TimeLocke

by Jack Barnao

  I took the man’s clothes off and put him between the sheets. She had filled a water jug, and she set it and a glass on the table next to the bed. “Right. He will live,” she said. “I will wait here for the doctor to return. You go back to Amy.”

  I made my way back to the house. I was looking all around but I saw nobody anywhere. The factor of the property must have gone back to bed, because there were no lights on the ground floor and no sound. As I went upstairs, the doctor came down. He looked at me without speaking, and I stood aside for him. It looked like he had me pegged for dumb muscle, hurting poor innocent Frenchmen for no reason except a paycheck.

  The light was on in the room where the shooting had happened, and Amy was in there, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, sitting on the bed. I joined her, and she said, “I don’t know what to do, John.”

  “The smart thing would be to leave. There’s a whole gang war going on here. Orsini is being charming to you by day, but he sent a man to kill you tonight. Now that he’s failed, he may come out of his closet and try harder tomorrow. We should clear out.”

  She looked at me sightlessly, staring into the space behind my head. At last she said, “I’m going to phone Eric in Toronto.”

  It seemed like the best bet. I had no doubt he would reinforce what I’d said and we’d be on our horse by morning. “Okay, the phone’s in the billiard room.”

  She got up like a sleepwalker and went downstairs. I went with her and sat on a couch, listening while she phoned. Surprisingly, she spoke to him in French. To keep the conversation private, I guessed.

  At last she said, “D’accord. Au ’voir, Eric.” Her tone was soft; she sounded like a lover.

  When she turned around, she said, “Eric is coming over. He’s taking the Concorde from New York. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Unless he’s bringing a bag of money to buy Orsini off or a company of Gurkhas to hunt him down, forget it. His presence isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “He says I should go back to Constance’s. Not to tell anyone where I’m going, just get back there and wait for him.”

  “And you’re going to?”

  She tightened her face like an angry child. “I have no choice.”

  “You mean he pulls the strings and you move. Is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it.” I thought she was going to stamp her foot with exasperation. “That’s not it at all. But that’s what I’m going to do. Okay?”

  My job was to guard her, not guide her, so I stood up and waited for her to move. Outside I saw a car pull up in the driveway and pass the house, heading directly for the garage. The doctor, coming back to attend to his patient. “Go up and pack. I’m going to see that everything’s okay with the guy I shot. I’ll tell Hélène that you’re heading back to Paris.”

  “Fine.” She walked briskly out of the room and across to the stairway. I switched off the light and slipped out of the French doors and around the side to the garage. I don’t know why I didn’t go through the house and out the back door, but if it was divine guidance, then I ought to spend more time in church. The car was not the doctor’s little Renault that I’d seen at the side door earlier. It was a Mercedes, and a man was standing beside it smoking a cigarette.

  I waited in the darkness beside the house, and then I heard a commotion on the stairs leading up to the chauffeur’s room. I could make out Hélène’s voice, breathless and angry. It sounded as if she were being forced downstairs, probably by somebody with an arm around her throat.

  The smoker beside the car took one last drag, then dropped the cigarette and put his foot on it. I didn’t hesitate. I drew my gun and ran up to him before he could turn around properly. He was half-facing me when I got there, and I clouted him with the butt of the gun on the side of the jaw. He gasped and dropped, and I caught him and laid him down, then took his place beside the car, keeping my foot on his throat.

  I had been right. Another man came down the stairs, struggling with Hélène. He thought I was his partner and called out to me in a low voice. I grunted something and came forward as if to help him. It was dark, and he was busy enough with Hélène that he didn’t catch on to his mistake. I stepped up beside him as if to help and slammed him in the temple with the butt of the pistol. It didn’t drop him, but he released Hélène and staggered, and I kicked him hard in the knee and clubbed him on the back of the neck, putting a lot of follow-through into it. He collapsed without a sound.

