Murdered In Marseille: Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume - Alfred Bekker - E-Book

Murdered In Marseille: Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume E-Book

Alfred Bekker

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This volume contains the following novels: Marquanteur And The Special Pistol Marquanteur And The Test Of Courage Marquanteur And The Madame Without Scruples A robbery with several deaths has dire consequences. What was actually planned as a test of courage for joining a gang results in a gang war in the middle of Marseille, and the trail of blood becomes ever wider. Commissaires Marquanteur and Leroc have to be careful not to become targets themselves. Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

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Seitenzahl: 391

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

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Alfred Bekker

Murdered In Marseille: Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Murdered In Marseille: Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume

​Copyright

Marquanteur And The Special Pistol

​Marquanteur And The Test Of Courage

Marquanteur And The Madame Without Scruples

Murdered In Marseille: Three France Crime Thrillers In One Volume

Alfred Bekker

This volume contains the following novels:

Marquanteur And The Special Pistol

Marquanteur And The Test Of Courage

Marquanteur And The Madame Without Scruples

A robbery with several deaths has dire consequences. What was actually planned as a test of courage for joining a gang results in a gang war in the middle of Marseille, and the trail of blood becomes ever wider. Commissaires Marquanteur and Leroc have to be careful not to become targets themselves.
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

​Copyright

A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Cassiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© by Author
© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
Follow on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred
Get the latest news here:
https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/
To the publisher's blog!
Be informed about new releases and backgrounds!
https://cassiopeia.press
Everything about fiction!

