Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“Are you going to give me the grand tour?”

“Monsieur, there are only four rooms. Come this way.”

Hess followed her into the kitchen that had a wide stone fireplace against one wall, a small refrigerator and a simple wooden table in the center of the room.

“May I offer you something, cognac, Pernod?” She didn’t have anything up to his standards, but had to ask.

“A little Pernod would be nice.”

Hess didn’t believe in coincidence. He had to be sure. He didn’t see the silver Peugeot when they had passed through the village. He didn’t see it when they drove to the garage, or to Marie-Noëlle’s house. But when they came out a little after eight there it was parked on the street between two cars.

They were turning onto the main road, Hess looking in the side mirror, when he saw the Peugeot’s lights pop on, and the car swing out and follow them. Marie-Noëlle was driving, a lipstick-stained cigarette butt clamped between her teeth, window open halfway, cold air blowing in. He had thrown down a quick glass of Pernod at her house as she sat across the table from him, nervous, keeping her distance. Then she had offered to drive him back to the villa.

Colette pulled over. Harry and Cordell got out and crossed the road and stood at the wall in front of Hess’ villa. No car had passed by for several minutes. Cordell hoisted him up and Harry grabbed the tile cap, went over the top of the wall and dropped down in the garden twenty feet from the front door. Harry crouched, listening, heard a dog barking in the distance.

He drew the .38 from his coat pocket and took the stairs down to the lower level. He moved along the back of the villa, looking in windows, passing a dark bedroom, an office with a desk light on. He passed the kitchen, saw a pot on the stove top, a plate and wine glass set on the counter. He kept moving, glanced at the pool, crossed the deck and looked through the sliding doors. The TV was on in the salon. There were signs of life but no one was in any of the rooms. He turned and looked at the houses scattered through the dark hills, and down the valley at the city of Nice, lit up but subdued by cloud cover.

Harry went along the house, back the way he’d come. Halfway up the stairs, he heard a door close and footsteps on the pea-gravel path that led to the cars. Went up, moved along the side of the villa to the front and saw the housekeeper in hat and cape, carrying a small suitcase to the Fiat.

Harry went to the front door, glanced to his right. The housekeeper was in the car. He heard it start and saw the lights go on and the gate open. But then she got out and went in the garage. Harry opened the door, stepped into the small foyer, closed it and went up the stairs to Hess’ bedroom. It was dark. He crossed the room, looked out the sliding door and saw the Fiat in the driveway.

He went downstairs, gripping the .38, moved through the office into the hall, heard voices in the salon and then something else, a sound like someone moaning. He opened a door and there was the housekeeper tied to a chair in the laundry room, a rag stuffed in her mouth. He pulled it out. Hess was wearing her hat and cape. Hess was in the Fiat getting away. “Where is Chartier going?”

“I don’t know, monsieur .”

Claude was bringing a bag of trash up from his cottage to put in the bin in the garage, hoping to see Marie-Noëlle. He had been thinking about her all day. He had kissed her when she came out to bring him a glass of water. He couldn’t resist, even though she had told him no demonstrations of affection unless monsieur was away. He didn’t like it when she was in the villa alone with Chartier. Monsieur was a man, and Claude didn’t trust any man in Marie-Noëlle’s company.

Now he was coming up the stairs and saw something out of the corner of his eye and ducked down. A figure moving along the back wall of the house, a man looking in the windows. Was this the one monsieur had been talking about? It was very strange. Where did he come from? How did he get on the property?

Claude ran down the stairs to the cottage, went in and lifted the shotgun off the hooks above the fireplace. The gun was hot from the fire. He broke it open, loaded two shells and snapped it closed. Claude’s hands were shaking. He was a gardener, not a gendarme, but he had to protect Marie-Noëlle.

Harry heard him, looked over his shoulder and saw the gardener holding a shotgun, the man probably thinking he had tied her up. Harry rested the .38 on top of the washing machine.

The housekeeper said, “Dépose le fusil, Claude .”

The gardener looked at her but didn’t say anything.

“ Claude, laisse-le tomber. ”

The gardener lowered the barrel as Cordell came down the hall from the salon with the .45 in his hand. The gardener raised the shotgun and aimed it at him.

“ Claude, je suis hors de danger, laisse tomber le fusil. ”

The gardener crouched, resting his shotgun on the floor, and moved past Harry to the housekeeper, putting his arms around her.

Harry wanted to tell the woman what was going on but this wasn’t the time. He picked up the .38 and he and Cordell ran upstairs, went out the front door and through the wrought-iron gate. The Peugeot was across the road, lights on, Colette behind the wheel. Harry got in front next to her, Cordell in back.

“Hess is in the Fiat,” Harry said.

“Are you sure?”

“I saw him pull out,” Cordell said. “Thought it was the French lady.”

“He’s headed toward Nice,” Colette said. She gripped the steering wheel and accelerated, high beams trying to light the dark narrow road, the Peugeot going downhill, picking up speed.

Hess got out of the Fiat and went into the garage. There were boxes of shotgun shells on a metal shelf against the back wall. He opened a box and grabbed a handful, stuffed them in his pocket and returned to the Fiat.

The gate was open. He backed out and spun the front end around, pointing toward Nice. He turned, glanced up the road and saw the Peugeot parked about twenty meters away. Hess reached behind him, lifted the shotgun off the rear seat and angled it, barrel first on the passenger-side floor, stock resting against the seatback. He put the Fiat in gear and started down the hill, stone wall flanking the road on the left, glancing in the rearview mirror, expecting to see headlights, but no one was following him.

There was an opening in the wall at avenue du Dauphine. He turned left, went thirty meters, pulled off the road, and turned off the engine. There were lights on in the houses dotting the valley. Hess got out with the shotgun, walked back to the intersection and looked up the dark road, using the edge of the wall for cover, and waited.

There was a flicker of light at the top of the hill, and then headlights appeared coming down the road. He assumed it was the Peugeot, pulled back the twin hammers on the shotgun. The car, a Citroen, paused at the stop sign and continued on. Now another light appeared at the top of the hill. Hess held the shotgun across his body and walked down avenue du Dauphine about twenty meters. The Peugeot stopped at the stop sign. He was in the middle of the road when it turned left and came toward him.

Hess brought the stock to his shoulder, aimed between the headlights, squeezed the first trigger and the shotgun kicked and boomed, blowing out the radiator. Now he aimed just above the headlights, fired at the windshield and stepped out of the way as the car came at him, rolling to a stop down the road. He cracked open the shotgun, ejected the spent casings, reloaded and snapped the gun closed.

The punctured radiator made a high-pitched whine, and smoke was coming from the engine compartment, swirling over the headlights. The second blast had blown a hole through the center of the windshield, spraying the interior with pieces of glass. Colette seemed dazed but was otherwise okay. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He looked in the backseat.