Seen and Not Heard (8 page)

“But you speak English perfectly.”

Madame nodded graciously. “True enough,
chérie
. But I have no intention of doing so. You’ll simply have to be the
go-between. I imagine we’ll do just fine until your father comes back.” She looked at her granddaughter piercingly, and once more Nicole felt that odd frisson of fear that was becoming far too frequent a companion. “You love your great-aunt Jacqueline, do you not?”

“Of course,” Nicole replied, mystified.

“And California really isn’t that bad. It’s very sunny, and everyone has five color televisions and swimming pools and cars without roofs. You would enjoy yourself.”

“Maybe Marc would let me visit,” Nicole said. “Maybe you could take me.”

Grand-mère
smiled, a cool, distant smile that frightened her granddaughter very much. “We’ll see,
chérie
. We’ll see.”

Gilles Sahut sat alone in his room over the butcher shop, staring out into the bright sunlight as he devoured his noonday meal. He hadn’t taken the trouble to wash the blood from his hands, and the bread and cheese tasted of freshly slaughtered lamb.

He felt restless, angry, ready to jump, and the smell of blood and death from the animals below only increased his edginess. He shoved the heel of bread into his mouth and stomped over to the window, glaring into the bright spring day. He would have to buy a newspaper. Usually he didn’t bother—he could scarcely read and seldom found it worth the trouble.

When the old women started dying he used to buy the paper, spending painstaking hours deciphering the details just to be certain. When he’d taken up his part he continued to read, curious whether anyone linked him with the deaths.

Of course no one had any idea. And they never would. Gilles knew that the truth defied belief—no one would guess and if they did they would dismiss it as impossible. They were safe, all of them.

No, he didn’t need to buy a paper to see if anything new had come from the latest murder. What he needed, quite desperately, was a weather prediction. What he needed, quite desperately, was more rain.

* * *

Claire sat alone in the kitchen of the huge old apartment, delicate hands cradling the mug of coffee. Marc was gone, promising to call every few nights. She hated answering the telephone. Most of the time it was someone babbling at her in French, talking too fast and too loud, never giving her a chance for her halting explanations.

As often as she could she had Nicole answer the phone. But arrangements had been made for Nicole to spend each day with her grandmother, being transported by the old woman’s chauffeur. There was no need for Claire to present herself to Harriette Langlois—that much had been made clear. And indeed, Claire had no wish to subject herself to the humiliation of trying to converse with someone Marc stigmatized as an old harridan, with a reluctant Nicole as translator.

No, she was happy to have her days free, and if part of that freedom meant she was lonely, she would learn to deal with it. She would have Nicole write something in French to leave by the phone, something she could read to whomever was trying to communicate without listening.

She shoved the coffee away. The day stretched ahead of her, bright and clear and shining, with no duties, no responsibilities. She could even leave the dishes sitting in the sink without fear of reprisals.

All she had to do was relax and enjoy herself. She had every intention of doing so when the telephone rang, its shrill bell racing across her nerve endings.

She sat at the table letting brief fantasies play across her mind. It was the man from the park—he’d somehow found out who she was. It was Marc—he couldn’t bear to be away from her. It was Nicole—no, it was her grandmother, and Nicole was hurt.

She couldn’t ignore the telephone. Slowly she rose from the table, crossing the room with dragging feet. Without Marc around she went barefoot, not minding the chill in exchange for the blessed feeling of freedom. The ring was angry, insistent, and Claire held her breath for a long moment before snatching it from its cradle.

Hello
was a universal word. The voice on the other end spoke English, and she wished it hadn’t.

“Ms. MacIntyre?” The voice had flat American vowels. “This is James Donner at the United States embassy. We’d like you to come in and answer a few questions for us.”

And Claire dropped the phone from nerveless fingers, watching it clatter to the floor.

Paris was blessed with six sunny days in a row, a miraculous phenomenon after the ceaseless rain. Someone, Nicole perhaps, had told Claire that the old women had only been murdered on rainy days. That knowledge, coupled with the relief from various different sources, was enough to send her into a mood of almost lightheaded happiness, one Nicole tolerated with cynical patience.