Marquanteur And The Special Pistol

Alfred Bekker

Marquanteur And The Special Pistol: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker
Two criminal organizations fighting for their position of power in Marseille. Only one can emerge victorious. And already one of the bosses is murdered. Will it now come to a war between the two criminal organizations? Or is there something else behind it altogether, as more murders are committed. Has someone made a decision and is living only for revenge? Investigators Pierre Marquanteur and François Leroc follow the trail of blood that runs through Marseille.
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Jack Raymond, Jonas Herlin, Dave Branford, Chris Heller, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Cassiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© of this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The invented persons have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intended.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
Follow on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/BekkerAlfred
Get the latest news here:
https://alfred-bekker-autor.business.site/
To the publisher's blog!
Be informed about new releases and backgrounds!
https://cassiopeia.press
Everything about fiction!
1
"It may be that there is some ruthless cleaning up to be done today," Jean Rabiot growled, "but that's nothing new for you."
His two bodyguards acknowledged this with a brief nod. They held their Uzi submachine guns at the ready.
The trio reached the dark teak door at the end of the hall. A guard in a dark suit stood in front of it.
"Close your mouth, Bruno! Haven't you ever seen us before?" asked Rabiot.
The guard stepped aside. The door opened. Jean Rabiot's massive figure entered the room.
Even his well-built bodyguards looked slight compared to this gray-bearded colossus in a tailored suit.
Rabiot could literally feel a breeze of ice wafting over him. The faces of the men who had taken their seats at the table were rigid. Their expressions would have suited a funeral. Rabiot had been number one in this syndicate long enough to know that this was a life-threatening moment. The mood was against him.
Rabiot had one of his bodyguards pull the chair back for him. Then he sat down. The thick Havana in the corner of his mouth went out. A bad omen ...
He cursed softly to himself.
The two gorillas positioned themselves behind their boss.
The heavy teak door slammed shut.
"So what's up?" growled Rabiot, "It wasn't me who insisted on this meeting."
Silence reigned. You could have heard a pin drop in that second.
Rabiot did not like this mood.
His gaze went down the row of people present. They were all people from his organization. They had all come. This meeting had become a kind of plenary assembly. No one had told him that before. He began to suspect what was going to happen here.
A coup!
"There have been problems lately," said one of the people present. He had a half bald head and high cheekbones.
"So what?" hissed Rabiot, fixing his counterpart with an icy stare.
"A lot of people here think you're out of touch."
"Oh, really," Rabiot caustically retorted. "You know what I think, Simon? I think you overestimate yourself!"
"The fact is that the Ukrainians are giving us a hell of a hard time," it now came from another side. "We need a change at the top."
A murmur of approval arose. There was a rip-rip-rip as the bodyguards of the great Rabiot loaded their Uzi submachine guns.
And instantly the room was quiet again.
Dead quiet!
"I get the feeling that some of you haven't really thought your minds through yet," Rabiot said. He picked up his Havana and tossed it aside. He screwed up his face in disgust. "Really seems like I've been a little too lenient with some of you. But mistakes are there to be corrected."
"You said it, Rabiot," Simon said now. His voice clinked like ice.
And Jean Rabiot's eyes widened in horror as the barrels of the two Uzis were suddenly aimed at him.
His own people! Rabiot was frozen with shock.
"No ..." he whispered.
Fear sweat formed on the forehead of the colossus.
"Get up, Rabiot!" said Simon.
"What are you going to do?"
Simon smiled.
"It's not our way to murder one of our own. At least not unless we absolutely have to. Although one or two of you in this room might actually have very good reasons for breaking every bone in your body with your own hands." Simon shrugged. "We're not brutes, after all."
"But ..."
"There's someone who seems particularly hell-bent on sending you over the Jordan River in person!"
Jean Rabiot started to stutter.
"Look, I ..."
"Forget it, Rabiot! It's not possible to reach an agreement. Not anymore."
"What do you mean?" Rabiot was still gasping for air.
His own bodyguards grabbed him and took him in the middle.
"Nice working for you, Rabiot," one of them said, grinning wryly. "But everything comes to an end."
2
She was a beauty. The tight-fitting dress hid little of her exciting figure.
The seduction in person, that was her!
Only something was wrong with her eyes.
They were sea green. But they did not remind of the scent of seaweed - but of the cold facetted eyes of a snake. An icy look, in which deadly determination stood.
The large .45-caliber automatic in her right hand gleamed golden. A weapon whose projectiles could rip a man's skull off. Much too big for her delicate hands. With one swift movement, she slid the magazine into the gun. A devilish smile flitted across her full-lipped mouth. Then she put the gun in her purse.
It couldn't be long before she would finally have the man in front of her gun whose death she longed for like nothing else.
A cool wind blew from the sea over the industrial wasteland in the north of Marseille. A factory building whose demolition was about half complete. Today was Sunday, so the big machines with the wrecking balls were on break.
A place made for murder ...
"You're taking your time," said the dark-haired curly-headed man standing a few feet away from the young woman. He stomped out his cigarette. An Uzi submachine gun hung over his shoulder.
"Don't worry, Cyril," she said, "it'll all work out."
"You're taking this pretty well, Juliette."
"Shouldn't I?"
"We're not killing anyone here."
"I know! I know better than anyone, Cyril!"
She smiled.
Her plan was perfect. She trusted it. Nothing could go wrong.
At that second, the dark, extra-long Mercedes sedan came around the corner. Rabiot's car. But he was no longer in charge of the route.
The car approached, stopped. A door opened.
A massive figure was brutally pushed out.
Jean Rabiot was writhing on the floor, groaning. He looked up. His pale face lost the last vestige of color.
"Juliette - you?" he muttered, stunned.
Juliette had meanwhile taken out her pistol and loaded it. She stepped closer, grasping the gun with both hands.
