Caveat Emptor

Chapter 8

Maurice scanned the hallway then waved him inside.

"How did you find me?"

"It wasn't easy. I have contacts all over who deal in various types of information."

Maurice went to the window and studied the street below.

"I assure you, I am alone, and I am a representative of the person you approached." An easy lie.

"What happened to Aubert? Who killed him? Was it you?"

"Who?"

"Aubert, the courier that was killed."

"You mean Tremblay."

"No, I mean Aubert. The man who carried the letters."

Gregory looked hard at Maurice, his mind racing over the news that he hadn't killed Tremblay but some impersonator named Aubert.

"You sent an impersonator?"

"Ah, non, Tremblay wasn't available . . ."

"Just his name, eh? That was to make the fake letters seem more credible?"

"How – they were not fake! Why would you-"

"Give it up, Maurice. I saw them, and your impersonator confirmed that fact after some discussion." He watched the play of emotions, and while Maurice struggled with the lie, Gregory swiftly moved and disarmed him, smacking him viciously with the barrel and knocking him to the floor.

Maurice pulled himself up by the arm of a chair and sank onto it, clasping his head.

"You – you killed him."

"Not intentionally, he was just too immersed in his role, became a bit greedy and it became expedient. I really thought it was Tremblay."

"So now what, you are going to kill me?"

"I just want the scroll, Maurice – unless of course it's a fake too."

"How much will you pay?"

Gregory laughed and moved to the window sill, sitting on the edge. "I don't think that discussion is on the table anymore. You give me the scroll, I let you walk away."

"If you kill me you will never find it."

Gregory showed an evil smile. "It's how I will kill you, Maurice . . . not if." He stood and crossed to the chair, delivering another blow with the gun barrel. Maurice cried out and covered his bleeding face.

"M-my hand luggage . . . in the closet."

"You see." Gregory backed away to the closet and opened the door.

"Top shelf." Maurice said.

Gregory looked up and stretched out a hand to feel for the bag. The sliding closet door hit him hard on the elbow and knocked him off balance, falling under the weight of a charging Maurice. They tumbled awkwardly into the closet, struggling for a purchase on each other.

Maurice slammed his forearm across Gregory's face and then wrestled for the gun – losing. There were more awkward blows and grunting efforts, as legs thrashed about and fingers clawed. Gregory managed to get a knee up high enough to shove Maurice back out of the closet, but the gun flew from his hand and went spinning across the floor.

Maurice scrambled after it on his knees and just as he reached it, Gregory landed on his back, hooking a wire coat hanger about his neck. Maurice shrieked as the hook pierced his throat and he forgot the gun, all effort directed at pulling the wire away.

Gregory sat astride his back pulling for all he was worth, swearing and grunting until he felt Maurice collapse to the floor and go still. A puddle of blood quickly spread from beneath his face and Gregory pushed himself upright and away, breathing hard.

Ten minutes later he found the envelope with the scroll in the hand luggage as Maurice had said, and carefully checking his appearance in the hall mirror, he let himself out and headed down the stairs to the street.

***

Keith sat down on the bench and handed Barbara a coffee and a ham sandwich, explaining that jambon was the only filling he knew to ask for and she needn't bother teasing him about it.

"Ham is fine, detective." Her giggle said everything.

"What about our friends, anything?"

"Nobody has come out the front at all. You think we may be missing another exit?"

"I'm sure there is, but he went in the front quite normally, no reason he wouldn't leave the same way." Keith bit into his sandwich and made a pleasing face.

"Unless they got into an argument over the sale."

"Mmph," He swallowed and shook his head. "You do love a mystery don't you?"

"Just trying to talk the walk."

"Your walk says plenty as it is." He gave her a grin and ducked away from an arm punch.

She acted with mock annoyance then held up a finger, pointing. "It's him! He looks . . . furtive."

"You can tell furtive from here?"

"Well look at him. A little hunched, moving with quick steps. And there, looking over his shoulder. That's furtive."

"Finish your coffee and we'll pay Mr. Frossard a visit."

"If he's there."

"Oh ye of little faith." Keith took their refuse to the garbage bin and then held Barbara's arm as they headed to the apartment.

Barbara found the unit for the gestionnaire d'appartement and they knocked on the door. A short, grey-haired woman opened the door a bit and suspiciously questioned their presence.

"Bon jour, Madame. Nous essayons de trouver un ami dans votre immeuble. Nous n'avons pas de numéro de téléphone, mais . . ." Barbara went on to plead, with a description and her most charming smile.

"That was impressive," Keith praised as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. "I wouldn't have been able to communicate with her at all."

"I was setting you up for a candle lit dinner instead of take out."

"We'll see how well you do getting Frossard to answer first."

She wrapped on the door and waited, then rapped again. "Bonjour, Monsieur Frossard, êtes-vous là?"

Keith frowned and urged her to try again.

"Monsieur Frossard, bonjour?" She shrugged and stepped back, giving a nervous gasp as Keith produced a small tool and began fiddling with the door lock. "What are you doing?" She whispered noisily.

"Since he isn't home, it's an opportunity to see if we can learn anything about what he's up to." The lock clicked and Keith eased the door open.

Maurice in a pool of blood was the first thing he saw and he spun around, clamping his hand over Barbara's mouth. She struggled at first then her eyes widened, and the expected scream was sufficiently muzzled until he could kick the door closed and whisper a sharp warning in her ear.

"Go on into the living room, I'll look at him." He knelt down, away from the pooling blood and checked Maurice's pockets then stood and went through the closet. On the floor was a small, open luggage bag, which Keith later surmised, after a professional search of the apartment, that, that was where the killer's search ended.

He took a shaken Barbara back down and outside, letting her sit in the park and gather herself.

"I have to phone Nice and report this. I'll use that one in the little square. You okay here for a few minutes?"

"Use your cell."

"I uh- I never set up roaming charges or whatever . . . budget conscious." He pressed his lips together and shrugged.

"I'll be fine." She said.