Commissaire Marquanteur And The Jewels Of Marseille: France Crime Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Commissaire Marquanteur And The Jewels Of Marseille: France Crime Thriller

by Alfred Bekker

 

 

A series of sophisticated jewel heists keeps the Marseille police on their toes. When a jeweler is shot dead during the robbery, Commissisaire Marquanteur and his colleagues from the special FoPoCri unit get to work and find that all possible witnesses are killed. Suspicion turns to the godfather of Pointe-Rouge, Monsieur Xian, but there is no evidence.

Marquanteur has to come up with something.

 

 

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, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Mar 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215838532

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

I strolled along the harbor, enjoying the sun and the beautiful view. The Mediterranean Sea sparkled in a peculiar way that always reminded me of jewels.

Yes, that's right.

Of the sparkle of jewels when held up to the sunlight in just the right way.

My gaze wandered over the many yachts anchored in the port of Marseille. One more beautiful than the other. It was always my dream to own one of those things. But I don't think there would be any point in me actually buying one.

And it's not primarily about money.

No, we are talking about a much scarcer currency than money.

It's about time.

I wouldn't have time to be on his yacht often enough to make the purchase worthwhile.

Of course, this is related to my job.

I'm Commissaire Pierre Marquanteur and I work in a special department of the criminal police called FoPoCri. We mainly fight organized crime, but we are also called in to help in the fight against terrorism or in the search for serial offenders. The big cases sometimes need specialists. And we are specialists. We know our stuff.

Unfortunately, it's sometimes a full time job.

The criminal networks rarely take notice of the office hours of public authorities or the working time regulations that unions enforce. In fact, these criminal networks have their very own rules. And unfortunately, we have no choice but to adapt to the other side in some respects.

Monsieur Marquanteur?

The man who approached me had a dark complexion.

He was wearing a brown camel hair coat. It was much too warm. Here in Marseille we have a mild climate all year round. No one needs a coat like that.

He looked at me.

What do you want from me?, I asked.

The man reached under his jacket.

I reached for my hip.

To where my service weapon was under my jacket.

His movement froze immediately.

His mouth first formed a thin line.

Then a smile.

A smile as cold as death.

You are a suspicious man, Monsieur Marquanteur.

Maybe."

Will you allow me to calmly take out of my coat pocket what I was going to bring out? It is not a weapon.

Okay... But careful.

I am unarmed.

Good.

He took out an envelope. And then he handed it to me.

This is for you, Monsieur Marquanteur.

What is it?

Just look inside. Or do you think it might be a letter bomb. Would you like me to open it?

No.

Here you go, sir.

I took the envelope and left the gun in it.

Then I looked inside.

There was a bundle of bills in it.

What are you doing?, I asked.

"This is for you.

Who are you?

I'm not going to tell you that. I might then be liable to prosecution, as the impression might be created that I want to be granted an advantage.

So, you don't want to?

He was silent for a moment.

If you don't know who the money is coming from, you can't assume that anyone would want to be granted a benefit by it.

Your identification, please. I'm a police officer, as you probably know.

The man took out his ID card. It was a Swedish passport. It was in the name of Ahmad Ben-Zenoussi.

Sir?

I gave him back the passport. He came from Sweden. That at least explained the thick coat.

Take your money back.

It's yours.

No one just gives money to someone else.

You live in a tough world with tough people, monsieur. Who tells you that the rules that apply there are valid everywhere?

Take it back.

Au revoir, monsieur.

And then he just walked away.

*

The next day, I sat in my supervisor's office. Monsieur Marteau frowned as he listened to what I had to say. The envelope with the money was on the table.

He did nothing criminal, said Mr. Marteau.

I said, And that's why I had no power to hold him. After all, giving money away is not a crime.

This man is from Marseille, even though he now lives in Sweden. There is a good reason for that, by the way. He avoids contact with us, Pierre...

Oh, that's right...

They call this man 'the Algerian.' From Malmö, he works for a large criminal network that spans half of Europe. That network also has its interests here in Marseille.

And why is he giving me money?

He's not giving it away.

Thought so.

He's going to ask for something in return at some point.

I already suspected something like that.

And if you refuse them, you're a dead man.

Hmm.

It doesn't have to be tomorrow or the next day. But the fact is, he wants to take you out of circulation.

With money.

Do you know of an effective remedy?

I shook my head. No, you are right, of course, Monsieur Marteau.

How should I act now?, I asked.

Monsieur Marteau shrugged his shoulders.

You will just have to wait and see. Maybe the Algerian won't get back to you for a few years.

And then if I don't do what he says, he's going to shoot me.

Get shot.

Ah, it's one of those.

Or maybe he'll just give you more money. And more. And more. Until you give up and go over to his side. There are others before you with whom the same thing has happened, Pierre.

I understand, I murmured.

Monsieur Marteau raised his eyebrows.

His look was calm and serious.

It's part of our occupational hazard, he said.

I knew that getting a bullet between the ears was part of the occupational risk. But no one informed me about the risk of cash gifts.

Monsieur Marteau smiled cautiously.

You're still learning, he said.

*

Michel Beaumer startled when he heard the noise. His gaze slid up. He looked at the clock. Half past three in the morning.

The night was almost over, and it wasn't the first Beaumer had worked through in the small, unadorned office.

He reached for the drawer of his desk. Slowly, he pulled it out. Then he felt the cold grip of a .38 revolver. He listened strained.

Glass clinked.

Steps.

Then someone opened the door of the office.

Beaumer raised the gun, cocked the hammer.

Sweat of fear ran down his high forehead in thick beads. His face was distorted into a grim mask.

His knuckles turned white as he increased the pressure on the gun's trigger.

Darkness reigned outside in the hallway. Beaumer still saw the brief flash of a muzzle flash. It was followed by a noise that sounded like a faint sneeze or the thump of a newspaper. Plopp went it twice in quick succession. The first bullet hit Beaumer square in the forehead and jerked him backward; the second hit him in the neck and shredded his artery. Blood flowed in torrents. His hand clenched around the gun. A shot came loose from the .38 revolver and went untargeted into the ceiling.

The force of the two projectiles that had hit him hurled Beaumer backward. He thrashed lengthwise with staring eyes and and scraped the chair across the parquet floor with a creaking sound. Beaumer's head hit the back of the filing cabinet, and his neck looked strangely dislocated as he finally lay motionless on the floor. The white labels on the black file covers turned dark red.

For a moment there was silence.

The silence of death.

A masked, black-clad figure peeled out of the darkness of the hallway and entered the room. She had been almost invisible out there.

The masked man let his gaze wander through the room. In his right hand he held a pistol with an elongated silencer. His hands were covered by gloves.

The masked man's gaze lingered on the right side of the office.

Here are the safes, he growled. His voice sounded muffled under the balaclava. His words were barely intelligible.

He turned around. A second and a third masked man entered the room.

One of them carried an Uzi submachine gun, the third a sports bag.

"Was that