Back from the Dead (23 page)

Cordell had parked on the street in Antibes. Harry saw Hess walk into the restaurant at 12:10, and now all they could do was wait. At 2:40 Harry was getting concerned. He glanced at Colette and Cordell and said, “What do you think?”

“The French take their time eating but this is ridiculous,” Colette said.

“Maybe he’s not in there,” Harry said. “Slipped out, we didn’t see him, or went out the back.”

“What I was sayin’ earlier. Dude might’ve made us and took off.”

Colette glanced at Harry. “And leave the painting, a priceless work of art?”

“Unless it isn’t,” Harry said. “I’m going in.”

Harry got out of the car, waited for traffic to clear and crossed the street. Looked in Hess’ car. Nothing. He went into the restaurant and scanned the dining room. Only half a dozen tables were occupied and Hess wasn’t at any of them. He checked the men’s room. It was empty. He walked out and went around the block. There was an alley behind the restaurant. Hess could’ve walked through and come out here. But why?

Harry went back to the car. Cordell was on the sidewalk smoking a Davidoff. “Let me guess. Isn’t there, is he?”

“Where’d he go and why’d he leave his car?” Harry said, and saw Cordell focused on something across the street.

“Harry, check it out.”

Harry turned and saw the tow truck parked behind Hess’ Renault.

Colette rolled the back window down. “Maybe this explains it.”

“Maybe.” But Harry didn’t think so. “If Hess had car trouble he would’ve called a tow truck right away and stayed there.” Leaving the painting was another thing that didn’t make sense. He watched the tow truck lift the back end of Hess’ Renault.

They followed it to Nice and up the winding roads into the hills, past Hess’ villa to a garage on the outskirts of the village. They waited in a wooded area across the street from the garage until dark.

“Harry, we know where the man lives, what’re we doin’ here?”

Colette offered to go to the village and get food and coffee. “Let’s just give it a few more minutes,” Harry said.

And then he saw the Fiat drive in, the housekeeper in the spaghetti-western hat behind the wheel, and someone sitting next to her.

It was dark when they arrived in the village, the shops lit up. People picking up food on their way home from work, coming out of the bakery carrying baguettes, coming out of the butcher shop with cuts of meat wrapped in brown paper. Trucks and automobiles parked and double-parked,
monsieur
alert, looking about.

Marie-Noëlle pulled into the lot and put the car in neutral. The bay doors were closed, the lights off.
Monsieur’s
Renault was parked on the side of the building.

“I think it is not going to work today,
monsieur
. I can bring you back in the morning.”

“Where do you live?”

“Just down there.” She pointed north. “Half a kilometer.”

“Is your husband at home?”

“No,
monsieur
. Henri is delivering parts to Flins, gone for three days.”

“Show me your house.”

Marie-Noëlle glanced at him, wondering if he was serious.

“You have worked for me ten years. I want to see where you live.”

She was nervous now, riding with her boss to an empty house. They were alone in the villa much of the time and he had never made a pass at her. So what was this all about?

“How long have you been sleeping with Claude?”

Marie-Noëlle could feel herself blushing. How did he know that? They had been so careful.
“Monsieur,
I get lonely.”

“It’s all right. I understand. But Claude? I think you can do better.”

Monsieur
sounded as if he was offering himself. But why now? And why her? She was thinking about the German model he had brought to the villa one time, tall and beautiful. She turned off the main road,
monsieur
staring at her legs working the pedals.

“There it is,” she said, slowing down, pointing to her small stone house, embarrassed, but this was where she lived.
“Monsieur
, have you seen enough? I can take you back.”

“Let’s go in.”

“Ah,
monsieur.
I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what? We are friends, aren’t we?” Marie-Noëlle didn’t see it that way. He owned the villa, and she worked for him. What was going on?

She drove to the house, parking near the side entrance, her heart pounding now. She opened the door, waited for him to get out and come around the car. She unlocked and opened the door to the house, and they went in. It was completely dark. Marie turned a lamp on in the salon, removed her hat, hung it on a hook and fussed with her hair, self-conscious about the way she looked.

“Are you going to give me the grand tour?”

“Monsieur,
there are only four rooms. Come this way.”

