Masquerade (3 page)

Driven by the endless questions, she crossed to the window with its postcard view of Nice, the city of fun and flowers, of sun, sea, and sex, a city that sizzled softly by day and crackled with action by night.

In the distance the sunlight sparkled on the deep blue Mediterranean waters of the Baie des Anges, ringed by private beaches, crowded now with wall-to-wall sunburned flesh and languid egos. Closer were the red-roofed ocher buildings and Italianate churches of the town's old section, with its narrow streets opening to form little squares.

She hugged the blanket more tightly around her and searched the scene with her eyes, a scene so reminiscent of paintings by Matisse and Cézanne. Here the dreaded mistral that roared down the Rhône Valley twisting and turning trees was but a breeze to stir the fronds of the palm trees along the Promenade des Anglais, and the architecture was distinctly Mediterranean in character rather than French, a reminder that less than a century and a half ago Nice belonged to Italy.

Was it somewhere in Nice that she was supposed to be? Was that what had brought her here? But how could she be sure she didn't live here? The inspector claimed that she spoke English with an American accent, but she was fluent in French. The designer gown, the jewelry—it was possible she was a wealthy American living abroad, perhaps in Nice itself. After all, she knew the names of its streets, the location of a marvelous little tea shop on the Rue St. François-de-Paule, and . . . but a frequent visitor to the city might know such things too.

If she wasn't supposed to be here, though, then where?

Her head started to pound again. She turned from the window, absently massaging her temple.

Inspector Armand stood inside the doorway, his relaxed stance conveying the impression that he'd been observing her for some time. She lifted her head sharply at the sight of him, her glance quickly taking in the shiny bald top of his head, the dark-gray hair shading to white at the temples, the pleasing plumpness of his features, and the keenness of his blue eyes. She hadn't heard him come in. He had slipped in quietly—like a principal slipping in to the back of a classroom to silently observe.

"I see you are up and about today," he said, his sharp-eyed gaze continuing its assessing sweep of her. "That is good."

She took a quick step toward him, then stopped, every muscle in her body strained taut. "Have you found out who I am?"

"Regrettably,
non.
Our check of the hotels has turned up nothing. The whereabouts of all their guests have been accounted for, and no belongings have been left in any rooms, other than the normal one or two items that a departing guest might forget to pack."

She had tried to brace herself for this answer, but it was still frustrating to hear it. "And I suppose no one answering my description has been reported missing."

“Non”

She sighed. "What now, Inspector?"

"Now, we widen our search to include apartments, homes, villas, yachts. ..."

"It will take time to check all those out." She looked down at her hands and the tight lacing of her fingers on the blanket, the tension, the turmoil, knotting them as it knotted her.

"Unfortunately, a considerable amount of time."

"I don't know if I can wait that long to find out who I am." She forced her hands to loosen their grip on the edge of the blanket. "There must be some other—quicker—way."

"When you saw Dr. St. Clair this morning, was he able to tell you anything?"

There was a wry pull at one corner of her mouth. "If you mean other than his opinion that the laceration to my head is healing nicely, no. But he's arranged for a specialist to see me this afternoon. A psychiatrist or psychologist, I don't remember which."

"Perhaps he will be more helpful."

"Perhaps." She sighed again. "If only I could remember something—anything."

"Maybe it is more convenient not to remember."

He suddenly had her complete attention. "What do you mean by that?" She saw the close way he was watching, observing every nuance of her reaction to this rather startling remark. "Do you think I'm faking this amnesia? Why? What would I gain by it?"

"I have asked myself that too."

She stared at him, stunned by the implication of his words. "My God, do you think I'm some criminal? Why haven't you run a check on me?"

"It was one of the first things I did—merely as a matter of routine, you understand." His mouth curved in a faint, apologetic smile that took much of the sting out of his suspicion.

"Obviously your 'routine' check didn't turn up anything, or I'd be arrested."

"The results were negative," the inspector admitted.

