The Marble Mask Page 24

  The edge left his voice as he asked, “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied. “It’s all under control.”

  · · ·

  Even by Stowe standards, the house Sammie and I drove up to east of town later in the day was a standout. Most of the mansions—Gary Smith’s “starter castles”—were built of wood, designed ostentatiously but with a nod toward the surrounding countryside. This one was a pile of gray rock, complete with turrets, leaded stained-glass windows, and a front door big enough for a rider atop a horse. Castle it was, with nothing of the beginner about it.

  We rolled to a stop in the front courtyard and admired a full view of Mount Mansfield across the Stowe valley, its recumbent profile clearly etched on the horizon. Cold, white, and distant, it brought to mind Jean Deschamps’s mask-like face staring up from the autopsy table.

  “Geez,” Sammie commented, gazing at the house, “what the hell did he do to buy this?”

  I swung out of the car into the crisp, freezing air. “Let’s see if we can find out.”

  The front door opened almost as soon as I pushed the bell, revealing a starchy, round man in a dark three-piece suit. “You are the police?” he asked in a stiff, formal voice.

  “Yes,” I answered, as we showed him credentials that he scrutinized carefully.

  “Follow me.”

  We did that, down a long, dark-paneled hallway lined with heavily framed oil paintings, to a pair of double doors that, once thrown open, led into a towering library with twenty-foot-high windows overlooking the valley below. I felt transported back either to the England of centuries ago, or to the Hollywood set of My Fair Lady. Sammie merely stared, her mouth unashamedly open. Sprinkled among the bookcases were inset curved display cabinets, softly lighted and closed off behind glass doors, holding a variety of precious objects from women’s ancient baubles to jeweled snuff boxes and ornate ivory calling-card cases. Perched above the carved mantelpiece, in an obvious place of honor, was a hideous-looking carved mask of what looked like a gargoyle, complete with devilish eyebrows and a snarling mouth. To my untrained eye the entire collection seemed of museum-grade material, and there was a lot of it.

  “How may I help you?” came a voice hidden beneath the glare from the windows.

  I spoke to the light, waiting for my eyes to adjust. “I’m Joe Gunther. This is Special Agent Samantha Martens—Vermont Bureau of Investigation. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “You said that on the phone. Do you like objets d’art?”

  I was beginning to make out a huge desk beneath the windows, and behind it the outline of a small, wispy-haired man. “Less the value and more how it looks.”

  “Meaning you don’t like the mask.”

  “What is it?”

  “Very old, for one thing, and as you guessed, very valuable. An homage to Greek mythology. It’s a faun. Feel free to look more closely.”

  I did so, moving from case to case as I might have at an exhibition. Special lighting made each object glow as if from within. I imagined that at night, with the room dark aside from these bright, shimmering pools, this library took on the feel of a magnificent tomb buried far beneath a pyramid.

  “You been collecting long?” I asked.

  “Most of my adult life.”

  “What made you start?”

  There was a pause, suggesting I might have overstepped some boundary.

  “Surely, this is not why you asked to see me.”

  “Right. Actually, we’re investigating the death of a man found frozen on the mountain.”

  “The fifty-year-old corpse,” said the shadowy outline.

  I walked up to the desk, trailed by Sammie and the butler. The voice emerged as a thin, pale invalid, sitting in a wheelchair, vaguely reminiscent of Marcel Deschamps. “You heard about that?”

  “I subscribe to the local paper, Mr. Gunther.”

  Uninvited, I sat in one of the large armchairs facing the desk, enjoying the slight squeak and smell of leather that accompanied the move.

  Roger Scott waved a hand at the man behind us. “Go, Robert.”

  We all patiently waited until Robert had closed the doors behind him.

  “He the only one working here?” I asked.

  “I have others. He’s the only one that lives with me. Why do you ask?”

  I looked around. “Big house, a lot to run. I just wondered.”

  “Because I’m in a wheelchair? The house was built to accommodate that. It’s much more efficient than it looks.”

