Bennett Sisters Mystery, Volumes 1-2, page 28
“Let’s check his gate again.”
Louis was ahead a few steps. He turned. “Is this your jardin?”
Merle stared at her open gate. She had locked it, she was sure. Did Josephine Azamar open it? In the middle of the night? She pushed it wider, looking around the yard. The yellow light from the kitchen windows spilled onto the ground, framing the dark box of the pissoir. “Tristan?”
“Madame!” Louis yelled. “C’est Pére Albert!”
She spun around. Albert’s gate was ajar too. Louis had opened his back door and was bending over a prone figure.
“Albert!” He had a gash in his head. “Get me a cloth.” Louis stood over them, fixated at the sight of the priest, unconscious. She pushed him aside, grabbing a cloth at the sink, wetting it, then holding it to the wound. “Can you hear me? Albert! Louis, call the police again!”
The sound of a motorcycle engine announced the gendarme. He roared up the alley and jumped from his bike. Jean-Pierre Redier wore his street clothes, unless leather pants was a night uniform. “Call an ambulance!” Merle yelled. Oh, what was the word? “Les services d’urgences! Vite!”
The gendarme took a long moment looking around the kitchen, then pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number. “Breathe, Albert,” she whispered. His chest was rising. He was alive.
Louis spoke to Jean-Pierre. They looked out the door to the alley. The gendarme stepped outside. Louis said, “There is someone in your house, madame.” Merle stretched on her knees, keeping one hand under Albert’s head. Was it Tristan? “The ambulance is here soon. He is okay? Ah, here are the boys. They come from the street.”
Merle’s stomach dropped. “Tristan! Someone’s in the house!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The gate hung open. Henri peered over Tristan’s shoulder into their garden. He heard the panic in his mother’s voice. “What?”
“Quelqu’un, voila! Un homme!” Henri pointed into their windows, lit up in the dark night. A man’s back was silhouetted.
“Mom?”
“I’ve got Albert. He’s okay! The house, Tris!”
“Oh, shit,” the boy said. Jean-Pierre was at the gate now, looking into the garden. He pushed the boys aside and strode toward the kitchen door. “It’s that son of a bitch.” The one I let in the house. “Come on,” Tristan told Henri. “Around the front!”
They ran hard down the cobblestones. Skidding around the corner, they saw the man come out the front door, kicking out the shutters. “Wait!” Tristan called but he saw them and turned to the wall. Jumping the short section, he disappeared over the side.
The vineyards swallowed him up. The boys watched as he crashed about in the dark. Henri had a foot on the wall, ready to follow, when Tristan saw him slip through a gap in the wall farther down, and disappear into the streets. “This way!”
The streets were dark, shadowy, with alleys and walk-ways and lots of corners to turn down. The village was a maze at night, with look-alike shuttered houses. “Where did he go?” Henri looked familiar, with his flop of black hair and big honking nose. “Où est-il?”
“Je sais pas,” the boy mumbled.
“Hey.” Tristan poked a finger at him. Henri took a step back. “You helped those Bordeaux punks at the fencing tournament. You held me down.” The boy turned his palms up and looked sideways. “It was you. Okay, you and me. Come on.”
Henri took a step backwards.
“So you’re chicken without your friends?” Tristan put up his fists. “Come on, asshole. Give me your best shot. You baby. That’s right. Bébé.”
The boy raised his fists then. “There you go. Let’s see what you’ve got.” The sound of footsteps, running on the cobbles. A man dashed across, half a block away. “There he is!” The fists dropped, the fight forgotten.
The chase went down one street and up another, as if the man was lost. It was dark but to Tristan it looked like Tony, the man his mother said was creepy. He ran funny, like he had a bad leg. At an alley he skidded to a stop and turned in.
Henri got there before Tristan, who wasn’t used to running on cobblestones. “Voila!” Henri pointed down the alley, a dead-end stopping at an iron gate. They had him trapped. They slowed to a walk, advancing on him.
“Get away from me. This is mine,” Anthony mumbled, cradling two wine bottles in his arms. “Leave me alone, you filthy delinquents.”
