Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER EIGHT

The lunchtime crowds were out in force as two men strolled along the east side of Place de la Concorde in central Paris. Steering clear of the Obelisk in the centre, a focal point for the bulk of tourists, they kept to the outer perimeter, automatically scanning the people around them for familiar faces.

Both men were dressed in suits and ties, gleaming white shirts and polished shoes, the quality indicating a position above the ordinary rank and file of office workers and bureaucrats populating the area. Neither man had any legitimate reason not to be there, but being seen together, while not illegal or sanctioned, could give cause for interested speculation among those who knew them.

On their left was a stone wall topped by a balustrade and trimmed hedge around the Tuileries Garden, a good place for a private chat. But the shorter of the two men indicated the broad pavement leading down to the north bank of the Seine. The road here was blocked to traffic and quiet.

‘Less likely to be noticed along here,’ he commented briefly. ‘And we can hear ourselves speak, too.’

His name was Josef Girovsky, and he was a fourth-generation Pole who had never been further east than the Alps. He had the square build and thick, grey hair of his forefathers and the smooth, coiffed appearance of a man of money — something those forefathers would have given their right arms for. Whenever his name appeared in the national press, which was rarely, he was referred to as an industrialist, even a capitalist, with a chain of businesses and joint ventures around the world, from engineering to finance, from farming to fishing fleets. But he preferred the title of investor, for that is what he was. He invested in anything that made money, and he was very good at it.

He was also ruthless about increasing his reach for more.

‘So where’s Levignier?’ he asked. ‘Why couldn’t he come like he usually does?’

‘What’s the matter — are you worried about being seen with me?’ His companion was tall and slim, with thinning hair and a chillingly direct gaze. He possessed a lazy smile that rarely left his mouth yet never quite managed to touch his grey eyes. And he had about him a stillness that made other men very wary indeed.

‘If I knew who you really were,’ Girovsky muttered with a touch of acid, ‘I might. But you haven’t told me yet.’

‘Because you have no need to know who I am. I’m simply a functionary — a messenger. I work for Commander Levignier.’

In fact, the tall man was known mostly by the name Delombre, which he enjoyed for its double meaning; his work was predominantly in the shadows, so therefore entirely appropriate. At other times, when it suited him, he used other names, each fictitious and disposable, like a cheap suit. He worked a decent rifle shot away from where they were now walking, in the depths of the Ministry of the Interior in Place Beauvau, in a department few people knew about, and which Girovsky only knew of at arm’s length.

‘What happened at the sanitarium?’ he asked. ‘I received a rambling message from Drucker. He’s not supposed to contact me. What does he hope to gain?’

Delombre gave a small sigh. ‘I know. He panicked when he couldn’t contact us, so he chose you instead. It’s the people we have to work with, you see.’ He smiled without humour, his cold eyes resting for a long moment on the Pole. ‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’

‘The same way the guard was taken care of? I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘If you don’t have the stomach for the answers, you shouldn’t ask the questions.’

Girovsky’s head swivelled at the abruptness of the response. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Think about it. I’m sure you’ll understand eventually.’

‘I don’t like your attitude.’

‘That’s too bad.’ Delombre stopped, forcing Girovsky to halt and face him. He waited for a pretty young woman with a student’s satchel over her shoulder to go by, his gaze drifting down to slim, bare legs, lightly muscled, then said, ‘Do we continue with this or not? Because we can always abandon it and close it down, you know.’

Girovsky gasped. ‘You don’t have that authority!’

‘Not directly, not here and now. But I know somebody who does. Only …’ He hesitated and stared up at some pigeons flying overhead, their wings a muffled beat of panic.

‘Only what?’

‘I’m not sure you’d like the consequences of our stopping things right now simply because you don’t approve of our methods. And I’m pretty sure your business colleagues would be very cross with you. Actually, speaking of them, I’m surprised you weren’t on the flight to China with the rest of the trade party. Were you not invited?’

Girovsky’s face coloured at Delombre’s mischievous tone, but he held himself in check. He cleared his throat, the action of a realist faced with little alternative. ‘My presence is not required at this stage, that’s all. I have colleagues on the trip, naturally, but it was not thought … necessary for me to go until the talks have progressed further.’

