City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (9 page)

She stood at the top of the stairway for a few moments.

“
Je reviens e revenez à moi,
” she whispered.

*   *   *

Early August 1937. Spain.

Two large flies were mating in the small puddle of tobacco juice and Tempranillo. The tired official, sallow faced with purple bags under his eyes, raised a rolled-up Fascist poster of a lion, vivid yellow and reds faded to pastel, paper crushed and smeared with the guts and blood of previous insects.

He swung it heavily on the desk. The tobacco and Tempranillo sprayed tiny red dots on Miranda’s skin.

His Spanish was slow and measured, and she nodded. He stamped her passport three times, desk trembling. More flies settled in a three-inch-wide crack of wood, chromatic prism wings covering dead comrades.

Miranda rose from the wooden stool. The official lifted the paper, brought it down again.

“
¡No pasarán!
”

He looked up at her, dead eyes searching hers, and tried to smile.

“Gracias.” Miranda shook his hand, palm cold, and limped through the door. Her hand brushed the broken marble around the door frame.

She stood on the cratered street, watching a woman holding two children by the hand, a skinny dog scavenging for food. Distant roaring shook the aged stone.

Her eyes were dry, voice thick. “
Vaya con Dios, España
.”

*   *   *

October 1937. Paris.

The soldier was young and smelled like bay rum, hair gelled and slicked back like Tyrone Power in
Love Is News.
Skin impossibly white, eyes a pale blue, face a mixture of old school ties and proper scones and English breakfast tea.

His omelet was cold. He was staring at Miranda.

Morning moisture rose from the Seine, wafting across Metro railings and arrondissements, soupçon of danger, while the smell of strong coffee steamed from thick white cups perched on wrought-iron tables, waiters flying in and out, orders shouted to the back.

Businessmen ate alone, reading
Le Figaro
and the
International Herald Tribune.
Couples with clothes askew and covered in cigarette ash ordered brioche and
deux
cafés
, eyes on nothing but each other. Inside, the sound of breaking dishes and French oaths accompanied Maurice Chevalier singing “Toi et Moi” on a scratchy Victrola.

The soldier cleared his throat. “I wanted you to have something to remember me by, Miranda. The last few weeks … you’ve been grand, really grand.”

Être deux, c’est peu, pourtant, mon Dieu, ça suffit quand on s’aime …

Nuns led a group of noisy schoolchildren out of the church across the street. Two old women locked arms, blockading the sidewalk, stout black boots clodding against pavement stone.

Miranda sipped the coffee. “That wasn’t necessary, Albert.”

War of the Roses in his cheeks. “It is for me. To do for a chap—you’re such a fine girl—and to, to … well, you’ve given me back my courage. Let the Nazis come—we’ll send them packing in time for cricket!”

A balding organ grinder with bright blue eyes ambled toward them, mountain scene on the organ box faded, alpine promise of paradise half peeled away. He started to sing “Les Amants de Paris,” his voice a likable croak, drowning out the radio.

Mon couplet s’est perdu sur les bords d’un jardin. On ne me l’a jamais rendu …

Miranda closed her eyes and opened them again to look at Albert. Face still round with baby fat, body hard from handling guns and planes.

“You’re an officer and a gentleman, Albert. You’ve got plenty of courage. You’re going to need it. We all need it.”

She drained the rest of the coffee and set the cup down with a clatter. Opened her purse, searching for a pack of Gitanes.

Albert plucked a few of the coins off the table and turned toward the organ grinder.

“Here you are, old man.
Merci
for the
chansons.
”

The musician’s face showed confusion, staring at the naïve young soldier in love and the implacable, beautiful young woman, so cold, so frozen. Miranda avoided his eyes and lit the brown cigarette before Albert could extend a lighter. The organ grinder spoke softly, still staring at Miranda.

“
Merci, Monsieur. Et vous rappelez, mes enfants. ‘Il n’y a qu’un bonheur dans la vie, c’est d’aimer et d’être aimé.
’” He nodded several times in emphasis, then shrugged with both shoulders and turned his mouth downward, drifting to the next café.

Albert looked eagerly across the table to Miranda. “What did he say? I’m afraid my French is rather limited, and they speak so fast, don’t they?”

