Killerfest (15 page)

CHAPTER 26 - BEST LAID PLANS

“I’ll cancel
all my meetings for today,” Emma said after Elizabeth Morlach left. “I thought
we could stay home and have lots of sex.”

“You haven’t
forgotten how easy I am,” Scarne replied. “That’s a good thing.”

“I want to
take a shower. Why don’t you join me?”

“I just took a
shower.”

“What the hell
does that have to do with anything?”

“Good point.”

Fortunately,
the airy two-bedroom apartment Emma rented in the 10th Arrondissement near the
Place de la République had a large bathroom, with a shower unusual for Paris,
in that two normal-size human beings could fit in it without breaking a rib or
dislocating a shoulder — or given their coital exertions — something more
vital. An hour later, in bed, underneath several pop art paintings that made
him dizzy to look at, Scarne said, “When did you learn how to yodel?”

“What are you
talking about. I don’t know how to yo ….” She laughed. “You bastard. Are you
making fun of my passionate responses?”

“Is that what
that was? I thought it might be a call to the hounds.”

“I know. I
just adore sex. My orgasms seem to be more intense now.”

“You are
reaching your sexual peak.”

“You on the
other hand ….” She looked down. “What do you call that? Jet lag?”

“Hey, give me
a break.” He rolled on top of her. “I’ll show you jet lag.”

 His cell
phone rang. Ordinarily, at such a moment, he would have let it go to the
answering service. But given the time difference with the States, and his
current assignment, he thought it might be important. He snatched it off the
night table.

“How
romantic,” Emma huffed.

Scarne ignored
her. As it turned out, it was a local, European call. He saw the name. He put
the phone to his ear. Just to be annoying, Emma began to aggressively move her
hips. And then, for added effect, made believe she was yodeling. He put his
free hand over her laughing mouth.

“Mr. Scarne,
this is Claude from the Mendelsohn Gallerie. I just heard from Gaetan. His trip
to London was successful and he is cutting it short. He will be back this
afternoon. He will be quite busy but he said he can see you the first thing
Saturday morning if that is convenient. And he would like you to be his guest
at the exhibition and cocktail party Saturday night.”

Scarne, who
had no intention of attending either, said he would be delighted. After he
ended the call, he looked down at Emma.

“I have to go
to Brussels immediately.”

“Damn it!
That’s not how I intended to get screwed this afternoon.”

“The best laid
plans,” Scarne said, “pardon the pun.”

“I understand.
But, please, just finish what you started.”

“Only if you
promise not to yodel.”

“Oh, suck
farts,” she said, pulling his mouth down to hers.

***

Because
Brussels lies almost at the midpoint between Paris and Amsterdam, it is well
served by trains. The Thalys rail system offered hourly high-speed connections
all day long. Scarne caught the noon bullet train out of Paris Gare du Nord
station and an hour and 15 minutes later arrived at Brussels-Midi, the modern
complex serving south Brussels. It was a short taxi ride to his hotel, the
Marivaux at Boulevard Adolphe Max. When he got to his room the first thing he
did was unwrap the package he’d been given in Paris. In it was a black Beretta
Nano, a pocket-sized 9mm automatic pistol. The serial numbers had been burned
off. He hefted the gun in his hand and whistled. It couldn’t have weighed more
than a pound and would fit easily in his jacket pocket. He jammed the six-round
magazine in the automatic and worked the slide. He put it in his pocket and
practiced taking it out quickly. The Nano’s extremely low profile prevented a
snag, as did the fact that unlike many pistols of its type, it had no slide
catch on the side. Scarne would have liked something with a little more punch,
but he knew it would probably do, unless he ran up against a water buffalo.

He called the
Mendelsohn Gallerie and, not giving his name, asked for the owner. He was told
that Mendelsohn wouldn’t be in until 4 P.M. So he killed time researching
Mendelsohn and his gallery on the Internet. There was a lot of information
about Mendelsohn’s military and government service, with glowing articles about
his transition from “the black arts” to “the real arts.” He was, it seemed, a
pillar of Brussels society. If Juliette Boudin’s information was correct, and
Mendelsohn ran a string of assassins on the side, Scarne knew that there was no
better cover than respectability.     

