Devil to Pay, page 7
part #25 of Cherry Delight Series
I moved past him to the door. The people gathered there turned and scattered. I turned and stood there, looking back at him.
“If I ever come into this place again, I expect to be served without so much exercise.” His lips twitched as he nodded. “It shall be as you say, ma’mselle. I, too, am tired of such exercise.”
I walked out into the sunlight, ignoring the people who were watching from various vantage points.
Climbing into the Mercedes-Benz, I started up the engine and drove off.
Now I hadn’t learned a damn thing about those devil worshipers, but then I really hadn’t expected to. I wanted to get the measure of this Henri Neige. He might be the horned devil who had killed Denise Pascal, and again, he might not. I just couldn’t be sure.
But I’d have bet all the coffee in Brazil that he was implicated in it, somehow. From him, my thoughts went to Guy Pascal. He had lived here all his life. If anyone knew about those devil worshipers, he would.
He was the next man on my calling list.
CHAPTER SIX
Guy Pascal lived in a typical French chateau, the kind you see on postcards, which vaguely resemble fairy-tale castles. There were turrets and battlements, slitted windows out of which archers had fired arrows in medieval days, a moat in which there was no longer water, naturally, but earth filled in which dipped a bit, then rose to form a road by which one could move into a courtyard through a stone doorway.
I braked the car, honked the horn, and got out.
The place looked a bit seedy, I thought, as my eyes went over stone walls and cobble-stoned courtyard, over untended flower gardens. I saw stone steps leading upward to various parts of the chateau, and several windows which seemed to open on empty space. There wasn’t a light on in the place.
Something creaked.
I turned and saw Guy Pascal as he opened a door. He stood a moment, staring at me as though in disbelief. Then he clapped his hands suddenly and came down the stone steps to meet me, holding out both hands. He seemed genuinely happy to see me, which I thought was a mite strange, considering how he had reacted to the idea of a mere girl coming into Brittany to solve the mystery of his daughter’s death.
“Mademoiselle Cherie,” he called, “it is good to see you.” He paused in his descent to shake a finger at me.
“Already you have been at work. It is marvelous.”
“Oh? And how have I been working?”
He smiled at me, head tilted on one side. Laughter sparkled in his eyes. “Aha, you are the modest one.
Don’t you know that nothing happens here in this part of Brittany without everyone learning about it?” His finger shook at me. “You have rescued an over-brave young man from three men who wished him harm, and I suspect that you have also killed a person, a man whose body was discovered early this morning on the road to Quintin.”
“You do get around,” I nodded.
“Oh, no. My goodness, no. But there are people who feel obligated to keep me informed. Many years ago, my ancestors were the overlords of this part of the country. The people remember that my ancestors always treated them well, as I myself have tried to do.”
He shrugged and spread his hands. “As a result, there is often a telephone call—yes, we have telephones here—to acquaint me with some fact or other. In this way, I keep in touch with what goes on.”
He smiled upon me benignly. There was no trace of the worried, slightly frantic little man in the Crillon, who had wondered whether I was able to do this job he wanted done, since I was a female.
“And you have heard that I just visited The Black Goat? And how Henri Neige and I had a discussion?”
His black eyes were amused. “I did hear something of a little rumpus, now that you mention it.”
Well, that figured. Talk about my set to with Henri Neige was probably all over the countryside by this time. I remembered the people peering in through the tavern’s open doorway, and since country folk like to gossip, I figured it was only natural that the word would get to Guy Pascal.
But it hadn’t taken them very long, that was for sure.
So I told myself that if I had to keep any secrets I would have to do my stuff in an unlighted room at the dark of the moon, for fear somebody might see me.
Guy Pascal took my arm and guided me toward the stone stairway. “It isn’t often I am honored by such a lovely visitor here at my home,” he murmured. “I have few visitors at all, and they are very rarely of the opposite sex. Now do come in and sample my Peches Ninon.”
His gesture was wide, expansive. “I would invite you to stay for dinner, but I am sure that the young man whom you saved the other day is expecting you to return.”
I studied him as we turned in and went through a doorway and along a narrow hall into a large room where a fire glowed redly in a huge hearth. Moldy old banners hung on the walls, and swords in rusted scabbards, gisarmes and all those old-fashioned weapons that fighting men used back in the days when knights were bold. I walked around the room eyeing them while Guy Pascal watched me.
“This used to be the armorer’s room. There was a forge to one side of that fireplace, and when weapons were broken or armor. dented, they were brought here to be repaired.
“However, since the room is so well constructed, it is easy to heat, and so I have turned it into a sort of den, where I spend most of my days.”
His hands indicated an easy chair and a pile of well-worn books. There was a standing lamp close by the chair, and I fancied Guy Pascal was very comfortable on cold nights, sitting before a hot fire with a book in his hand and a bottle of wine somewhere within easy grasp.
He pulled a length of velvet cording as he spoke, and almost within seconds an old man appeared. “We shall have the Peches Ninon, Simon, together with a bottle of—oh, say, the Sauvignon Blanc.”
