The Crypt Thief Read online

  “I don’t like keeping secrets, Tom. And I’m keeping secrets from a Frenchman I like, and he’s one we need. Meanwhile, Holmes is splattering our case across the front pages, letting our supposed suspect know we’re after him. If we’re going to get the wrong bad guy, can we at least do it properly?”

  Tom held up both hands in surrender. “Don’t yell at me, I’m with you all the way. Finish your sandwich and let’s go complain to someone who might listen.”

  “You’re drunk. I’ll go by myself.” Hugo felt his phone buzz, and answered it. “Marston here.”

  “Hugo, glad I got you,” Ambassador Taylor said. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “If it’s about the damn press release, that nasty little surprise has been spoiled.”

  “What? Oh, no, something else.”

  “Just what we need, more excitement.” He shrugged in response to Tom’s raised eyebrows.

  “Oh, indeed,” Taylor said. “So you were at Père Lachaise this morning?”

  “With my old friend Capitaine Garcia, yes.”

  “Notice anything unusual?”

  “Alive people taking photos of dead people. I find that pretty unusual.”

  “You might be right about that. And I was being facetious because there’s no reason you’d have spotted what the security people missed.”

  “Which is?”

  “Another break-in.”

  “At Père Lachaise? You have to be kidding me.”

  “Nope. Sometime last night. Capitaine Garcia’s wrapping something else up and will meet you there in an hour.”

  “I’ll be there,” Hugo said, thinking for a moment. “Another break-in. That’s very quick, very unusual. Don’t tell me we have another victim, too?”

  “We do, actually, yes.”

  “Dead?”

  “Very.”

  “You mind telling me what happened rather than being coy, Mr. Ambassador? I’ve got an antsy Tom Green opposite me and you know how patient he is.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to mess with you,” Taylor said, though the smile in his voice said otherwise. “Our victim is female, like our first.”

  “Let me guess. Popped with a .22 near Jim Morrison’s grave.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, not even close.”

  “How, then?”

  “You know, I never got around to asking.”

  “You might want to next time. We in the investigation business find cause of death to be useful information.” Hugo tried to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “I’m sure, except that this won’t be a murder investigation.”

  “Confused here,” Hugo said. “Do we have a victim or not?”

  “We do. But, if my math is right, she’d been dead for seventy years before our mystery man knocked on the door of her crypt.”

  Chapter Nine

  Hugo left Tom at the bar, heading for the exit when his friend stumbled toward the bathroom. At the doorway, Hugo stopped and looked back inside, feeling a pang of guilt. Maman was watching him, not pretending to do otherwise. Hugo smiled and closed the door behind him.

  Outside, he heard a familiar voice and turned.

  “Claudia,” he said. “Salut. This a coincidence?”

  “No.” She smiled, always reserved so it was faint, the amusement displayed in her striking green eyes. She kissed his cheeks, a hand on his upper arm. She spoke in English, her accent slight thanks to expensive private schools many years before, and plenty of practice since. “Tom told me you’d be here. Said you needed to get laid.”

  “I see. How considerate.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I was under the impression we weren’t doing that anymore,” he said. But she looked good, tight jeans and a plain white T-shirt. A bracelet, silver or maybe platinum, swung in circles when she moved.

  “I guess no one told Tom.”

  “I’m pretty sure I did,” Hugo said. “Several times.”

  “He’s a man, so probably not a great listener.”

  They started walking, away from the river, down one of the many narrow streets that angled into the Latin Quarter.

  “How’s the newspaper business?” Hugo asked. He saw her name at least once a week, usually close to the front page, if not on it. A result of the uptick in crime as much as anything, he suspected.

  “Sucks,” she said. “I used to think being a name on a page was fleeting; try being a name on a web page.”

  “Can’t even wrap fish and chips in it.”

  She laughed and put an arm through his, friendly, the way girlfriends might.

  “Tom really call you?”

  “Yes, actually.” She paused. “I think it was a wrong number, though. I think he meant to dial someone else, he sounded surprised to hear my voice.”

  “Yeah, he’s been a little . . . out of sorts lately.”

  “We break up and it drives him to drink?”

  “He’s sweet like that.”

  “So, you getting laid?” she asked, her voice light.

  “You tell me.”

  “Not tonight, silly. I mean generally.”

  “Generally, no.”

  “You not going to ask about me?”

  “None of my business.” True, but that was only part of it.

  “The uptight American, how I’ve missed that.”

  “I bet.” He stopped to look into the window of a small gallery, one he’d not seen before. Canvases of all sizes dotted the tiny space, explosions of color, formless but somehow mesmerizing. He looked at her. “What else?”

  She studied the paintings too, her head tilted. “You’re a cynic. Why should there be something else?”

  “Because I’m a cynic. And I’ve spent a lot of time around reporters.”

  “Avoiding them, I bet.”

  He allowed a smile. “Not all of them.”

  “Coffee? I can expense it.”

  “So this is business.”

  “For now.” They moved off, rounded the corner and settled into a café on Rue de Buci, taking a table on the sidewalk but under the shade of the awning. She ordered two cafés. “I’ve been writing about the Père Lachaise murders.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence, I’ve been solving them.”

