“Give me some good news,” Hugo said.
“If she’s dead, the French authorities don’t know about it. Did everything a spook can do, so either she’s alive or her death was never reported.”
“OK, thanks. The cell phone?”
“We’ve got him on the radar,” Tom said. “He’s in the mountains, looks like he’s heading for the border.”
“To Spain?” Hugo shook his head. “No, that’s not right. It can’t be.”
“We’ll know in about ten minutes. The French border patrol will take him down when he gets there.”
“If you’re right, I want him alive.”
“Hugo, they’re border patrol. They get shot at by Basque terrorists and drug smugglers, they’re not going to take any chances with this guy. And he shot a policeman, a frigging captain in the French police, one of their own. If they know that, and you better believe that they will, I don’t like his chances of coming out of those mountains breathing.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Hugo went with his instincts and found a ride to the airstrip. He was handing the phone back to its owner, the crumpled policeman who’d driven him there, when it rang.
“Tom. What happened?”
“It was your phone all right,” Tom said. “They stopped the car at gunpoint and found two very surprised grandparents on a wine-buying trip to Spain. Looks like he tossed the phones through an open window. Fucker.”
“OK. That makes more sense than him making a run for the border.”
“If you say so. Are you heading back now?”
“Yes,” Hugo said. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Good, Claudia’s sick of taking care of me.”
“It’s been a whole day, I don’t blame her. See if she’ll stay and make dinner, will you?”
“What, don’t like my cooking?”
“Never tried it, and I see no reason to start now.” Hugo paused. “And the other thing. How’s that going?”
“As you say, it’s been a whole day. But so far so good.”
Just after four o’clock, Claudia welcomed him at the door with a peck on both cheeks and a glass of something thick and yellow that Hugo didn’t recognize.
“It’s called a mango lassi.” She jerked a thumb at Tom who waved from the couch. “Something about replacing old rituals with new ones.”
“It looks like it should have a little pink umbrella in it. I don’t usually drink things that have pink umbrellas in them.”
“Screw you,” Tom said. “You need to be more supportive. And unless you want a glass of water, there’s nothing else to be had in this apartment.” He squinted at Hugo. “Jesus, you look and smell awful.”
“I wasn’t going to mention that,” Claudia said. “But if you have a shower, I’ll fry up some scallops.”
They ate an early dinner in the living room, making Tom abide by his doctor’s orders to stay put for twenty-four hours, but keeping him company.
“Good scallops,” Hugo said. “I didn’t get lunch, so thanks for doing this.”
“Sure,” Claudia said. “Now, give me something I can put in a story.”
Hugo wiped his plate with a piece of bread. He sat back and told them what had happened. From somewhere, Claudia produced a notebook and scribbled as he talked.
“So Raul’s going to be fine?” she asked, when he’d finished.
“Concussion probably,” Hugo said. “And a few days off of work, but yes. Fine.”
“Where do we go from here?” Tom asked. “If you’re right, that piece of crap is going out with a bang, and plans to take another victim with him.”
“I’d like to know more about how his mother died. He said he killed her, but somehow I don’t think so.” Hugo snapped his fingers. “The Moulin Rouge.”
“Aren’t you a little tired for that?” Claudia asked, with a wink.
“No. I saw a picture in his room, the same picture I saw at the Moulin Rouge. I need to identify the women in it.” He stood. “I think one of them might have been his mother.”
Claudia drove them, her little car finding its way through the Monday-night traffic like a busy ant making its way to the head of the column. Hugo was impressed.
It was six o’clock when they arrived, and Pierre Galvan was waiting, wearing a new pair of suspenders and a different shade of pinstripe, but still nervous — more so, with the threat of the murderous Scarab being linked to his precious troupe. In fact, when Hugo had called, Galvan had claimed to be too busy, that he didn’t know anything, that he couldn’t help. His tone changed as soon as Hugo mentioned the media.
“You wouldn’t want the Scarab linked to the Moulin Rouge, and for people to think you wouldn’t cooperate. Would you?”
So there Galvan stood inside his office, every group photo lined up on his desk and on the red velour sofa, ready for Hugo’s inspection. He spotted it straight away, four women in a line, all high-kicks and smiles.
“Who are they?” Hugo asked.
Galvan frowned at the picture, slowly shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know them. I’ve only been here fifteen years, I don’t recognize any of them.”
“Who will?” Hugo asked. “There must be someone here—”
“Oh, wait,” Galvan interrupted. He was bending over the picture, squinting. “I take it back, the one on the left.”
“Her name?”
“Louise Braud. That was her stage name. Many of these girls come here to start new, so it may not have been her original name. We’re like the Foreign Legion, but with feather boas instead of guns.” His smile fell away when he saw the look on Hugo’s face.
“When did she leave the repertoire?” Claudia asked.
“She didn’t really leave,” Galvan said. “She was killed.”
The hair stood up on the back of Hugo’s neck. “Where, when, and how?”
“Ten years ago. Fifteen, maybe.” Galvan held up his hands in surrender. “All I know is, she died. If I remember the story right, she went back home for a few days, a week, then never came back. Her husband phoned. He said she’d died in an accident. A fire, I think it was.”
“Impressive memory,” Claudia said.
“Oh, not at all.” Galvan was earnest. “She was a brilliant dancer. Supposed to have been the next Jane Avril, everyone said so. If I remember rightly, she’d done some dancing down south, Toulouse or maybe Pau, then she suddenly appeared on our doorstep, tried out, and blew everyone away.”
“That good?” Claudia said.
“Oh yes. And not just that, but she was the only person I know whose perfect body was improved by stunning tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Hugo asked. “Do you happen to remember any of them?”
“Mais oui,” Galvan said. “She only had two, but they were large and beautiful. A snake on the front and a cheetah … no, a leopard. It was a leopard, on her back. They were works of art, they danced when she danced.” He sighed. “People still talk about what a waste that was, her dying so young.” He looked from Claudia to Hugo. “Anything else you need?”
The café was busy, packed with tourists stoking their courage for a trip to one of the bawdier establishments that called Pigalle home. The locals breezed past on their way home from work, or their way to it, glancing in at the drinkers, nibbling on baguettes or talking on the phone.
Hugo and Claudia had squeezed into a corner table, ordering a carafe of red so the waiter wouldn’t have to keep tiptoeing over to them, risking life and limb stepping past the dropped bags and lit cigarettes being flourished by dramatic Gallic hands.
Claudia’s phone sat on the table on front of them, their eyes demanding it to ring and furnish answers to the questions they’d given Tom as they left the Moulin Rouge.