The old man nodded his white head and moved away, as silent as a shadow. I moved across the room and sank onto an ottoman. Guy Pascal was smiling at me as he might at an irresistibly amusing child.
“Now, what have you learned?” he asked softly.
I shrugged. What sense was there in telling this man facts that would only make the death of his daughter more painful to his memory? Still, he had asked for help, so I figured it was only right to let him in on my deductions.
“I think everybody in this corner of the world is part and parcel of the devil worshipers They’re all in it, in one way or another, except for a very few.”
He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lowered. “Such a man as this Raoul Luchine, for instance.”
“Why, yes. He seems to be in the clear, I’d say. I can’t believe he took that beating just to hoodwink me. He couldn’t have known I’d come along. I drove by in time to save him.”
I cocked an eye at the Frenchman. “And there is yourself, of course. Have you received any other threats for not paying what these devil worshipers ask?”
He seemed surprised. “Why no, I haven’t. I figured that when my Denise was killed, it satisfied them.”
“Do you really believe that?”
His black eyes grew hard. They regarded me almost suspiciously. “Are you trying to tell me that those devil worshipers will continue to make demands on me? That the death of Denise didn’t satisfy them?”
“Her death didn’t put any money into their wallets, now did it? Of course they’ll keep making demands.
I’m surprised they haven’t already made them.”
The old servant came in then, wheeling a tray table carefully. There was a beautiful Peche Ninon on a plate, and two plates on which to serve it. There was also a silver pot of hot coffee and two cups with saucers.
Guy Pascal waved a hand. “I’ll attend to everything, Simon. And thank you.”
The old man bobbed his head and moved away. Guy Pascal sat brooding for a moment before rising to place a helping of the goodie on a dish and hand it to me. I offered to pour the coffee and he let me.
That Peches Ninon was out of this world, delicately flavored and melting in the mouth. I didn’t speak—to talk while eating such a delicacy would have been blasphemous—until I had scraped my plate clean.
I praised the cook, who was the old retainer’s wife, it seemed. I would have asked for the recipe, but in my job, I rarely get the chance to cook a meal myself, and would never have the time to fuss over such a dessert.
Guy Pascal expanded under my praise, almost as if he had done the baking. “They are old retainers, old friends, actually. They have been with me since I was born.” He sighed. “They live here and care for the chateau even when I am off on a trip.”
“They wouldn’t be concerned with the Black Masses that are being said? With the death of Denise?”
His surprise was almost ludicrous. Then he became indignant. “Suspect Simon and Marie of having anything to do with what happened to Denise? Indeed not! Why, they’re almost in their dotage. They manage to get their tasks done, such as they are, but they are no longer young.”
He chuckled. “No, no. Look elsewhere for your Satanists, ma’mselle. Those two are innocent.”
“What do you know of Henri Neige?” I wondered.
“The man who runs The Black Goat? A simpleton.
Oh, he knows his wines and liquors, I suppose, and he runs a reasonably good tavern, I imagine—I’ve been in it myself, once or twice—but that he is connected with these devil worshipers, I do not believe. He would never have harmed Denise.”
I stared at him. He was brushing aside all my thoughts on the subject as though they were childish fancies.
I argued: “He’s big enough to be that devil who attends the Black Masses.”
Guy Pascal was about to lift his coffee cup. His hand froze on the handle of the cup as his eyes lifted and looked at me. “The size of the devil? His bigness? What do you mean? How can you know—”
He broke off and sat back, staring at me. His face seemed to have lost a little of its color. Slowly he smiled, a gentle smile, one that almost chided me.
“All this is wild conjecture, eh? You know nothing about the devil who appears at the Black Masses, now do you? You are—how do you Americans put it? You’re pulling my leg.”
A tiny voice whispered in the back of my head. Now don’t go shouting out what you know about the devil worshipers, Cherry, my girl. You’ll land Raoul Luchine in more trouble than he’s in already.
So I shrugged and permitted myself to look ashamed. “It was just a thought—a suggestion, if you will. It seemed to me that this devil who shows up at the Black Masses was rather large.”
“I ask again, how can you know that?”
My shoulders lifted and fell. “A fancy, nothing more.”
He pushed it. “No, no. It seems to me that you have latched onto some information that may be of use to us. Now just what is that information?”
Guy Pascal sounded querulous, almost annoyed. I told myself this man was not my boss. I didn’t have to report to him as I did to Fletcher Atkinson. Just the same, I felt he had an interest in my discoveries.
I try never to tip my hand until I am sure of my facts. I sat there with my legs crossed and smiled at him.
“Everything will come out in time. Permit me to keep my secrets until the proper moment.”
He didn’t like it. His eyes were sharp and hard. He opened his lips as if to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He shifted in his chair as though fighting some inner anger.
“I had hoped that we would work hand in glove on this matter which so disturbs me,” he said at last. “I did not think you would be so secretive.”
“What can you do to help me, m’sieu?”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“I asked what you might do to help me. I am playing a lone hand here. I know things that I won’t blab about, but can I be sure of you? An indiscreet word, a hint dropped quite unconsciously, might result in my getting killed.”
My green eyes challenged his black ones.
He blustered: “Surely, you do not think I would betray your work here?”