***

 The Gallerie
Mendelsohn was on the ground floor of a small building on Rue du Chantier.  As
he roamed through the gallery’s various studios, Scarne had to admit that
Gaetan Mendelsohn had exquisite taste. But he only stayed long enough to get a
look at Mendelsohn. After he left, he took an outside table at a conveniently
located cafe across the street and tailed the owner when he closed up. He knew
he had to be careful. If Juliette’s information was accurate and Mendelsohn was
a middleman for trained assassins, he would naturally be cautious. Moreover, as
a former Belgian security agent, he probably instinctively retained his trade
craft. Fortunately, the streets in early-summer Brussels were crowded and
Scarne had no trouble following his quarry to a small bistro a few blocks from
the gallery, where he joined several friends of both sexes for dinner. Scarne
was even able to grab a bite at the bar while keeping Mendelsohn in his sight.
After dinner, Mendelsohn and a young male companion bid goodnight to the others
and strolled off by themselves, going up various streets and looking in store
windows, eventually winding up back at the gallery. They entered a door next to
the gallery entrance; Mendelsohn apparently lived next door to his business.

Scarne had not
counted on Mendelsohn’s date. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that
the kid left. He went to the cafe he’d used earlier and ordered coffee. After
three more coffees, a carafe of wine and proposition from a local hooker sent
to his table by the proprietor who was just trying to be helpful, he decided
that sitting across from the apartment all night was a waste of time.
Mendelsohn’s guest was probably a sleepover. He knew what time the gallery
opened. He’d catch Mendelsohn the next morning.     

CHAPTER 27 - WORK OF ART

When Scarne
got to the Gallerie Mendelsohn at 10:15 the next morning, there were several
people milling around outside.

“I don’t
understand, Claude,” one middle-aged woman said, “I had an appointment with
Gaetan. Why can’t you let us in? You work here, don’t you?”

The young man
she was addressing said, “I’m sorry, Madame. Only Monsieur Mendelsohn has the
key. Only he knows the security code. I am sure he will be here at any moment.
This is very unusual.”

Scarne didn’t
like the sound of that.

“How unusual,”
he asked.

“He always
opens the door by 9:45,” Claude said.

“You could set
your clock by him,” another man said.

Scarne drifted
away and went to the door that led to Mendelsohn’s apartment. He pressed the
buzzer. Nothing. He looked down at the lock and saw the scrapes on the metal.
He pushed on the door, which swung open. Just like in the movies, he thought.
He looked back at the small crowd in front of the gallery. Nobody was paying
him any attention. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him.

The apartment
was spacious and modern, with an open floor plan at ground level: living area,
dining area, kitchen. Scarne thought it might once have been a gallery itself.
The furnishings and art work were what one would expect in the home of a
collector. A spiral staircase led up to a loft level that presumably contained
a sleeping area. Looking up, Scarne could see walls covered with modern art, a
change from the more traditional paintings and sculptures downstairs. The only
light came from windows and skylights. There was no sound except for some music
coming from the loft area. 

Scarne drew
his gun and started up the stairs. Halfway to the top he caught a familiar
odor, much like the one in Quimper’s suite. Much like the odor in too many
rooms he’d entered in his life. It wasn’t the smell of decay. It almost
certainly was too soon for that. It was the iron smell of blood, a lot of it,
with an indelicate overlay of excrement. He stopped at the top of the landing
and looked at the ornate king-sized metal-framed bed in the middle of the room.
There were two bodies on it, both nude, lying side by side. It was clear what
had happened. They had been surprised in bed. Scarne wondered if the killer had
entered the apartment after he had left the café the night before. Did he wait
for them to start their sex before assaulting them? They would have been at
their most vulnerable. In the throes of passion, they probably would not have
heard anyone picking the lock downstairs. They might have even been asleep.

Scarne
considered another possibility. There was a large clothes closet just off the
loft. Its door was ajar. He walked over. Jackets, shirts and garishly colored
robes hung in disarray, as if someone had pushed them aside. Scarne sniffed. He
couldn’t be sure, but he thought he caught a whiff of a familiar, unpleasant
odor, recalling his recent ride in an elevator with Gulle at Khan’s house. Had
he been hiding in the closet behind the clothes before the two men had returned
to Mendelsohn’s apartment? The scratches on the front door lock were
inconclusive. They could have come at any time. Even a pro like Gaetan
Mendelsohn might not have noticed them in the dark. Especially if he was
anxious to get his boyfriend in the sack.