The door of the Mercedes sedan was closed again. The car sped away with screeching tires.
Rabiot looked after him for a moment.
Juliette laughed.
"Yeah, your guys did a good job, huh?"
He tried to get up. With some effort, the massive Rabiot finally succeeded. He looked at Juliette.
"I don't understand ..." he muttered.
"No?" Her voice sounded like ice. She stepped toward him. "You really don't know? Then you're no different now than the many whose life light you snuffed out with a snap of your fingers, Jean!" She laughed. "Au revoir, Rabiot!"
And then she pulled the trigger. Again and again. And her face contorted into a grimace. The first bullet hit Rabiot in the torso. He staggered back, while the next bullet pierced his chin. Even before the massive figure plopped heavily to the ground, Juliette had fired half a dozen rounds. She didn't even stop firing when the big boss was already lying on the ground in a strangely contorted position. Motionless. And dead.
3
"Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri," I introduced myself to the tall police officer. I pointed next to me. "This is my colleague François Leroc."
The man nodded.
"You're really fast," he said appreciatively.
François and I hadn't even been in the office that morning. I had picked François up at the usual corner, then the call had come from headquarters. And instead of going to La Canebière, where the FoPoCri Marseille had its headquarters, we had gone to Mourepiane as quickly as possible.
Members of a demolition crew had found a body when they were about to start work. The homicide squad had started the investigation and found that the dead man was a very familiar face.
Jean Rabiot, a big shot in organized crime.
According to our findings, he had controlled a syndicate that made its profits primarily from the illegal disposal of hazardous waste. The profit margins had been as high as in the heroin trade for some time.
That's how we got into the game. Because this was probably not an ordinary murder case.
"Come on," the policeman said.
We stepped up to the body. The demolition crew workers stood a little apart and watched as the coroner bent over the dead man. It was Dr. Franc Valmont. I knew him from other assignments. We exchanged brief greetings.
"At least six bullet holes," Dr. Valmont then commented. "Must have been a big caliber. A .45 I'm guessing. Of course, I can't be more specific until I get the projectiles out of the body."
"How long has this man been dead?", I asked.
"I think he was shot yesterday afternoon. However, I'm reluctant to commit to the exact hour."
"Looks like ..."
"...executed," my friend and colleague François Leroc completed, "Rabiot was literally riddled."
Valmont, meanwhile, continued, "The shots were fired from a distance of no more than two and a half feet."
I bent down. Rabiot's rigid, dead face looked at me. His left hand was clenched into a fist. From the side I could see that this fist enclosed something.
"Can you open his hand, doctor?", I asked. "He's clutching something."
"Might be a little difficult at this stage," Dr. Valmont said.
He still got it done.
I was surprised.
"A cigarette butt," it escaped me. "Don't touch it!" I said before Valmont could commit a careless act.
The policeman handed me a latex glove. I took the cigarette butt and looked at it. I held the thing up to the light.
"Why did he clutch it like that?" asked François.
That was exactly the question. Below the filter, I could read the brand name on the white paper. Lucky Strike.
"Anyway, we'll keep this stub safe," I muttered.
4
Three hours later, we were sitting in the office of our superior, Monsieur Jean-Claude Marteau, Commissaire général de police. His expression was serious. And he had every reason to be.
Besides François and me, some other colleagues were present at this meeting. Among them were Boubou Ndonga and Stéphane Caron. Also Commissaire Robert J. Bardonne, who had worked for a while as an undercover investigator in Rabiot's organization.
"Rabiot's death could be the temporary culmination of this unfortunate gangster war that has been going on for some time between Rabiot's organization and the Ukrainians from Marseille-Mitte," Monsieur Marteau opined.
Both groups made efforts to get the waste market under their control.
And the methods were anything but squeamish. Several people had been killed in armed clashes in recent weeks. Mostly small people from both organizations. Middlemen and truck drivers. Or people who, under false names, bought plots of land on which hazardous waste that should have been disposed of at great expense was simply dumped. At some point, these straw men disappeared and the general public was left with a life-threatening sinkhole. Often, this kind of thing only came to light when it had devastating consequences. Last week, for example, an illegal plastic waste dump near the harbor self-ignited, sending a cloud of dioxin towards the city center.
"The Rabiot people probably won't let too much time pass to retaliate against the Ukrainians," Ndonga opined. "The conflict has entered a new stage of escalation."
"However, the perpetrators could also come from within the Rabiot syndicate," Robert J. Bardonne now spoke up. He knew this organization like no other. "There were groups that would undoubtedly have taken the first opportunity to dump Jean Rabiot. Incidentally, the old man was already showing a certain lack of leadership at the time when I was still working undercover."
"And you think something like that will be exploited sooner or later," Mr. Marteau said.
Bardonne nodded.
"That's how it is. I would ask a certain Simon, for example ... He's always been burning with ambition. And he's the one I'd trust most to bring together a coalition strong enough to just dump the big boss."
"Then ask him," suggested Monsieur Marteau.
"I'm afraid he doesn't like me very much," Bardonne opined. "After all, I came within a hair of putting him in jail."
"Take Pierre and François with you as reinforcements!" Monsieur Marteau then turned to Boubou and Stéphane. "They will please try to find out if anything can be found among the Ukrainians."
"All right, chief," said Stephane.
Monsieur Marteau continued, "We must end this war as quickly as possible. Otherwise, the whole thing will get out of control."
It was clear to all of us that we were very close to this point.
"There are two things I just can't get over," I said finally, after I had brought to my mouth my paper cup with the exquisite coffee that Melanie, the secretary of our boss, was brewing. I continued, "On the one hand, there's this cigarette that the dead man was clutching as if his life depended on it ..."
