“No, there’s that. But he won’t help us find the others.”
“Are you so sure there are others? Perhaps just Guillère … ?”
“More than that, Josef,” Malgreave said wearily. “More than that.” He looked around at the barely discernible dawn. The rain was continuing in a steady downpour, and he felt as old as the women who were being murdered. “I need some coffee,” he said finally, hunching his shoulders and heading back toward the car.
“Is there anything I can do, sir?” Josef scampered after him, miserable and guilt-ridden, and Vidal was already in the driver’s seat. They all knew Josef could have kept a tighter rein on the men who’d surrounded the alleyway. They all knew Josef could have stopped it.
Malgreave paused by the door of the car, the rain sliding off the battered brim of his hat. “Pray for sunshine, Josef. Pray for time.”
* * *
He backed away, into the fast-disappearing shadows of the night, away from the milling police, the curious early risers. His feet were noiseless in the soft-soled slippers, his face under the slouched hat was unnaturally pale, a pure, unearthly white. He faded into the dawn as silently as a wisp of fog, unseen, unheard. Gone.
CHAPTER 8
The day dawned cloudy and overcast, but at least it wasn’t raining. Claire lay motionless in the too-soft bed she’d shared with Marc, thinking of the old ladies who died in the rain. Never again would she enjoy the cozy sound of rain beating against the windows while she sat curled up in front of a warm fire.
Anyway, fires didn’t do much to warm this old barn of an apartment. While no one could deny its ancient elegance, cozy it ain’t, she thought, shifting around in the crumpled sheets. And today wouldn’t help matters. She could see the bare branches whipping about outside the multipaned windows. When the wind blew, there was no way they could warm the old place—they’d have to wear heavy wool socks and layers upon layers of sweaters. She could only hope Nicole’s grandmother lived in warmer lodgings.
Marc had been gone for almost two weeks. For two weeks she’d slept alone in this bed, left her clothes lying on the now-dusty parquet floor, left the dishes sitting in the sink, eaten junk food and starches and dressed in jeans. Each small act of defiance had given her pleasure, a childish, stupid sort of pleasure, she realized now. Marc had been gone two weeks, and instead of missing him, she was dreading his return.
Rolling over, she buried her face in the goose-down pillow. The soft percale smothered her, as Marc smothered her. She flipped back, staring at the ceiling. There were cobwebs lurking there, new cobwebs. God knows, she’d spent more than enough of her time lying on her back to have memorized the ceiling. If Marc saw those cobwebs he’d have a fit.
And there was no if about it. If she hadn’t gotten rid of them by the time he returned he would walk into the room and his dark eyes would immediately go to whatever imperfection marred the bedroom. She could always distract him, leave her clothes lying on the Aubusson carpet, but the very thought turned her slightly ill with apprehension.
She scooted up in bed, pushing the pillows behind her and staring at the dawn-lit room in dismay. The longer Marc was gone the worse it was getting. Not the missing him. Just the opposite.
She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Without his commanding presence, without his formidable sexual technique, she was suddenly beginning to think for herself once more. For six months she’d been in shock, content to follow where Marc led her, content to live an almost cloistered existence, doing penance for Brian’s crime and her complicity.
But with no one to tell her what to do, with Nicole depending on her, she’d begun to face life once more. And as the days passed she was coming to the unsettling conclusion that she didn’t want to face life with Marc Bonnard.
She was a slob, he demanded compulsive neatness. She was casual, he was formal. She liked to laugh and cry, he disdained emotions. She liked to lie in bed and read and eat chocolate and croissants and dribble crumbs all over the place; for Marc the bed was for sex and for sleep.
He wanted her passive, and for far too long that was exactly what she had been. Suddenly, without Marc around to keep her subdued, she was waking up. And she didn’t like what she saw.