“Hey, Tony,” Tristan said. “Bonsoir, my man. Having a fun evening?”
Surprise then relief flooded his face. “Mr. Strachie. How nice to see you. I thought you were the police. Or a nasty little frog.” They each took an arm. “Watch the wine, please! Thanks much but I’ll be off now. Hey! Take your hands off me!”
The boys were as big as Simms, and younger and stronger, and had little trouble marching him back to the gendarme. His running commentary turned increasing vile, with slurs against both Americans and French. He struggled to free himself from their grasp but protecting the bottles kept him busy. When they reached the street where Albert’s house sat, they saw the lights of the ambulance. In the flashing red his mother and the gendarme and Henri’s father were visible.
“Regardez,” Henri said. “Le gendarme et l’Inspecteur.”
“Keep moving, creep. Mom!” The grownups looked up. The gendarme and the other cop started towards them. “We got him!”
Simms gave a last, grunting effort and twisted out of Tristan’s grasp. Henri kept hold of his left arm and they jumped around on the street, barely keeping their footing. Everyone was yelling, trying to catch Simms. Suddenly Henri had one of the bottles of wine in his hand.
“No, no, you little bastard! That is mine. I’ll not be cheated again.” Anthony grabbed at the bottle, a spastic lunge. Holding the wine over his head Henri laughed at him, taunting. Anthony’s eyes were wide with panic. His toupee slipped, revealing a bald scalp. “Now, young man, let’s not do anything rash. Give me the bottle, there’s a nice boy. Donnez-moi le bouteille!” Pascal and the Inspector moved cautiously behind him, closing off the escape routes. “Damn it, you little shit. Give it to me.”
Tristan tried to grab him but he jumped aside. Henri moved the bottle higher, turning it to hang on to its neck, like he was going to throw it on the ground. Anthony cried out, “You have no right! My father paid for that wine and it belongs to me.” The Englishman sniveled, hugging the other bottle to his chest. “Give it to me, you dirty swine.” He took a step toward Henri.
A chorus of ‘No!!’ rose as the boy smashed the bottle over Anthony’s head.
He stood, stunned, red wine dripping down his bald head, his face, like blood. Green glass scattered on his shoulders, then he slumped to the ground.
Someone threw a bucket of cold water over Anthony Simms. He woke up in handcuffs, lying on his side on the street. Everyone on the block was now awake, standing outside in their bedclothes or hanging out windows. Merle held Albert’s hand as he lay on the stretcher. He was conscious now, having come to just before the ambulance arrived.
The emergency crew pushed her gently away and rolled Albert inside the vehicle. She winced as they slammed the doors. The sight of his jovial face so unsmiling was wrenching. Pascal put his arm around her shoulders. “He’ll be all right. He is tough.” He squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been working on my list.”
She glanced at him, his half smile. “Yes, where have you been?”
“You are shivers again.” Pascal pulled her close. “Go home. I have to arrest the Englishman. You have my number if you can’t sleep? ”
After thanking Louis and Henri Merle dragged Tristan away from the excitement. She wanted to go check on the wine. The boy chattered excitedly, recounting the chase and the amazing thing about Henri being one of the guys who helped the out-of-towners at the fencing tournament and how he was all right now that he’d smashed a bottle of wine over the burglar’s head.
She set Tristan to trying to secure the front door which had been kicked out, both the frame and the door itself were splintered. The door shutters were done for. He propped them up and brought the padlock inside. The gate was in similar shape, broken timbers and lock busted. She tried to lock it and finally gave up.
The trapdoor was open, the cupboard pushed aside. Merle shone the flashlight down the stairs. “How many bottles did he have?”
“Just two.”
“There’s more on the stairs. Be careful.”
A case or more lined the steps. He’d gone straight for the Pétrus. The door to the cave had been hatcheted, the tool lying on the dirt floor. But inside the rest of the wine was safe. “Count at that end,” she said, after they had put the bottles on the stairs back into their racks. There were only five bottles missing and they had drunk three themselves.
