Devil to Pay, page 5
part #25 of Cherry Delight Series
My eyes took in his thick sweater and those patched tweed pants. Both sweater and pants had been torn in the violence of the fighting. A reputable scarecrow would have turned up its nose at such garments.
“You make a lot of money writing?” I wondered.
“Not too much. But I am working on a novel, and I’ve received a little money from a Paris publisher, together with a contract, when I sent him in some early chapters of my book.”
He scowled. “Like a fool, I blabbed about my good luck when I took a few drinks at the local public house.”
“And word got around, and so they put the arm on you.”
“If that means what I think it does, yes. A letter was slipped into my mailbox, telling me that I must deliver five thousand new francs—roughly about one thousand dollars in your currency—to the devil, or I would regret it.”
“You didn’t, and you are regretting it.”
He felt of his bruised face. “I don’t have that kind of money. That publisher sent me a hundred and fifty new francs as a payment when I sighed that contract. That was the most money I’ve seen in a long time.”
“He brooded, his scowl blacker than ever. Angrily, he kicked out with his foot. “Five thousand francs! What man around here has that much money? This is a poor countryside. Nobody has money like that to give away.”
“Somebody must, to let this devil make his demands.”
He looked at me. “Now that’s a funny thing. People pay the sums the devil asks. At least, some of them must. Because there aren’t many folks who have been beaten up the way I was about to be beaten.”
“This devil must keep his fingers on the pulse of the countryside, to know so much about it.”
“I’ve wondered about that. He knows everything that goes on, all right. But I guess that’s because he has such an efficient spy system.”
“Spy system?”
Raoul spread his hands. “They hold these Black Masses, don’t they? People attend them. I don’t know how many or who those people are—nobody knows that but the people involved—but if only fifty attend, both men and women, that means that whoever is running this thing has fifty spies.”
It made sense, and I began to get the creepy feeling that this job of mine might be harder than I had thought when I’d set out from Paris. Everyone in this vicinity might be tied in with that Black Mass set, so little old Cherry Delight would have to watch her tongue.
“There, that road,” said Raoul.
I swung onto the narrow dirt road and moved along for about a mile before catching sight of an old stone farmhouse. It was surrounded by a low stone wall, and off to one side were the remains of what had been a barn. There was a well not far from the rear door.
“The old homestead,” murmured Raoul.
I braked, shut off the engine and got out. Raoul was making an attempt to slide out of his seat, but was having trouble. I figured his muscles were aching more than somewhat, so I went to give him a hand.
We managed to slide him out so that he was standing, but he needed my support to walk. He leaned himself on me and we moved toward the front door.
The door had been painted a dark blue. Against that dark blue color, something white appeared, standing out prominently.
“A note to your milkman?” I wondered.
Raoul said something under his breath. Then more clearly he said, “I don’t know what it is, but I have a funny feeling about it.” When we got closer, we saw there was something written on that paper, something red. As though those words had been scrawled in blood.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a warning, a death threat.
We stood on the stone step staring at those words, and I felt a coldness seeping down inside me. Raoul’s arm tightened almost spasmodically about my shoulders and his breathing grew harsh, ragged.
“Those damned bastards,” he whispered.
The note read:
LAST WARNING
UNLESS YOU PAY THE SUM DEMANDED,
YOUR LIFE IS FORFEIT TO THE DEVIL.
Short, and to the point. I let out my breath slowly even as I put out a hand toward that red stuff. It glistened wetly, and I found as I touched it that it was still wet.
It was blood, all right.
Raoul was white-faced. His right hand stabbed out, he caught that paper in a hand and was about to crumple it up when I yelled and stopped him.
“Give me that thing, you idiot. That’s evidence!”
“Evidence of what? That someone is hounding me to my death? What will that paper prove?”
“That some human agency wrote it, and not any devil,” I snapped, taking it from him.
