‘Okay.’

  ‘James Lawrence Anderson.’

  ‘He’s gone. My boss said there was a health issue with his mother back in Canada. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Please, if I knew any more I’d tell you.’

  ‘Where did he live? Where did he drink? Where did he hang out? Did he have a girlfriend?’ Wes oozed evil. ‘Talk to me.’

  Fiona went back to shaking. ‘He has a girlfriend, Sasha. They share an apartment we found for him.’

  ‘Address?’ She told him. ‘Tell me about Sasha.’ Fiona told him.

  ‘Now, this is how we finish. Give me your car keys.’ She hesitated. ‘Keys,’ he snapped, and she gave them to him.

  He held them up. ‘These and your phone will be returned to your office within 24 hours, even sooner. But you tell anyone about me or this meeting and you won’t need either ever again; understand?’ Fiona nodded without hesitation. ‘Do you understand?’

  All she could do was keep nodding. He left and she burst into tears. Wes dumped Fiona’s phone and keys in a rubbish bin, called Rabies who arrived, and they sped off. Sasha and Vlad’s apartment was nearby. There was no vehicle in the car space. Again Rabies was sent away. Wes entered the block and rang Sasha’s doorbell. No answer. Wes called Rabies and they sat in the car and waited. To avoid attracting attention, they got out and walked, pretending to be real estate salesmen canvassing properties.

  It was nearly two hours later and dark when Sasha arrived home and parked in the spot for Apartment 4. ‘That’ll be her,’ said Wes. ‘Move the car but be ready when I call.’ He climbed the stairs.

  Sasha barely got inside when her doorbell rang. She opened the door and faced Wes. He didn’t speak but, pointing his gun, pushed his way inside. He had a finger to his lips as in a shush signal. She obeyed. He closed the door and Sasha had a good idea why he was there.

  Nearby, Rabies sat in the car, his blood boiling. This arsehole better be gone quick otherwise he’s gunna be the victim.

  Chapter 16

  ‘TELL ME WHERE HE IS AND YOU LIVE,’ said Wes in a quiet voice. There was no swearing, shouting or spittle. Sasha hadn’t thought much about dying in her 32 years to date. Now the thought slapped her face. ‘Sit,’ he said and she did.

  ‘I don’t know where …’

  Wes spoke louder with menace. ‘And only tell me what I want to hear. Last chance. Speak or you die.’ He moved a step closer and the gun seemed much larger. His aim was perfect.

  ‘He left a note. He told me …’

  ‘Get it.’ Sasha stood. ‘Slowly,’ hissed Wes, and Sasha stayed in first gear. She collected the note and turned back to him. ‘Read it.’

  She did. Wes knew it was crap. Vlad fled because he knew he was sprung. Wes now had a much harder task. He worked on Sasha. Killing her would tell him nothing.

  ‘What has he talked about? Who does he know in Australia?’ Wes spat. ‘Talk to me.’

  Sasha spoke for her life. ‘He knows the people he works with.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Ah, some of my friends.’

  ‘What have you told him about Australia? Tell me!’

  ‘I told him about Melbourne.’

  Wes was calm but his acting skills made Sasha think he was about to lose it and shoot her. ‘What about Melbourne?’

  ‘I come from there and he met my sister who lives there when she came to Sydney. She told him it was a great city.’

  ‘Is it big?’

  ‘Yes, about the same as Sydney.’

  ‘Give me your sister’s details.’

  Sasha hesitated. Wes cocked his gun and the sound and action caused Sasha to cry. ‘Please,’ she begged.

  ‘I don’t want you, lady or your sister. I want Vlad.’ She looked confused. ‘James, I want James. Now give me the details.’ Sasha wrote her sister’s address in Flemington near the famous Melbourne Cup racecourse. ‘Put your number.’ She wrote it and gave him the paper. He punched the number and it rang.

  He moved around the flat keeping an eye on its occupant. Clues, he wanted anything to help him find Vlad.

  ‘Where would he live in Melbourne?’

  Sasha shook her head. ‘Perhaps with my sister.’

  ‘What sort of jobs could he do?’

  More head shaking. ‘Anything; he is good with his hands.’

  ‘How does he travel?’

  ‘He drove a company car.’

  ‘No, long distance.’

  ‘Probably by plane.’

  ‘Not by plane
.’

  ‘He liked trains. He talked about taking the Indian Pacific.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  Sasha paused. ‘No. Not after he stole my grandmother’s jewellery.’

  Wes headed for the door. ‘I’m working with seriously tough guys here in Sydney. You tell anyone about me and this visit, anyone, and you’ll wanna move to Melbourne—if you can still walk.’ He stared.

  She shook her head. ‘I won’t say a thing.’

  She dropped her head expecting the worst. Only when the door closed did she look up.

  Wes called and Rabies drove up. ‘I’m goin’ to Melbourne.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take me to the railroad station.’

  ‘What’s a railroad station?’

  ‘Trains,’ growled Wes.

  Wes looked at Rabies who wanted to drop Wes in the city or, preferably, drop him permanently. They drove to Sydney Central.

  Grabbing his bag, Wes got out. ‘I don’t need you. Piss off.’

  ‘Hey!’ yelled Rabies to no avail. He pulled over and rang his boss who rang Larry in Florida. Wes was not to work alone. Stateside, yes, but in some foreign country, no way.

  Wes fronted the ticket window and flashed a fake ID. Using his best normal accent, he performed as if using a Stanislavski routine. ‘FBI, ma’am. We’re looking for this US citizen.’ He held up the latest DEA photo of James Lawrence Anderson. ‘Have you seen this man?’

  The employee, new to his shift, didn’t know Vlad from Adam. A supervisor overheard and approached. ‘Show me.’ She looked. ‘Yeah, I was here this morning and that guy with an American accent bought a ticket to Melbourne.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning about 8.’

  ‘No, when does that train leave?’

  The supervisor looked at the clock on the wall. ‘One minute.’

  Wes fled. He didn’t know which platform, there were 25, or which train but his fee for killing Vlad made him a madman. Passengers moved sharpish to avoid the lunatic. No ticket, no luggage, only his Beretta. Run, Wesley, run. He saw a train about to depart and raced.

  Puffing, he stopped an official. ‘Is this the train to Melbourne,’ he gasped. The official shook his head and pointed as, three platforms away, the Sydney-Melbourne train, headed south.