She inhaled the Gitane, sending a stream of blue smoke to drift through the wide street and the chestnut trees. Her voice was even.

“‘The only joy in life is to love and be loved.’”

Albert tried to find her eyes. Then he awkwardly bent down to pick up the package and placed it in front of her. The wrapping was green with pale tan stripes, tied with a green silk ribbon.

“I hope this will help you remember me when you get to New York.”

“I won’t be in New York for long.”

“Then where will you go? I feel responsible for you, Miranda, and I—”

“Don’t.” The word exploded, her voice rising. “Don’t you goddamn ever feel responsible for me.”

She crushed out the cigarette and reached for another. Her hands were shaking.

Albert slowly withdrew a military-issue lighter, his face whiter than usual. He lit the Gitane and Miranda inhaled, watching the red tip burn through the tobacco.

“I don’t know where I’ll end up. Maybe Chicago or Baltimore. Maybe back to San Francisco. Le Havre tomorrow, New York by the 24th, if the
Georgic
’s on schedule, and then who knows?”

She raised her eyes to his. “Forget about me. Go home and complete your assignment and enjoy what’s left of the world, drink your goddamn tea and ride your goddamn polo ponies and play your fucking cricket. Do it while you can, take your furlough, take your time. Meet some nice English girl in lace and lavender, the kind with white skin and pink in her cheeks and a bun at the nape of her neck who knows all the right words and the right way to say them. Who you can bring home to meet your grandmother in Lambeth. Who’s not me.”

She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”

Albert reached for her wrist and held it. “At least open the package.”

They looked at each other, Miranda’s face unchanged, the young soldier’s red and white with new lines around his lips. She slowly slipped out of his grip and used a fingernail to pry open the top of the wrapping, careful to keep it intact.

He watched her, voice hoarse. “You never told me about what happened. In Spain, I mean. And, I’m ashamed to say, I never pursued it. I knew you weren’t—I mean, I knew you were a lady. And it was enough for me that you were willing to—well—I mean, I mean a fellow can be damned selfish, and I have been, Miranda, and now—now I’m not sure I’ll ever know. About Spain. About what happened. About—you.”

Miranda slid off the last of the wrapping paper to reveal a box with the Guerlain perfume logo and address on the Rue St. Honor. She opened the lid and removed a squat crystal bottle with radiating lines and a gold, circular center inscribing “Vol de Nuit.”

Albert spoke softly. “It reminded me of you. ‘Night Flight.’ For the last week, I’ve been afraid you’d leave me in the middle of the night and I’d never see you again.”

She replaced the bottle in the box and gathered the wrapping paper around it. Tied it carefully with the ribbon. She craned her neck backward, staring briefly at the blue and white and pink sky, watching the blue smoke of her cigarette dance and blend with the rooftop chimneys and yellow stone.

She crushed the Gitane in the glass ashtray. Her eyes came back to meet his. They lingered for a moment before she stood up to go, clutching her purse with one hand and the box in the other.

“Thanks, Albert. You’re a swell guy. Most soldiers would have figured the steak dinners were enough, but you Brits are real gentlemen, through and through. Now do me a favor and take your broken English china heart somewhere else. Don’t try to wait outside my hotel room, don’t follow me to the train station, don’t camp out in Le Havre. You’re a soldier, goddamn it, and you need to grow up and grow up fast.”

His face remained stoic and withstood the assault. He rose slowly from the table, stood at attention. Wouldn’t let go of her eyes.

“I’ll never forget you, Miranda Corbie. No matter what you say. No matter where you go. I’ll never forget you.”

She turned abruptly and stumbled through the black iron gate, heading for the hotel, not looking back.

The scent of oakmoss and vanilla rose from the Guerlain box.

*   *   *

The clock read 12:37
A.M
. Boswell Sisters on the Tascone jukebox, singing “My Future Just Passed.”

Life can’t be that way, to wake me then break me …

She rubbed the stick out in the ashtray over Mrs. Hart’s little pile of ashes and tobacco. Smell of vanilla, iris, and sweat rose from the green dress, mingled with nicotine and a lingering odor of bourbon.

The cab ride home was short and unmemorable, elevator at the Drake-Hopkins out of order yet again. She trudged upstairs and dragged herself across the threshold, shedding clothes, apartment smelling of lemon oil and cigarette smoke and stale milk.

