The Gold Watch Read online

  THE GOLD WATCH

  Paul Halter books from Locked Room International:

  The Lord of Misrule (2010)

  The Fourth Door (2011)

  The Seven Wonders of Crime (2011)

  The Demon of Dartmoor (2012)

  The Seventh Hypothesis (2012)

  The Tiger’s Head (2013)

  The Crimson Fog (2013)

  The Night of the Wolf (2013)

  The Invisible Circle (2014)

  The Picture from the Past (2014)

  The Phantom Passage (2015)

  Death Invites You (2016)

  The Vampire Tree (2016)

  The Madman’s Room (2017)

  The Man Who Loved Clouds (2018)

  Other impossible crime novels from Locked Room International:

  The Riddle of Monte Verita (Jean-Paul Torok) 2012

  The Killing Needle (Henry Cauvin) 2014

  The Derek Smith Omnibus (Derek Smith) 2014

  The House That Kills (Noel Vindry) 2015

  The Decagon House Murders (Yukito Ayatsuji) 2015

  Hard Cheese (Ulf Durling) 2015

  The Moai Island Puzzle (Alice Arisugawa) 2016

  The Howling Beast (Noel Vindry) 2016

  Death in the Dark (Stacey Bishop) 2017

  The Ginza Ghost (Keikichi Osaka) 2017

  Death in the House of Rain (Szu-Yen Lin) 2017

  The Double Alibi (Noel Vindry) 2018

  The 8 Mansion Murders (Takemaru Abiko) 2018

  The Seventh Guest (Gaston Boca) 2018

  Bibliography

  Locked Room Murders Second Edition, Revised 2018

  Visit our website at www.mylri.com or

  www.lockedroominternational.com

  THE GOLD WATCH

  Paul Halter

  Translated by John Pugmire

  The Gold Watch

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Original French title La Montre en or.

  Copyright © Paul Halter et Eurydice 2019.

  THE GOLD WATCH

  English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2019.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Joseph Gérard

  For information, contact: [email protected]

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Halter, Paul

  [La Montre en or English]

  The Gold Watch / Paul Halter

  Translated from the French by John Pugmire

  To Fei Wu, who subtly persuaded me to write this story. P.H.

  Principal characters

  In the contemporary narrative

  André Lévêque, playwright, obsessed with a mysterious film.

  Célia, his wife, fashion designer.

  Christine Tissier, spirited sexagenarian, their neighbour.

  Ambroise Moreau, psychoanalyst, retired doctor of philosophy.

  Carl Jelenski, astronomer, living in a converted mill.

  Guy, childhood friend of André.

  Jean-Paul Lamblin (Jean-Pierre Langlois), Guy's father.

  Janine Lamblin (Jeanne Langlois), Guy's mother.

  Rita Messmer, beautiful German, friend of the Lamblins.

  Heinrich Messmer, her brother.

  In the narrative from the past

  Victoria Sanders, director of a fabric importing company.

  Daren Bellamy, her brother, lover of night-life.

  Andrew Johnson, deputy director of the Sanders company.

  Alice Johnson, his wife, passionate about embroidery.

  Cheryl Chapman, ex-model, Andrew's secretary.

  Mr. and Mrs. Benson, handyman and cook at Raven Lodge.

  Inspector Wedekind, of Scotland Yard.

  Owen Burns, dandy detective, well-known to the Yard.

  Achilles Stock, his faithful friend and confidant.

  Jane Miller, widow, murdered ten years earlier.

  PROLOGUE

  London, October 11, 1901

  It was raining heavily in the British capital that night. Behind the swirling curtain of rain, Crescent Alley was no longer recognisable. Just a few hours earlier it had looked like a watercolour, freshly-painted and rich in detail, for it was located in a well-to-do part of the city. But now it seemed as though the canvas had been repainted in a much darker colour to represent nightfall, and white traces had been added to evoke the intensity of the rain, whose incessant patter had muffled all other sounds.

  The clock of a nearby church could scarcely be heard as it struck ten. The feeble lights of the street lamps fought in vain against the darkness. Just when it seemed there was not a soul around, a figure emerged suddenly from a passageway. It was a woman of some fifty years of age. Clad in a dark cloak, her shoulders hunched and her hat crammed down over her face, she walked briskly, sticking close to the railings of the houses. Then, raising her head, she slowed down before coming to a halt. Her expression of astonishment seemed hardly justified; the house she was looking at appeared no different from its neighbours: a solid brick edifice with lights in two of its windows. Furthermore, she knew it well: it was number 8, her own home. Despite the rain, she stood there perplexed for several moments before a metallic noise at her feet drew her attention. Looking down, she saw a flash of gold, just before the object disappeared behind the railings. The woman let out a deep sigh, cursing the bad luck which, she felt, had followed her all day. And with reason, it must be said, given the events which were soon to follow….

