The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel Page 8

  “But what can it mean?”

  “Honestly, it can mean a lot of things, or even nothing. Right now, the most we can say is that the same person was at that house and this.”

  “What kind of house is it?”

  Hugo though back to what Garcia had told him. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but a very old country house, not as large as yours but several hundred years old.”

  “Then it’s quite possible that someone passed through both there and here, someone unrelated to any crime at all.”

  “It’s possible,” Hugo said. “We want to check that possibility out, even if not for the sake of our little investigation here, then the police looking into the murder will want to follow up a lead like that. And you probably want us doing it, not them.”

  Tourville straightened in his chair. “I don’t mean to be difficult, my friend, but I have a strong feeling I should talk to my lawyer about this. What is it you want to do?”

  “Well, we’d like to take prints from everyone in your household, staff and guests at the dinner, maybe we can find out who was at the other house. Maybe there’s an innocent explanation, but we need to know.”

  “Why can’t you just ask if anyone knows that other house?”

  “Because where murder is involved, we can’t trust people to tell the truth. People lie, but fingerprints don’t.”

  Tourville stared down into his drink and Hugo let him process the news. After a moment, Tourville looked up and slowly shook his head. “Non, I can’t allow it, I’m very sorry. I don’t like to stand in the way of a legitimate investigation, but I don’t consider Senator Lake’s claims to be legitimate and I most definitely can’t let my family become suspects in a murder case.”

  “Then let us start with your staff, the people who work here and worked here the night of the dinner party.”

  “I don’t know about that. Why should I allow them to become suspects and not my family? How does that look to them?”

  “Monsieur Tourville, you know that the police can ask them for their prints whether you like it or not?” Hugo’s tone was soft but he knew the frustration rang clear.

  “Please. Let me call my lawyer and if he tells me I am wrong, then I will reconsider. You said Garcia is coming tomorrow?”

  “Yes, he’ll do the work himself to try and keep this under the radar.”

  “I am grateful for that consideration.” Tourville rose. “And, of course, you are still my guest. Go in to dinner and I will join you once I’ve spoken to my attorney.”

  Hugo wandered into the dining room and joined those already seated. Felix Vibert was there, as was Natalia and Alexie Tourville. Four other people—couples, Hugo assumed—introduced themselves as friends of the family but didn’t elaborate on where they’d come from or why they were there. It was an informal meal, much more to Hugo’s liking than the stiff, multicourse marathon earlier that week. Two members of staff, who themselves seemed more at ease than the previous evening, brought in platters of braised beef and roasted vegetables that were left on the table for the guests to dig into and pass around. Wine bottles were placed at generous intervals, close to everyone so there’d be no need to reach too far or, heaven forbid, request one be passed.

  Hugo was considering a second helping when Tourville appeared in the doorway and beckoned him over with a polite nod. Hugo excused himself and joined Tourville in the hallway, the pair moving away from the dining room to be out of earshot.

  “We appear to be bringing each other bad news tonight,” Tourville said grimly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Your lawyer doesn’t want you to cooperate?”

  Tourville was gruff. “What he wants or doesn’t want is irrelevant. He knows that and is very good at telling me where I stand legally. Once he has done that, I do what I think is best.” He looked at Hugo and frowned. “I’m sorry, that sounded more harsh than I meant it to. What I’m trying to say is that according to him, the code de procédure pénale does not authorize the police to obtain any kind of warrant or court order requiring anyone here to give fingerprints.”

  “We were hoping for your cooperation, not warrants.”

  “I understand, but without legal authority our cooperation is entirely optional. As he explained it to me, and it was very much the same as you said, all anyone can say from this information is that the same person was at the same two locations sometime in the recent past. He assures me no judge will sign one based on so little.” Especially for my family was unspoken, but Hugo caught the suggestion just the same.

  Hugo nodded. “I’m sorry to hear this but I do understand. I’ll let Capitaine Garcia know.”

