In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (21 page)

“Perhaps they think otherwise.”

“Or perhaps it wasn’t terrorists in the first place,” said Jordan, suddenly pushing out of his chair. He paced the room, pumping fresh blood to his legs, his brain. Too many hours in that cell had turned his body to mush; he needed a stiff walk, a slap of fresh air. “What if,” he suggested,

“that bombing of the St. Pierre place wasn’t a terrorist attack at all? What if that Cosmic Solidarity nonsense was just a cover story to hide the real motive?”

“You mean it wasn’t a political attack?”

“No.”

“But who would want to kill Philippe St. Pierre?” Jordan suddenly stopped dead as the realization hit him.

“Not Philippe,” he said softly. “His wife. Marie.”

“
Marie
planted the bomb?”

“No! Marie was the
target!
She was the only one home when the bomb went off. Everyone assumes it was a mistake, an error in timing. But the bomber knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to kill Marie, not her husband.” Jordan looked at Reggie with new urgency. “You have to reach Wolf. Tell him what I just said.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Ask Daumier.”

“He doesn’t know, either.”

“Then find out where my uncle’s gone off to. If ever I needed a family connection, it’s right now.” After Reggie had left, the guard escorted Jordan back
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to his cell. The instant he stepped inside, the familiar smells assaulted him—the odor of sour wine and ripe bodies.

Back with old friends, he thought, looking at the two Frenchmen snoring in their cots, the same two men whose cell he’d shared when he was first arrested. A drunk, a thief and him. What a happy little trio they made. He went to his cot and set down the two paper bags with the food and wine. At least he wouldn’t have to gag on any more goulash.

Lying down, he stared at the cobwebs in the corner. So many leads to follow, to run down.
A killer’s on the loose
and here I am, locked up and useless. Unable to test my
theories. If I could just get the help of someone I trust,
someone I know beyond a doubt is on my side…

Where the hell is Beryl?

The greek tavern keeper slid two glasses of retsina onto their table. “Summertime, we have many tourists,” he said with a shrug. “I cannot keep track of foreigners.”

“But this man, Rideau, isn’t a tourist,” said Richard.

“He’s been living on this island twenty years. A Frenchman.”

The tavern keeper laughed. “Frenchmen, Dutchmen, they are all the same to me,” he grunted and went back into the kitchen.

“Another dead end,” muttered Beryl. She took a sip of retsina and grimaced. “People actually
drink
this brew?”

“And some of them even enjoy it,” said Richard. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Then perhaps I’ll acquire it another time.” She pushed the glass away and looked around the gloomy taverna. It was midday, and passengers from the latest cruise ship had 194

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started trickling in from the heat, their shopping bags filled with the usual tourist purchases: Grecian urns, fishermen’s caps, peasant dresses. Immersed in the babble of half a dozen languages, it was easy for Beryl to understand why the locals might not bother to distinguish a Frenchman from any other outsider. Foreigners came, they spent money, they left. What more did one need to know about them?

The tavern keeper reemerged from the kitchen carrying a sizzling platter of calamari. He set it on a table occupied by a German family and was about to head back to the kitchen when Richard asked, “Who might know about this Frenchman?”

“You waste your time,” said the tavern keeper. “I tell you, there is no one on this island named Rideau.”

“He brought his family with him,” said Richard. “A wife and a son. The boy would be in his thirties now. His name is Gerard.”

A dish suddenly clattered to the floor behind the counter of the bar. The dark-eyed young woman standing at the tap was frowning at Richard. “Gerard?” she said.

“Gerard Rideau,” said Richard. “Do you know him?”

“She doesn’t know anything,” the tavern keeper insisted, and waved the young woman toward the kitchen.

“But I can see she does,” said Richard.

The woman stood staring at him, as though not certain what to do, what to say.

“We’ve come from Paris,” said Beryl. “It’s very important we speak to Gerard’s father.”

“You are not French,” said the woman.

“No, I’m English.” Beryl nodded toward Richard.

“He’s American.”

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“He said…he said it was a Frenchman I should be careful of.”

“Who did?”

“Gerard.”

