Blowback

Chapter Twenty-five

The wind had dropped, and there was an odd, chill stillness in the air as he drove up from Thiers to Saint-Pierre at first light. He wanted to be back, and in his room, before anyone became aware that he had spent the night elsewhere. He also had another reason for being back before breakfast.

He parked beneath the naked branches of the plane trees and walked, ankle-deep, through fallen leaves around to the front door. There was still a warm, fuzzy glow somewhere deep inside him. The taste of Dominique lingered on his lips, as did the sense of her wrapped in his arms, as she had been all night, head resting on his shoulder, purring gently.

Enzo himself had slept very little, but he didn’t feel tired. The comfort of intimacy had made him more relaxed than he had been in a very long time. He had savored it through all the dark hours of the night, dozing intermittently, vaguely erotic dreams washing over him, to be lost from grasp or memory on surfacing once more to consciousness. In some ways he had not wanted to sleep, as if in doing so he might have missed it all; the feel of her skin on his; the closeness and warmth of another human being.

Anne Crozes was behind the reception desk as he came through the revolving door into the lobby, bringing the cold air of the early morning with him. He glanced at her, and saw a faintly inquiring look cross her face, as if she was wondering what he might be doing out at this time. But she wasn’t going to ask, and he wasn’t about to offer any explanation. He nodded and turned immediately toward the staircase, following it up to the first landing.

Back in his suite, he showered quickly and got dressed, all the time keeping half an eye on the clock. For the past few mornings, Elisabeth had gone down to breakfast at eight sharp. He did not want to miss her descent to the dining room today.

By 7:55 he was standing with his back to the wall next to the door of his room, listening. There were a couple of false alarms; another guest heading down for breakfast; a maid delivering a breakfast tray to a room further along the hall. Each time he heard a movement, he opened the door a crack to see who it was.

Finally, a little later than on previous mornings, he heard a door opening along the hall, and brisk footsteps softened by the deep pile of the runner. He eased his door open just after they passed, and saw Elisabeth heading for the staircase.

He allowed her several minutes to get herself ensconced in the dining room before slipping out into the hallway and hurrying along toward her apartment. At the door to Marc Fraysse’s study he stopped and tried the handle. To his dismay it was locked. And he wondered if somehow Elisabeth had found out about his foray into it the other night. But he dismissed the idea. This was a classic case of shutting the barn door after the horse had bolted. Only now, the horse had returned, and couldn’t get back in.

He cursed under his breath. This was going to make things a little more difficult. He moved quickly along the hall toward the double doors leading to Elisabeth’s suite. With hope more than expectation, he tried the handle, and almost to his surprise discovered that it was not locked. He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him.

He could hear the blood pulsing through his head. Now he really had crossed a boundary. And there was no way back from here if caught.

He slipped like a ghost through the sterile stillness of her living room, and into the bedroom. It was warm in here, with the smell of bedsheets and bodies. Tangled covers were thrown carelessly aside, a pink nightdress lying in a heap on the floor. Presumably such things were attended to by the staff.

The clothes which Marc Fraysse had once worn still hung from the rail in the wardrobe. Neat rows of laundered shirts, jackets, trousers. Not much chance of his scent surviving the washing machine, or a trip to the dry-cleaners. His shoes, perhaps. Enzo’s eyes ran along the neat row of shoes lined up beneath the hanging clothes. But concealing a shoe as he tried to leave the hotel might prove more difficult in practise than in theory. Shelves rose one above the other at the far end of the armoir, beyond the rail. Underwear. Underpants and undershirts. Socks. All crisply laundered. And then above them, a pile of neatly folded winter scarves. He remembered Dominique’s story of her aunt’s inherited scarf, and the smell of her it had retained for years beyond her death. In general, scarves were things that people wore and put away, wore and put away. How often, if ever, were they washed or laundered?

He reached up and took down a folded Paisley patterned silk scarf lined with camel-colored cashmere. As he opened it up he immediately saw the dead man’s hairs still clinging in places to the wool. He lifted it to his face and breathed it in. There was a faintly damp smell, like something you might find in the cellar. A hint of something perfumed. Aftershave perhaps. And something else with a slightly sour note, like stale body odour. This was, he felt certain, the best example he was likely to find of something that still bore the dead man’s scent.

The sound of the door opening into Elisabeth Fraysse’s living room caused his heart to freeze. His face stinging with shock, he stood stock still, listening, almost paralysed. He heard her clearing her throat and knew that he was trapped. His mind went into superdrive, computing every possible alternative open to him. There weren’t many, so it didn’t take long.

He closed the wardrobe door and moved toward the door to Marc’s study with all the care of a man walking barefoot on glass. If it was locked, the game was up. To his enormous relief the handle turned in his fingers and the door opened with the faintest creak of its hinges. In his head it sounded like a saw cutting through steel. He moved quickly from one room to the next and pulled the door shut, just as he heard the bedroom door opening from the living room.

He looked around in a panic. There was nowhere to hide. And then he saw the key in the door leading the hall. Three long, soft, strides took him to the door. He turned the key and pushed down the handle, and was out into the hall, even as he heard the door to the study opening from the bedroom.

He almost ran along the hallway, fumbling for his keycard to let himself into his rooms, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it, hearing and feeling the thump of his heart as it hammered against his ribs. If anyone tried the study door, he or she would know it had been unlocked from the inside. But nobody had seen him, and he had left no traces. There was nothing to point to him. Any member of the housekeeping staff might have unlocked it for access and forgotten to re-lock it.

He looked down at the scarf still clutched in his hand. This was, perhaps, the longest shot that he had ever taken. But he needed evidence, hard evidence. A place to start. Without it, he knew, there was little or no chance of ever finding out who had killed the most famous chef in France.