Upstairs they repositioned the cupboard over the trap door then Tristan went to bed, still excited. Merle added to her list: wine truck and safe storage, flowers for Albert. Then: passport. A policeman came to the front door a half hour later. She pushed aside the broken shutters. He was to stand guard. He had a rather large gun, she noted happily. She put her head down on the table.
* * *
The sounds woke her. She looked for her watch, still a reflex but an empty one. It was dark outside. Through the broken panes of the front door she could see the policeman, walking back and forth like he was a palace guard, probably to stay awake. Had he coughed? What had wakened her?
She curled into the horsehair sofa, feeling the lumps poke her hips. Just jumpy, she thought, turning down the floor lamp to low. She listened again, and lay her head on a pillow.
There! Again, a sound, definitely from the back. She lay still. Should she get the policeman or scare whoever was in her garden off herself? Policeman. For sure. She lay in the semi-dark, listening. Had she locked the back door?
On cue, the glass shattered. She sat up to see a hand coming through the broken pane and unbolting the door.
The hatchet lay against the fireplace where Tristan had left it. Her heart was pounding as she lunged for it, standing in the shadows under the stairs, waiting for — who? She yelled, “Police! Help! Intruder!” Where was he?
She jumped into the light, brandishing the hatchet with both hands. In her kitchen stood Jean-Pierre Redier flanked by a shorter man. Jean-Pierre looked startled then began to laugh. “Vous êtes en état d’arrestation, madame.” You are under arrest. He pulled out his handcuffs and slapped them across his black gloved hand.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Monsieur, policier!”
“He has gone home. He isn’t needed, madame.” He grinned at her. “Three’s a crowd, isn’t that the expression?”
“Mom?” Tristan stood on the stairs in sweat pants and t-shirt. “What’s going on?”
“Come over here by me, Tristan.” She still held the hatchet in both hands, ready to chop off the hands of anyone who came too close. She felt reckless, and sleep-deprived, and generally pissed off. “Get back!” She swung the hatchet in the direction of the gendarme. Black leather pants, my ass.
Her son vaulted the railing and landed on the floor. He slid sideways to her side. “What the heck are you doing, mom?” he whispered. “That’s the cop.”
“Reach into my pocket,” she said softly. “Get my cell phone and call Pascal. Tell him to get here quick. I’m going to turn a little your way. Don’t let him see.”
“Where is the policeman? What did you do to him?” she said in French to Jean-Pierre. She needed to keep talking until Tris made his call. She could feel his fingers in her pocket. “Did you kill him like you killed Justine LaBelle?”
“Quoi?” said the other man, who was bearded and wore a knit cap. “You killed the putain?”
“Stop talking nonsense. You killed her, madame. That’s why you are under arrest.” He took a step toward her. Tristan crouched behind his mother. She could hear the buttons beeping and coughed to cover the sound. “And you broke into my house, Monsieur le Gendarme. How will you explain getting your fingers chopped off, eh?”
The second man’s eyes widened. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Jean-Pierre lowered his head like a bull. He was a big man, young and strong, and she was making him mad. Some things couldn’t be helped.
“She was your aunt, wasn’t she? You must have been proud. An aunt who ran around in revealing clothes. A famous whore, right here in town. How exciting for you. It must have been hard to explain. So you pushed her off the cliff so you didn’t have to see her parading her pathetic old self around town any more. Isn’t that right?”
Tristan was whispering. The gendarme looked around her, craning his neck. He lunged forward and she swung the hatchet, catching him on the wrist with the blunt side of the hatchet. “Get back, you dirty flic!”
He grabbed the handle of the hatchet. She refused to let go, skidding across the room with both hands tight on it. “Go out the front, Tristan!” He turned as the gendarme slammed her against the wall under the stair. The boy put his shoulder to the door and ran.
“Don’t let him get away,” Jean-Pierre told his frozen cohort. He had a boot on her foot, pinching her toes in a crushing motion. Merle howled and tried to chop at him again, but he had both hands on the hatchet and wrenched it out of her hands.
“Go after him, idiot!” The shorter man ran out the front door.
“Quite the tom-cat, eh?” He dropped the hatchet and grabbed her hands. Slapping on the handcuffs he wrapped them around a stair baluster. She struggled to her feet as he let up on the pressure on her toes. “Okay, where is it?” He began to pace around the room.
