The name “Michel” had an odd flavor, in Benito’s mouth. The way a kid determined to seem sophisticated will fumble at foreign words.
“Michel?” Ruy’s face was suddenly blank; all the underlying amusement that had been there a moment before vanished. “Michel who? What is his last name? And don’t tell me you don’t remember, boy. Or what letter the name ends in. The name.”
Sanchez could be genuinely intimidating, Sharon reflected. She’d tell him to stop bullying the kid, except . . . well, she was a bit too intimidated.
So was the urchin. Whatever smart remark Benito might have been contemplating died on his lips, as she stared up at Ruy’s face. The mustachios didn’t look like a flamboyant affectation now. They looked like they fit that face perfectly. The face of a conquistadore, contemplating a field of battle.
“Oh, I know it,” Benito protested. “It’s Ducos. Michel Ducos.” He pointed to the main islands to the south. “He’s a French compatriot. He tells Antonio what’s happening in the French embassy.”
Ruy straightened. “Ducos.” The word came out like a snarl.
“You know him?” Billy asked.
“Yes, I know him,” Sanchez said softly. The Catalan looked at Sharon. “This is no longer a joke. Not of any kind.”
Sharon had guessed that much just from the expression on Ruy’s face. “Who is he?” she asked.
“D’Avaux’s agent. Spy, assassin, whatever the comte requires.”
“He’s a compatriot!” Benito protested.
“He is nothing of the sort,” Sanchez pronounced. “If he spent time with your Marcolis, he was acting as a spy. No. More likely as a provocateur.” A thought seemed to come to him. “Tell me, young Benito. When the American reporter Buckley came here, did he speak with Ducos often?”
“Oh, sure. He and Michel were good buddies. Once or twice they even came together.”
Ruy nodded. “Yes, it makes sense. All of it, now.”
“What’s happening, Ruy?” Sharon asked quietly.
“Ducos is your murderer. I am almost certain of it. He would have been stirring up some sort of trouble. Ingratiated himself with Buckley as well as the Marcolis—and then used the mutual friendships to reinforce each other.” Sighing, he took off his plumed hat and ran fingers through stiff, gray hair. “It is an old trick. Only amateurs would be taken in by it, of course. Use one connection to provide the authenticity for another. Then, back again. Buckley and the Marcolis each vouch for Ducos, and it never occurs to any of them that the principal reason they do so is because the other vouched for him in the first place. Idiots.”
He gave Billy Trumble a hard look. “Did you meet this Ducos, the times you came here?”
Billy shook his head. “No.” He hesitated. “I do remember somebody mentioning the name ‘Michel’ once or twice, but . . . I didn’t think anything of it.”
“No, of course not.” Ruy put the hat back on his head. “Ducos would have made certain not to appear at the Marcolis if anyone other than the Stone boys were there from your embassy. Too much risk someone might know who he really was—or start asking questions.”
Sharon was trying to follow the logic and making hard going with it. “I still don’t understand, Ruy. The Marcolis and the Stone boys, okay. But why would Joe be taken in? He was a pretty damn good investigative reporter, you know. There’s no way he wouldn’t have found out Michel worked for the French embassy.”
But, by the time she’d finished, she already knew the answer. “Oh. Of course. Ducos wouldn’t have even tried to deny it, would he?”
Ruy smiled grimly. “No, Sharon. He would have boasted of it. And then provided Buckley with so much good information—what’s your American expression? the ‘inside dope,’ I believe—that Buckley would have been dazzled by the opportunity. You recall that article he wrote on d’Avaux’s machinations, the one that caused all the trouble? He got the information from Ducos. Never thinking once that a man who gives silver intends to get gold in return.”
“Bait,” Billy muttered. “You’re right. Joe was a good enough guy, but he was . . . oh, I don’t know. Cocksure of himself.”