  “And if this is all the capitaine managed to find from his expedition here, I will act under the assumption that any investigation into the senator’s so-called intruder is now complete. Agreed?”

  Hugo held Tourville’s gaze, and said, “That will depend. Whoever is investigating the robbery–murder will be made aware of the connection, and even though I expect you are right about the warrant, I’ll have no control over what they do, or try to do. It really would be better to clear as many people as possible so that—”

  “Non.” Tourville held up a hand. “I’m sorry but as far as I’m concerned, as you Americans say, it’s ‘case closed.’ Now, let us return to the table, I expect dessert is in there by now, and I’m not missing out on my Crêpes Suzette.”

  Tourville led the way, and as they walked Hugo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took a peek to see who was calling, intending to remain polite and get back to them after the meal. He smiled to himself as the name Tom Green lit up the screen. Best friends through the FBI Academy—and ever since, really—Tom had been recruited by the CIA after several years. For years he’d rattled between anonymous missions for the Company and the whisky bottle, both taking a heavy toll. He’d kicked the latter, for now at least, but was still working on and off with the former.

  And a call from Tom right now meant just one thing: this case was far from closed.

  Hugo heard the noise twice. He checked his watch and it showed two thirty in the morning. There it was again, a noise that could have been a door opening, closing, or maybe a footfall in the hallway.

  He listened. The wooden floor and joists of the chateau creaked and muttered like those in any old house, but after several nights Hugo had picked up a familiarity to these sounds and he knew when something was amiss. His mind cast back to Lake’s tale, but even if that was true, this couldn’t be the same thing. No one would try to sneak into two people’s rooms, Hugo couldn’t believe that. He heard the noise again and slipped out of bed, moving to the doorway on silent feet. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. He opened the door and stepped halfway out to look up and down the long hallway.

  Felix Vibert stood in pajamas and a blue robe standing at the top of the stairs that bisected the long hallway. He and Hugo looked at each other in surprise.

  “Anything wrong?” Hugo asked.

  “I don’t . . . I thought I heard someone come into my room. And then out here.” He sounded hesitant, but Hugo remembered what time it was and put the uncertainty in his voice down to tiredness, and maybe a little fright.

  “Probably just the wind.”

  “Perhaps.” Vibert didn’t look persuaded but he waved a hand, took a last look down the stairs, and shuffled back to his room.

  Once Vibert had closed his door, Hugo went to the top of the stairs and stood quietly, the dim light from the upstairs hall fading into the black well of downstairs. He heard nothing, saw no one, but that didn’t stop his ears and an old house teaming up to play tricks on his mind. But after a minute he felt as sure as he could be that everyone was asleep, and went back to his room.

  He closed the door and froze at the sound of a voice that came from the armchair opposite the bed. “Good evening, Monsieur Marston. Comment ça va?”

  Hugo spun around and peered at the man, a dark shape sitting with one leg crossed over the other, relaxed
. Probably smiling, Hugo thought, knowing him.

  “Well, we know it can be done, anyway,” the voice said.

  Hugo flicked on the light. “Jesus, Tom, you scared the hell out of me. When are you going to grow up?”

  “Not for a while. Come on, this was a scientific experiment to see how hard it is to sneak into someone’s room at this place. And I’m here to tell you, it’s pretty easy.”

  “You’re CIA, Tom, of course it is.”

  “And you’re FBI. Which, come to think of it, might tell us something about which agency is superior.”

  “Former FBI, and apparently out of practice.” Hugo wagged a finger. “Though I still carry my gun, which means I could have shot you.”

  “No chance. When did you ever shoot a man without seeing his face?”

  “Well, never.” Hugo shook his head but couldn’t help but smile. “Although I don’t know why seeing your face would stop me pulling the trigger.”

  “You’d never destroy such a thing of beauty. Now, go back to sleep, I’m here to protect you from any intruders. Any more intruders.”