"It's being tested in the lab right now to see if enough saliva traces can be isolated to do a DNA test," Monsieur Marteau interrupted me.
I shrugged.
"In any case, I don't think it was a coincidence that Rabiot clutched that cigarette butt."
Monsieur Marteau, turning to Bardonne, asked, "Was Rabiot actually a smoker?"
"Just a couple of thick Havannas now and then," Robert J. Bardonne replied. "Actually, he couldn't have afforded even those. His medical bulletin looked miserable."
Monsieur Marteau huffed, "No cigarettes?"
"He used to say that cigarettes were something for rednecks. And God knows he didn't count himself among them..."
"The point can be checked, after all," François opined.
I said, "The second thing that gives me no peace is the way Jean Rabiot was butchered. The perpetrator literally shredded him with his .45. If you ask me, this doesn't look like a stone-cold professional killer doing his job and for whom every cartridge increases the operating expenses of his dirty business. There seems to me to have been a lot of emotion involved here."
5
We drove to Rabiot's apartment. It was fantastically located on the top floor of a high-rise building. From there, you could see all the way to the Gulf of Marseille. Rabiot also owned a dream villa in La Viste. His wife and children lived there. According to Robert J. Bardonne's information, Rabiot had not lived there for quite a while. The marriage existed more or less only on paper.
Together with Bardonne, François and I had ourselves carried to the top floor.
Police had the apartment sealed after forensic experts looked around.
We were astonished when we saw that the seal had been broken. Someone had been in the apartment!
We reached for our pistols. With one kick, François sent the door flying to the side.
I rushed forward two steps with my Walther P 99 in both hands.
A young woman whirled around. I saw her right hand reach for the rather large handbag she was carrying over her shoulder.
"FoPoCri!", I shouted. "Stop right there!"
She did not move, literally froze.
We entered the apartment. The furnishings were expensive, not necessarily tasteful. But there was a lot of space here, and in a city as densely populated as Marseille that was the very greatest luxury anyway.
With three long strides I had reached the young woman. Her sea-green eyes looked at me with a cold gaze.
She smiled.
I took the handbag from her and searched it briefly.
In any case, she was not armed. And that she had hidden a firearm somewhere else on her body, I thought very unlikely in view of her almost skin-tight dress. I lowered the gun. In the bag was, among other things, a driver's license made out in the name of Juliette Lucás.
She braced her left arm on her curved hip and said, "Well, do you know everything you wanted to know now?"
"It's a start, Madame Lucás!"
"Would you kindly show me your ID as well?"
I held my service card under her nose.
"I am Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur," I said. "You are here in an apartment that was sealed by the police."
"Oh, really! Sorry."
"You might actually still be sorry. After all, disregarding such a seal is punishable by law - Madame Lucás?"
She took a deep breath. Her breasts rose and fell as she did so.
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't see that seal," she then claimed. The desperate expression on her face looked very convincing. Almost perfect. If it hadn't been for those eyes ...
"I think it was very visible," I replied.
"Monsieur Marquanteur, why so petty?"
"What were you doing here?"
"Getting a few personal things."
"Did I miss your name on the door?"
"I haven't lived here," she said, "I've just been here on occasion, at Jean's ..." She wiped her eyes and forehead with a jittery motion, sweeping back a few stray strands of her ash-blond, slightly curly hair. She swallowed.
I put my gun away.
"You know what happened?", I asked.
"No."
"Jean Rabiot was shot dead yesterday. This morning he was found at a construction site in Mourepiane."
"No God!" She swallowed. Maybe there was even something moist glistening in her eyes. "Jean's dead ... That's terrible." She looked at me. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I can't believe it ..."
"When was the last time you saw Rabiot?"
"Sunday morning."
"On what occasion?"
"We had breakfast together."
"Here, in this apartment?"
"Yes."
"And then what?", I asked. "What happened then?"
"Jean told me he had to leave."
"Didn't he say where?"
"He couldn't stand being questioned. So I got out of the habit of asking questions, Monsieur Marquanteur."
"How well did you know Jean Rabiot?", I asked.
"Well enough to know that all the lies that have been told about him are not true."
"What lies?"
"That he ..." She hesitated, looking at us in turn. Then she finally continued, "That he was a gangster. I have rarely known a more loving person. He also gave a considerable portion of his income to charitable foundations." She raised her head, looking me straight in the eye. "But as I suspect, you are hardly interested in actually finding the perpetrators. In truth, you're glad he got caught."
"That's where you're wrong," François interjected. "A murder is a murder for us - even if we suspect the victim had blood on his own hands."
She screwed up her face.
"I'm glad to hear that," she said, "I wish you every success." She turned toward the door.
"Just a minute," I said. "It doesn't happen that fast."
She raised her eyebrows, which were traced with eyeliner.
"Oh, yeah?"
"We have a few more questions for you."
"I was Jean Rabiot's mistress for a while," she explained, "Does that answer your questions?"
"Didn't you want to take some personal items?"
She shrugged.
"I have determined that they are not here!"
"Weird."
"Yes, how one's memory can deceive one."
"What time did Monsieur Rabiot leave the apartment on Sunday?"
"Around 10:30 in the morning."
Now Robert J. Bardonne butted in and asked, "I assume Thionnet and Jasnore were with him, right?"
Juliette Lucás looked at him with a dismissive look.
"I don't know who that's supposed to be."
Bardonne said, "His bodyguards!"
Juliette shrugged.
"I don't know their names."
"When did you leave this apartment, Madame Lucás?"
"I was still taking a shower. Maybe half an hour later."
"And how did you spend the day?"
"I went home and went to bed because I had a terrible migraine attack. Can I finally go now?"
"Where can we reach you, Madame Lucás?"
"At my apartment on Pointe-Rouge. I'll write down phone number and address for you."
"Do you smoke?" My last question seemed to irritate her. Her eyebrows formed a serpentine line as she looked at me in wonder. Then she finally said, "I have painstakingly kicked the habit, Monsieur Marquanteur."
"We have something in common there."
"Oh!"
"What brand did you smoke?"
"I always thought Marlboro was pretty good. But what's with the questions?"