  “Now we call the gendarmes,” I said. “You’ve got a cast-iron case.”

  “No.” It was a command. “This one saw Torrance. He will tell the gendarmes, and it will be you who is in trouble.”

  That made sense, and I didn’t argue. “What do we do instead?”

  “You know the road outside Faucon?”

  “Yes. You mean where it drops off into the ravine on the east side?”

  “We will put them in the car and push them off there.” She said it in the tone of voice she might have used to tell her dressmaker to raise the hemline an inch.

  “Whoa.” I held up one hand. “That’s murder.”

  “And what do you think they were going to do with me?” Her question was contemptuous.

  “That’s not a defense for cold-blooded murder. I’ve spoken to Labrosse. He’s a good cop, he’d find out what happened. Probably wouldn’t have to work to do it. Torrance would tell him, and if he didn’t, Orsini would. We can’t do it, Hélène. What’s your second choice?”

  “Get rid of them.”

  “I’ll get Amy. We’re driving back to Paris. She wants to go home. I’ll put her on the plane and then come back here.”

  She grabbed my arm. “How can I be sure you will? How do I know you won’t get on the plane with her?”

  “You have my word on it.”

  Before she could answer, one of the men groaned. I stooped to check him. It was the first one I’d stopped. He was coming around. His mouth was filled with blood. I guessed his jaw was broken. He wouldn’t be much of a threat, but I searched him, anyway. He had a switchblade in his left sock, no gun. Then I searched the other one. He had a pistol as well as a knife. I jammed all the weapons into my pockets, then removed their belts and tore the support buttons and the zippers out of their pants. It’s an old Gypsy trick. It meant they would need one hand at all times to keep their pants up. That plus their injuries would stop them from getting belligerent.

  “Go and help Amy down with her bags. Leave mine in the room.”

  “You do it. I’ll stay here.”

  She may have been protesting my chauvinism or more likely looking for a chance to stick a knife in both guys. Either way, I couldn’t risk it. “If we’re going to work together, we have to divide the job properly,” I said. “Go and help her down to the car. I’ll get these guys out of sight before the doctor conies back and sees them.”

  “All right.” She left, crunching away across the gravel to the back door. I tumbled the two men into the rear seat of the car and drove it into a vacant stall in the garage, next to the car I’d hired. I sat there with the lights out and waited. After a while a small car drove up. I watched it in the mirror and saw the doctor get out. He said something brisk under his breath and then took his bag and climbed to the apartment over the garage. I slipped out and over to the back door of the house, thankful that Torrance was such a lousy housekeeper. The doctor would not make out the signs of the struggle Hélène had put up.

  I was worried that the women would come downstairs and alert him, but he’d left before they appeared, so I went back to the car and waited. The man with the broken jaw had come to, and he sat up groggily when I opened the door, then groaned and mumbled something in French. Probably telling me his jaw hurt. I opened the door a fraction so that the roof light came on and he stared at me incredulously. “Siddown,” I told him loud and clear, the way my mother speaks to foreigners. It worked. He sat back in the seat, spitting into his handkerchief.

  A minute later, the wo
men came out. I got out of the car and put the bags into the trunk. Amy asked, “Why isn’t yours here?”

  “I’m coming back. I’ll explain later. You’re going to drive the rental car. I’ll follow in this one. Make your way to some really quiet road. I’ll flash my lights, and you stop while I dump these guys.”

  “What will you do with them?” Hélène asked.

  “I’ve already done it. They’re hurt, and they can’t run. I’ll take the car keys away and leave them. It will be morning before they get word to their boss. By that time I’ll be back.”

  “Do not forget.” Her voice had a husky edge to it, like the heroine in A Man and a Woman. It may have fooled Amy, but I took it in stride.

  “You have my word.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed me passionately. I heard Amy gasp in surprise, but it was a good kiss, so I let it run its course, then said, “A demain.” Until tomorrow. Hell, I’ve seen as many French movies as the next guy.