Hess followed her into the kitchen that had a wide stone fireplace against one wall, a small refrigerator and a simple wooden table in the center of the room.

“May I offer you something, cognac, Pernod?” She didn’t have anything up to his standards, but had to ask.

“A little Pernod would be nice.”

Hess didn’t believe in coincidence. He had to be sure. He didn’t see the silver Peugeot when they had passed through the village. He didn’t see it when they drove to the garage, or to Marie-Noëlle’s house. But when they came out a little after eight there it was parked on the street between two cars.

They were turning onto the main road, Hess looking in the side mirror, when he saw the Peugeot’s lights pop on, and the car swing out and follow them. Marie-Noëlle was driving, a lipstick-stained cigarette butt clamped between her teeth, window open halfway, cold air blowing in. He had thrown down a quick glass of Pernod at her house as she sat across the table from him, nervous, keeping her distance. Then she had offered to drive him back to the villa.

Colette pulled over. Harry and Cordell got out and crossed the road and stood at the wall in front of Hess’ villa. No car had passed by for several minutes. Cordell hoisted him up and Harry grabbed the tile cap, went over the top of the wall and dropped down in the garden twenty feet from the front door. Harry crouched, listening, heard a dog barking in the distance.

He drew the .38 from his coat pocket and took the stairs down to the lower level. He moved along the back of the villa, looking in windows, passing a dark bedroom, an office with a desk light on. He passed the kitchen, saw a pot on the stove top, a plate and wine glass set on the counter. He kept moving, glanced at the pool, crossed the deck and looked through the sliding doors. The TV was on in the salon. There were signs of life but no one was in any of the rooms. He turned and looked at the houses scattered through the dark hills, and down the valley at the city of Nice, lit up but subdued by cloud cover.

Harry went along the house, back the way he’d come. Halfway up the stairs, he heard a door close and footsteps on the pea-gravel path that led to the cars. Went up, moved along the side of the villa to the front and saw the housekeeper in hat and cape, carrying a small suitcase to the Fiat.

Harry went to the front door, glanced to his right. The housekeeper was in the car. He heard it start and saw the lights go on and the gate open. But then she got out and went in the garage. Harry opened the door, stepped into the small foyer, closed it and went up the stairs to Hess’ bedroom. It was dark. He crossed the room, looked out the sliding door and saw the Fiat in the driveway.

He went downstairs, gripping the .38, moved through the office into the hall, heard voices in the salon and then something else, a sound like someone moaning. He opened a door and there was the housekeeper tied to a chair in the laundry room, a rag stuffed in her mouth. He pulled it out. Hess was wearing her hat and cape. Hess was in the Fiat getting away. “Where is Chartier going?”

“I don’t know,
monsieur
.”

Claude was bringing a bag of trash up from his cottage to put in the bin in the garage, hoping to see Marie-Noëlle. He had been thinking about her all day. He had kissed her when she came out to bring him a glass of water. He couldn’t resist, even though she had told him no demonstrations of affection unless
monsieur
was away. He didn’t like it when she was in the villa alone with Chartier.
Monsieur
was a man, and Claude didn’t trust any man in Marie-Noëlle’s company.

Now he was coming up the stairs and saw something out of the corner of his eye and ducked down. A figure moving along the back wall of the house, a man looking in the windows. Was this the one
monsieur
had been talking about? It was very strange. Where did he come from? How did he get on the property?

Claude ran down the stairs to the cottage, went in and lifted the shotgun off the hooks above the fireplace. The gun was hot from the fire. He broke it open, loaded two shells and snapped it closed. Claude’s hands were shaking. He was a gardener, not a gendarme, but he had to protect Marie-Noëlle.

Harry heard him, looked over his shoulder and saw the gardener holding a shotgun, the man probably thinking he had tied her up. Harry rested the .38 on top of the washing machine.

The housekeeper said,
“Dépose le fusil, Claude
.”

The gardener looked at her but didn’t say anything.

“
Claude, laisse-le tomber.
”

The gardener lowered the barrel as Cordell came down the hall from the salon with the .45 in his hand. The gardener raised the shotgun and aimed it at him.