"Not Lucky Strike, by any chance?"
"No, never."
6
Charles-Michel Simon looked around at the group that had gathered in the exquisite mirrored room of Jean Lafontaine's restaurant. Simon had a penchant for French cuisine. And besides, he owned two-thirds of the restaurant.
"Business is going badly," Simon said. "The whole thing, in my opinion, is solely due to the war with the Ukrainians. We're having a hard time finding shippers to work with us, even if we're accommodating them on price."
"What do you suggest, Simon?" asked a tall gray-haired man.
"We have to come to an agreement with the Ukrainians. There is no way around it, Monsieur Bérgere!"
Bérgere shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing against it, especially since the FoPoCri will show up at one or another of ours in the near future. But I'm afraid those bastards from Ukraine aren't interested in that at all. They want our destruction."
"Sooner or later, they'll realize the pie is big enough for all of us," Simon said.
Now a tall curly-headed man came forward, whose dark tailor-made suit had cost at least a thousand euros.
"The only question is whether sooner or later," he said coolly. "Because if it's too late, we're done for!"
"Cyril is right," someone else commented.
"What are you suggesting, Albieux?"
"We have to hit the Ukrainians deadly! That must be possible. I don't think anything of an agreement. It can only mean that we have to give something and they get something, and none of us can like that."
"If the war continues, we will be targeted by the police," Simon indicated.
Cyril Albieux screwed up his face. He raised his long-stemmed wine glass.
"I'm surprised you even dared to take a swing at old Jean Rabiot and didn't wet your pants, Simon."
Sounds could now be heard from outside. Footsteps, then a groaning sound.
All those present fell silent.
"Hell, what's going on?" scolded Simon.
At that moment, the double doors to the Hall of Mirrors burst open.
Heavily armed masked men rushed in. Everything happened in a flash. Men equipped with machine guns and bulletproof vests scattered around the room, taking up positions everywhere. At least a dozen MPs and several automatics were pointed at the men at the table.
Jean Lafontaine, the chef de la cuisine, was thrown into the room. He staggered, fell to the floor, and slid a bit across the smooth parquet. Through the open door, the guards could be seen lying strangely contorted on the floor.
A man with a silencer weapon walked measuredly into the hall of mirrors. Not more than the eyes could be seen of his face. He wore a balaclava. The man with the silencer weapon stopped, looked around ...
When someone at the table moved a little too fast, the man with the silencer gun fired with lightning speed and without even a fraction of a second's hesitation. The projectile hit the man in the middle of the forehead. The force of the bullet jerked him backwards and sent him crashing to the floor along with his chair.
Nobody moved.
"Anyone who moves is as dead as those incompetent gorillas you posted out there!" hissed the man with the silencer weapon from under his balaclava. He spoke slurredly and was barely intelligible. He let the barrel of his gun circle around. None of those present dared to even breathe too hard.
"There's a bonus for anyone who retires from the business," said the man with the silencer gun. "The second option is to keep going for us. Everyone else, this is what awaits ..."
He made a quick movement with his gun. Two masked men carried in a package. It was roughly the shape of a human body, wrapped in a thick, opaque plastic sheet. The two masked men threw the package on the floor. Then they unwrapped it.
Simon turned his gaze to the side. He felt sick at the sight. He gagged and could only with difficulty prevent himself from vomiting.
"I hope that was a warning to you morons and you finally realize you're no match for us," the man with the silencer gun hissed.
He signaled to his gorillas.
The MPs rattled off. And within seconds, the hall of mirrors turned into a pile of shards. The large mirrors were shattered by the dozens of projectiles and rained to the floor in many thousands of small pieces.
The masked men then disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.
For seconds, no one on the board said a word.
Finally, it was Cyril Albieux who rose first. He walked toward the gruesome package that the masked men had left behind. His brow furrowed as he looked at the terrible contents.
He knelt down in front of it.
"My God," he whispered. "That's Tom Brunnot!"
"One of our people, anyway, that's for sure," Simon said coldly.
Cyril Albieux whispered, "What have those dogs done to him? Horrible!"
Silence reigned.
Albieux rose again. He turned to the others, whose pale faces were completely dismayed.
"We have to see that we make the dead disappear. And we have to do it fast! They may be our own people, and we didn't kill them either, but the cops will be pestering us with questions otherwise. And right now we can't afford a war on two fronts - against the Ukrainians and the FoPoCri!"
No one said a word. Not even Simon.
You'll need better nerves to become number one, Simon, thought Cyril Albieux as he eyed the balding man appraisingly.
"You're not telling me that any of you are going to accept the offer of those bastards," Albieux then said into the awkward silence. "If anyone dares, I'll kill him myself!"
7
François and I would have loved to talk to Simon, who, according to Commissaire Bardonne, had the best chance of becoming the new number one in the garbage syndicate. But Simon allowed himself to be denied. Together with Bardonne, we drove to both his home address and the offices of his import/export company. He was nowhere to be found and his employees pretended to have no idea where their boss was.
So we drove to La Viste to the villa of Jean Rabiot's widow.
François and I in my red sports car, Bardonne in a gray Ford belonging to our motor pool.
The villas in La Viste were often secluded, and the celebrities of the moneyed aristocracy were as concentrated here as perhaps only in Cannes.
Jean Rabiot's estate resembled a fortress. One felt as if one were at a border crossing into a totalitarian country. Barbed wire and electric fences shielded the actual villa for a radius of almost a kilometer. Supposedly, the villa had once belonged to a well-known actor for a short time - but that was just a rumor.
We stopped in front of the lattice gate.
Armed guards with walkie-talkies and man-sharp German shepherd dogs patrolled around there. Their sunglassed faces looked at us disparagingly. Machine guns were loaded through.
We got out of the car.
"Anything but a warm welcome, huh?" opined François.
"Rabiot was prepared for an unfriendly visit," I said.