The frightening thing, she realized as she leaned forward and stared out into the streets of Paris, is that the alternatives were so unpromising. If she left Marc, where would she go? She couldn’t go back to the U.S. and pretend nothing had ever happened. If she went back she would have to go to the authorities and tell them about that night six months ago. She’d have to implicate Brian, implicate herself. She’d probably face criminal charges. Even if she didn’t, the publicity would be ghastly, and there’d be no way she’d be able to find work with that kind of past haunting her. She’d be friendless, jobless.
She could always go down to Florida to stay with her mother. But her mother’s retirement life of bridge and gossip and cocktail parties drove her crazy—even Marc was preferable to that.
Claire shivered in the drafty old apartment. Even Marc, she echoed, dismayed. When had it turned from passion to repression, when had it turned from idyllic love to resentment and the desperate need to escape? Even prison, an honest, American prison, would be preferable to the straightjacket kind of life Marc had forced on her.
But what about Nicole? Nicole, with no one to love her but her grandmother, a grandmother who was gone far too much of the time. In the early-morning light Claire could no longer come up with excuses for Marc. If he loved his daughter it was a useless kind of love. His behavior toward Nicole was as controlling and repressive as it was toward Claire. Never had she seen him kiss the child, cuddle her, praise her, even greet her warmly. And while Nicole still didn’t trust Claire, didn’t accept her, at least Claire was able to distract Marc when he grew terrifying.
No, she couldn’t leave Nicole. Not unless she made some arrangement with Madame Langlois, made certain the old woman wouldn’t desert her again. And in order to do that, she’d have to go see the old lady.
Claire shoved the covers back and climbed out of bed, padding across the floor in the oversized T-shirt that Marc would have disdained. He preferred her in ruffly silk and laces, like a Victorian whore, Claire thought bitterly, yanking the shirt over her head and dropping it on the floor. She picked up the jeans from the Louis XIV slipper chair and headed for the bathroom. The more she thought about it, the more determined she grew. She’d see Madame Langlois, assure herself that Nicole was in good hands, and then she’d make her plans to leave.
Rocco heard the pounding at the door. He’d been in bed less than an hour and he was in no mood for visitors. Giselle was still out, which was fine with him, and normally he wouldn’t get out of bed until late afternoon.
The pounding continued, and Rocco squinted at the thin gold watch he’d taken off the Spaniard. Seven-fifteen. Any man who woke another up at seven-fifteen deserved to die. Rocco pulled the huge Magnum from under the grimy pillow, aimed it at the door, and fired twice.
“God damn it!” A furious voice came through the holes in the flimsy pine door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Guillère?” The door slammed open, bouncing against the peeling wall, revealing a tiny figure vibrating with rage.
“Hubert,” Rocco acknowledged, sitting up and pulling his boots on. The man in his doorway was no more than five feet tall, almost as round, and dressed quite nattily in a gray linen suit that emphasized his bulk. His egg-shaped head was completely bald, and there was a long scratch on top of that shiny pate, oozing blood.
Hubert was dabbing at it gingerly with a white handkerchief. “Damn your eyes, Rocco,” he said with his unmistakable voice. Upper-class Parisian combined with a lisp, Hubert’s voice was his trademark. “You could have killed me.”
If anyone could have chastened Rocco, Hubert was the one. No one could. “It’s lucky you’re so short, Hubert,” he said lazily. “Anybody else would have gotten it in the throat.”
“Is
that what you were hoping?”
“It’s effective. That way they die quickly and they can’t scream.”
“It makes a hell of a mess.” Hubert peered at his bloody handkerchief in disgust, then tucked it away in his vest pocket.
“I’m not fastidious.”
Hubert wrinkled his nose. “In our long association I have discovered that about you. I have a job, my friend.”
“A job that brings you here in the middle of the night?”
“You’d prefer the middle of the night. I don’t sleep more than an hour at a time, Rocco. If you wish to work for me you’ll have to accommodate yourself to my schedule.”
