Caveat Emptor

Chapter 19

Barbara lay on the floor in the kitchen doorway, one hand scrabbling for purchase on the frame. One of the men crouched beside the sofa, blood seeping from a thigh wound while the other fell against the wall, recovering from Keith's violent entry.

Keith recognized them both immediately as he screamed for the man with the gun to drop it right away and get on the floor. Barbara's warning shout made him spin about, and he saw the wounded man raising a gun in his direction. Instinctively, he fired at the central mass, and the man cried out, flopping backwards, gun flying from his hand.

The next round of gunfire had him ducking and rolling into a kneeling position, his aim wavering uncertainly as two uniformed police burst into the room. The other man lay crumpled against the baseboard, no chance of surviving the barrage of shots from his fellow police.

He quickly holstered his weapon and scrambled across to where Barbara, now in a sitting position in the doorway, held a hand to a nasty bruise on her cheek.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened? What was the shot I heard?" Without waiting for a reply, he helped her to her feet and told one of the officers to get a medic up to the room. "I heard you scream then a shot?"

"I kicked that one over there," she pointed to the man the police shot, "the other one punched me in the face and I screamed. His gun went off and hit the one who punched me, in the leg, then you—"

"You need to be checked. You could be suffering from shock. Where's that medic?"

"On his way, Detective. He was looking after Purcell."

Keith looked a bit sheepish and nodded, turning back to Barbara and leading her to a chair.

A moment later the medic arrived, handed Barbara a compress for her face and led her downstairs to the ambulance. Keith was restrained from following by the Chief of Detectives, who arrived wearing a disgusted face, demanding a briefing on just what had happened to provide the city with two dead Frenchmen, a wounded policeman and an injured civilian.

****

Assured by the hospital, who treated and released both Purcell and Barbara, and then by Barbara herself, that they were fine, and she was staying with her friend Janet Greer until her door was repaired, Keith knuckled down to the necessary paperwork required by his Chief.

"So, that puts paid to the case then. Well done Railton, in spite of the Hollywood dramatics."

"Sir, we still don't know who killed Snelgrove."

"That was in France, let them worry."

"Sir, he was a Canadian citizen. Legally and ethically it is still our worry."

The Chief sat back and pulled at his nose. Retirement was only a few months away, closure of this case would see his career draped in a mantle of success as he bade the department goodbye. His thoughts moved quickly to his Detective, whom he knew would not let go, and he reasoned that it would be Railton and not himself who would be under scrutiny if he failed to succeed.

"Okay, Detective. You have seventy-two hours to come up with a solid, evidence backed reason to continue investigating . . . but there will be no more trips to France or anywhere else, got it?"

"Thank you, sir."

Three days was better than nothing, Keith thought, as he waited for an answer to his phone call. The voice that answered was raspy and not pleasant sounding; Keith ignored that and barged ahead.

"Mike? Keith Railton. Look, I know you aren't well but I need everything you have on Edward Tewksbury. Not just notes. Impressions. Anything at all."

"All my paperwork went to the Chief before I left. As for impressions, the guy's bent. I don't know how but my gut, such as it is these days, says he's crooked. He stayed in Marrakesh two nights then went straight to France. Five days total and he was back home again . . . six if you count travel time. But that's all in the file. What isn't in the file are the dozens of phone calls he made that I couldn't trace from here."

"Do you have anything on them at all?"

"One he made from the hotel in Marrakesh to a local number but I couldn't get anything else. Sorry."

"Thanks, Mike. Get well soon, okay."

Keith tapped his pen against his lip, thinking. What would prompt such a short trip to France via Marrakesh right after the killing in Toronto? A handful of mysterious phone calls in France and one in Marrakesh? He grabbed his phone, checked the number he wanted and placed a call to Municipal Police Constable Charles Marchand.

****

Three-thirty in the morning and Keith was floundering around trying to reach his phone. Constable Marchand's greeting was less than cordial.

"You place me in a very awkward situation, Detective Railton."

He went on to explain what he had to do to keep his call from being traced by a certain, very dangerous person. Digging sleep from his eyes, Keith told the Constable he appreciated the circumstances and promised he would not have called if it wasn't urgent police business.

"This is very important, Charles," Keith used his name to personalize their relationship. "We believe whoever shot Snelgrove was hired by a Canadian named Edward Tewksbury who visited your country for four or five days at the time of the shooting. He made some local phone calls, and if you could track those for us, we have an excellent chance of closing the entire case from here."

The line was silent for a moment, then the Constable spoke. "Only because you kept your word and did not report me, I will see what I can find, but this is the last, Detective. After this, do not call me again. I will need at least a couple of days and will call as soon as I have something. It could be any hour so make sure you have your phone at all times – I won't call twice."

The call ended and Keith rubbed his neck. A couple of days . . . that's all I have. Damn! He would need to do some grovelling with his Chief.

****

"I checked, and your door has been repaired, so I thought I would pick you up, buy you lunch and take you home."

Barbara locked the door to Janet's apartment and walked with Keith down the street to his car.

"Crime have the day off?" She asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

"I wish." He told her about the seventy-two-hour extension, which was vanishing fast, the call to France and his suspicion about Tewksbury.

"You think our client shot that man in France?"

"When you look at all the evidence, there's nobody else left that had anything to do with the scroll."

"There's that French gangster."

"Why would he shoot Snelgrove before he had the scroll back. After maybe, I could see that."

Barbara shook her head and stared out the window. "Tewksbury."

"I spoke to Jean Paul and asked what made him so convinced to buy the scroll in the first place, but he wouldn't say. I got the impression I put some doubt in his head. My guess is, Tewksbury believes that if JP would lay out a ton of money, it must be genuine and he meant to have it."

"Then why would he shoot Snelgrove? It's the same argument you made for whatshisname, JP."

"That's what I'm hoping to learn from our French Constable." He pulled into the parking lot of a small mall and stopped the car. "You haven't had a meatball sandwich until to try one of Davy's."

Barbara looked up at the sign over the small shop. Ex Navy Davy – Meatballs and Gravy – on a plate or in a bun.

"You're not serious."

He climbed out of the car and came around, opening her door. "Trust me."