  Hugo sat on his bed, more than happy to oblige but a thought struck him. “Tom, did you go into every room in this hallway?”

  “Of course, I had to.”

  “Had to?”

  “Your names aren’t on the door.”

  “Right. Good night, Tom. And please don’t snore.”

  Hugo and Tom were eating breakfast when Henri Tourville entered the dining room. He stopped in surprise and Tom quickly rose to introduce himself.

  “Tom Green, a friend and colleague of Hugo’s. I arrived late last night, Hugo was kind enough to let me in and share his room.”

  Tourville shook his hand but his eyes were on Hugo, his look clear. What’s going on?

  “Tom used to work with me at the FBI,” Hugo explained. “He still consults here and there. Seeing him was something of a surprise to me, too.”

  “A pleasant one, of course,” Tom said. “Anyway, now that we’re together it might be a good time to let you know precisely where at the murder scene that fingerprint was found.”

  Tourville moved to the large table that carried the food and drinks. He poured a cup of coffee and stirred in some sugar. When he spoke, his voice was level. “Some of us have no interest in any fingerprints, monsieur, and if you came into my house to try and persuade me otherwise, you may leave immediately.”

  “The print,” Tom said casually, “was found inside the armoire where the jewelry was hidden. We believe it belongs to the person who broke in, stole from the old lady, and then killed her.”

  Tourville smiled. “Please, Monsieur Green, have some breakfast before you leave. And Monsieur Marston, I suspect since the Guadeloupe talks appear to have been indefinitely postponed, you will be leaving, too. Am I right?”

  “Well,” Hugo said, “if I can’t change your mind, I suppose I might as well. But before I go, may I speak to everyone who is here?”

  “I already have and no one wishes to have their prints taken, thank you very much.”

  “I’m sure you have, but I wouldn’t be much of an investigator if I let a . . . well, technically a potential suspect, run my investigation. And you may refuse me, of course, but then I’ll have to follow people as they leave the premises and catch them unawares. In the village, in public.”

  Tourville narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Why are you doing this? You know that nobody here committed that crime. Is this some kind of political stunt?”

  A new voice, from the doorway to the dining room. “If it were, Monsieur Tourville, I wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure,” said Capitaine Raul Garcia.

  Tourville turned on his heel and glared. “Fine,” he said after a moment, “talk to whomever you want. Waste all the time you want. Then get out of my house.”

  They let Garcia run things. It was technically his investigation and he was their official liaison with the police handling the murder near Troyes. And the staff, if not the family members, would be more likely to talk to a Frenchman than an American. So Hugo and Tom hovered in the background, Tom’s nervous energy making him pace the kitchen floor where the interviews were done. So keen was he to remain busy, he shook everyone’s hand and offered a glass of water to each person who came in and sat down. But, without exception, they didn’t sit for long. Each politely declined to provide fingerprints, most shaking their heads while not meeting the eyes of the capitaine, his treaties and endearments falling on deaf ears.

  They were done in thirty minutes. Garcia and Tom went outside to enjoy a balmy day while Hugo headed upstairs to pack his bag. He sought out Tourville one last time, determined to leave on a positive, if not friendly, note.

  “I’m very sorry things turned out this way, and you have my word that I will do everything I can to be discreet, assuming I am a part of any ongoing investigation.”

  Tourville shook his hand. “I know you will. I trust you, Hugo, and I am also sorry things have worked out this way. Perhaps you can quickly solve this other murder and we can resume our business.” But he didn’t sound hopeful.

  “If I can, I’ll let you know how things are going. And I’m sure Ambassador Taylor will be in touch, maybe even Senator Lake himself.”

  “Maybe. An interesting man, that Senator Lake. Do you really think he has a chance to be your president?”

  “Anything’s possible.” Hugo shrugged and smiled. “After all, America is the land of opportunity, and pretty much anyone can try and become president.”