What was
certain was that it didn’t matter to the victims. The body on the right side
was that of the boy Mendelsohn had brought home. His throat was slit ear to ear
and the sheet beneath him was soaked red down to his waist. He had been
fortunate, his beautiful, pale face registering nothing so much as surprise.

Mendelsohn’s
face was a study in anguish. His hands were tied to the bars of the headboard
and his wounds were more gruesome. Some of his fingertips had been cut off. It
was obvious he had been tortured. A bloody towel lay by his head. His tormentor
had probably gagged him to muffle the screams, only removing it when Mendelsohn
broke, as he assuredly would have in an effort to save his manhood. Not that he
was able to do even that, Scarne noted, looking at the man’s groin. He’d also
been disemboweled.

Scarne looked
at the walls. He realized that what he had taken for modern wall art at a
distance was, close up, really a pattern of blood splatters. Having just added
some modern paintings to his New York apartment, he shook his head in disgust.

His eyes
drifted to a spot above and behind Mendelsohn’s hands, where several red
streaks seemed to have more definition. It was at a point on the wall where the
tortured man’s partially severed fingers could just reach. There appeared to
four symbols, roughly scrawled in blood. Scarne leaned in and looked closer and
saw that they were scraggly letters, the last one of which was “V.” Scarne
quickly realized that the dying Mendelsohn, his hands behind him, had tried to
write something, but the crude crimson letters were reversed on the wall
because of his position. The “V” was really the first letter in the word, the
entirety of which was “VEND.”

 Scarne looked
at Mendelsohn’s ravaged face. He didn’t know what the word meant, but he had a
grudging admiration for the former security officer’s courage in the face of an
agonizing and certain death. His gaze went back to the dead boy. There was no
time for recrimination. But Scarne knew that later he would have a hard time
with the kid’s death. Gaetan Mendelsohn was a professional, and surely an evil
man. But his lover would undoubtedly be alive if Scarne hadn’t been so cute. He
wanted to stir up trouble, and he did. And it cost an innocent life. I’ll even
that up, he thought. And immediately felt ashamed. How noble. How heroic. It would
make him feel good. And the kid will still be dead.

“Fuck you,
Scarne,” he said aloud to the empty room.

The doorbell
chimed. He heard someone calling Mendelsohn’s name. It sounded like Claude, the
assistant. Scarne looked around the room and spotted a laptop on a small table.
Whoever had killed the men had not bothered to take the computer, presumably
having gotten the information the old-fashioned way. Scarne had already decided
who that was. It was the only thing that made sense. The bell ringing stopped
and was replaced with door pounding. The police, emergency services and for all
he knew the Belgian Army couldn’t be far behind. He grabbed the laptop and went
downstairs. Walking quickly to the rear of the apartment he found a door
leading out to a small courtyard. Using a handkerchief he opened the door and
left. No one was about. 

***

Back in his
hotel room Scarne booted up Mendelsohn’s computer. There were dozens of folders
in “My Documents,” all labeled in French. He started at the top. The fifth one
down was labeled “Club Gastronomique” and contained sub-folders labeled with
the names of 10 European countries: Allemagne, Angleterre, Austriche, Belgique,
Danemarke, Espagne, Finlande, France, Italie and Suisse. Scarne started going
through the country folders. They each contained WORD files labeled with what
appeared to be the first names of the members of Mendelsohn’s so-called
“Gourmet Club.” Most countries had one name in them; a few had two. The WORD
docs consisted mainly of phone numbers and some email addresses. There was
nothing to indicate that the “club” members were anything but personal friends or
acquaintances. All the names Scarne read were male until he got to the Italy
folder. That contained one name: Vendela. Scarne checked the last folder,
Switzerland, just to be thorough, but that name was also obviously a man. He
was sure that Mendelsohn had scrawled the first four letters of “Vendela” on
the wall before he died.

Scarne called
another number Juliette Boudin had provided. Unlike the man who had given him
the gun, this contact was on the right side of the law. Ten minutes later he
knew that the bulk of the calls made on the cell listed for “Vendela”
originated from a small town near Cortona, Italy.

The town’s
name was Camucia.