The Night Gate

Chapter Fifteen

The Rue des Filles du Calvaire was a long straight street of three- and four-storey apartment blocks above clothes shops and bookstores and a proliferation of art galleries.

There was little or no traffic in the street and, unusually, many of the parking slots along each side lay empty. Most of the clothes shops were shut. Helios. Danyberd. Some of the bookstores were open for business, and a number of the galleries were open by appointment.

Galerie Narcisse had lights in its window, and a large poster advertising an exhibition of the work of Canadian photographer Alix Cléo Roubaud. Enzo ignored the notice which read BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, and rang the bell. He saw a young woman approaching from the other side of the glass and pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose. She hurriedly produced one of her own before opening the door.

‘Can I help you? It’s viewing by appointment.’

Enzo said, ‘I’m sure Ms Roubaud’s photographs are excellent, but I’m here to talk to someone about the murder of Emile Narcisse.’

She looked him up and down and frowned. ‘You don’t look like the police.’

‘I’m not. But I’m consulting on the case.’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Wait there.’ Then she hesitated. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Enzo Macleod.’

Again, she frowned, then shut the door and hurried off into the interior of the gallery. Enzo stood shuffling impatiently on the pavement, feeling the cold and watching his breath condense around him, feeling it form droplets on the inside of his mask.

Finally the young woman returned and opened the door. ‘Follow me.’

He had trouble keeping up with her as she hurried ahead to maintain a two-metre distance. Dark black-and-white images hung in frames from aluminium rails. A woman whose face was blurred by movement, hair absorbed by her shadow on the wall. A man and woman kissing against the backdrop of a brick wall, her hands on the back of his head and on his shoulder, all that could be seen of her.

‘Ms Roubaud must be disappointed to be exhibiting her work during a pandemic,’ he said.

‘Ms Roubaud is dead,’ the young woman said, and stopped at the foot of a narrow spiral staircase leading up to a mezzanine level. A man stood at a large window looking down at them. ‘Upstairs,’ she said. ‘Monsieur Moreau was an assistant to Monsieur Narcisse.’ And she stepped back to give Enzo access to the stairs.

At the top of the steps, a corridor ran off to the left, doors opening from it right and left. To Enzo’s right, a door opened into the office from which the man at the window had watched him climb the stairs. The whole place was deceptively large.

The man turned from the window as Enzo appeared in his doorway and Enzo saw him clearly for the first time. A tall, willowy young man, hair cropped close on either side of his head, leaving a slick of thick black that swept back across his crown. He wore a black mask, a dark suit and white shirt, but no tie. ‘Stop there, please,’ he said, raising a hand to make it clear that he did not wish Enzo to enter the office. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep your distance. I’m HIV-positive, so wary of catching Covid. What can I do for you?’

‘I assume you have already spoken to the police?’

‘Actually, no. Several officers arrived the day after the murder to search his office. They took away a number of items, including his laptop. They did speak to other members of staff, but I wasn’t here that day.’

‘Were you and Narcisse close?’

‘He was my mentor, monsieur.’

‘So you know why he was in Carennac.’

His face coloured slightly. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘He didn’t tell you?’

A curt shake of the head. ‘No.’

Enzo raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that not unusual?’

‘He was my professional mentor, monsieur. We had very little personal contact outside of work.’

‘So you think he went to Carennac on personal business? Otherwise he would have told you?’

Moreau seemed uncomfortable. ‘Probably.’

‘I assume you knew he was writing a biography of Rose Valland?’

Now he frowned, deep creases that furrowed an otherwise unlined forehead. ‘I don’t believe he was doing any such thing.’

‘You’d have known if he was?’

‘Of course. But in any case, it’s not something he would ever have considered. Rose Valland? I don’t think so.’

His reaction was so categorical that Enzo was inclined to believe him. He said, ‘What do you know about the circumstances surrounding the murder?’

‘Very little, other than what I have read in the press and heard on the grapevine.’

‘You know that there is a suspect, then?’

‘Yes, but they haven’t released details of who that is.’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that it was a young German gallery director called Hans Bauer?’

This time, the colour rose high on Moreau’s face, and for the first time his cool composure deserted him. ‘Bauer?’ he said incredulously.

Enzo was taken aback. ‘You know him?’

‘Well, yes. He was here just a few days ago. He had an appointment with Monsieur Narcisse.’

Enzo felt his own cheeks burning now. ‘About what?’

‘I have no idea. Monsieur Narcisse didn’t say. But Bauer didn’t stay long. Ten minutes at the most, and he left in a temper, the most foul of moods. A very unpleasant individual.’

‘When was this exactly?’

Moreau rounded his desk to open a large appointments diary. He flicked through the pages then ran a long, thin, nicotine-stained finger down the entries. ‘A week ago to the day. At 3 p.m. Monsieur Narcisse himself made the entry, so he must have arranged it by telephone.’

‘Or email.’

Moreau shook his head. ‘He never embraced the technology, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘So what happened to put Bauer in such a bad mood?’

‘I really couldn’t say. Monsieur Narcisse was in his office for an hour or so after he left. Most of that time on the telephone.’ He nodded towards an intercom phone on his desk. ‘I could see his extension light on. Later he came and asked me if I would arrange return rail tickets for him to Brive-la-Gaillarde, and reserve him a room at a hotel in the village of Carennac. But I have to say, I never associated the trip with his rendezvous with Bauer.’

‘So it was you who booked him into the Fenelon.’

‘Yes. It was the only hotel open out of season.’

‘And he didn’t tell you the purpose of his visit?’

‘No, he didn’t.’ And there was a defensive quality in his tone that told Enzo that perhaps Moreau had resented his mentor’s secrecy. He had not connected Narcisse’s hastily arranged trip with the visit from Bauer. But Enzo now realised it had everything to do with it.