  Her precious gold fob watch, which was of great sentimental value to her, had just fallen out of her pocket and bounced to the side into a spot almost impossible to reach. She bent forward awkwardly, slid her hand through the railings, and patted the ground without success. The sought-for object lay beyond her reach, glinting provocatively in the rain. Several long seconds elapsed before she decided to kneel down on the rain-splattered pavement. Long seconds which, it was said afterwards, sealed her fate.

  Turning her head to facilitate her outreach, she noticed a furtive figure on the other side of the street. It disappeared into a doorway as soon as she turned to look. Instinctively, she felt there was something menacing about it. Fear gripped her like a vice. Panic seized her as she stood up and hastened in the opposite direction, as if to distance herself from imminent danger. She might have been better advised to spend a few seconds unlocking her own front door and sheltering behind it. But the woman wasn’t thinking any more and she ran breathlessly into the passageway from whence she had come. The figure, which had observed her every move from the darkness of a porch, followed her.

  At one of the upper windows of number 11, a face pressed against the rain-streaked glass had attentively followed what had happened. It was that of a ten-year-old boy, and what he had just witnessed was strange enough to have held his attention. But from there to alerting his parents… All he would have earned was a good spanking for still being at the window at that time of night.

  A few moments later, inside the entrance to the passageway, the breathless woman saw a silhouette on the opposite wall, brilliantly lit by a street lamp. She realised then that her fears were well-founded. Someone had followed her and cleverly manoeuvred himself so as to corner her. Paralysed with fright, her eyes widened and froze. In her dilated pupils he could be seen advancing slowly and relentlessly towards her. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. A terrifying clap of thunder reverberated in her brain….

  1

  THE SPIDER’S WEB

  June 5, 1991

  In her garden, bathed in the morning sunlight, Célia Lévêque looked dreamily at the complex and sophisticated structure stretching between her rosebush and the low wall near the entrance to her property. An appreciative smile crossed her lips. There was something fascinating about this spider’s web, still covered with pearls of dew. The cunning design, the strict geometric arrangement, subtly imperfect yet touched by inspiration, made it a work of art. Just like her own creations….

  Célia was a fashion designer for a Parisian couturier, where she only went one or two days a week. The rest of the week she worked at home, in the peaceful little village of Orville, near Fontainebleau, where she and her husband had settled a few months ago. Célia was a perfectionist. She didn’t limit herself to new designs: when she had the time, she created early samples of her work with needle and thread. Like the spider, which she could now see, hidden in a shady corner of its web.

  She smiled to herself. What would André, her husband, have said if she had made a connection between herself and a spider? Comparing that revolting, hairy, many-legged creature to herself, Célia Lamblin, a young and svelte blonde in her thirties, a Grace Kelly look-alike! At least, that’s what he’d said whilst he was courting her… Even though love was said to be blind, she knew she was far from repulsive. Her mirror reminded her of the fact as she was trying on her own designs. The regular oval of her face, framed by blonde locks, her sparkling blue eyes and her supple figure… There was definitely something of the famous actress about her!

  She was at that point in her thoughts when she noticed her neighbour, Christine Tissier, coming along the street towards her. An amiable sixty-year-old, she wa
s never at a loss for words. With her boyish haircut and her richly-coloured scarf eternally knotted around her neck, she was noticeable from afar. In fact, it was no surprise to see her, for she invariably went shopping at this hour—it was nine-o’clock—when she was in the country; Christine was frequently abroad. Célia was willing to bet that her neighbour would stop by for a chat, and she was soon proved right.

  A few moments later, the bubbly and voluble Christine was at her side, lauding the magnificent spider’s web which, according to her, was one of the marvels of nature.

  ‘Contrary to what people think,’ asserted Christine, in her throaty voice, ‘spiders aren’t harmful. Apparently they are very beneficial to the planet,’ she continued in a scholarly manner. ‘They are incredibly numerous and can be found everywhere but at the poles. You mustn’t try to kill them.’

  ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of it,’ replied Célia, laughing. ‘And I bet they’ll even protect my roses.’

  ‘They’re really beautiful,’ enthused Christine. ‘You’re very lucky, Célia. And I’m not just talking about the roses. Maybe you don’t realise it at your age, where happiness appears to be the most natural thing in the world. But, as time goes by….’

  ‘Oh, you know, nothing’s perfect. There’s always something that’s not going well….’

  ‘That’s so true,’ agreed Christine solemnly, observing her neighbour furtively. ‘But, just to put my mind at rest… it’s nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘No, I was speaking generally.’

  After an awkward silence, Christine continued in a lighter tone:

  ‘And how’s your husband? We don’t see much of him in the village.’

  ‘Oh, he’s always locked away in his office, lost in thought. You know how artists are… When they’re in a creative phase, they ignore the world around them. Contrary to you and me, for example, André would walk right past this spider’s web without seeing it. Unless he’d decided to use it in one of his intrigues.…’

  ‘I understand.’

  Christine knew, needless to say, that André Lévêque was a playwright. She’d had long conversations with Célia on the subject. He’d had a huge success with his first work, The Son of Pasiphaë, which she had liked very much. His next work, The Man of Wax, had had a favourable reception, but nothing more. He knew that, unless his next play was a success, he would soon be forgotten. He’d been working hard for several weeks now, but so far in vain.