“He’s right to be careful,” said Richard. “But he should know things have gotten even more dangerous. There may be others coming to Paros, looking for his family. He has to talk to us,
now
.” He pointed to the tavern keeper. “He’ll be your witness. If anything goes wrong.” The woman hesitated, then went into the kitchen. A moment later, she reemerged. “He does not answer the telephone,” she said. “I will have to drive you there.” It was a bumpy ride down a lonely stretch of road to Logaras beach. Clouds of dust flew in the open window and coated the jet black hair of their driver. Sofia was her name, and she had been born on the island. Her father managed the hotel near the harbor; now her three brothers ran the business. She could do a better job of it, she thought, but of course no one valued a woman’s opinion, so she worked instead at Theo’s tavern, frying calamari, rolling dolmas. She spoke four languages; one must, she explained, if one wished to live off the tourist trade.

“How do you know Gerard?” asked Beryl.

“We are friends” was the answer.

Lovers, guessed Beryl, seeing the other woman’s cheeks redden.

“His family is French,” said Sofia. “His mother died five years ago, but his father is still alive. But their name is not Rideau. Perhaps—” she looked at them hopefully “—it is a different family you are looking for?”

“They might have changed their name,” said Beryl.

They parked near the beach and strode out across the 196

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rocks and sand. “There,” said Sofia, pointing to a distant sailboard skimming the water. “That is Gerard.” She waved and called to him in Greek.

At once the board spun around, the multicolored sail snapping about in a neat jibe. With the wind at his back, Gerard surfed to the beach like a bronzed Adonis and dragged the board onto the sand.

“Gerard,” said Sofia, “these people are looking for a man named Rideau. Is that your father?” Instantly Gerard dropped his sailboard. “Our name is not Rideau,” he said curtly. Then he turned and walked away.

“Gerard?” called Sofia.

“Let me talk to him,” said Richard, and he followed the other man up the beach.

Beryl stood by Sofia and watched the two men confront each other. Gerard was shaking his head, denying any knowledge of any Rideau family. Through the whistle of the wind, Beryl heard Richard’s voice and the words

“bomb” and “murder.” She saw Gerard glance around nervously and knew that he was afraid.

“I hope I have done the right thing,” murmured Sofia.

“He is worried.”

“He should be worried.”

“What has his father done?”

“It’s not what he’s done. It’s what he knows.” At the other end of the beach, Gerard was looking more and more agitated. Abruptly he turned and walked back to Sofia. Richard was right behind him.

“What is it?” asked Sofia.

“We go,” snapped Gerard. “My father’s house.” This time the drive took them along the coast, past
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groves of struggling olive trees on their left, and the gray-green Aegean on their right. The smell of Gerard’s suntan lotion permeated the car. Such a dry and barren land, Beryl observed, looking out across the scrub grass. But to a man from a French slum, this would have seemed like a paradise.

“My father,” said Gerard as he drove, “speaks no English. I will have to explain to him what you are asking.

He may not remember.”

“I’m sure he does remember,” said Richard. “It’s the reason you left Paris.”

“That was twenty years ago. A long time…”

“Do
you
remember anything?” asked Beryl from the back seat. “You were…what? Fifteen, sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” said Gerard.

“Then you must remember 66 Rue Myrha. The building where you lived.”

Gerard gripped the steering wheel tightly as they bounced onto a dirt road. “I remember the police coming to see the attic. Asking my father questions. Every day, for a week.”

“What about the woman who rented the attic?” asked Richard. “Her name was Scarlatti. Do you remember her?”

“Yes. She had a man,” said Gerard. “I used to listen to them through the door. Every Wednesday. All the sounds they made!” Gerard shook his head in amusement. “Very exciting for a boy my age.”

“So this Mlle Scarlatti, she used the attic only as a love nest?” asked Beryl.

“She was never there except to make love.”

“What did they look like, these two lovers?”

“The man was tall—that’s all I remember. The woman, 198

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she had dark hair. Always wore a scarf and sunglasses. I do not remember her face very well, but I remember she was quite beautiful.”