"Apparently not good enough," Bardonne noted.
I turned to the man who had been on undercover assignment in the Rabiot organization.
"Does Madame Rabiot know you?"
"It's possible," Bardonne agreed. "If you remember me ... I think we met once at a business dinner."
At the time, Bardonne had disguised himself as a real estate agent who was supposed to procure properties for Rabiot's organization. Unfortunately, he had not succeeded in trapping the big boss himself, but only one of his subordinates. Rabiot himself had been far too slick. And too cautious. He had Bardonne shadowed and bugged. And so the undercover man had finally been exposed, and the FoPoCri had had to withdraw him.
"I suppose they're still pretty mad at you in this house," François commented.
"Maybe," Bardonne replied. "But maybe not ..."
François asked, "How am I to understand that?"
"I had the impression at the time that Rabiot deliberately let the guy we caught walk into the knife to get rid of him. Eric Gardon was from the middle level of the hierarchy. He had an offer from the Ukrainians, so it was rumored... And he couldn't be dangerous for Jean Rabiot, Gardon knew too little for that!"
"You mean Rabiot used you for his own purposes?"
"I think Rabiot knew about our action against Gardon. Now Gardon is serving time in Les Baumettes ..."
"... and Rabiot got it even worse," François finished.
We went to the gate. One of the gorillas let go of his dog and also took off his muzzle. The animal jumped against the gate and bared its teeth. Threateningly, the dog growled at us.
I held up my ID card.
"FoPoCri! We're here to see Madame Rabiot! Open the gate!"
The guards looked at each other indecisively. One of them approached us, his machine pistol at the ready.
"Let's see it!" he growled between the immaculately white flashing teeth, reached his hand through the grating and took the ID card. He looked at it closely. Then he signaled to one of his colleagues and handed the ID back to me.
"Seems genuine," he commented.
"What you can count on!"
He grinned wryly.
His colleague reached for the walkie-talkie. A minute later, the gate was opened for us.
8
We parked our cars in a spacious parking lot in front of the villa. Several limousines were parked there, including a red sports car.
One of the scowling bodyguards led us to a gorgeous terrace overlooking the water of the nearby park. Glass panes intercepted the wind.
A slender woman in her mid-fifties with dyed red hair sat in a comfortable armchair. She eyed us through sunglasses. A butler had just brought her a drink.
"Madame Rabiot?", I asked.
"Yes?"
I held out the ID card to her.
"Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur, FoPoCri," I introduced myself.
A cool smile slid across Madame Rabiot's full lips. She took off her sunglasses. She had brown eyes.
No one knew how big a role Madame Rabiot had played in her husband's business. There were persistent rumors that she had pulled the strings from behind the scenes in recent years. To the outside world, however, she only ever appeared as the caring mother of her children, who spent most of the year in good European boarding schools.
Madame Rabiot rose. She looked at me disparagingly.
"What do you want?" she asked, "I assume you're here to patch up some of my husband's stuff even after he's dead."
"You're wrong," I said.
"I know your kind ..." Her voice expressed deep contempt. She looked past me. Straight at Bardonne.
"How the vultures are you ..."
"Aren't you interested in seeing your husband's murderers punished?", I asked.
She laughed out.
"Oh, don't tell me you're interested!"
"Madame Rabiot, we need to ask you a few questions."
"Please!"
"When was the last time you saw your husband?"
"That was a long time ago."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Jean, unfortunately, lacked the necessary sense of family in recent years."
"He lived in Meynier."
"...and made a fool of himself with women half his age. That's what you're getting at, isn't it?"
"Well ..."
She pointed to the butler and the bodyguards surrounding her.
"These people here will give me any alibi at any time, Monsieur Marquanteur. By the way, may I assure you that I am not a Sicilian who throws plates with jealousy. The relationship between Jean and me has been more businesslike lately. But we respected each other. And that's something, too."
Now Robert Bardonne spoke up.
"Do the names Eric Thionnet and Hervé Jasnore mean anything to you, Madame Rabiot?"
"Who would that be?"
"Your husband's bodyguards."
"I'm sorry, there are so many people working for my husband."
"We are not only looking for the two bodyguards, but also for your husband's limousine. You knew him better than we did. Isn't there anything you can do to help us?"
A cold smile slid across Madame Rabiot's fine-cut face. She turned to Bardonne.
"I am convinced that you in particular knew my husband at least as well as I did."
A whirring engine noise caught my attention. It sounded like a motorized airplane, only a little shriller. Instinctively, my eyes searched the light blue sky. But I could not see anything at first.
François, meanwhile, said, "We'd like to examine your husband's personal effects."
"Do you have a warrant?"
"We assume that you are willing to cooperate, Madame Rabiot," François replied. "If this should not be present, we are naturally concerned. You would then come into a strange light."
"And you would assume that there was imminent danger and blow the whistle on a search warrant?"
"We would hand it in later, not whistle for it," François corrected. "Such are the laws, Madame Rabiot!"
I was barely listening to the conversation.
The engine noise became louder. A dark dot appeared in the sky, growing larger.
"One of those damned sport fliers," commented Madame Rabiot. "Lately, you can't even get a break from these mosquitoes here."
The thing came closer.
Some of the guards had also noticed it by now.
The men looked up suspiciously. They were undecided about what to do. The thing looked like an old-fashioned biplane. The propeller rattled.
It lowered the trajectory, coming towards the terrace.
And then I noticed that the machine had no occupant.
A model airplane!, it flashed through me.
One of the bodyguards raised his MP and fired. One wing of the small biplane was shredded. The model went down. It landed at the far end of the terrace.
"Careful!", I shouted and yanked Madame Rabiot to the ground.
The others also threw themselves down. There was a tremendous detonation. The heat was murderous.
The flame flickered red high up. A hail of splinters shredded the facade of the house. The windows cracked under the pressure of the explosion. A deafening noise.
The butler cried out.
He had obviously been hit by something. His legs were red.