  There was a hint of pride there I decided to exploit a little. “It is amazing, and filled with beautiful things. How long have you lived here?”

  “I moved in forty-one years ago, although I’ve added on as my income allowed.”

  “But you were in Stowe before then, right?”

  The pale face smiled. “I have a feeling you already know the answer to that. I came here right after the war and built a house nearby—on the same acreage, in fact.”

  “You’ve done very well for yourself.”

  “Meaning, where did I get my money? I inherited it, Mr. Gunther, and then built on it through some fortunate real estate deals. What does any of this have to do with the frozen man?”

  “We think you knew his son,” I said. “Antoine Deschamps. You fought together in Italy.”

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been anticipating, but I didn’t expect the burst of laughter I received.

  “We all fought together—in Montana, in Burlington, in the Aleutians, and in Italy. That was one of the hallmarks of our unit.”

  “The First Special Service Force.”

  “Yes. Back then, people used to confuse the name with the Special Services branch of the Army—basically the music bands. That was on purpose, to help keep us under wraps. But it wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice.”

  “Rough outfit.”

  “Energetic, yes. We were a throwaway group—a suicide battalion, if you want to get melodramatic. We felt we had nothing to lose by enjoying ourselves while we were still alive.”

  “And your Colonel Frederick encouraged that attitude?”

  “Ah, you’ve been doing your homework. Probably rented that movie, The Devil’s Brigade.”

  “No.”

  “Just as well. Typical mythology, although it captured our reputation for doing the impossible.”

  “How was Antoine Deschamps at that?”

  Roger Scott shook his head slowly for a moment. “Not yet. I want to ask you a couple of things first, given the courtesy I’ve just paid you. Why is any of this relevant to the investigation of a man found frozen to death out there, even if his son and I did fight in the same unit?”

  “We think Jean Deschamps came to Stowe to meet you. Did he?”

  “No. What did he want? Details about his boy’s death?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Not really. I have to admit, I may have been leading you on a bit. I didn’t actually know Antoine Deschamps—not well, at least. We were in different regiments. I heard he was killed outside of Rome. I didn’t see it, though. I wouldn’t have been of much use to his father.”

  “How do you know that’s why he came here?” I asked.

  “It’s what a parent would want to know. Did he suffer? Was he a hero? Did he have any last words? I was ignorant of all that. I could have told him his son was an abusive, foul-mouthed, skirt-chasing, self-serving thief and a liar, but then so was I and every other Force-man. It’s what Robert Frederick trained us to be.”

  “Actually,” I tried again, “I haven’t been totally candid. Jean Deschamps thought Antoine was murdered in Italy, not killed in combat.”

  Scott absorbed that thoughtfully. “Could be. It was known to happen.”

  “Was there anyone who springs to mind in that context? Someone who hated Antoine enough to want him dead?”

  “Not that I knew of. Passions could run high, of course, and every
one of us had been taught to kill a dozen different ways. Rumors were that about half of us had been pulled out of prison to quote-unquote volunteer, although I suspect that’s part of the mythology again. Still, there were some fierce fights, and I always suspected not all our casualties were combat-related.”

  I waved my hand at the room around us. “You don’t seem cut from that kind of cloth.”

  “I had a wild streak, but you’re right. I wasn’t alone, though. There were a lot of pretty regular people mixed in—teachers, musicians, cowboys, you name it.”

  “How ’bout someone named Charlie Webber?” I asked.

  Scott’s face hardened. “He was no poet. Why do you mention him?”

  “How do you know about him?” I asked instead. “He was in the same regiment as Antoine.”

  “Some were better known than others. You have to understand—the Force hovered between fifteen hundred and two thousand men. That’s small by Army standards, but it’s still a large number. And the turnover was impressive.” He paused, thinking back. “After a while, getting to know people proved to be counterproductive.”

  “But you knew Webber.”