  She leaned forward. “Really?”

  “Not really. I’ve been looking into it, with some other people.”

  “Tom?”

  “No comment.”

  “Fair enough. Got anything new I can use?”

  “We have a media division, I think. So do the cops. Tried them?”

  “Yes. They all suck. They hand out press releases to the media sheep, they’re more about containing information than providing it.”

  “Everyone has a job to do.” He leaned back as the waiter slid two tiny cups of espresso onto the Formica table. “Merci.”

  “And you are very good at yours. So give me a little something, not secret information, just . . .”

  “A head start?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Exactement.”

  “You have a car nearby?”

  “I do.”

  “Good.” He picked up the miniature cup and threw it back. “Never seen the point in paying for such tiny drinks. Ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the scene of a crime. Père Lachaise.”

  “Already been there,” she said. “Nothing to see.”

  “Lots of dead people.”

  “Lots of stones on top of dead people.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Seriously, Hugo, why are we going there?”

  They headed for her car and as they walked he told her what little he knew, partly because there was no reason not to and partly because he suspected he’d need a friendly reporter, a favor, in the coming days. And he trusted her. They’d almost been in love, or as close as jaded grown-ups get to love, sharing the highs of the first encounters and then the lows of her father’s violent death. It was their work
, and a reluctance to rely too heavily on each other, that pried them apart but they’d never stopped being friends and, a few times, lovers.

  “So who is she?” she asked.

  “Jane Avril.”

  “The dancer? I wonder why.”

  “Me too,” Hugo said.

  “Are they related, these . . . incidents?” she asked. “Doesn’t seem like they would be.”

  “Same cemetery, within a couple of days of each other. Be a hell of a coincidence. But you’re right, so far that’s it.”

  She drove quickly across the river, zipping in and out of the midday traffic, heading northeast to the cemetery, where they found Capitaine Garcia watching his men as they directed the tourists away from the yellow police tape.

  “We must stop meeting like this,” Garcia said. “Seriously.” He saw Claudia hovering behind Hugo and gave him a look.

  “Non,” said Hugo. “She’s here as a reporter.”

  “Most beautiful reporter in Paris,” he said, welcoming her inside the tape with open arms and a kiss on each cheek. “Ma chérie. Nice to see you in each other’s company, you two should really—”

  “It’s getting warm, Capitaine,” Hugo interrupted. “Perhaps you could fill me in.”

  “Come,” Garcia said, “have a look.”

  They stood at the foot of the grave site, silent, inspecting the damage for themselves.

  “How did he do it?” Hugo asked.

  “Some sort of explosive, we think. It looks like he drilled into the stone cover and put explosives in the holes. A few small charges and the thing cracks into a dozen moveable pieces.”

  “That would take some expertise. And organization.”

  “Exactement,” nodded Garcia. “And all for some bones.”

  “Can I take photos?” Claudia asked, her voice quiet, respectful.

  Garcia glanced at the ring of watchers behind the police tape. “Everyone else is. Sure.” He turned to Hugo. “My thinking is this: either this site was selected for the person who lay inside, or for some external reason.”

  “Then it’s the person inside,” said Hugo, looking around. There was nothing to set this site apart from the thousands of others. The grave itself was protected by an iron fence two feet high, brown with rust. The headstone sat high on its base and gave the impression of being slimmer than its neighbors, either because of its rounded top or the glossy sheen that made up its front surface. The inscription, small lettering in the middle of the tablet, read:

  Jeanne Biais

  Connue Comme—“Jane Avril”

  1868–1943

  “I agree. No reason to think buried treasure lies in this one,” Garcia said. “Born Jeanne Beaudon. Biais was her married name, I think, and Jane Avril was her stage name. Know anything about her?”

  “Not really,” said Hugo. “A dancer, had something to do with ­Toulouse-Lautrec. That’s about it.”

  “Right. She was quite the star in her day. Didn’t start off that way, though. Her father was disinterested, mother a highly abusive alcoholic. Poor girl ran away and when they found her, she was committed to an insane asylum.”

  “Charming,” said Hugo. He looked over his shoulder and saw Claudia on her cell phone, no doubt calling in the story, wiping someone else’s off the front page, at least for a while.

  “Life got better, though,” Garcia went on. “She worked as a dancer at clubs in Paris, then got hired at the Moulin Rouge. Became a star, partly thanks to Toulouse-Lautrec, who painted her image onto posters that were used to advertise her shows. You can still buy copies of them. Anyway, in 1895, the owners of the Moulin Rouge paid her a lot to replace Louise Weber, the most famous dancer in Paris.”

  “Was that ‘La Goulue’?” Hugo asked.

  “Oui, I’m impressed,” Garcia said. “What is that in English?”

  “The Greedy One.”

  “Exactement. Our Jane Avril was a different kind of dancer so it was something of a risk making her the lead. La Goulue was bawdy, a little vulgar; Avril was graceful, serene, demure.” A little smile. “More my kind of woman. And it worked, the patrons fell in love with her and she became famous, for many years.”

  “What happened after those many years?”