  ‘I must admit that he’s not at his best, these days,’ sighed Célia.

  ‘Ah?’ exclaimed Christine, affecting an air of surprise and trying hard not to show her curiosity.

  ‘Creativity isn’t something you can just order.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even so, I think there’s something else. He’s fixated on a distant memory. It’s something fairly trivial, but it seems to be causing writer’s block. It’s going to become insurmountable if he can’t solve it soon. I keep telling him that the more he thinks about it, the less likely he is to remember. But what I say doesn’t have any effect. It’s becoming an obsession.’

  ‘A troubling memory? Is it something personal or intimate?’

  ‘Oh, no. At least, not in the sense you mean. It’s more like a childish whim.’

  ‘I see… more or less. But you needn’t tell me if. …’

  Célia laughed disarmingly:

  ‘It’s not really a mystery. It’s ridiculous to attach such importance to something so trivial. I’ve told him so repeatedly, and he agrees, but he simply must know, must find this film, whose name he doesn’t even know, but whose images marked his childhood and, he says, was the inspiration for his playwriting career.’

  ‘Find the name of a film?’ echoed Christine in astonishment. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes, a film, which he didn’t even see in its entirety, just a few images from a trailer! I know, making such a fuss about it is incomprehensible to most people… He’s done a lot of research, skimmed through a lot of old films, consulted cinema enthusiasts… but without success so far.’

  There was a silence, punctuated by the merry chirping of sparrows. Christine Tissier, her eyes riveted on the spider’s web, thought furiously and then announced:

  ‘I think I know someone who could help.’

  ‘Here in the village?’

  ‘Yes, in fact I can think of two people. Do you know Carl Jelenski?’

  ‘The name rings a bell. Isn’t he that foreigner who lives in a converted mill?’

  ‘That’s right. People don’t know him because he rarely leaves his lair. He looks like an old owl, but he’s a remarkable astronomer.’

  ‘Really? And how could he help André?’

  ‘He sees things that others miss. At least, that’s what he claims. I took him for a bit of a crank, but he’s surprised me a couple of times by his strangely prophetic remarks. Anyway, it wouldn’t cost you anything to see him. He’s always pleased to have a little company. But, most of all, I was thinking of Dr. Ambroise Moreau.’

  ‘The balding old gentleman who lives near the forest?’

  ‘He’s only sixty,’ said Christine charitably.

  ‘Of course… I didn’t know he was a doctor.’

  ‘He’s a doctor of philosophy, but he occasionally practices psychoanalysis.’

  ‘Psychoanalysis? But André doesn’t need….’

  ‘He’s also a very knowledgeable cinema enthusiast, particularly about old films. Add to that his intelligence and his familiarity with psychology… And, besides, he’s a very charming man. He would also be pleased to listen to your husband. He could be of great help.’

  ‘Well,’ said Célia, seemingly embarrassed, ‘thank you very much! I’ll talk to André. I’m sure he’ll be interested. It’s a spot of luck that you happened to pass by.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ replied Christine, pointing to the spider. ‘That’s whom you have to thank. Spinning the threads of fate….’

  ‘Well, I promise to leave it in peace!’

  ‘Regarding that film,’ said Christine thoughtfully, adjusting her scarf. ‘You spoke about images affecting your husband.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Do you remember what they were about, exactly?’

  ‘Of course!’ replied Célia, shrugging her shoulders. ‘We’ve talked about it enough! Very banal things. At least, banal for a detective film. A sinister passageway, heavy rain, black railings, and a terrified woman….’

  2

  THE GOLD WATCH

  June 10, 1991

  Ambroise Moreau’s vast drawing room was bathed in a soft half-light, which came from a single table lamp, discreetly placed at the far end of the room. Its rays illuminated the gold bindings of the numerous books on the shelves, and sculpted the features of the master of the house in copper tones. He was an imposing, well-built man with thinning hair, combed back, and large, hirsute hands. Occasionally, the look in his small blue eyes would harden, but only when he was concentrating, at which time he would chew on the frame of the glasses he wore for reading. Firmly ensconced in his armchair, he dominated his visitor, who was seated in one corner of a couch staring into space. Somewhere between thirty and forty years old, of medium height, and with short black hair, André Lévêque possessed no distinctive features, except perhaps for his sad, dreamy expression. But, for now, that expression was indecipherable.

  ‘I prefer to influence you as little as possible, André—if you will permit me to call you that,’ declared Dr. Moreau. ‘First, I’d like you to go over the facts in chronological order, stressing what’s most important to you. That will enable me to get the general idea. Only then should we go over things in greater detail. I hope the lighting of the room doesn’t strike you as too theatrical, but I’ve learned from experience that it helps concentration and sharpens the senses. It’s important that you feel completely at ease. And I fully understand that, for personal reasons, you prefer that some of the persons and places remain anonymous. That won’t be a problem, I assure you.’