Rocco stared at him stonily, the warm gun clasped loosely in his hand. For a moment he considered shooting one more time. He didn’t like to take orders from anyone, even someone as deceptively impressive as Hubert. But the old man was legendary, with connections that reached all the way to the top of the government, and those kinds of connections couldn’t be thrown away in a fit of pique. Besides, Hubert’s jobs were never boring.
“I wish to work for you.” Rocco kept his voice lazy, insolent. “What is it this time?”
Hubert seated himself gingerly on the green plastic American recliner that was Rocco’s pride and joy. “It’s a tricky one, my boy, but well suited for your talents and reputation.” He sighed, dabbing at his eyes with the bloody handkerchief and then grimacing. “It’s a favor for an old, dear friend.”
“I didn’t know you had any.”
“Don’t be absurd, my boy. It’s my friends that serve us so well, that have saved your butt time after time. Though this is somewhat different, and I’m counting on your delicacy to handle it properly.”
Rocco looked down at his black-rimmed fingernails and smirked. “Who do you want me to kill?”
“So blunt, my boy.” Hubert sighed. “This is not just any friend. This is the woman I almost married. I would do anything for her, no matter how distasteful. For her sake I come to you.”
“She has a husband? Is that what you want?”
“She’s a widow.”
“It’s too early for guessing games, Hubert,” Rocco snapped. “What is it you want from me?”
“I want you to assist my friend in her plan. I do not know the particulars, nor do I care to. I leave it up to you.”
“Who’s your friend, Hubert? What does she want from me?”
Hubert sighed again. “Her name is Madame Harriette Langlois. I’ll give you her address. You are to go to her apartment this afternoon at five-thirty and there she will tell you what she requires of you.”
“And you have no idea what that is?” Rocco persisted.
Hubert’s eyes were very small, very flat, very black. “She wishes you to kill her. You should be able to do that, shouldn’t you, Rocco? Kill an old lady?”
He knows, Rocco thought. Why should he be surprised? There was very little that Hubert didn’t know. But that changed matters. When he took care of Madame Harriette Langlois he would have to take care of Hubert. The old man might know, but he didn’t understand. No one could know, and live. It was part of their pact, and Rocco’s honor, nonexistent in every other matter, was ironclad in this one.
“I should be able to manage, Hubert,” Rocco said gently. And he watched Hubert shiver in the overwarm apartment.
The day was cool and overcast as Claire moved down the sidewalk. She had to force herself to move at a leisurely pace, when all her instincts told her to hurry, hurry. Nerves, she told herself. She still couldn’t rid herself of the feeling of being watched. It was bad enough in the apartment—she constantly found herself looking over her shoulder, peering into the dimly lit corners of the rambling old place.
But outside it was even worse. She couldn’t walk down a street, go to the market, even buy a newspaper without having the awful sense of being spied upon.
It was all in her imagination, it had to be. No one would care what an American expatriate was doing wandering the streets of Paris. She wasn’t pretty enough to attract the attention of the roaming males, she wasn’t being furtive enough to interest the police. No, it had to be her paranoia, coupled with a guilty conscience.
Guilt was becoming second nature to her. Guilt over Brian, guilt at the thought of abandoning Nicole, guilt over leaving Marc without a word.
That was exactly what she intended. While she could summon up enough courage to leave, that bravery vanished when she contemplated a confrontation with Marc. Not that she expected unpleasantness. He wouldn’t try to force her, he wouldn’t beg or plead.
No, he would do far worse. He would mesmerize her, as he always had, he would put his hands on her and swiftly, efficiently drive all rational thought out of her brain. She’d always hated it when she’d read that in books—where normally intelligent women turned into mindless idiots when the swaggering heroes took them to bed. Now she knew it could happen. She just couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion that in this case Marc wasn’t the hero.
Claire wasn’t quite sure where she was, but it didn’t matter. All she wanted was some fresh air, some way to pass the time until she confronted Harriette Langlois in her den. She had a little-used French phrasebook in her back pocket. It had never done much good before, it would probably be useless today, but she had to use every weapon available to her. If she had to she could have Nicole translate for her, but that might get a little touchy. It would be better if Nicole didn’t know she was leaving until the last possible moment.
She bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café, then wished she hadn’t. The chair was too hard, the day too cool to sit outside, the waiter too inclined to hover. And the newspaper was too horrific.
She should have known better than to have bought it. She favored one of the splashier rags, one with screaming headlines and lots of pictures. Their choice had been particularly gory, but for once Claire had no difficulty deciphering the lead story. There was a nasty photograph of an old lady, butchered in her apartment near the Pompidou Centre. Another photograph showed a man lying in a littered street, and she didn’t need to look at the bloodstained torso to know that he was dead. The somber police behind the corpse suggested they had been responsible for the man’s demise, and Claire breathed a small, cautious sigh of relief. Maybe they’d finally caught the man, then, the one who’d been slaughtering the old women.
The waiter appeared at her elbow, looking over her shoulder at the grisly newspaper account. He started talking, so quickly she doubted she would have understood him even in English, and Claire looked around in sudden desperation, that panicked, closed-in feeling washing over her once more. Why did she stop, why did she even attempt something as normal as a midmorning cup of coffee?
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” she said haltingly.
The waiter looked at her with expected contempt, then jabbed a grimy figure at the grainy photographs in front of her, continuing to jabber at her.
“He’s trying to tell you his theory about the murders.” The slow, wonderful voice to her left caught her attention, and she turned and flashed a smile of relief and sheer pleasure at Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst. Now she knew why she was in this part of town, why she had chosen this café. She knew nothing of Paris save her own small neighborhood and certain landmarks. She knew Tom lived near this small, tidy café, and she’d headed there, mindlessly, unerringly, hoping to find him.
Find him she had. When she smiled up at him he looked startled, taken aback. And then he’d smiled back, that slow, sexy crinkling around his eyes and mouth, and taken the chair beside her, dismissing the waiter with a few fluent French phrases.
“What was his theory?” Claire tried to wipe what she knew was an idiotic grin off her face. Was it relief that made her overjoyed to see him? Was it coincidence that so soon after meeting him she’d decided to leave Marc? Or was she making another foolish mistake?
Tom reached out and put a hand on hers. The warmth of his flesh was soothing, comforting, and s
he wanted to turn her palm over and grasp his. She didn’t.
Tom shrugged, but he didn’t remove his hand. “He thinks the man the police shot was just a scapegoat. That the police are useless fools and can’t find the criminal, so they killed an innocent passerby to make themselves look better.”
“What do you think? Did you read the paper?” She didn’t want to talk about murders that had nothing to do with her, but the alternative was even more threatening.
“It seems unlikely that the man would have killed all those women. He was just a lower-level bureaucrat. He had no motive and even less opportunity. However, it seems pretty clear that he did kill the woman in the photograph. Why are you here?”
The question came so quickly that she didn’t expect it, wasn’t prepared to counter it. She looked up into his warm blue eyes and told him the truth. “I don’t know. I think I was looking for you.”
The hand tightened on hers for a moment, and his wonderful grin lit his face once more. “Good. It saved me the trouble of looking for you. You never told me where you lived.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea …”
“It’s a terrific idea,” he interrupted. “If you don’t tell me I’ll follow you home.”
Claire shivered in the bright sunlight. “Have you been following me already?” She could still feel the memory of the eyes burning into her back.
“No. Why?”
She gave herself an imperceptible shake. “Guilty conscience, I guess,” she said with a self-deprecating grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here with you.”
“Why not? We’re just a couple of expatriates sharing news of home and a cup of coffee. There’s nothing wrong in that. Unless there’s more to it.” His voice was calm, implacable, just the tiniest bit goading.
Claire knew she should ignore it, should agree that their meeting was harmless. His hand was still on hers, the heat of his flesh sinking into her chilled bones, and slowly she turned her palm over, her fingers grasping his. She smiled ruefully. “Unless there’s more to it,” she echoed, her eyes meeting his for a long, breathless moment.