7
The address on Rue de Savoie proved to be a well-kept stone house with a small courtyard opening onto the street and large, luxurious bourgeois apartments on the lower floors. A pretty, auburn-haired young woman of about twenty answered the door to them on the first-floor landing. "Messieurs?"
"Is this apartment the residence of Monsieur Saint-Landry?" Brasseur inquired.
"Yes, it is." She smiled, revealing enchanting dimples in a softly rounded, rosy-cheeked countenance. Aristide caught himself staring, and hurriedly blinked and looked hard at the doorframe. "May I ask who's calling for him?"
"Inspector Brasseur, mademoiselle, of the police of-"
"Police!" she exclaimed, her smile fading.
"-of the Eighteenth District, and Monsieur Ravel, my associate. Are you one of the family, mademoiselle?" Brasseur continued.
"I'm Monsieur Saint-Landry's half-sister; I live here with him and his wife."
"Is Monsieur Saint-Landry at home?"
She slowly shook her head. "No. What's this about, monsieur?"
"Might we come inside, mademoiselle? Are other members of the household here?Madame Saint-Landry, perhaps?"
"Yes, my sister-in-law's here, and also Marguerite?that's my cousin, Madame Fournier." She stepped aside slightly to allow them to pass. "Please come in, messieurs. What do the police want with us? Is it something to do with my brother?"
"Why would you say that, mademoiselle?"
"Because he went out late in the evening, two days ago, after receiving a letter that he wouldn't show to us, and he didn't come back. He hasn't been seen all day yesterday, nor has he sent us any message. Has something happened to him?"
"It's possible."
She stepped aside. "You'd better come in, monsieur. Eug?nie-my sister-in-law-is in the salon."
"And your name is, mademoiselle?"
"Sophie, monsieur, Sophie Saint-Landry."
"Keep your eye on the wife," Brasseur muttered to Aristide as they followed Sophie through an anteroom to a sunny parlor trimmed in pale yellows and greens on the wallpaper and upholstery. "Two-thirds of the domestic murders I've seen have been wives murdering husbands and husbands murdering wives. Usually to make way for a lover or a more advantageous marriage."
Two women sat in the salon, one working at a piece of embroidery, the other reading aloud. Sophie coughed discreetly.
"Eug?nie, this is Inspector Brasseur, from the police. He's asking for Lambert."
"Lambert?" the younger woman echoed her, looking up from her embroidery hoop. "Why, what's the matter? Is he-is he in your custody?"
Aristide covertly glanced at Brasseur. How did you tell a respectable, sheltered woman that her husband might be lying in the morgue with his throat cut?
"Now why would you say that, madame?" Brasseur said. "Your sister-in-law just told me your husband hasn't been seen since Monday evening. Why would you assume the police were holding him?"
"I-I don't know. But he has been behaving quite out of character during the past few months. Going out at all hours without telling us where, shutting himself up in his study with visitors?I hope he isn't involved in anything irregular?"
Aristide gazed discreetly about the room, but took her measure out of the corner of his eye. Eug?nie was a petite, slender, waiflike woman of about thirty, with soft features, a fresh, fair complexion, pale golden hair, and enormous gray eyes. Her companion, presumably Marguerite Fournier, was older and more sturdily built, with a plain, intelligent face.
Brasseur cleared his throat. "No, madame, we don't know anything against your husband. But I fear we've found a dead man who answers roughly to Monsieur Saint-Landry's description?to the best of our knowledge."
Aristide wondered if she would burst into hysterics or a flood of tears, but she merely stared at Brasseur, speechless, the gray eyes widening. "I'm afraid," Brasseur continued, "that someone will have to come to the morgue at the Ch?telet, and identify him."
Eug?nie Saint-Landry continued to stare at him, as if she had not quite taken in what he was saying. "Identify him?" she whispered at last. "Oh, no! You can't be right, monsieur."
"I fear it's possible, madame. Do you have a portrait of monsieur here in the house? We might be able to spare you-"
"No," said the other woman, "I fear there's no portrait of Lambert. He says it's an unnecessary luxury."
"But-what-was it an accident, then?" Eug?nie said. "On the street? Those horrid carriages-they go much too fast-"
"No, madame. I'm afraid this man was murdered. Have you not heard about the dead man who was found yesterday at St. Andr? des Arts?"
"Murdered!" the other woman exclaimed. "I heard rumors on the street yesterday, from the peddlers, about a dead man-but who'd want to murder Lambert? He's the most amiable man alive."
"My?my husband's cousin, Madame Fournier," Eug?nie said mechanically. "She lives here with us."
"Tell me, madame," Brasseur persisted, "do you recognize this waistcoat?"
Aristide untied the parcel again and laid the waistcoat out before her. She gazed at it, at last reaching out a hand to finger the stained silk.
"Lambert bespoke a new suit and two waistcoats from Yvon this autumn," she said softly, looking up from it to gaze first at Brasseur and then at Aristide. "He's not an extravagant man, but he does like to dress well, befitting his station. This is certainly the same fabric as one of the waistcoats."