Miranda felt in the closet for her red silk wrap, carefully peeled off the silk stockings. Unhooked her bra and pulled the wrap around her, shivering. Sat on the low vanity seat, facing the mirror, wallpaper dancing and singing in the background, all about “Cheek to Cheek” and “Thanks for the Memory” and “You Grow Sweeter as the Years Go By.”

She shut her eyes, tried to shut the memory box, but the blue flowers kept nodding, voices rising in crescendo to a scream, forget me not, forget me not, forget me not …

Miranda opened a bottom drawer. Took out a blue glass bottle shaped like a skyscraper.

The tears came down, droplets on her cheeks timed to the forget-me-nots, night, always the night, no defense, no place to hide.

No place to forget.

Splash of perfume on her neck and breasts and behind her left ear, where he liked it.

Violet and bergamot, clove and hyacinth. Orange blossom sweet.

She looked in the mirror.

“
Je reviens,
” she whispered.

*   *   *

The phone rang, interrupting a dream about bombs dropping on Chinatown. She woke up out of breath.

6:03
A.M.

She reached for the receiver, almost dropping it, and swore.

“Miranda Corbie.”

“Miranda—it’s Rick.” His voice was somber.

Her stomach knotted. “What is it?”

“Call Meyer and get down to the Hall. A janitor found Mrs. Hart’s body in the basement of the Monadnock an hour ago. She was murdered—strangled.”

Miranda slowly placed the handle back on the phone cradle. She twisted the switch on the alabaster bed lamp and stared at the blue flowers, nodding against the pale pink.

Act Two

Trail

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime.

—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 3

Eight

The phone rang again. Miranda jumped, reached for the receiver.

“Darling girl, I hope I haven’t awakened you…”

She let out a breath, leaning back on the padded blue satin comforter.

“When your attorney calls you at six o’clock in the morning, Meyer, it doesn’t really matter if you’re asleep. Rick just phoned. It’s Mrs. Hart, right?”

He sounded surprised. “Mr. Sanders must be working the night beat. Either that or he has an internal alarm where you’re concerned.”

She sat up and reached for the nightstand drawer, hoping she wasn’t out of Chesterfields. Life Savers were all well and good, Dr. Nielsen, but sometimes a lady just needs a fucking smoke.

“They find my business card and receipt copy?”

“Yes, my darling. That’s why they want to talk to you posthaste.”

She shook out a stick from the crumpled pack by her bed, found a matchbook from the Moderne. “Let me guess. The jade wasn’t on her.”

His voice deepened. “No. There was no jewelry, no necklace on the poor lady. Just the cruel, ugly mark of a garrote.”

Miranda stared at the smoke curling from the end of the cigarette, blue and gray. Gray lady, gray dress, now a gray-and-blue face, framed by a red-and-yellow smear.

Colors of death.

“Not a pleasant way to die.”

“No, indeed. A brutal, barbaric murder.” Her attorney sighed. “I understand she was the type of woman who attracted enemies—that she wasn’t a particularly pleasant woman.”

“Trust funds make their own enemies. She was my client, Meyer.”

He spoke patiently. “I know that, my dear. There are a number of potential motives for the crime. A theme I will be playing ad infinitum for the police.”

“You sound worried.”

“Not worried, Miranda. Merely prepared.”

She rubbed out the stick in the glass ashtray, “1939 World’s Fair” still legibly gold through the pile of ash.

“Let me guess. They think I secured my fee and then had one of my ‘underworld associates’ murder Mrs. Hart and steal the jade.”

He smoothed it out, voice like the silk against her skin. “Not ‘they,’ my darling. You have friends in the department, especially since you so successfully proved Mr. Duggan’s innocence. That is why I am calling you and you were not awakened to the sound of boots at the door. I merely react to the possibility of hostilities from certain quarters.”

“Collins doesn’t have much power, but I suppose Johnson still hates my guts for not letting him play with the G-men. And God knows I’m not exactly a favorite with the D.A.”

Miranda yawned, fist to her mouth. “All right. I’ll answer a few questions, but only what’s legally necessary. The case was confidential, Meyer, and the lady wanted it that way. She’s still my goddamn client. I’ve still got to protect her interests.”