I put it in my Gucci bag as he opened the door and I walked into a cool hall, flagged with colored tiles, off which a door led into a small dining room to the left and into a larger living room to the right. Raoul limped into the living room and seated himself on a big divan.
I followed him, tossing my bag onto a big chair and following it with my body. I crossed my legs and stared at him, seeing his weariness, the marks of his beating.
“Best thing for you to do would be to climb into bed,” I told him. “I can find the kitchen and furnish you with some food.”
“He shook his head. “Not hungry.” He added morosely: “Besides, there isn’t very much in the larder.”
I got to my feet. “You get upstairs and into bed. I’ll go buy some food. You need rest, most of all. I’ll be back and cook you up a meal.” I hesitated, then asked, “Do you have any means of defending yourself—just in case?”
He nodded slowly. “Got a rifle. I use it to go hunting, every once in a while, to replenish the larder.
That’s the way I keep body and soul together.”
Raoul didn’t want to go up to bed. I guess he felt it wasn’t manly. But I urged him, I got him to his feet and prodded him up the narrow wooden staircase until we were on the second floor.
“Undress,” I told him.
He looked vaguely shocked. “With you here?”
“What kind of Frenchman are you? Look on me as a doctor. I want to see how badly you’ve been hurt. You may need a real doctor.”
He hemmed and hawed, but he finally started to strip. Raoul had a nice body, rather on the thin side, but a glance at his coquille told me he was all man. He had no interest in me as a woman, however, and I could understand why.
Most of his body was black and blue, some part of it were a sickly yellow. He didn’t think he had any bones broken, and when I prodded here and there with my fingers, he winced but didn’t yell.
“Okay, then. Get to sleep,” I told him.
“What about you?”
“I’m buying food. You men! Do you know what’s in that icebox of yours? A pat of butter, a pint of milk and one egg.”
“I was on my way to buy some food when those men jumped me.”
“Into that bed. Sleep. I’ll go buy the food.”
It had occurred to me that this lonely farmhouse might make a better place for me to stay than that hotel in Pontivy. It was in the heart of the Black Mass country, and besides, I would be on hand if anybody else came to attack Raoul.
I went and got that rifle he had mentioned, plus some ammunition, and brought it back to him. By this time he was covered up in bed and half asleep. I put the rifle close to his hand and looked down at him.
“If anybody bothers you, shoot first and ask questions later. Chances are, they’ll be men sent by that devil to do you in.”
I went out and closed the door behind me. I trotted downstairs and hunted around for some kind of key to that front door, but I couldn’t find any. I didn’t like to leave Raoul alone and asleep, but I couldn’t see any other way out of it.
He had to have food, and I was the only one who could go get him some. It was that simple. I wanted to bring my things from the hotel. I figured he’d be safer if I moved in with him, but all that could wait. Once he was up and around and paying attention to the world, I could get my duds.
Climbing into the Mercedes-Benz, I drove along the road toward a little town which my map said was named Pludarl. Guy Pascal lived close by, and the thought crossed my mind that I might pay him a visit one of these days. But not today. I had too much to do.
Pludarl was a collection of little houses and a store or two, plus a tavern. The name of the tavern was The Black Goat. Now that name rang a warning bell in my head. Somewhere or other I had read that a black goat was allied to the devil. I remembered that picture by Goys entitled Scene de Sorcellerie in which witches sat around the figure of a black goat, worshiping it.
But maybe this was my over-fevered imagination. Just the same, a visit to The Black Goat would not be amiss. So I drove along as might any tourist, while my head seethed with suggestions and ideas.
Parking in front of a store, I walked in and ordered some food. The proprietor, a middle-aged man with an eye for the ladies—at least those eyes of his were sliding over me all the time—moved around to fetch what I needed.
“Going to have a party?” he asked in a merry voice that did not quite hide his curiosity.
“Maybe,” I smiled.
“You’re a stranger here.”
“That’s right.”
