And Death the Prize

Book 57: Murder Room

by Richard Grindal

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

With the Entente Cordiale still in its infancy, the Sûreté had assigned Inspector Gautier to keep a protective eye on English visitors to Paris for the racing at Longchamps. But it was not the English who engaged Gautier's attention, but an Irish surgeon - Michael Breen. Breen, fêted by the ladies of Paris, is accused of a trivial assault - and almost at once Princess Hélène's daughter goes missing and a shop assistant at Au Bon Marché is found dead just as Breen flees the country. Inspector Gautier is hot on his heels to Dublin, whilst a third murder back in Paris complicates the affair for all involved.

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 194

Sample

As he was being driven in a fiacre to the Bois de Boulogne, Gautier realized that his new duties at the Sûreté were at least providing him with a variety of
assignments. Not many weeks previously he had spent an evening at the Moulin Rouge, keeping a protective watch over the King of England, who was paying a visit incognito to Paris. Today he was to
be present at a cycle race in the Bois de Boulogne, which he knew was attracting among its spectators at least one titled Englishman as well as a number of Americans living in Paris.

Gautier’s duties as a chief inspector of the Sûreté had recently been extended to watching over the safety of any notable English visitors who came to Paris. The motives of
Courtrand, Director General of the Sûreté, in giving him this responsibility were mixed. One was jealousy. Courtrand was jealous of Gautier’s achievements in solving a number of
celebrated criminal cases in Paris and wished to restrict his opportunities for further successes. The other motive was political. Although he was flattered when people told him how much he
resembled King Edward VII and although he had his beard and moustaches shaped like the king’s, Courtrand was at heart an Anglophobe. The French Government was obsessed with preserving the
recent friendship with England, as a powerful ally in the war of revenge with Germany, which everyone knew must come. So the Sûreté had been instructed to prevent any trouble which
might endanger the Entente Cordiale, and this meant giving protection to any English politicians or other notables visiting France. Courtrand saw it as a tedious responsibility which he
gladly passed over to Gautier. A short time ago the assignment had been extended to looking after Americans as well.

The cycle race to be held in the Bois de Boulogne that afternoon had aroused an unusual amount of public interest. A few years previously cycling had been all the rage in Paris. Everyone cycled.
Every day several hundreds of cyclists could be seen in the Bois and many more crossed the Seine to Suresnes, where amenities for cyclists were even better. New dress styles had been created for
women cyclists. One Parisienne had arrived for her wedding wearing cycling bloomers and another had presented herself similarly dressed as a witness in a court, only to be sent home by the
judge.

In more recent years though, the passion for cycling as a hobby seemed to be waning, so Gautier had been surprised to hear that that afternoon’s race was to be something of a social event
and that the gratin or upper crust of Paris society was expected to be present. A possible reason for this may have been that the trophy and substantial cash prize for the winner had been
presented by Gordon Bennett Junior, the American owner of the New York Herald, and the race had been given lavish publicity in his paper’s Paris edition.

When Gautier arrived in the Bois de Boulogne, he saw at least a thousand spectators around the place where the race would start and finish. A temporary stand had been erected and alongside it
was a marquee in which guests invited by the sponsor were being served champagne. About thirty cyclists would be competing and when Gautier arrived they were ready stripped for racing and making
last minute adjustments to their machines.

Gautier had been given two tickets and when he found his seats in the stand he saw that Madame Catriona Becker, who was meant to be joining him at the race, had not arrived. He was not surprised
for punctuality was not one of the lady’s virtues but he was confident that she would arrive in due course.

The competitors in the race were with one exception regular racing cyclists, some from as far as Italy and Spain. Later in the year they would be taking part in major races all over Europe,
including the Tour de France, which had been held for the first time two years previously. The one exception among the competitors was an Irishman, Michael Breen. That morning’s Paris
Herald had told its readers that Breen was a surgeon and that he had broken several cycling records in Ireland.