“Not willingly, no. But inadvertently, in a conversation—who knows?”
“I do not like this. I speak quite frankly, you will note. It seems to me that I am here to help you in any way I can. I can scarcely do this if you keep me in ignorance of your discoveries.”
I rose to my feet, gathering up my Gucci bag and my gloves. “If you have any complaints, make them to Fletcher Atkinson, Monsieur Pascal. If he wants to remove me from this case, I’ll go. Until then, I’ll keep my own counsel.”
He looked down at his hands, where they lay clasped together. It seemed that he fought a little battle between his pride and his need to solve the mystery of his daughter’s death. To my surprise, he became almost humble.
“Certainement! You are correct. It is I who am a fool. You must forgive me. I can plead only my interest in bringing to justice those who killed my Denise.”
I caught a hint of the deep love and affection he had had for his daughter. I felt sympathy for the man, but knowing how mercurial he was, I did not dare confide in him. In a fit of pride or pique, he might blurt out something that ought to be kept hidden.
He escorted me to the courtyard, still murmuring his apologies. I turned when we came to my car and held out my hand.
“Believe me, I’ll let you know when I uncover anything beyond a mere thought or rumor.”
Guy Pascal brightened at that, smiling and nodding.
“Of course you will—and I am grateful. Just forgive a prying old man for his interest in your activities.”
I drove out of there, leaving him standing lonely and alone in that courtyard. I watched him in the rear-view mirror as long as I could see him, and he didn’t move in all that time, just followed me with his eyes as though he expected me to work miracles.
The day was gray and overcast, there seemed to be a threat of rain in those heavy clouds, and my spirits seemed to match both day and clouds. In other words, I was in the dumps. Nothing seemed to be going right for me. I really hadn’t learned a thing, I told myself.
Oh, sure, I felt that Henri Neige was involved in the Black Mass bit, but I had absolutely no proof. And I frankly didn’t see any way to get that proof, Black Masses not happening every night, as you might say.
I moped all the way as I guided the Mercedes-Benz along the narrow little roads. Guy Pascal hadn’t been any help. I’d hope he might clue me in to something or someone that might help me, but he was on the receiving end where information was concerned, not the giving.
Well, maybe I couldn’t blame him. After all, he had lost his daughter, and he had no experience in dealing with men who would kill even pretty young girls, the way I—
My thoughts broke off.
A girl had screamed, somewhere around me.
My foot rammed the brake, I skidded to a stop and leaped from the car. There were open fields all around me. I felt a drop or two of rain. I stared every which way and didn’t see any human beings.
Then I heard the scream again.
I ran. My feet rose and fell and I was damn grateful I had slacks on and not a hampering skirt. My right hand dipped into the Gucci bag and came out with my Gold Cup Colt automatic. Murder was in my heart, searching around for somebody to land on.
I skidded over some damp grass, bounced off a big gray rock, and then I was staring at a girl on the ground wrestling with a man. At first I thought he was trying to rape her, but that was before I noticed the other three men fighting.
I lifted that automatic in my right hand and gripped my right wrist with my left. I sighted along the barrel, and when I saw one of the fighting men rise up to grab at a rock to use as a weapon, I squeezed off my shot.
That man seemed to fly through the air. Maybe the impact of the bullet did that, I don’t know, but he whirled his arms and took a couple of steps before he collapsed.
The man who was struggling with the girl jumped up and looked around him. He saw me and turned white.
He turned and ran, clumps of dirt flying from his farm brogans. I sent off a shot at him, not to kill but only to wound. The bullet caught him in his right shoulder, and he went to the ground.
By this time the two men who had been fighting on the ground broke apart. One of them yelled something and took to his heels. I let him go only because my eyes swerved toward the man he had been battling.
It was Raoul Luchine. I did a double-take and forgot about the guy running away. Raoul should have been back in his little farmhouse. What the hell was he doing out here?
I scowled at him as he managed to lift himself to an elbow. He stared around him dazedly and then his eyes saw me. His expression of surprise was ludicrous.
“Hello,” he muttered.
I walked toward him. “Is this a habit of yours, getting yourself beat up every other day? It isn’t helping your face, you know.”
He winced and put fingers to that face. Both his eyes were black now and there were other assorted lumps and bruises on him. He got up to his feet where he stood with a hangdog air about him, trying to ignore my scowl.
“How the hell can I protect you when you go roaming all over the countryside?” I snarled.
His hand gestured. I looked where he indicated and saw the girl. I had forgotten about her in the excitement, I must admit. She was a pretty thing, young and seemingly innocent. She lay there sobbing and shivering, half-covered with mud and with some of her peasant clothes torn from her body.
“They came for her, those men,” Raoul said. “She had told me the other day that demands had been made on her father for money.” He drew a deep breath.
“They want her for a Black Mass.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The girl was sitting up by now, staring at Raoul and then at me. Her long black hair was spilling over her shoulders, her face was quite tanned and very pretty, with big black eyes and a rather large-mouth
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
I didn’t blame her. But I said gently: “You’re all right now, honey. You come along with Raoul and me, we’ll keep you safe.”