“
Claude, je suis hors de danger, laisse tomber le fusil.
”

The gardener crouched, resting his shotgun on the floor, and moved past Harry to the housekeeper, putting his arms around her.

Harry wanted to tell the woman what was going on but this wasn’t the time. He picked up the .38 and he and Cordell ran upstairs, went out the front door and through the wrought-iron gate. The Peugeot was across the road, lights on, Colette behind the wheel. Harry got in front next to her, Cordell in back.

“Hess is in the Fiat,” Harry said.

“Are you sure?”

“I saw him pull out,” Cordell said. “Thought it was the French lady.”

“He’s headed toward Nice,” Colette said. She gripped the steering wheel and accelerated, high beams trying to light the dark narrow road, the Peugeot going downhill, picking up speed.

Hess got out of the Fiat and went into the garage. There were boxes of shotgun shells on a metal shelf against the back wall. He opened a box and grabbed a handful, stuffed them in his pocket and returned to the Fiat.

The gate was open. He backed out and spun the front end around, pointing toward Nice. He turned, glanced up the road and saw the Peugeot parked about twenty meters away. Hess reached behind him, lifted the shotgun off the rear seat and angled it, barrel first on the passenger-side floor, stock resting against the seatback. He put the Fiat in gear and started down the hill, stone wall flanking the road on the left, glancing in the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights, but no one was following him.

There was an opening in the wall at avenue du Dauphine. He turned left, went thirty meters, pulled off the road, and turned off the engine. There were lights on in the houses dotting the valley. Hess got out with the shotgun, walked back to the intersection and looked up the dark road, using the edge of the wall for cover, and waited.

There was a flicker of light at the top of the hill, and then headlights appeared coming down the road. He assumed it was the Peugeot, pulled back the twin hammers on the shotgun. The car, a Citroen, paused at the stop sign and continued on. Now another light appeared at the top of the hill. Hess held the shotgun across his body and walked down avenue du Dauphine about twenty meters. The Peugeot stopped at the stop sign. He was in the middle of the road when it turned left and came toward him.

Hess brought the stock to his shoulder, aimed between the headlights, squeezed the first trigger and the shotgun kicked and boomed, blowing out the radiator. Now he aimed just above the headlights, fired at the windshield and stepped out of the way as the car came at him, rolling to a stop down the road. He cracked open the shotgun, ejected the spent casings, reloaded and snapped the gun closed.

The punctured radiator made a high-pitched whine, and smoke was coming from the engine compartment, swirling over the headlights. The second blast had blown a hole through the center of the windshield, spraying the interior with pieces of glass. Colette seemed dazed but was otherwise okay. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He looked in the backseat.

Cordell was leaning against the door behind her. There was blood spatter on the seat and on the rear window, which was pocked with holes.

“Cordell, you all right?”

“I’m hit, man.”

Harry said, “How bad?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry looked through the side window and saw Hess with the shotgun, moving toward the car. He reached in his coat pocket and drew the revolver. “Get down, he’s coming back.”

Colette glanced at him and turned her body, knees on the floor, face flat on the seat bottom. Cordell slid off the rear seat onto the floor. Through the side window Harry saw Hess approaching, getting close. He opened the door and went down on his knees. Heard the blast and felt the concussion, glass from the driver’s-side window spraying over him. When he looked again Hess was coming around the front of the car, visible for a second in the headlight beam.

Harry raised the Colt and fired but Hess kept coming, firing the shotgun, blowing out the right side of the windshield. Harry, on his knees, fired another round, but Hess had disappeared. Harry got up and saw him limping along the side of the road.

Harry went after him, got to Hess as he was pulling away, aimed for the left rear tire and squeezed the trigger. The Fiat fishtailed, went off the road and rolled a couple times down the hill into a thicket, headlight beams angled out of the shrubs. Harry climbed down, crouched and pointed his gun. The front passenger door was open, dome light illuminating the interior. He could see blood on the seats. Hess was gone, but he was hurt.

Harry stood behind the Fiat and listened, heard the wind and the rustling of branches. He had one round left in the .38. He looked over the car into the darkness and started down the hill.