Claire hadn’t asked the man from the embassy a thing when she’d retrieved the telephone from the floor, except, “What time would be convenient for you?” Her voice had been wooden, lifeless, a martyr heading for the stake, but James Donner had noticed nothing.

“At your convenience, Ms. MacIntyre,” he’d replied, and Claire had almost laughed into the telephone. There was no convenient time for the conversation she’d been dreading for the last six months, but part of her had been relieved it was over with. They’d send her back to the States, of course. She’d probably be charged as an accessory, or something. She’d have to see Brian again, something she dreaded. But the worst part of all would be to leave Nicole, sullen, prickly Nicole.

And Marc, she amended swiftly. Of course leaving Marc would be the worst. Would he forgive her for not telling him?

Three hours later Claire stepped outside the U.S. embassy, relief, irritation, and confusion all warring for control. It had been nothing, a minor bureaucratic hassle that took only a moment to clear up. She hadn’t applied for her residence permit, something all foreigners were required to do after they’d been in Paris for three months. For some reason Marc hadn’t mentioned it to her, but the workings of the French government were extremely efficient, tracking her down and ready to extend a sharp reprimand.

James Donner, a Southern aristocrat of indeterminate age and sexual preference, took care of it all with bland charm, dismissing her into the Paris streets and the prospect of another harrowing taxi ride, and Claire, dizzy with relief, couldn’t stop herself from asking one question.

“Is there anything else?” Marc had told her the American police were looking for her, that they’d been in touch with the embassy. The police would have no interest in a French residence permit; it had to be something else. Unless Marc lied, and he’d have no reason to do so.

“Nothing for now,” Donner had said with practiced political charm. “If we need you we know where to find you.”

For a moment the words rang ominously in her head. And then she dismissed them as she headed out into the bright, chilly sunshine. Marc must have misunderstood, though that was unlike him. He was such a perfectionist that he seldom made mistakes, and his command of English was almost that of a native.

It must have been some inept employee of the embassy, getting the messages garbled, and Claire’s understandable paranoia had done the rest. She’d suffered three days of panic, all for nothing. Deliberately she shut off the little voice in her head, the one that told her she deserved all the panic and guilt she got. She would celebrate.

During the taxi ride to the embassy she had recognized an area of wonderful shops only a brisk walk northward, shops where obsequious employees spoke a dozen languages, English among them. She would go and buy herself something—perhaps a new silk dress or a clinging nightgown
for when Marc returned. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d find a shop specializing in comfortable jeans and running suits and wear only what she wanted until Marc returned. Maybe she’d even find a pair of jeans for Nicole.

The sky was very blue—the brisk winds of Sunday had blown the pollution over to England where the Parisians no doubt felt it belonged. Puffy white clouds were scudding through the heavens, and Claire could smell the wet damp smell of newly awakening earth, even in the midst of the city. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was happy. Surely nothing terrible could happen in such a beautiful world as this.

Chief Inspector Malgreave sat at his desk, pushing papers around. The weather report called for days of sunshine—no rain in sight. There would be no more murders, for a few days at least, and that would give them time. Time to find where Rocco Guillère was the night Marcelle Boisrond was murdered, time to follow up on other leads. There were too damned many of them. Too many leads, and Malgreave’s intellect told him there couldn’t be so many murderers.

His instincts told him there could be.

Thirty-nine files spread out over his desk, some fat, some thin. All elderly women who’d been neatly stabbed in the heart and then laid out like medieval corpses. There were photographs in each file, photographs Malgreave knew by heart. They were all starting to blur in his mind, all the old ones, and he was beginning to forget important details. Were the fingerprints found at the nun’s body or with the twins in La Défense? Had the Comtesse de Tourney been the one who’d been sexually molested after her death, or was it Marthe Hubert?