If only he knew what they had talked about.

It had begun to rain, and light from all the apartments around the courtyard reflected yellow in its dark cobbles. The chestnut tree at the far side of it had shed most of its leaves by now, and stood nearly naked against the lights in the windows beyond.

Enzo sat looking through rain that ran like tears down the window. He and Raffin had not had anything to say to each other since Kirsty went off to the kitchen to make tea, and he felt a weight of melancholy press down on his chest.

This apartment, in the heart of the capital, a stone’s throw from the floodlit Sénat building at the top of the street, held more memories than Enzo cared to remember. All of which had been played out to the accompaniment of the clumsy pianist still practising scales somewhere in the building.

Enzo forced his eyes away from the window and glanced at Raffin. He was sitting at the far end of the table, wearing an ill-fitting mask and reading the first edition of the evening paper. It was he who had first caught Covid in the spring, bringing it home with him and infecting Kirsty and Alexis. While Kirsty had suffered only mild symptoms, and Alexis none at all, Raffin had ended up in intensive care, where it had been touch-and-go for several days as to whether or not he would be placed on a ventilator. Induced comas and ventilators were the treatment of last resort, and the prognosis was never good. Fortunately for Raffin his viral infection had peaked before that became necessary, and he had begun a long, slow recovery. But it had reduced him still further from the young man with whom Enzo had collaborated on the seven unsolved murders that the journalist had written about in his book, Assassins Cachés. And what was only a few years of age difference between him and Kirsty now seemed much greater.

But for her part, Kirsty appeared content with the man she had married, and although Enzo had never understood her feelings for him, he could only be happy for her.

Kirsty came in carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers and a pot of freshly made tea, a rarity for Enzo in this land of coffee. Her mask was dangling from one ear, but she looped it over the other as soon as she had laid down the tray. She was only too aware that her father had managed to avoid contracting the virus, and that at his age it was likely to be fatal if he did.

‘So,’ she said, as she sat down equidistantly from her husband and her father and began to pour. ‘Apart from this investigation you’re doing into the murder in the Lot...’

‘I’m only consulting,’ Enzo interrupted.

Kirsty rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Papa. This investigation that you’re consulting on...’ she corrected herself. ‘Apart from that, what brings you to Paris?’

‘To see my daughter and son-in-law, of course.’

Kirsty gave him a look. ‘We all know that’s just an excuse for coming to see your grandson.’

Enzo grinned. ‘Can’t think of a better one.’

‘He won’t be home for an hour or so yet.’

Enzo smiled. ‘Good. That gives us time to talk.’

Kirsty shook her head fondly. ‘Here we go. The real reason for the visit.’

Raffin looked up from his paper, interested for the first time, as Kirsty pushed his tea along the table towards him. He regarded it without enthusiasm. ‘Maybe your papa would prefer something stronger. A whisky, perhaps?’ He glanced hopefully at his father-in-law, and Enzo knew that it was Raffin who wanted the whisky.

He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it’s Kirsty who’ll want something stronger.’ And he turned his gaze towards his daughter.

She looked at him with suspicion. ‘What,’ she said flatly.

He hesitated only briefly. ‘I want you to fly to Berlin with me tomorrow.’

Her teacup paused halfway to her lips and she stared at him across its brim. ‘Are you mad?’

‘I need someone to translate for me.’

‘Papa, we’re in the middle of a pandemic!’

‘I read somewhere that public transport was one of the safest places to be because of all the disinfecting and distancing protocols they’ve put in place. And, anyway, you shouldn’t be in any danger.’

‘It’s not me I’m thinking about. If you get it at your age, it’ll probably kill you.’

He felt a flush of annoyance. ‘I’ll tell you what’ll kill me. Sitting at home in some social bubble defined by the government, counting off the days till I die of old age. I’m not an idiot, Kirsty, you know that. I learned enough about viral infection in the course of my career to be hyperconscious of the risks. Even of catching a cold. I’ve always carried disinfectant wipes to clean the armrests and tray tables in aeroplanes. Sophie used to call me Howard Hughes. Now everyone else is just as aware as I am, so I figure the risk of me catching anything is probably lower than it ever has been.’ He paused to catch his breath and thought better of continuing. Instead he said, ‘Rant over.’

She looked at him hard, and knew of old that there was little point in arguing with him. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you want to go to Berlin?’

He released his tension in a long, slow breath, glad that the travel argument was over. ‘Hans Bauer, the suspect in the Narcisse murder, lives there.’

‘I thought you said he’d gone missing. You surely don’t expect to find him in Berlin?’

‘No. It looks like he never made it out of the locale. He might even be dead for all we know.’

‘So what’s the point in going to Berlin?’

‘If Bauer did kill Narcisse, I need to understand why. Nicole has done a little research for me. Apparently his mother died a week or so ago, and he stands to inherit quite a bit of money. He also lived with his girlfriend in a very upmarket apartment in a chic quarter of the city. She could very well be the key to finding out what the hell went on in Carennac. Why Narcisse and Bauer were there. And what the two men talked about when they met in Paris just two days before the murder.’

Raffin was suddenly attentive. ‘They met in Paris? That’s new. I haven’t read anything about that in the press.’

‘Because not even the police know that yet.’ Enzo was aware that anything fresh on the Narcisse murder would be of interest to Raffin’s paper, Libération. He said quickly, ‘But I’d rather keep that quiet for the moment. Though I can promise you, Roger, that if I manage to throw any light on this murder, you will be the first to know.’ Which he knew would be enough to keep Raffin’s enthusiasm in check for the moment. He turned towards Kirsty. ‘Will you come with me?’

She sighed. ‘Well, I’m not going to let you go on your own!’