Gautier had been intrigued to learn that a surgeon had allowed himself to be drawn into the harsh world of professional cycling and he tried to see whether he could single him out among the
competitors at the start. It was not difficult: most of the cyclists were wearing striped jerseys, knickerbockers and stockings, drab in colour but functional; by contrast, one who must be the
Irishman, wore a striking black singlet bearing an elaborate gold crest. His knickerbockers were scarlet and black, matched by scarlet cycling shoes and a scarlet tasselled cap. He was a handsome
man, with dark hair and blue eyes, a combination, Gautier had heard, often found in the Irish.

Presently the competitors lined up at the starting line and mounted their machines, held up by a helper as they waited for the signal to start. After shouting a word of warning, the starter
lowered his flag and the cyclists sped away, pedalling hard to combat inertia and get up speed. Within a minute they were almost out of sight, passing the Pavillon de Bagatelle and heading in the
direction of the racecourse at Longchamps. From there they would circle the two lakes on their way back to the start, completing the first of several laps. The race was over fifty kilometres and
people who knew the sport of cycling had told Gautier that it would be over in not much more than an hour.

He was still waiting for the cyclists to appear at the end of the first lap when Catriona Becker arrived. She was Scottish by birth, the young widow of a Belgian, whose death had left her
financially independent. Gautier had met her some months previously through an introduction from the Prefect of Police, ostensibly so that she could give him lessons in English. Gautier had soon
learned that the introduction had only been a pretext and that Madame Becker was being blackmailed. He had been able to solve that problem and the murder which had come as an off-shoot of it.
Although Madame Becker certainly did not need the money and refused to accept payment, she continued giving him lessons and they had become lovers. Now he was her escort to dinners, the theatre,
the opera and other social events and slept with her two or three times each week in her apartment on Boulevard Haussmann.

As soon as she had taken her seat next to him, she said, ‘Before I forget, you and I are invited by Princesse Hélène to a dinner she is giving this evening.’

‘The invitation is rather belated, is it not?’

‘Yes. The princesse apologizes for that, but she only arranged the dinner on the spur of the moment, an impromptu affair.’

‘Is there any particular reason for it?’

‘It is a dinner in honour of Michael Breen.’

‘The Irish surgeon who is racing here today?’

‘Yes. He was given an introduction to the princesse by an Austrian duchess, a relative of hers. Doctor Breen, it seems, captured the hearts of Vienna.’

While they were talking the cyclists appeared, completing the first lap of the race. The field was already strung out, with a group of half-a-dozen riders leading, some fifty metres ahead of the
main body, and a couple of stragglers well to the rear. The Irishman Breen was among the first group.

‘Which is Doctor Breen?’ Madame Becker asked and when Gautier had pointed him out, she said, ‘Now I can understand why the princesse is so taken with him. He’s remarkably
handsome!’

Gautier could see that Breen was exceptionally good-looking, but he was not going to agree and Catriona went on, ‘Princesse Hélène seems besotted with him. Have you noticed
that as she grows older the poor dear is becoming even more eccentric?’

Although he was very fond of the princesse, Gautier was inclined to agree. Her claim to a royal title was, in the eyes of most Parisians, dubious for, while her father had been one of
Napoleon’s brothers whom he had placed on a European throne, she had been his natural daughter and the name of her mother was never mentioned. In spite of this pedigree, she had become a
popular hostess in society and not only for her charm and great wealth. The French, unlike the more conventional English and Germans, enjoyed eccentricity and over the last year or so Princesse
Hélène seemed more than ready to add to their enjoyment.

When the cyclists came round to complete their second lap, the same small group was leading, but if anything it had pulled even further away from the other competitors. At the end of the third
lap the order was much the same, except that two of the leading group had dropped back. The Irishman Breen was in third place, tucked in comfortably behind a Frenchman and an Italian, allowing them
it seemed, to set the pace.