  He refocused on us. “Yes. Charlie Webber. Few people didn’t. He died, too. Should’ve been from a bullet in the back, delivered by one of us, but instead it was from natural causes, as we used to refer to combat deaths back then. The man was a psychopath, in my opinion. Is he the one you think killed Antoine?”

  “We heard they’d had a falling out at Anzio but then later became best buddies, glued at the hip.”

  Scott shook his head. “I can’t imagine anything worse.”

  “What did Webber do to you?” Sammie asked.

  There was a long pause. “I hold him responsible for putting me in this chair.”

  We didn’t say anything, prompting him to add, “In your research, did you ever hear mention of the Champagne Campaign?”

  We both shook our heads, although Dick Kearley had spoken of it. “I thought not. Not a Hollywood-style story. After Italy was all but over—at least after the generals got their pictures taken in Rome—we were reassigned to southern France, first to take the Iles d’Hyères, and then to sweep along the French Riviera to Cannes, Nice, and the rest. The first part was tough, but then it got easy, and people like Webber became bored and restless. He’d been promoted, and the regiments had been mixed up enough that I was now serving under him. In any case, he was so focused on getting laid and drunk by then, he ordered us into a small hilltop village without reconnaissance. We were ambushed and shot up. I caught one in the spine, several others were killed. Useless casualties, all. Webber was supposed to be leading us, but of course, he was sacked out with some girl instead.”

  “He didn’t get court-martialed?” Sammie asked, her sense of propriety offended.

  “He was about to be, but then he was killed,” came the answer. “I think it was suicide, really. He didn’t want to go back to prison. Life was never going to improve beyond that point, where he could break every rule in the book in the name of patriotism, so he rushed a machine gun nest single-handed and was blown up by his own grenade. A hero’s death for a homicidal maniac. Another of war’s ironies.”

  I caught the bitterness in his voice and reflected back on my own experience of combat and war—and to the men and women I’d known whose wounds, though less visible than Scott’s, had been far more crippling.

  “You seem to have done well, nevertheless,” I said, giving vent to those thoughts.

  He’d been staring at the marble mask over the mantel while he spoke, and now shifted his gaze to me. “Of course. Police officers. You probably both have military backgrounds. Someone like me must be like an alien from a distant planet, and not deserving of much sympathy—rich, pampered by servants, surrounded by beautiful things. It never occurs to you that can be as arrogant an outlook as any snobbery from a rich person.”

  He pulled away from the desk and rolled around its edge, heading toward the double doors as he spoke. Hesitantly, we both rose and fell in behind him, realizing the interview had ended.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he continued. “That’s the price of a democracy. Majority rules. If the little people decide the rich are useless assholes, regardless of what we may have done for their country or the welfare of its economy, then they’re right and we’re wrong. That’s all there is to it.”

  He grabbed one of the doorknobs and retreated slightly, pulling the door open. “I’m assuming you have what you came for.”

  Sammie stepped into the hallway, where Robert was waiting for us. I paused on the library’s threshold. “You were right that we did some homework before coming here,” I said. “Including interviewing a man who saw you killed by a dud mortar round as you sat next to Colonel Frederick.”

  Scott merely tilted his head forward and tapped it with his fingertips. “Another combat death that wasn’t. Makes you wonder how many people died inside of coffins, simply because no one bothered checking for a pulse. It was a dud, and it knocked me out cold, but, as you can see, I survived.”

  I couldn’t argue with the physical evidence, but as we drove back down the long, winding driveway past the wrought-iron gates, I wondered about the definition of the word “survival.”

  Chapter 23

  GILLES LACOMBE CALLED THAT AFTERNOON, JUST AS the sunlight was yielding to the gloom of another winter’s night.

  “Joe?” he said. “I have unfortunate news. Pierre Guidry has just been found dead—strangled with a wire.”

  I stared at the phone for a moment. “You know who did it?”

  He let out a hapless laugh. “I am not sure I know anything anymore. Was it not Guidry that you thought killed Jean Deschamps?”