‘I see. You mean the others know how to use their chopsticks.’ Delombre yawned, ignoring the other’s protest. ‘Still, I know what it’s like to live in the shadows, being shunned by polite society.’ He chuckled, and Girovsky grunted angrily at being the object of this man’s sarcasm. His press coverage over the years had not been entirely kind, due to both his ancestry and his business methods, and he therefore operated behind the scenes where the media was concerned. The opening trade talks involving the Chinese government were a prime example, and one where he was forced to take a back seat for the time being.

‘Very droll.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘I must go — I have appointments. Tell Levignier that we must continue, of course. I’m concerned, that’s all. There’s a great deal riding on this project, and the Chinese won’t wait while we sort out our internal problems. If they sense trouble, they’ll pull out and take their business elsewhere. We can’t have that.’

‘The Chinese.’ Delombre’s lips twitched. He turned to stare across the city rooftops at the hazy shape of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. It looked glorious in the sunlight and he wished for a moment that he was over there, enjoying watching the pretty girls with their skirts gusting in the breeze rather than here with this toad of a man. ‘Yes, we mustn’t upset them, must we?’

‘I hope not. The country needs them. They are the future. You see — in twenty years’ time they’ll be the world’s new powerhouse economy.’

‘So everybody keeps telling me.’ Delombre didn’t like business people; they were greedy and boastful of their achievements and unable to see that not everything came down to money. But with the exchange of words had come a subtle shift in positions, with the Pole now holding the higher ground simply because he was right. For now, anyway. ‘What else are you worried about?’

‘The policeman who intervened — Rocco, is it? I hear he’s pushing for answers.’

‘You hear too much. You want to watch that — it could be dangerous.’

‘It’s what I pay people for: to keep me informed. It’s how I run a successful business. Information is power.’

‘Well, rest assured, that problem is being dealt with, too. Rocco’s a country cop with pretensions of greatness; he’ll back off or give up, whichever offers the easiest solution. Word has already gone down the line to cut him off. The case is on its way to being closed.’

‘How so? There’s a body. Two bodies.’

Delombre smiled this time, his face creasing. It still didn’t reach his eyes. He checked his watch, a sturdy, businesslike model covered with fine scratches, each one of which could tell a tale. ‘Actually … that’s not quite correct. Not now. We couldn’t do anything about the guard, not after Rocco found him. But the other one has … disappeared. For good.’

Girovsky’s look of surprise was overtaken by relief. ‘I see. Good.’ He glanced around them before asking, ‘What about the … the business today? I haven’t heard anything on the news. Did it happen?’

‘It’s done, that’s all you need to know. What did you expect — a fanfare and a public announcement?’

‘No, I assumed there would be some … outcry, I suppose. Did nobody notice?’

‘If they did, it was kept very quiet. After all, we wouldn’t want to panic the nasty kidnappers, would we? And before you ask, don’t bother. She is not your concern.’

‘As you wish. What about the other patients?’

‘The prisoners, you mean.’ Delombre allowed a brief moment of cynicism to show at the terminology. ‘They were there for a reason, each one of them. That doesn’t change and it certainly doesn’t concern you, either. The only one who did is no more. So forget him. Forget them.’

Girovsky blinked, but forged on, his tone resentful. ‘They were common criminals, weren’t they? Deviants.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Why they were getting special treatment is beyond me.’

‘It was hardly special. Or are you suggesting that a bullet for each of them would be the better option — and save the state a few francs into the bargain?’ He tapped Girovsky on the chest, making him flinch. ‘Now that would be messy, don’t you think, shooting prisoners? If it caught on it could lead to all sorts of excesses. Although,’ he chuckled without humour, ‘I grant you, it might be much cheaper in the long run.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Come to think of it, you own an armaments company, don’t you? God in Heaven, you’d even make money out of that. Now that’s what I call clever.’

Girovsky said nothing, but his expression showed what he would like to do with this pushy government functionary who treated him with so little respect.

‘Are we clear on everything else?’ Delombre’s eyes were touched with glints of colour, as if filled with an inner fire. Another shift had taken place, each man finding their position in the order of things, and remembering that, like it or not, they needed each other.

‘Do what you have to.’ Girovsky’s voice was calm, flat, resigned. ‘Tell Levignier that.’

Delombre lifted an eyebrow and leant forward slightly for emphasis. He said softly, ‘We always do what we have to, Mr Girovsky. You should bear that in mind.’