Hess had been shot in the soft tissue just above his right hip. The bullet had gone through him. He could feel blood leaking out of the exit wound, his shirt and trousers wet with it. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and had gripped the steering wheel when the Fiat started to roll, and when he couldn’t hold on any longer, let go and bounced around the interior till the car got tangled in dense shrubs and came to a stop.

He had moved down the hill about seventy meters below the car, leaning against a tree trunk, holding the Walther, waiting for Harry Levin. Shoot him when he had the chance. He could see the headlights above him, and feel a breeze come up from the valley. He was looking down at the lights in houses scattered through the hills, the city of Nice to his right hidden from view.

Harry took his time, zigzagging down the hill using trees and overgrown shrubs for cover, feet in loafers sliding on the steep terrain. Visibility was better now, the heavy clouds had moved out and there was a three-quarter moon lighting up the landscape. He stopped and listened, heard twigs snap just below him, and crouched behind a broadleaf evergreen. He saw a figure move down the hill, then disappear behind a tree.

Hess appeared again maybe fifteen feet away, limping, looking unsteady. Harry closed in, raised the .38 and aimed the barrel between Hess’ shoulders. “Take another step, you’re dead.” He couldn’t tell if Hess was holding a gun but had to assume he was.

“That’s what you said to me the last time. In the kitchen in Palm Beach, remember?” Hess paused. “You shot me again. That’s twice I owe you.”

“I’ll try to do better next time. Toss the gun away from you, and put your hands up where I can see them.”

“I’m not armed.”

Harry didn’t believe him.

Hess glanced over his shoulder at him. “Are you going to shoot me in the back?”

“Back or front, it doesn’t matter.”

Hess lowered his arms and turned, lost his footing and slid to the bottom of the hill. Harry watched him all the way and went after him, aiming the revolver, trying to keep his balance, telling himself again he had one round in the gun and to make it count.

When he got to the bottom of the hill, Hess was moving toward him, aiming a pistol. Hess fired and missed, fired again, the shots echoing around the hills. And now Harry, holding the .38 in two hands, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Hess went down on his knees, dropped the pistol and fell back.

Harry picked up the gun and stood over him, Hess’ hands pressing on the wound in his chest, trying to stop the blood that was running between his fingers.

“You put another hole in me.”

“That one’s for my daughter.”

“You think it’s over? I’ll be coming for you, Harry, but you won’t know when or where.”

“Not this time.” He aimed Hess’ gun at him, finger feeling the weight of the trigger. Hess tried to sit up and Harry pushed him back on the ground with his foot. Hess’ eyes were open, staring up at him, but he wasn’t moving. Harry crouched at his side, touched his neck and felt for a pulse.

Colette was waiting for Harry when he got to the top of the hill. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “I heard the gunshots. I didn’t know.”

“It’s over. How’s Cordell?”

“He needs a doctor.”

They walked back to the Peugeot at the side of the road, headlights still on. Harry opened the rear door. Cordell was sitting up in the backseat.

“You got him, huh, Harry?”

“I got him.”

“You sure?”

“You can go down there and see for yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Not bad for being blasted with a shotgun.”

“You’re talking – that’s a good sign.”

“Got a lot more to say.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Harry paused. “There’s a restaurant down the road about a mile. I’m going to walk there, call a taxi and come back for you.”

The concierge called a doctor, who came to the suite with his black bag. Cordell told him a hunter had shot him accidentally while he was taking a walk up in the hills. “Man huntin’ birds or somethin’.”

The doctor looked at him quizzically. “What time was this?”

“Earlier this evenin’, didn’t know if I’d need medical attention.”

“By the look of your wounds I think you make the right decision.”

The doc led Cordell into the bathroom, cleaned him up, administered an anesthetic, and removed eight pellets from his right shoulder and arm, a couple requiring stitches, but he was okay.

When the doctor walked out of the suite Harry said, “I think we should leave, and the sooner the better. In the morning someone is going to see the Peugeot with the blown-out windshield and blood in the backseat and call the police. Then they’re going to find the Fiat and the murdered body of Vincent Chartier. They’ll go to the villa and talk to the housekeeper. She’ll tell them what happened last night and describe Cordell and me.” Harry paused. “I think it’s a good time to go to Detroit.”