“Not many strangers visit Pludarl.”
“Oh, no?”
As one might guess, he wasn’t going to learn anything from me, no matter how hard he pushed. And he pushed, all right, until he became almost rude. So I put my hands on the counter and looked him in the eye.
“Look, buster. My business is my own, understand? If you don’t want to sell me this food, I’ll take my business somewhere else.”
He flushed and muttered that he was only trying to be friendly. Friendly, my eye. If he wasn’t one of those attending the Black Mass sessions, I’d eat him. He was trying to learn what a stranger was doing in the region, all right, so he could report back to somebody. But he wasn’t about to learn it from me.
I paid for the several bags of food and then carried them out to the car, putting them in the trunk and locking it. I turned then and let my eyes assess The Black Goat. It was an ancient inn, to judge by its half-timbering and leaded windows. Early sixteenth century, I guessed. It was picturesque, all right, and I wondered how the wine it served might taste.
I walked across the street and into the tavern. There were half a dozen men in there, countrymen, by their looks and smell. They turned and gaped at me. I guessed it wasn’t very often they saw a pretty redhead clad in the latest Paris styles come strolling into their midst.
The man behind the counter eyed me sharply. I gave him a smile, then asked for some wine. He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face until he turned away to reach for a bottle.
I carried the wine glass to a table bathed in the afternoon sunlight. I sat down and crossed my legs, then began sipping.
The tavern was oddly quiet. I gathered that my presence was disturbing the men who were here nursing their wine glasses. Every once in a while they would flick their eyes at me. Obviously, they were puzzled as to why a gorgeous hunk of femininity like myself would come to such an out-of-the-way spot.
I did nothing to relieve their curiosity.
Still, I wondered when word of what I had done would get back to them. Those boys I had scared away from Raoul Luchine would spread the word fast enough. When that happened, I might have to be on my guard.
It took me some little time to finish that wine. I wanted to use my eyes on the men and also on the proprietor. He was a big man with huge shoulders and powerful arms, though he was developing a corporation. From time to time he swabbed the bar-top, not that it needed cleaning, and when he did that, he let his eyes rest on my body. He studied it, he would know it again when he saw it.
Finally I arose and went out into the sunlight, walking with a defiant sway to my hips that made my buttocks bounce. If they wanted to look me over, let ‘em. I got in the car and drove away, and as I did, I saw the faces of those men at the windows of the old tavern, staring after me.
I thought about the men I’d chased away from Raoul and about the boys in that tavern. When they got together, there’d be a lot of guessing about me. Fine! I wanted to keep somebody on his toes.
By the time I got back to the farmhouse, Raoul Luchine was sound asleep. I peered in at him, saw that he was properly covered, then went down and put away the groceries and meat I had bought. When he awoke, he might be hungry.
I considered paying a visit to Guy Pascal, but a glance at my wristwatch assured me that I’d be better off getting dinner ready. I was a mite hungry myself.
So I found an apron, put it around my waist, and went to work. I don’t know whether it was the smell of roasting meat that woke him, but pretty soon I heard Raoul coming down the stairs. He had on a bathrobe, and he looked somewhat refreshed despite his bruises.
“I see you know your way about a kitchen,” he greeted me.
“Is that so much of a surprise?”
He grinned. He had a nice grin, I thought. “It’s just that you seem much too glamorous to be pottering about with pans and such.”
I made him a curtsy and he laughed. Then I told him about visiting Pludarl and the host of assorted characters I’d seen. He listened quietly, his head to one side, and I felt that he seemed almost tense.
“Is anything wrong?” I wondered. “Oughtn’t I to have gone into that tavern?”
“That’s where they hang out.”
“Where who hangs out?”
“The men who attend those Black Masses.”
I stared at him. “Are you certain of that? Or is it just a wild guess?”