François was with him, grabbed the injured man under the arms. He pulled him along with him.
I rushed over and helped him. A few moments later, we were all out of the danger zone. The flames were soaring high and had caught some trees and bushes. Since many of the window panes were broken, curtains had caught fire. The flames spread to the house.
François turned to one of the bodyguards.
"Call an ambulance and the fire department if you want to prevent more than a pile of ashes from remaining here!"
The bodyguard looked at François in consternation. Taking orders from a commissaire was a new experience for him.
"Go on!" shouted François.
Meanwhile, I let my eyes wander. The martial bodyguards, who had had the task of securing this property, were buzzing around like a bunch of startled chickens. All order had been lost. No one seemed to have expected such a brazen attack.
A bomb transported by a model airplane!
There were some top-class professional killers who had developed a certain fondness for this method. It seemed as if someone wanted to make it cost quite a lot to get rid of the widow of the great Jean Rabiot.
I exchanged a glance with François.
"To the park!", I said.
François nodded.
He had had the same thought as I had.
9
It was impossible to get close enough to the Rabiots' estate to not only remotely control such an aircraft, but also to observe where the bomb hit.
The terrain was very easy to overlook. Any stranger there would undoubtedly have attracted the attention of the guards.
Only the park side remained.
I sprinted off. François followed me.
I ran forward with all my might, sometimes sinking up to my ankles in the soft sand. I was glad when the ground became harder. The wind rustled. The water glistened in the sun. I saw a dark spot in the distance that might have been an inflatable boat, the artificial lake was big enough.
From the beach, a wide jetty led out into the sea. Some smaller boats were moored to it. Shortly decided, we ran to the jetty.
The wood was slippery. Again and again it happened that the water splashed up here.
I jumped into the first boat that came along. I chose it because, unlike the others, it had a free outboard. You didn't need a key, just some power to get it going. Indeed, there was no time to ask Madame Rabiot for an ignition key for any of the other boats, nor to hot-wire any of the engines.
I tore at the cord of the outboard motor while François loosened the lines and jumped into the boat with me. It swayed in the process.
Inwardly, I prayed that there was also gasoline in the tank.
The engine started on the second try. And then we roared over the waves. The bow lifted out of the water.
It was not a racing boat that we had chosen.
More like a vessel for anglers. The boat bounced over the waves, toward the dark something that I had mistaken for an inflatable.
It was actually one. It was moving away from us.
From the boat, the model airplane must have been launched and remotely controlled. Nobody had expected it. And by a hair's breadth, the plan would have worked.
"Hopefully there's enough fuel for a car chase!" commented François.
I could only agree with him on that.
However, neither we nor the dinghy could get too far out on the open lake.
"Our model pilot will want to land somewhere nearby," I surmised. I could well imagine how the unknown killer had proceeded. Somewhere not too far away he had parked his car and launched the boat. In a wide arc he had then approached the Rabiot estate.
"There must be a traitor among Madame Rabiot's people," I suddenly said. Or rather, I literally shouted it to François, because the outboard motor was making a hell of a racket.
François looked at me questioningly.
"What makes you think that?"
"He was quite far out! He couldn't possibly observe whether Madame Rabiot was actually on the terrace!"
"Assuming he really had it in for her," François mused.
"Anyway, we're going to scrutinize everyone who's been walking around here today!"
We were catching up.
I refrained from giving full throttle. Both the dinghy and our vehicle were water displacement devices, not gliders. That meant, among other things, that you couldn't get above a certain speed, no matter how much engine power you used. Instead, it was perhaps more important to save fuel.
Our counterpart on the dinghy seemed to know nothing about it. He turned on full blast.
The dinghy plowed through the waves. The spray splashed up high.
The hunt dragged on.
The dinghy continued to move toward the opposite shore.
The gap became smaller.
The driver pointed an Uzi-type automatic rifle at us with one hand and fired wildly. We ducked down. The bullets whistled over us. Accurate aiming was very difficult in a swaying boat. And an Uzi was anything but a weapon for snipers anyway.
The distance between the two boats decreased visibly.
Meanwhile, the killer had emptied his magazine.
And he couldn't push a new one into the gun at the moment. After all, he had to constantly hold the outboard's handle with one hand to keep from losing course. Besides, his boat was swaying quite a bit.
François pulled his Walther P 99 from his belt holster. He moved cautiously in the direction of the bow.
And then he took aim.
We were close enough, but with the fluctuations it was hard to hit.
François fired.
He had it in for the boat. Twice in quick succession, he let the P 99 crash away. The sound of the gunshot was almost masked by the sound of the engine.
François' second bullet hit.
The left main air chamber of the inflatable boat burst.
There was a bang louder than a gunshot. The air escaped within seconds. The boat capsized at full speed. The killer went overboard. He was swimming in the lake. We pulled up to him. It took only moments to reach him.
François pointed the gun at the swimmer.
"FoPoCri!" he shouted. "You're under arrest ..."
The man in the water had short-cropped gray hair and was very gaunt. His eyes were blue. He looked at us with a hateful look.
But he had no choice but to join us in the boat, because it was impossible to escape swimming here.
10
We returned to the house of Madame Rabiot. The fire had been extinguished in the meantime.
We loaded the prisoner into the gray Ford in which Commissaire Bardonne had driven here. The gray-haired, gaunt man was handcuffed, and one of us was always with him to keep an eye on him.
We had searched him. But he was not carrying any clues to his identity. The serial number of his Uzi had been filed off, the label of his leather jacket had been cut out. All this indicated that we were dealing with a real professional. We had not been able to salvage the inflatable boat with the shredded main air chamber. After all, François and I didn't want to take the risk of capsizing ourselves, nor did we want to give the arrested man a chance to resist after all.