  Hélène stood back and then hugged Amy and said something rapid in French. Amy answered, and I said, “Okay, let’s go. Remember, we want them off the track. Lead off in a different direction to the one we’ll end up going. Got that?”

  “Yes,” Amy said tartly. I gave her the car keys, and she got in and started it up, noisily. I patted Hélène on the arm and got into the Mercedes. Amy backed out, and I followed her down the driveway and out to the left, the opposite direction from our real destination.

  She drove for fifteen minutes, turning off at last onto a winding road that didn’t seem wide enough to accommodate a car coming the other way. After about a mile she slowed, and I flashed the lights. She stopped, and I did and took the keys out of the ignition. I opened the door and turned to check the two men. Broken Jaw had recovered as much as he would without dental surgery, and the other one was awake. I pulled his head toward me and checked the pupils of his eyes. They were both the same size, a good indication that he wasn’t concussed. He stared into my eyes as I checked him, but I don’t think he was registering any features. He was wondering how his plan could have come unstuck so easily. I patted him on the shoulder. “She’ll be right.” It’s an Aussie expression too colloquial for any shreds of English he might have known, but I was sure he would be okay, so I got out and walked ahead to join Amy in the other car. As I got into it, I tossed the Mercedes ignition keys over the low hedge. Nobody would find them in a year. More problems for the lads.

  She said nothing, still dwelling on Hélène’s fond farewell. I sat back and let her get on with the driving, not speaking.

  After a few minutes she asked, “How come you said you’d be going back?”

  “Hélène thinks you’re leaving the country. I promised her that I wouldn’t. Once you’re installed with Eric, I can sort it all out.”

  “Why would you lie to her?” The cold, hard voice of jealousy.

  “Security,” I said. “Your security.”

  She was silent for another mile or two, then said, “That was some kiss she gave you.”

  “I’d just saved her from a fate worse than death. Those two guys were not planning to discuss existentialism with her before they killed her.”

  She said no more, just drove, a little too aggressively, all the way to La Fongeline. There were no lights on, and Amy drove right to the parking spot at the back door. She opened the door briskly and slid sideways to get out. I reached over to check her, and she looked at me angrily. “What is it?”

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “Her dog isn’t barking.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Amy didn’t answer, but in the light from the car interior I could see she was trembling. I took out the gun I’d found on the second man at the garage and checked it. It was an old .38 Colt revolver, loaded in all six cylinders. Like most revolvers, it had no safety catch. “Shut the door,” I told her.

  She pushed the door closed very quietly, and I came around the car and gave her the pistol. “All you do is point and pull the trigger. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good. Come with me.” I led her over to the woodpile, first checking all around it to see nobody was hiding there. “Crouch here and wait for me. I’m going to take a look around.”

  “Okay.” Another whisper. I patted her arm and left, walking along the east side of the house, toward the dog run. I could smell blood, and I moved slowly, pulling out my little lithium penlight. It’s small but powerful, similar to the one I’d carried in the army. I cut down the beam by holding it behind my clenched fingers, letting only a sliver of light escape. One flash told the story. The dog’s throat had been cut.

  I doused the light and went back to the wall of the house, easing my way around it to the south side. The moon was gone by now—the deep darkness of predawn had settled— but I knew my silhouette against the French doors at the south side would be a target if there was someone inside, so I did things by the numbers, almost lying down, reaching up with one hand to shove my poor overused Visa card in against the lock. It gave, and I opened the door and crept into the big room, keeping low.

  There was no sound, but I crouched for long seconds, listening, before I flicked on my light, holding it at the extreme stretch of my left arm so that a viewer would have thought I was a yard away from my real position. The room was as I remembered, nothing out of place except for a bundle of rags in front of the couch.

  I stood up and took another pace forward. The bundle of rags was the tiny body of Constance, lying with her head canted awkwardly to the left. Whoever had killed her had not bothered to use a knife. He had broken her frail old neck like a dry twig.