  “We’re not quite that naïve, though, are we? We both know it’s the money that counts as much as the person. Without the money, well, look at my sister. Potential for greatness, but once the people with the money decided she wasn’t worth supporting, whether they were right or not, her career was over. We’re just lucky she had other talents, other things she could do.”

  “True. And she seems to be doing fine.”

  Tourville was staring at the ground and he was silent for a moment, before looking up. “What? Ah yes, doing fine. That’s the thing about people, you never really know, do you?”

  Hugo thought of Tom, the alcoholic who’d apparently given up booze with a snap of his fingers. “Very true,” he said, “you never really know for sure.”

  Tourville turned and headed back to the house, a tall man weighed down by the disappointments and frustrations of the past few days, Hugo thought. And of the possible embarrassments to come, if that fingerprint really did lead police back to the chateau.

  Hugo’s car had been driven back to Paris by Special Agent Emma Ruby when Senator Lake left, so he rode with Tom and Garcia. Tom, who’d taken a late-night taxi to the chateau, grumbled but put himself in the back seat of the Frenchman’s Renault.

  “There’s a reason no other country in the entire world buys French cars,” he said. “You want me to tell you what that reason is?”

  “Be quiet, Tom,” Garcia said. “One more complaint and I’ll drop you at the train station. Maybe a couple of miles away from it, so you can appreciate the countryside a little.”

  Hugo smiled at the banter but his mind was on the staff interviews, such as they were. “Raul, how many statements did we get in the end? And by statements,” he added, “I mean complete rejections.”

  “By my calculations, we spoke to four of the seven staff who were working that day, and only Tourville himself from the family. As far as I know, there were eighteen outside guests we’ll still need to approach.”

  “No Vibert, Natalia, Alexandra?”

  “Vibert wouldn’t come out of the library, and the two women are in Paris for the day. At least, that’s according to Tourville. The cook, whatever her name was, confirmed that—not that it matters much.”

  “So,” Hugo said, “pretty much a complete waste of our time.”

  “Well,” Tom said lightly, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Hugo turned in his seat. He recognized that tone, the way a father recognizes the guilty ton
e of a mischievous son. “Tom, what did you do?”

  Tom patted a duffel bag on the seat next to him. “You know, sometimes I feel like I just don’t get the appreciation I deserve.”

  Hugo turned and looked forward again as they eased onto the main road. “Here we go. Fine, Tom, I’ll play. Why don’t you feel appreciated?”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Tom said. “Can we stop somewhere and buy some packing materials?”

  “Packing materials?” Garcia asked, with a worried look at Hugo. Is he mad?

  “Yes, packing materials. For the glasses I borrowed from Tourville’s kitchen.”

  “The . . . glasses?” Hugo turned around again. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The water glasses,” Tom said. “The ones carrying the fingerprints of four potential suspects.” He patted the bag again. “Those glasses.”

  “Ah, I see.” Hugo smiled. “But just four? I suppose it’s a start.”

  “Like I said.” Tom sniffed exaggeratedly and looked out of the side window. “I just don’t get the appreciation I deserve.”

  As they headed east toward Paris, a silence fell over the car. Each man, Hugo knew, had a slightly different role in what had happened and what was to come. Hugo’s next move would depend on whether the ambassador believed Lake had seen a ghost, a real intruder, or nothing at all. Garcia was going to be busy with the robbery–murder case no matter what. And Tom? Hard to know with him. He’d get involved in whatever was happening in Paris and beyond if asked—and likely if not asked.

  It was Tom who broke the silence. “Oh, crap, I meant to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” Hugo asked. Garcia pricked his ears, too.

  “About our mild-mannered senator,” Tom said. “I got curious and poked into his background. You know he’s divorced, right?”

  “So?”

  “I think I know why, though the court paperwork didn’t say anything. A few years back he was arrested for assaulting his dear wife.”

  “Lake?” Hugo asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep. Happened before his political career took off, and it remained a secret because his lawyer got him into a deferred prosecution program.”