"You don't still think it's a possibility?" "In my profession it is never wise to rule out any possibility until the truth is uncovered."

"I suppose it isn't. Right now I just wish I knew something. I am so tired of this endless circle of questions."

"Life is a question, is it not? And we spend our whole life trying to find the answer to it." A smile made his cheeks rounder. "But it is ironic,
non,
that many people wish they could forget their past, while you seek so valiantly to remember yours."

At that moment a small, quick man with bushy hair and beetle brows bustled into her hospital room, a clipboard and manila folder tucked under his arm. "I am Dr. Gervais. Dr. St. Clair asked—" He stopped and blinked at the inspector. "You have a visitor."

"Inspector Claude Armand." He smoothly produced his identification.

"You are here to question the patient?" The doctor blinked at him again, with a certain vagueness in his expression.

"And you are here to examine her." The inspector smiled, but as usual, the smile didn't reach his eyes. "You have no objection to my sitting in, do you?"

The doctor seemed momentarily taken aback by the request, then lifted his shoulders in a brief, indifferent shrug. "You may stay or go, as you wish." With that settled, he turned and introduced himself to her again. "Dr. St. Clair tells me the injury to your head has caused a defect in your memory."

"A defect—that's an understatement, Doctor. I don't remember anything. Not my name, my address, or my family—assuming I have one."

"Hmmm," he said, as if he found her response most interesting, then flicked a hand in her direction. "Please make yourself comfortable, and we will talk about this."

"In other words, lie down on the couch," she murmured dryly.

He gave her a startled look, then glanced around the room. "There is no couch," he said, then the curious frown that had pulled his heavy brows together cleared in a dawning realization. "Ahh, you make a joke. It is good you have retained your sense of humor"

"It is one of the few things I've retained." Avoiding the bed, she crossed to a chair and sat down, conscious of the inspector standing quietly to one side, silently listening, observing.

The doctor sat himself down in the other chair and crossed his legs at the knee, one foot swinging in a nervous rhythm as he arranged the clipboard on his lap and opened the manila folder to leaf through the papers inside. "Shall we begin?" he said.

After thirty minutes, during which he tested her current memory retention, asked numerous general-knowledge questions, and questioned her extensively about her past, specifically her religion, her patience was exhausted.

During a lull, she demanded, "What are we accomplishing with all this, Doctor?"

He gave her a look that seemed to say the answer was obvious. "I am attempting to determine the extent of your memory impairment. Amnesia has many causes and takes many forms—senility, alcoholism, electroconvulsive therapy, acute encephalitis, brain trauma. ... In severe cases, amnesia symptoms primarily stem from damage to such brain structures as the mammillary bodies, circumscribed parts of the thalamus, and—"

She broke in, shaking her head in confusion. "You are being too technical, Doctor."

"My apologies." There was a quick bob of his bushy head. "My initial findings tell me that you have what we call traumatic amnesia, as a result of the concussion you suffered. This is a common aftereffect of a severe head injury."

"But when will my memory return?"

"That is impossible to say. It could be today, tomorrow, next week, next month." He leaned back in the chair and pulled thoughtfully at a thick eyebrow. "It will probably return gradually, with pieces of your past coming back to you—perhaps in chronological order, from the most recent, or perhaps haphazardly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that finally fit together."

"But it isn't permanent?"

"There have been cases where the patient has never recovered his memory, but they are rare." He hesitated, then added, "However, it is altogether possible that you may never remember the events that immediately preceded your injury."

"In other words, I might not remember the identity or description of the man I was seen struggling with,' she concluded.
 

"Correct."

"You haven't said anything about treatment." And that omission bothered her. "What about drugs or hypnosis?"

"Hypnosis is frequently helpful in cases of hysterical amnesia—where there is no physical cause, no damage to the brain."

She stared at him. "Are you saying that all I can do is sit and wait for my memory to come back—if it does?"

"Essentially, yes."