"You identify it as an article belonging to your husband?"
"No! No-I didn't say that. It might be his?but I refuse to believe that my husband is dead, Inspector."
"Monsieur Yvon gave us a list of gentlemen who-"
"But some other tailor, not Monsieur Yvon, might have cut and sewn this," Eug?nie said, her eyes pleading. "There must be more than one bolt of this fabric in existence, and at least a few other waistcoats, don't you think? A tailor doesn't use an entire bolt of silk on one waistcoat!"
"It's always possible," said Brasseur, "but I suspect Yvon's the most likely one. And since you say your husband is missing, madame, the quickest way to settle this is for you to come to the morgue with-"
"No!" she cried, paling until her fair skin seemed translucent as alabaster. "No, I couldn't. Please."
"Madame Saint-Landry is very sensitive," Marguerite told him, as she rose and laid a hand on Eug?nie's shoulder. "It's all right, dear; he can't force you to go. I'll go, if I must."
"I'll go," Sophie said, behind Aristide. He had almost forgotten her presence, though he abruptly wondered, as he turned and cast an admiring glance at her, how that was possible.
"Mademoiselle?"
"I'll go with you," she repeated.
"It's not a pleasant experience, mademoiselle. I visited the morgue myself for the first time this morning," he added, with a faint smile. "It's no place for young ladies."
"I don't mind," she said. "I'm harder than I look."
He realized he must have smiled again, for "hard" was not an adjective he would have thought of in connection with the blue-eyed, dimpled Sophie. She darted him a stern glance that he found completely charming.
"Not all young ladies are languishing little creatures prone to fainting, you know. We can go now, if you want. I'd rather get it over with."
Brasseur nodded. "As you wish, mademoiselle. Tell me, might Monsieur Saint-Landry be in the habit of lending his clothes to visiting friends or relatives? Perhaps a dress suit for a night at the theater, or something of that order?"
She stared at him. "No, Lambert is most particular about his clothes; he wouldn't lend them to anyone. And we haven't had any house guests for at least a fortnight."
"Did anyone else see the letter Monsieur Saint-Landry received on Monday evening?" Brasseur inquired, as Sophie went out to fetch a cloak. The two women shook their heads.
"I brought it in to him," said Marguerite. "It arrived sometime around supper, perhaps half past eight. He glanced at it-it was only a brief note, I think-and he told us he had to go out later-"
"W
hen did he leave?"
"About eleven, perhaps a little before. He told us not to stay up for him, that he would let himself in."
"What did he do with the note?"
"He?he folded it and put it in an inner pocket of his coat," she said, after a moment's thought. "You didn't find anything in his pockets?"
"No, madame," he said, without elaborating. "Do you remember who delivered it?"
Marguerite shrugged. "Some errand boy off the street. I might have seen him in this quarter once or twice before."
"What was Monsieur Saint-Landry wearing when he went out?" Aristide inquired. "Does either of you remember?"
"I never remember what other people are wearing," Eug?nie said, with a fleeting, self-deprecating smile, and fixing her gaze on him once again with a flutter of eyelashes. "It's dreadful, I know?"
It occurred to Aristide that Eug?nie was flirting with him just a little, inviting him, with those great, sad eyes, to rush to her side and comfort her in a crisis. Perhaps, he thought, she was a woman who, without even thinking about it, no matter what the circumstances, played the coquette with every man she encountered. He gravely nodded and stepped back, behind Brasseur, thinking that he much preferred the forthright Sophie.
"I certainly couldn't remember what Lambert was wearing two days ago," Marguerite agreed, "though of course he had his overcoat well buttoned up against the cold when he left. A dark gray-blue overcoat and a tall hat, gray, in the English style, with a small silver buckle on the band. Does that help?"
"It might," Aristide said, to reassure her. He suspected that, if Saint-Landry was indeed the man, the hat and overcoat were, together with the rest of his effects, by now in the back of a pawnshop or old-clothes dealer's shop. He glanced at Brasseur, fervently hoping that the inspector would not send him out to question every ragman in Paris in search of the missing articles.
Sophie returned with her cloak and a maid, a taciturn, middle-aged woman who was evidently a formidable chaperon, and together the four of them left the apartment. She turned to Brasseur as soon as they had reached the bottom of the stairs to the courtyard.
"Monsieur, I didn't want to say more about it and upset my sister-in-law, because she hasn't been feeling very well lately?but just now, while I was fetching Victoire, I slipped into Lambert's dressing room and looked in the chest of drawers where I think he keeps his waistcoats." She paused for an instant and then continued, her voice trembling. "I didn't see the rose-colored striped one anywhere."
"You mustn't give up hope yet, mademoiselle," Aristide said quickly, seeing the first glint of tears in her eyes. "It still may be nothing more than a coincidence. Your brother may yet return unscathed, together with his waistcoat."
She blinked away the tears and managed a smile. "Thank you. You're very kind, monsieur?"