Catriona seemed restless and Gautier guessed that she might be bored, for she had never shown any interest in sport. So they went together to the marquee where waiters served them with
champagne. The loud, drawling voices of some of the other guests in the marquee showed unmistakably that they were English. A race meeting was to be held at Longchamps the following day and, as
always, a large number of wealthy English had come over to Paris to enjoy what they believed to be the sport of kings. Several bookmakers from London and Newmarket had also travelled to Paris and
were in the Bois, taking bets on the cycle race, but they had not been admitted to the marquee.

One of the visitors over whom it had been decided that the Sûreté should keep a protective watch was Viscount Hawkhurst, the eldest son of the Earl of Tenterden. Lord Hawkhurst was
an inveterate gambler, whose imprudence on the racecourse and in the casino were, people said, ruining his father. He was in the marquee now, sipping champagne, wearing a checked suit, a blue
waistcoat and a straw hat with a blue ribbon. Most Parisians would have thought that a canotier was not appropriate headwear for the occasion, but Hawkhurst looked elegant for all that. At
Longchamps next day one supposed, his dress would revert to a more conventional morning coat and top hat.

When Catriona and Gautier returned to watch the end of the race, they were in time to see the riders pass and begin their final lap. The leading group of three was still the same, but it was now
so far in front of the field that soon it would catch up and overtake the stragglers.

‘The Irishman will win,’ Gautier heard one of the spectators saying. ‘He is really a sprinter, but by assiduous training he has learnt to stay. The other two will not be able
to match his devastating sprint at the finish.’

‘What odds do you think the bookies will give against him winning now?’ the man beside him asked.

Lord Hawkhurst had also left the marquee and was standing towards the front of the spectators near the finish of the race, looking relaxed and confident. Gautier wondered whether he might have
come to the cycle race merely to have a bet on the Irish surgeon. The bookies would have been giving good odds against an unknown rider beating Europe’s leading professionals. Orsini, the
Italian who was one of the leading group in the race, had won last year’s Tour de France.

‘Would not it be wonderful if Doctor Breen were to win?’ Catriona asked. ‘What a coup that would be for Princesse Hélène at her dinner tonight!’

A few minutes later, looking down the course, they saw the leaders appear. A great cheer went up when the crowd saw only two cyclists and that the Irishman in his scarlet and black kit was not
one of them. Presently he came into view, almost a hundred metres behind the two leaders, pedalling furiously but not managing to reduce their lead.

Orsini crossed the finishing line first and he and the Frenchman dismounted, acknowledging the applause of the spectators. When Breen followed them, one could see that he had fallen, for his
singlet was stained with mud and one leg of his knickerbockers was torn, showing an ugly graze on his knee. He was gesticulating angrily as he crossed the line, shaking his fist at Orsini and the
Frenchman. Leaping from his cycle, he began swearing at them in English, using oaths which Gautier did not understand. Then he lashed out at Orsini.

‘What is he saying?’ Gautier asked Catriona.

‘Better that you don’t know, cheri.’

‘Are you not supposed to be teaching me English?’

‘Not those expressions! They would be of no use to you in your work at the Sûreté.’

Gautier laughed. He might have told her that much of the vocabulary she had taught him would also be of no value to him in his official work. Most of the coaching that Catriona had been giving
him was, as the French would say, on the pillow.

A fight was starting among the competitors and the officials controlling the race moved in to separate them. Some of the spectators had joined the mêlée, Lord Hawkhurst among them.
The arguing and shouting continued, in English as well as French, with a sprinkling of Italian oaths as well.

Presently Catriona explained to Gautier, ‘Doctor Breen is claiming that one of the tailenders whom he was passing knocked him off his machine. He was in the lead at the time and says he
would have won the race. It was deliberate, he claims, a plot. He is furious, his anger almost out of control.’