Like her mother, thought Beryl. Could she be wrong?

Had it really been her, meeting her lover in that run-down flat in Pigalle?

She asked softly, “Was the woman English?” Gerard paused. “She could have been.”

“Meaning you’re not certain.”

“I was young. I thought she was foreign, but I did not know from where. Then, after the murders, I heard she was English.”

“Did you see their bodies?”

Gerard shook his head. “My father, he would not allow it.”

“So your father was the first to see them?” asked Richard.

“No. It was the man.”

Richard glanced at Gerard in surprise. “Which man?”

“Mlle Scarlatti’s lover. We saw him climb the steps to the attic. Then he came running back down, quite frantic.

That’s when we knew something was wrong and called the police.”

“What happened to that man?”

“He drove away. I never saw him again. I assumed he was afraid of being accused. And that was why he sent us the money.”

“The payoff,” said Richard. “I guessed as much.”

“For silence?” asked Beryl.

“Or false testimony.” He asked Gerard, “How was the money delivered?”

“A man came with a briefcase only hours after the
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bodies were found. I’d never seen him before—a short, rather stocky Frenchman. He came to our flat, took my father into a back room. I did not hear what they said. Then the short man left.”

“Your father never spoke to you about it?”

“No. And he told us we were not to speak of it to the police.”

“You’re certain that the briefcase contained money?”

“It must have.”

“How do you know?”

“Because suddenly we had things. New clothes, a television. And then, soon afterward, we came to Greece. And we bought the house. There, you see?” He pointed. In the distance was a sprawling villa with a red-tiled roof. As they drove closer, Beryl saw bougainvillea trailing up the whitewashed walls and spilling over a covered veranda. Just below the house, waves lapped at a lonely beach.

They parked next to a dusty Citroën and climbed out.

The wind whistled in from the sea, stinging their faces with sand. There was no other house in sight, only this solitary building, tucked into the crags of a barren hill.

“Papa?” called Gerard, climbing the stone steps. He swung open the wrought-iron gate. “Papa?” No one answered.

Gerard pushed through the front door and stepped across the threshold, Beryl and Richard right behind him.

Their footsteps echoed through silent rooms.

“I called here from the tavern,” said Sofia. “There was no answer.”

“His car is outside,” said Gerard. “He must be here.” He crossed the living room and started toward the dining room. “Papa?” he said, and halted in the doorway. An an-200

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guished cry was suddenly wrenched from his throat. He took a step forward and seemed to stumble to his knees.

Over his shoulder, Beryl caught a view into the formal dining room beyond.

A wood table stretched the length of the room. At the far end of the table, a gray-haired man had slumped onto his dinner plate, scattering chick-peas and rice across the table’s surface.

Richard pushed past Gerard and went to the fallen man.

Gently he grasped the head and lifted the face from its pillow of mashed rice.

In the man’s forehead was punched a single bullet-hole.

Ten

Amiel Foch sat at an outdoor café table, sipping espresso and watching the tourists stroll past. Not the usual dentures-and-bifocals crowd, he observed as a shapely redhead wandered by. This must be the week for honey-mooners. It was five o’clock, and the last public ferry to Piraeus would be sailing in half an hour. If the Tavistock woman planned to leave the island tonight, she’d have to board that ferry. He’d keep an eye on the gangplank.

He polished off his snack of stuffed grape leaves and started in on dessert, a walnut pastry steeped in syrup.

Curious, how the completion of a job always left him ravenous. For other men, the spilling of blood resulted in a surge of libido, a sudden craving for hot, fast sex.

Amiel Foch craved food instead; no wonder his weight was such a problem.

Dispatching the old Frenchman Rideau had been easy; killing Wolf and the woman would not be so simple.

Earlier today he had considered an ambush, but Rideau’s house stood on an empty stretch of shoreline, the only 202

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access a five-mile-long dirt road, and there was nowhere to conceal his car. Nowhere to lie in wait without being detected. Foch had a rule he never broke: always leave an escape route. The Rideau house, set in the midst of barren scrub, was too exposed for any such retreat. Richard Wolf was armed and would be watching for danger signs.