He pushed away from the desk, running a weary hand through his thinning hair. Somewhere there was an answer, something he was overlooking. He would start again, read through the reports one by one, stare at the gory photos with a jaundiced eye, memorize each insignificant detail until it all began to coalesce and make sense.

Josef came in several times during the long afternoon,
bothering him with questions, distracting him with his reverent silence. Someone brought in fresh coffee, stale brioches; someone, probably not the disapproving Josef, replaced his empty pack of cigarettes with a fresh box. The dank room was blue with smoke, a layer of oil had formed on Malgreave’s half-drunk cup of black coffee, and at six forty-seven he sat back, dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the cold coffee, and sighed.

Josef was still there, sitting patiently by the door. “I called your wife,” he said. “I told her you were delayed.”

Malgreave reached for another cigarette. “What did she say?”

Josef flushed. Mme. Malgreave had said a great many things, none of them encouraging or even kind. “She said she understood.”

Malgreave laughed, a short, cynical bark of a sound. “I imagine she did. What about your wife? Did you call her?”

“Helga knows we can’t keep regular hours when something like this is going on.” Josef gestured to the littered desk. “Once we catch the murderer I’ll make it up to her.”

“The difference between your wife and mine,” Malgreave sighed. “Your wife has only been neglected for the seven years you’ve been in the department. Marie has had to suffer for more than twenty.”

Josef swallowed. “And Helga is ambitious.”

Malgreave grinned suddenly, appreciating Josef’s frankness. “True enough. Helga has more ambition for you than Marie ever even dreamed of. Do you mind?”

“Helga’s ambition? No. I am not a driven man—I need Helga to give me a push now and then, or I would be content to do nothing.”

“And does she ever push too much?” Malgreave inquired, tapping a pencil against his long, thin fingers.

“Not yet.”

“Bon,”
said Malgreave. “And there are four.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you’d make it up to Helga once we caught the murderer. There are four of them.” He gestured to the piles of manila files littering his desk. “In the left corner I have
the files of those I’m sure are the work of Rocco. Next to that pile is a smaller one, with those I only suspect are his. The rest of them fall into three categories, each with its own subtle differences. Then we have the two files where we found a fingerprint, and another couple of folders where I’m not sure where they fit. In other words, Josef, my desk is such a mess that I’m giving up and going home to my wife.” He rose, and glared at the littered desk.

“Er …” said Josef. “Madame Malgreave said she wouldn’t be back until late.”

Malgreave had looked tired before; now the last ounce of life drained from him. “In that case,” he said, sitting back down again, “there’s no need for me to go anywhere.” And picking up the top folder, he stared once more at an old lady’s corpse.

Yvon Alpert worked late that night. He usually worked late. He was an ambitious man, eager to please his employers, eager to get ahead in the world and make a name for himself. With his wedding coming up he wanted to make all the extra money he could, so that he could treat Jeanne to the kind of honeymoon she deserved.

When the days were bright and sunny, when the nights were calm and clear, he could forget his burden. Forget the past, think only of the bright, wonderful future that lay ahead of him. The orphanage in Marie-le-Croix was a distant memory, something that happened to someone else, and he would always hope that the next time it rained, he wouldn’t even notice.

It hadn’t worked that way. Each time the rain fell it called to him, louder and louder, called to him so he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t escape. But still he hoped.

He headed out of the square, ugly building that held the ministry. Jeanne would be waiting at his apartment, dinner ready, that pouty little look on her piquant face, ready to play the game once more. Tonight he had energy, tonight he would throw himself into the charade, woo and cajole her into bed where she’d turn into a tigress. For a moment he
wondered how she’d respond when there was no longer any game to play, when her legal and moral place was in his bed. Would she be complaisant, would she lose interest?

Yvon noticed the evening paper as he headed down the street, the dark headlines a screaming blur. He ignored it, knowing there couldn’t have been another murder, not with the sky so clear and calm. There was no need to buy the paper, no need to turn around, fish in his pocket for a few coins, and toss them to the news dealer. It would be a mistake—what he didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt him. Still, he couldn’t resist.