  “Once upon a time. Who knows, now? Wasn’t Guidry under surveillance?”

  Lacombe was obviously embarrassed. “His phones were tapped and we were watching him. But we did not have a full surveillance team for him. There has been much going on up here since you left. We have been very much stretched out.”

  “The sharks gathering?”

  “It is known the Deschamps are weak. Almost all the criminals we know have tried something by now. There has been much violence. The phone taps have told us that Michel is fighting for control.”

  “Michel?” I asked, recalling how out of control he’d been the last time I’d seen him. “What about his father?”

  “Marcel is almost gone,” Lacombe reported. “He is still at home, but it is clear he will not live for much longer.”

  “What’s Picard doing?”

  “We are guessing he is being the loyal family servant, as always.”

  “Why guessing? Don’t you know?”

  “We have not seen him in two days, but he is the one with the low profile.”

  Given Guidry’s condition, I wondered how low that might be.

  “Joe,” Lacombe added, “there is one extra thing, maybe small. Marie Chenin did a meeting with Michel. It happened outside and we could not hear it.”

  I felt like a curtain had been drawn wide open. “Before Guidry was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Picard in on it?”

  “No. She was very strong that she meet Michel alone.”

  “And Picard hasn’t been seen since?”

  Lacombe was silent for a few moments. “You are thinking Picard is dead, also?”

  “Could be. Did you get pictures of Michel’s meeting with Chenin?”

  “Videotape, with a telephoto lens. He is very excited by what she says. We have talked with her, but she tells us nothing.”

  “What’s his attitude generally? Is he doing a good job rallying his forces?”

  “I would say not. Michel is a young man I don’t think well equipped for this. His emotions are very strong.”

  I chewed on that a bit, thinking it at best an understatement. From what little I knew of Michel, his “emotions” were cranked up enough to make him certifiable. But that was just a gut feeling.
“Okay, Gilles,” I said, “thanks for the update. Let me know if Picard resurfaces.”

  · · ·

  I rounded up what members of the team I could find. The Sawyer homicide had pulled away Paul Spraiger and Gary Smith, but Willy, Tom, and Sam were available.

  I told them about Guidry.

  “Great,” Tom said. “What’s that do to all your theories?”

  “What’s Lacombe say?” Sammie asked more precisely.

  “No clue,” I reported, not wanting to influence their thinking prematurely. “Apparently, the power vacuum in the Deschamps camp’s causing all hell to break loose. Marcel’s dying, Michel’s running around in a panic, and Picard’s nowhere to be seen.”

  “There’s your bad guy,” Willy said. “Clearest scenario is that Guidry and Picard had a falling out over who would end up top man. Picard snuffed Guidry, and now he’s tucked away somewhere waiting for the boss to croak so he can run up a new flag, which’ll probably include a treaty with the Angels and maybe the Rock Machine, too.”

  “What about Michel?” Sammie asked.

  Willy shrugged. “Who cares? He’s a pimple. Once the dust settles, he’ll either fall into line or have a tragic accident. One thing for sure, though, the trap you set with that press conference just went south.”

  It was a workable theory—one I hadn’t considered. We’d certainly witnessed similar ham-handed power plays before. But there were subtleties here that had dogged me from the start—ancient alliances that resisted fitting the brutal picture Willy had painted.

  Like between Marie Chenin and Michel, whose playboy past, I thought, had helped camouflage a far more complicated and dangerous personality.

  “Guidry was garroted with a wire,” I said. “Why not shoot him or blow him up? Did Picard strike any one of you as a man who’d order that kind of death?”

  “It’s not like he did it himself,” Willy argued. “He probably told one of his psychos to do the dirty work and the guy put a little of his own into it.”

  But Sammie wasn’t buying it, either. “There’s a way this all fits together, and it’s not Picard suddenly getting pissed at Guidry. This guy’s waited half a century for his plan to play out, for Christ’s sake. He’s going to get impulsive now?”