“Where is what? Your dick? They all say you have trouble finding it.”
He laughed and kept pacing. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Like a little taste, would you? The door, where is it?”
“Right behind you. Show yourself out.”
He had spun when she said ‘behind you,’ and now grabbed her arm. He smelled of liquor and sweat. His breath reeked of cigarettes. “You are so smart. You arrogant Americans.” He brought his knee up to her back. She moaned at the pain.
He pushed the sofa, pulled up the rug, flinging it against the wall. Through the kitchen and bath, he pounded on the stone floor with his boots, then at the kitchen door, he laughed. Quite fond of evil laughter, was he. He had found it. The scratch marks on the floor had clued him in. He pushed the heavy cupboard aside, pulled up the door, and shone a flashlight on the stairs.
Merle tugged on the handcuffs. They cut into her wrists. The banister upright she was chained to — the word came to her: baluster — was halfway up the stairs, at shoulder level. Her hands were going numb. In the cellar she could hear the gendarme moving around, humming over the wine bottles, setting them back on the steps as Anthony had done.
The baluster was two inches across but carved with spiral indentations. She had so enjoyed painting the stairs. But now… She gripped the baluster with both hands. It wiggled when she pulled. If she could break it without alerting him — well, that was unlikely, wasn’t it? But what else did she have?
The hatchet lay on the floor, six feet away. She stretched her foot toward it, pulled it with her toe. But how to get it up to her hands? She put her right foot on the fourth stair tread, eased her hands to the top of the baluster, and swung her left leg over the handrail. Her newly-healed wrist screamed with pain. She wiggled her hands into a better position and lifted her right leg over.
On the steps sat Tristan’s hiking boots. She slipped her right foot into his boot. It was way too big, almost falling off. She figured she had one chance. Dangling the boot on her foot she tried to tighten the laces but it was too hard. These steel-toe wonders she didn’t want to buy him because they were too heavy for camp — well, time to pay up, dogs.
The clink of bottles just below the trap door — he was too close. She waited until he moved away, back in the cave. She counted his steps, two, three, four, five, then drew back her foot and kicked hard. The post bent but held. She aimed again, a little higher, and swung again. This time the baluster shattered. She kicked off the boot and slipped her handcuffs down to the breach. In a leap she was on the floor. She reached the trap door as he looked up the stairs. He shouted obscenities as she flipped the trap door down on his head and jumped on it.
He pushed up, bouncing her. The cupboard was three feet away. His shoulder heaved up under her. He outweighed her by fifty pounds or more. She couldn’t hold him down much longer. She dove around the cupboard as he blasted up out the trap door. With a shove, it toppled, crashing, splitting in two with the top section snapping off and landing with all the dishes and glass and shelves on the gendarme’s head. She heard him moan and didn’t hang around for the crying.
She ran through the garden, out the gate, and into the alley, her socks slipping on the moss. Albert’s gate was closed and locked. She ran down the alley. Where the hell did Pascal live? Who could she trust? Running hard, she passed rue de Poitiers and ran all the way to the inspector’s back-alley hotel. The windows were dark, door locked.
“Open up!” She rattled the knob, pounding. “Capitan Montrose!”
“Madame?” He stood behind her, materialized in the night air in his sensible gray suit. “Qu’est-ce que tu fait?”
“Allons-y! Vite, vite!”
She dragged him through the streets. He didn’t complain or ask questions. He tripped a few times, but then so did she, in her handcuffs and socks. “Ma maison, monsieur,” she said at one corner. “C’est urgent!”
Rue de Poitiers was lit up like Albert’s street had been hours earlier. Every neighbor was on their stoop or at their window, at least those who hadn’t fled to Paris. Madame Suchet stood in a velvet housecoat, arms crossed, chatting. Great entertainment, better than television, these Americans.
Merle dropped her grip on the Inspector’s sleeve and burst in the door.
“Mom!” Tristan ran to her and threw his arms around her. Behind him stood Pascal.
“Did you get him?” she asked. “Where is he? I’m okay, honey,” she told her son in a rush.