Raoul shook his head. “Not a guess, no. But I’ve no proof. It’s just that…”
His voice drifted off into silence. He sat there, obviously thinking. Then he resumed talking. “I’ve overheard things, things not meant for my ears. Once when I was passing by one of the windows of the tavern, when the window wasn’t closed quite tightly. There was talk of the next meeting, and where it was to be.”
Raoul sighed. “I’m a curious soul. I remembered that talk and so I took my bike out one night and rode out to where this “meeting’ was to be. Ma foi! But they were having a time of it, those folks. Naked and enjoying sex as though it were to be forbidden on the morrow.”
I leaned forward, away from the little stove where I was preparing a stew. “You knew some of the people there, I imagine?”
“A few. Folks I’ve known all my life, or seems like.” His eyes twinkled. “I was a bit startled, to say the least. One or two of the women, women I’d seen in shapeless clothes for all the years I’ve lived here, had magnificent bodies. It was quite a revelation.”
The stew was bubbling nicely, filling the kitchen with its aroma. I went and got some soup plates and ladled out stew and sliced thick bread, and set everything down on the table. Raoul reached for a big spoon, and then we were eating away at a great rate.
Once I asked, between mouthfuls: “Did anybody see you when you were watching?”
“I don’t think so. Nothing was ever said, nobody even looked at me peculiarly. But I’ll never forget that night.”
“Do you go into The Black Goat often?”
“Not often, no. But once in a while I feel like a glass of wine, so I get it there. I can’t afford bottles of wine. Not very often, anyhow.”
That reminded me. I had bought a bottle of the local wine, a muscatel, so I went and got it, popped the cork and filled our glasses. It was good wine. Raoul told me that this region was noted for its muscatel, especially the region called Sévré-et-Maine.
I said as we sipped: “Do you know when there’s going to be another Black Mass? I’d like a peek at one myself.”
He almost dropped his wine glass. “No. Don’t ever try it. It’s too dangerous.”
My eyebrows arched. “Dangerous?”
“Do you know what they’d do to you if they caught you peeking? There was a man they caught, once. He was a stranger to the area—some say he was a scientist, a traveler on a walking tour—and they found him half-hidden in some bushes, watching what went on.”
Raoul drew a deep breath. “They cut him up with knives. Oh, yes. They found a hand here, a foot there.
A torso over by Mael-Carhaix. Nobody ever did find his head.” He shook his head. “I didn’t hear about him until after I’d done my own spying, or I never would have dared it.”
“Just the same, I’ve got to see one,” I said.
His eyes pleaded with me as he sat up straighter, pushing his plate to one side. “Listen to me, girl. Forget about watching a Black Mass. It isn’t—safe. These peasants around here are normally secretive creatures. They haven’t left Brittany all their lives, nor their parents and grandparents before them. This is all they know of the world.”
I stared back at him. The guy was obviously frightened. Oh, he’d taken a pounding from those louts who had used their fists and feet on him, but he wasn’t afraid of them; he did fear what had happened to that poor man, though. I could see it in his eyes.
I shook my own head, as he had done. “I came here to find out what happened to Denise Pascal. If I have to do some peeking at a Black Mass celebration to learn what happened to her, I will. You don’t have to be there, you know.”
He scowled, deep in thought. Finally he got up and moved around the kitchen, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his robe. For a time he stood by a window, staring out.
“My life isn’t worth much if I stay around here,” he said at last. “I’ve got the message. That beating and that warning on my door. If it were up to me alone, I think I’d offer this old place for sale and run away to Paris.”
He swung around and eyed me. “I can’t run off and leave you here, though. Wouldn’t be right.”
“Hey, now. I don’t need a guardian. I work for D.U.E., and before that I did some killing and such for N.Y.M.P.H.O. I’m used to working alone.”
Raoul went to the stove, lifted the coffee pot and filled our cups. His face was set in hard lines, and his lips were thinned. There was resolution in that face, and determination. When he sat down, he took his cup between both hands and stared down at the steaming coffee.