The dinner given by Princesse Hélène in honour of Michael Breen was held in the Pavillon Bagatelle, the small château in the Bois de Boulogne, past which the cyclists had
raced in the afternoon. Built originally for the Comte d’Artois, who later became King Charles X, the Pavillon had been sold to Lord Yarmouth and had remained in the hands of the English
aristocracy until 1904, when it was sold to the City of Paris. The room in which Princesse Hélène’s dinner was being held had recently been redecorated and the guests were
seated at a huge, oval table. Set against the deep red of the walls, the white tablecloths and the white aprons of the waiters, formed a perfect setting for the Sèvres dinner service and
silver cutlery.

Catriona Becker had recently become the owner of an automobile, the latest Panhard Levassor model, and after they had changed into evening clothes at her apartment, she and Gautier were driven
to the dinner by her chauffeur. On the way there, she told him what she knew, or had heard, about Michael Breen. A year ago Breen had qualified as a surgeon at Trinity College, Dublin and had since
taken a postgraduate course in Vienna, which would enable him to specialize in ear, nose and throat surgery. From Vienna he had come directly to Paris where he was studying the recent advances
which had been made in French medicine.

‘Is he not rather old to have only recently qualified in medicine?’ Gautier asked.

‘He is. Princesse Hélène says he neglected his studies for his other interests.’

‘Sport?’

‘Sport may be one of his interests but, if I am any judge, women are another.’

At the Pavillon de Bagatelle, the Princesse Hélène was receiving her guests in an anteroom. When Catriona and Gautier arrived she took him on one side.

‘Monsieur Gautier, I wonder if you would be so kind as to do me a great favour?’

‘I am always delighted to be of service to you, madame.’

‘My daughter has decided that she cannot be here tonight, so her husband is sulking and refuses to come on his own. It is really very vexing.’

Gautier knew the princesse’s daughter, Berthe, only very slightly, but she had the reputation of being a redoubtable woman and self-willed. God had been unkind to her in the manner of
looks, but Princesse Hélène had secured a place for her in society by marrying her off to an impoverished French aristocrat, Comte Thierry de Beauregard.

‘My son-in-law was to act with me in hosting the dinner tonight,’ the princesse continued. ‘Would you be so kind as to take his place?’

Gautier knew it was a request that he could scarcely refuse, even if he had wished to. No doubt Princesse Hélène’s main reason for asking him was that he must be one of the
few unmarried men at the dinner, but even so it was an honour in a way, for there were others whom the princesse might have invited; men of rank and distinction.

‘It will mean that you will not be sitting next to Madame Becker,’ the princesse said. ‘Will that upset you?’

‘I am sure I shall survive the separation,’ Gautier replied, smiling.

Princesse Hélène tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan. ‘Does that mean that your devotion to her is diminishing?’

‘Not at all.’

The reply was true for, although he was fond of Catriona Becker and looked forward to making love with her, Gautier had realized that devotion was too strong a word for what they felt for each
other. So, where there was no devotion, it could not diminish. At the same time he often wondered how long their affair would last.

‘You should still enjoy your evening,’ Princesse Hélène said, ‘for you will be sitting between two ladies, both of whom I suspect, are growing tired of their
husbands.’

‘Why should they interest me?’

Princesse Hélène ignored his question. ‘You may flirt with them, of course, but flirt discreetly.’

While he and the princesse were talking, the guest of honour, Michael Breen, had arrived and now came forward to kiss the princesse’s hand. Most Anglo-Saxons seemed embarrassed by having
to greet a Frenchwoman and contented themselves by giving an awkward, formal bow. Breen’s greeting though was as graceful as any Frenchman’s. The princesse introduced the two men.

‘Did you watch the cycle race this afternoon?’ Breen asked Gautier. His French was fluent, the accent almost faultless.

‘I did, monsieur, and was very impressed by your performance.’

‘I hear you behaved very badly, Michael,’ the princesse said teasingly. ‘You were fortunate that Inspector Gautier did not have you arrested.’

‘You are absolutely right, madame. I am afraid I simply lost my temper.’ Breen’s smile was the appealing grin of a naughty boy.

The princesse took him away to meet the other guests, circling the room and stopping to exchange words with different groups. Breen seemed totally at ease as they chatted and Gautier realzied
that. . .