"I don't accept that. There has to be something I can do." She rose to her feet and crossed stiffly to the window. "There has to be."

"You cannot force your memory to return, mademoiselle. The more you grasp for it, the more elusive it becomes. It is better to relax your mind and allow your memory to return naturally."

"It's bitter prescription you offer me, Doctor," she murmured, unable to keep the note of frustration out of her voice.

"But it is the best one." He spent another few minutes briefly lecturing her about time and healing, then left.

She stood at the window, fighting tears and railing at her helplessness. Then a faint stir of movement intruded to forcibly remind her of the inspector's presence in the room. She threw him a quick glance then tilted her head a little higher, fixing her gaze on the colorful sails of the pleasure craft in the bay.

"The good doctor wasn't very helpful, was he?" she said.

"No, although it was apparent from your conversation with him that your knowledge of medicine and anatomy is limited. I think it would be safe to assume that you are not associated with the medical profession."

"But I must do something—have some interest." Made restless again by this blankness, she turned from the window.

"The dress you were wearing is an expensive one. Perhaps you are wealthy and do not have to work at anything."

"Maybe. But I can't imagine myself being idle—or flitting from one fashionable resort to another, occupying my time solely with parties and charity events. A life like that would be too aimless."

"What do you think you might do, then?"

She searched her mind for an answer, then sighed. "I . . . don't . . . know."

"Tell me what you know about the law—the first things that come to your mind."

"Free association, you mean?" She looked over at him, her curiosity piqued by the thought.

"Something like that, yes."

"The law." She closed her eyes and tried to relax, letting her thoughts flow spontaneously. "Corporations, felony, fraud, writs, subpoenas, habeas corpus. . . ." She felt herself trying to grope for words, and shook her head. "That's the extent of it. Let's try something else."
 

"Banking."

"Numbered Swiss accounts, deposits, rates of exchange, interest, loans, mortgages, checking accounts, savings."

Again the well of terms quickly dried up. It was the same with advertising, petroleum, interior design, motion pictures, computers, and the travel industry.

Refusing to give up, she insisted, "Let's try another."

The inspector hesitated, then said, "You are fluent in both French and English. Perhaps you are an interpreter. When I begin to speak again, simultaneously translate what I say into English."

"All right." She focused her gaze on his mouth and waited, a tension heightening all her senses despite her attempts to relax.

He began talking at a rate that was neither fast nor slow. "I was born in the Maritime Alps and grew up in Levens, a peaceful village at the entrance to the Vésubie Valley. ..."

She was able to follow along for the first half dozen or so words, then she began to stumble, the words tangling as she struggled to listen to what he was saying while translating what he'd already said. The harder she tried, the more jumbled everything became.

"Stop—please." Laughing at her mangled translation of his words, she lifted her hands in mock surrender. "I can't do it. I can't split my concentration that way."
 

"It is difficult,
non?
"

"Yes," she replied emphatically, then her amusement at the abortive attempt faded as discouragement set in. "What else is there, Inspector?"

"It is always possible, mam'selle, that you haven't been trained for anything."

"Except to be beautiful and decorative, you mean."

"You say that with a touch of disdain."

"I suppose I do." But she wasn't interested in her reaction to that. "This feeling I have that I'm supposed to be somewhere—if it's true, then why hasn't my absence been noticed? Why hasn't someone missed me?"

"Perhaps when we find out who you are, we will learn those answers as well."

"But when will that be?" she demanded, all her frustration and anxiety surfacing as she turned from him and paced to the window, her arms folded tightly in front of her, her fingers curling into the blanket. "How long will I have to wait?"

After a short silence, the inspector spoke. "I have arranged for a photographer to come and take your picture today. The newspaper has agreed to print it in tomorrow's edition. Perhaps someone will recognize your photo and come forward."

"Perhaps."

When he took his leave of her, she responded automatically but didn't turn from the window, her attention riveted on the brilliant blue sky outside. Like the endless swirl of questions in her mind, it seemed to go on forever.