"Ravel." He offered her his arm. As the porter closed the gate to the courtyard behind them, a fiacre came rattling up.
"Derville!" Aristide exclaimed, recognizing the passenger who climbed out, a fashionable long walking stick in one hand.
"Oh, good Lord," he said, glancing from Aristide to Sophie. "Do you know the Saint-Landrys, Ravel?"
"Not socially." Aristide drew him aside and lowered his voice. "What are you doing here?"
"I, er, I thought I recognized that waistcoat. I've seen Saint-Landry wearing one like it this past autumn. And when your inspector said it had been taken from a dead man," Derville added, growing serious, "I couldn't help thinking the worst-you know how one gets-and I thought I ought to pay a visit to reassure myself that he was well." He paused, with a smile. "But I see you got here before I did. What's this you're up to with the police, anyway? You haven't turned spy, have you?"
"Long story," said Aristide.
"Is Saint-Landry upstairs, then?" Derville said, tucking his stick carelessly under his arm and turning to the gate.
"No, I fear he's not."
"You're not saying he is missing?"
"According to Mademoiselle Saint-Landry, he's been missing since Monday evening. She's accompanying us to the Basse-Ge?le to tell us whether or not the corpse that was found yesterday is that of her brother. I'm sorry, Derville."
"My word," Derville said softly. "I'd hoped I was just being foolish. Well, then, I'd better be the dutiful friend and call upon Eug?nie, to offer a shoulder if needed."
"Monsieur Derville, I strongly suggest you don't say anything to madame until the body at the morgue's been identified," Brasseur said, approaching them. "If the corpse is not her husband's after all, we don't want to upset her for nothing."
"Yes, of course. As you wish, Inspector." He bowed to Sophie and pulled the bell chain. "Mademoiselle, gentlemen."
Aristide and Brasseur escorted Sophie and her maid out to the Pont St. Michel. The Ch?telet was only a few minutes' walk away on the other side of the river, across the ?le de la Cit?. Sophie shivered and pulled her hood more securely about her face, against the chilly breeze that whistled among the half-timbered wooden houses that lined the bridge. Below them, great slabs of ice drifted slowly in the current, sluggishly wedging against each other beneath the stone arches.
"I see you're acquainted with Monsieur Derville," Sophie said to Aristide as they crossed. "How on earth does he know a police official?"
"I'm not really in the police, mademoiselle," he said, with a surreptitious glance at Brasseur, who surely would have said otherwise. "Derville's an old school friend of mine."
"You were at school together?" she echoed him, with a soft laugh. "How droll."
"How so?" he inquired.
"Why, Lambert and I have known Monsieur Derville's family for ages, even before my parents died. He's always calling on us and coming to dinner. He used to tease me when I was a child." She glanced up at him, smiling. "It's very amusing to imagine him as a schoolboy of twelve; you must have some tales to tell. Where do you come from, Monsieur Ravel? I don't think he's ever mentioned you."
"From Bordeaux, mademoiselle."
"Bordeaux? I think we have some distant cousins there, or somewhere nearby," she said. "Their name is Tourtier; they're more closely related to the Ducos family. Perhaps you know them?"
"I-I've heard of them," he said tersely, vividly remembering the Tourtiers, wealthy merchants and clients of his uncle the lawyer, who, despite that, had pointedly not invited Aristide and his sister, Th?r?se, to their daughter's engagement ball two years previously. The unpardonable scandal of murder, adultery, and public execution in the family did not easily fade from the long memories of the respectable bourgeoisie.
Sophie looked puzzled but said little else as they passed the Law Courts. He saw her take a deep, bracing breath as they reached the Right Bank and stood before the looming Ch?telet.
Sophie's maid refused to go farther than the public passageway and remained outside, grimly huddled in her cloak against the cold. "Why don't you take mademoiselle inside?" Brasseur murmured to Aristide. "I expect she'd prefer your company to mine, you being more appealing to young ladies and all. Go on with you. I'll wait out here."
No one was on duty at the desk in the close, chilly antechamber of the morgue. Curious, Aristide edged his way closer to the iron grille that led to the stairs, and there heard excited voices. A moment later two men, one clad in black, appeared and stopped short upon seeing him.
"Monsieur?" he said tentatively, addressing the man whom he recognized as having admitted them that morning. "I'm Ravel, Inspector Brasseur's associate?we were here earlier?"
"Yes?" he said impatiently as Aristide paused.
"I've brought this young lady to identify the corpse that arrived here yesterday, the murder victim."
The two men both looked at him. "Who did you say you were?" said the black-clad man at last.
"Ravel?Monsieur Brasseur has asked me to assist him in this matter."
"And where, pray, is Brasseur?"
Aristide abruptly realized that this stranger must be another police inspector. "He's outside, but sent m
e-"
"Well then," the man snapped, "he's wasting his time. The corpse with throat slit, male, found in the churchyard of St. Andr? des Arts early yesterday morning?that's the one you mean?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"It's been stolen."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~