We had only fished the remote control for the model airplane out of the water. The killer had tied it to the dinghy for safety's sake.
By cell phone, we asked for assistance from the responsible police department, whose officers now searched the area for a vehicle that must have been parked somewhere near the shore.
Perhaps there we would have closer clues to the identity of the killer.
The gray-haired man did not say a single word. He only twisted his thin-lipped face into a cynical grimace.
"It remains to be seen how long he can keep his silence," François opined. "He really has nothing left to lose."
"Unfortunately, that doesn't mean he's going to tell us who he's working for," I pointed out.
A little later, I spoke to Madame Rabiot again. She was standing on the terrace, looking at the aftermath of the explosion.
"Please don't touch anything, Madame Rabiot! Some of our colleagues are on their way here, including forensic specialists. Every detail can be important."
Madame Rabiot laughed hoarsely.
"Do you have any idea," she murmured.
One of her bodyguards was standing nearby.
"I would like to speak with you privately," I said.
She glanced toward her bodyguard and then said, "Fati doesn't have ears."
"Look, I'd like to save myself the trouble of bringing you into our presidency."
She shrugged.
"Okay, Fati," she then said. The bodyguard moved away, nervously fiddling with the temple of his pitch-black sunglasses.
I stepped a little closer. Madame Rabiot avoided my gaze. She tried to maintain an outward demeanor. But it was impossible not to notice that she was under the shock of what had happened.
"Madame Rabiot, I assume you are quite aware of who could have commissioned this assassination."
"Can't you care?"
"No. It's our case."
"So what?"
"Her husband, according to our findings, headed a syndicate-like organization that made its money from illegal toxic waste disposal ..."
"Have you or your colleagues in the judiciary ever been able to produce any evidence that could be used in court?" she interrupted me. "As far as I remember, there has never been a conviction. So what's the point of these allegations?"
"Knowing something and being able to prove something so airtight that you can convince prosecutors are two different things, Madame Rabiot."
"You don't say."
"In any case, in the industry in which your husband - and presumably you - worked, there has been considerable competition lately."
"I wouldn't know what you're talking about."
"From the Ukrainians!"
She swallowed. Her hands had involuntarily clenched into fists.
I continued, "But there are also people in your own organization who may be out to get you - and who may have your husband on their conscience."
"Be quiet," she said.
"One of your employees here worked for the man on the dinghy."
"This is nonsense, Monsieur Marquanteur!"
"It's the only logical explanation." I pointed in the direction of the water. "The killer had to make sure you were really here. Because you can't see that from out there."
"Your theory?"
"One of your people tipped him off."
"And how?"
"With a mini transmitter, for example. Now there's really the simplest thing you can imagine. The attack was precisely timed, there's no doubt in my mind about that."
She looked at me a little surprised. Then she shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"It could be anyone who overheard that you were on the terrace. I would rule out the butler as the only one with a fairly high degree of certainty. After all, he himself was seriously injured. If he'd had anything to do with it, he probably would have run for safety."
She looked thoughtful. Then she lifted her chin.
"Those are your conclusions, Monsieur Marquanteur. Not mine."
"You don't want to help us?"
"I have no reason to."
"Is your interest in staying alive not a reason? We can no longer arrest your husband. And you can no longer harm him, no matter what you tell us."
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Marquanteur."
11
Our reinforcements arrived. We scrutinized everyone who had been on the property at the time of the attack, searched them, and took statements and personal data. The mini-transmitter was discovered by one of our forensic experts in a trash can. It also turned out that one of the bodyguards was missing.
One of his colleagues admitted this after we put a bit of pressure on him and made it clear that he himself could get involved.
The name of the missing person was Martin Jasson.
Presumably he had slipped away unnoticed while François and I had chased the man in the dinghy.
Martin Jasson was almost certainly our man. If we found him, it might lead us to the person who ordered this attack.
François and I returned to headquarters very late. The man from the rubber dinghy had been transported there hours earlier and questioned by our interrogators. He had not said a word to them either. He remained a stone-cold professional. Even now, in this hopeless situation.
"It could also be that he knows exactly how long his client's arm is," François surmised. "He wouldn't be the first inmate to die mysteriously in custody before he could open his mouth in court."
12
Juliette Lucás felt the cold grip of her pistol as she reached into the wide pockets of her thin coat. Next to her stood Cyril Albieux, who brushed back his dark curls with an agitated movement.
It was late. Almost midnight.
They were in a gloomy backyard, somewhere among condemned ruins waiting for someone to finally make the effort to tear them down.
Footsteps made Juliette sit up and take notice.
Cyril's posture also became somewhat tense. Cyril Albieux carried an MP on a strap over his shoulder. He gripped the weapon with both hands.
To Juliette's left was a small briefcase on the floor.
Juliette smiled.
The moon was high in the sky. This part of the city was so poorly lit that it was easy to see. In other parts of Marseilles, it was more difficult. Two figures peeled out of the darkness.
The light of the full moon shone on them.
Juliette knew all too well who they were. Their names were Thionnet and Jasnore and they had previously worked as bodyguards for the great Jean Rabiot. Until that memorable Sunday, when they delivered him to the knife.
Yes, that's how it can happen, it went through Juliette's head. That's why you can't trust anyone.
That was her personal credo.
"There you are," said one of them. It was Thionnet. The two approached, greeting with a curt nod.
Thionnet turned to Albieux. He looked at the MP in amazement.
"Armed that well?"
"This is not a fine neighborhood here," Cyril replied coolly.
Thionnet shrugged his shoulders.
"I assume you have some people posted in the area." Cyril Albieux lowered his gun. "I thought we were on the same side, Cyril!"
"You can never be too careful."