  Kneeling, I put one finger on the pulse in the throat, but it was gone. All the intellect and wisdom of nearly eighty years had been snuffed out by some unlettered thug from the slums of Marseilles.

  I was ready to kill whoever had done it, but I carried on, as I would have done if a comrade in arms had been killed, checking the house room by room, making sure nobody was hiding and making equally sure that I didn’t leave any fingerprints.

  When I was certain the killer had gone, I went back out the way I’d entered, pulling the door closed behind me. My mind was racing as I walked back around to the woodpile. We should call the gendarmes. They would come and investigate thoroughly, perhaps finding some clue that would lead directly to the killer. But while they did that they would also ship Amy and me out of the country. In fact, it could be worse than that. Labrosse could lock us up for complicity. And whatever he found would not change the fact that Orsini had done this, probably before he came calling on Amy this afternoon. He had come here looking for her, had found us gone, and had tortured Constance to find out where we were, then killed her.

  I gave a low whistle and called, “Amy.”

  She stood up, against the woodpile. “What did you find? What’s the matter with the dog?”

  “Nothing. I guess he recognized my smell; Constance had told him I was a friend. I figure we should move in upstairs and talk to her in the morning.”

  “Should we knock on the door? She’s probably asleep.” The reasonable question.

  “At her age she needs any sleep she can get. Leave it. If she comes out, she’ll see the car and know we’re back. Come on, let’s go in.”

  “Okay.” She came forward and handed me back the gun. “I’m glad I didn’t have to use this thing. It’s scary just handling it.”

  “Takes training.” My voice was grim, and I saw her head turn toward me in surprise at the tone.

  “Are you all right?” She was almost solicitous.

  “Just whacked out. I’m OD’d on fights this last few hours.”

  She went to the back of the car and unlocked the trunk, not speaking. I hoisted out the bigger of her two bags and carried it up the short stone stairway to the door of the upper apartment. It was locked, but the same Visa card opened it in two seconds, and I went in and turned on the light.

  Amy followed, and I carried her bag up to the
second floor, with her just behind me. “I’ll catch a nap on the couch. You rest up. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  She looked at me oddly. “In what way big?”

  I was thinking of a showdown with Orsini but couldn’t put that card on the table, so I said, “Eric’s coming. You’ll want to be ready to see him, rested up, I don’t know.” I waved one hand vaguely. “Give me a break, Amy. I need some rest, too. I haven’t been to bed yet.”

  She looked at me oddly, weighing the words against the kiss she’d seen Hélène deliver. “No,” she said at last. “I’d forgotten that. Will you be all right downstairs?”

  “Dandy.” I gave her a grin and went back down to the main room, where I put the lights out and wedged a chair under the doorknob before curling up on the couch.

  I was more tired than I’d thought and didn’t wake up until after daybreak, when Amy came downstairs again to hit the shower. She seemed bright and cheerful and said, “Good morning,” in a happy half yodel. I got the feeling she was glad to be away from Hélène and the unhappiness of the Armand house.

  “You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” I said. “Good morning yourself. I’ll get some coffee going.”

  “Great.” She sailed on into the bathroom. I splashed some water on my face at the kitchen sink and washed my hands, then found the coffee. Fortunately, Constance hadn’t cleaned out the food we’d put in the fridge. We had milk, and there was cereal still in the cupboard. I set things out for breakfast and got the coffee started. When Amy came out of the bathroom, I went in and showered. I would have liked to shave, but my razor was still at the Armands’. I’m fair-haired enough that my beard doesn’t start looking scrungy until the second day, so I washed vigorously and came out feeling a little readier for action.

  Amy was in blue jeans and a T-shirt that was obviously French. It had flowers on it instead of some dumb message. She was sitting at the table with the coffeepot and the cereal in front of her, and we ate breakfast.