  “Like La Belle France herself, a German was her undoing. The faded name on her gravestone, Maurice Biais. He was an artist and they fell deeply in love but as time went by . . .” He shrugged. “En effet, he abandoned her at his home outside Paris, left her for days at a time to play in Paris with other girls. A tragedy.”

  “How did she die?”

  “He died first, as you can see. 1926. She ended up in a home for old people. Lived in poverty for a long time, thanks to Monsieur Biais. He’d spent all his money chasing women, left her nothing.”

  “I hear that’s a common affliction for French men.”

  “Not all of us, mon ami. I do not have the face or the figure to be a lothario.” Garcia frowned but his eyes twinkled. “Anyway, she has no living relatives that we know of, though we’ve not had much time to check.”

  Hugo felt a hand on his arm. “I have to run,” said Claudia. “Can I call and get some details later?”

  Garcia bowed. “You may call me any time, ma chérie. But I suspect your request was aimed at Monsieur Marston?” Again the twinkle.

  “Mais non,” she smiled, stepping forward to kiss Garcia’s cheek. “Why would I restrict myself to just one handsome man?”

  “Call,” said Hugo. “Either of us. We both know how to avoid answering questions from journalists.”

  “Then I’ll call you both.”

  Hugo watched her leave, then looked around the cemetery, bringing himself back to the task at hand. “So, why Jane Avril?”

  “Like I said, she was a star in her time. Maybe some sick souvenir collector?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The break-in over the weekend was near Jim Morrison’s grave.” Garcia rubbed a hand over his chin. “It’s possible our man was trying to do the same thing there, but got interrupted, n’est pas?”

  “Looking to steal bones? I don’t know, a couple of things tell me that’s not right. First, souvenir hunters don’t usually carry weapons. And look around, if famous old bones were all he’s after, when he saw those two kids he could have easily hidden. Easily. I’m not convinced he had to confront them.”

  “Perhaps, but perhaps they saw him before he saw them. What else?”

  “If he was intent on raiding Jim Morrison’s tomb, why change his plan and come here? The two have almost nothing in common, different sex, different dates of death, different gifts.”

  “Both made music their lives.”

  Hugo swept an arm at the tombs that surrounded them. “So did half these people. So why her?”

  “You’re not thinking there are two intruders. Two grave robbers?”

  Hugo shook his head. “No, I’m not. I’m thinking there’s a connection that we’re not seeing.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tentacles of dried liquid the color of wet sand spread down the bottom four steps that led up to the Scarab’s second-floor apartment, and he wrinkled his nose at the stench of urine and spilled beer, stepping carefully, desperate to get out of the world and into the sanctuary of his apartment.

  He cursed as his canvas bag bounced off the front door as he reached for his keys, then winced at his own language and looked down, apologized.

  Inside, he locked the door and moved in the dark to the windows, made sure the heavy curtains he’d installed were pulled tight. He passed the pullout couch where he slept and went into the only bedroom, devoid of furniture save for two items: a long, low table that sat against the right-hand wall, and an empty casket that sat in the middle of the room, made from oak with a white silk lining and brass handles. He put the bag on the table and flicked the light switch, coating the room in a red glow from the colored bulb that hung, bare, overhead.

  He reached beside the bag, letting his fingertips drift over the table­top
to a pair of soft cotton gloves. He slipped them carefully onto his hands. The first time he’d done this he’d felt . . . embarrassed, less than a man almost. As if covering up the calluses and masking the thickness of his fingers with such gentle cloth in the privacy of his sanctuary was as bad as revealing the rest of his thick, bristly body in public.

  But now they felt good. They were part of the process. The beginning of the process, like putting a napkin on your lap before ordering at a restaurant.

  He picked up the canvas bag and moved to the coffin, kneeling beside it, lowering himself gently like a penitent in church. He put the bag down and placed both hands inside the coffin, felt the cool of the silk through his gloves.

  Our coffin. And the last time it will be empty.

  He opened the bag as wide as it would go and reached inside with both hands, drawing out a long, slim object wrapped in white bandage. Slowly, carefully, he unwrapped it.

  He held it in his hands, outstretched over the coffin like an offering, feeling its lightness, his chest constricting with the excitement of the moment and the power running from his palms, up his arms, and straight into his heart.

  He forced himself to concentrate, to control the adrenalin that flooded his body, because if he was going to do this, he had to do it right. His mother taught him that, as he sat by her side watching her sew those beautiful, sequined outfits, she’d look at him and smile, tell him, “If you sew it right the first time, you never have to do it again.” And he’d ask what was wrong with having to do it all again, looking up from where he sat, close to the only woman who’d ever looked at him with love. “There’s only so much of the right material in the world, mon petit scarabée. Only so much.”

  He looked at the bandage that lay curled on the floor like shed snakeskin. He turned it over until he saw the writing on it, the words that told where to place this first precious artifact.

  Right femur.

  He placed it in the casket, the bone so light it made no impression on the silk, just casting the slightest of shadows. A shadow that meant something to the Scarab, an indication that already this piece of her was wanting to come alive, spreading its aura in search of a companion.