The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (16 page)

Everyone except Tamsin, who seemed to be in her own little world, nodded in agreement, so Beni and I stubbed out our smokes and headed off with Gerard. We took the elevator to the ground floor, then walked the entire width of the building and circumnavigated the mirror-image elevator in the other wing, to find ourselves facing a tiny door that led into a narrow corridor, which then turned, and began to run back in the direction from which we had come.

“This is where we rent apartments, not own them,” said Gerard, quite proudly. “Madelaine, she is in number eleven, and I am along farther in number seventeen.” About three doors along we stopped and Gerard knocked, quite loudly. “She is deaf,” he announced, “though she does not think so.” This made me smile—I was thinking that much the same was true about Gerard!

There was no reply, so Beni knocked—with rather more force than Gerard had managed. Beni also put his booming voice to good use by calling “Madelaine! Are you at home?” in French, of course.

There was still no reply. There was no handle on the door, just a lock let into it.

“Is there a key anywhere?” asked Beni of Gerard, who thought for a moment.

His eyes lit up and he replied, “Maybe with Daphne! She is along here, in fourteen. She cleans for Madelaine and some other ladies. She will have a key.”

We knocked at her door. After Beni explained why we wanted the key, the short, round, mousy woman, who was obviously Daphne, gladly handed it to him. She insisted that she came with us to check on Madelaine.

I acknowledged to myself that I was getting a bit worried. My main concern was that maybe something had happened to Madelaine as a result of the digitalis. I knew quite a bit about it from my toxicology classes, but I certainly wasn't an expert. I mean, there might have been a whole raft of nasty side-effects I knew nothing about that could cause real problems for a woman in her nineties. I had that nervous tummy thing again, and I kept telling myself it couldn't be because I was allergic to foie gras . . . or champagne (oh heavens no—that would be a real tragedy!). I was really quite apprehensive as Beni handed me the spare key so I could open the door to Madelaine Schiafino's apartment.

THE FIRST THING I SAW
when I pushed open the door was all four of us reflected in a full-length mirror. It was a bit of a disorienting vision. To the right was a blank wall and the rest of the apartment ran off to the left. I swear I could feel the hairs rise on my neck. I knew there was something very wrong. I pushed in. I wanted to see whatever there was to see
fast
, and for myself.

It was one of those sights that I'm always going to wish I could forget, but never will. Not because it was gory—just the opposite. Everything looked so normal.

The room was small, the walls a discolored beige. The furniture must have once been grand, and was certainly of a scale that suggested that in years gone by, it had graced much larger spaces. The walls were covered with sepia photographs, landscapes in oils, portraits on canvas. The whole place smelled of garlic and mothballs—not a pleasant mixture. I stepped farther inside to see what had become of Madelaine herself.

She was sitting in a large, wing-backed armchair that had been arranged to get the best view through the window. At least, it would have done if the shutters had been open, or if poor Madelaine had still been able to see. Her head lolled forward onto her chest. Her hands were folded in her lap. She looked as though she might be asleep. I knew she wasn't. She was dead, and I felt a sadness wash over me. Yes, I've seen a lot of bodies in my time, but I hadn't been sharing small talk and appetizers the night before with any of the corpses I'd seen on the body farm.
This
hit home. So much more than Alistair's death had done.

Of course, the question in my mind was about what had caused her death. Was this natural, or had she been murdered?

We all
knew
she was dead, without anyone saying it. Behind me Daphne let out a high-pitched scream and Gerard started praying in French. Beni let loose some choice Italian before he pulled Daphne away and started to punch at numbers on his cell phone. I wondered if he had the police on speed-dial yet.

Dragging my eyes away from Madelaine's body, I looked around the room. Nothing was disturbed. It really looked as though she'd simply sat down and died.

I swung around to see Gerard crying, and my heart went out to him.

“I'm sorry, Gerard, I know she was an old friend of yours.”

“No, more than a friend,” he said, then added, “much more.”

I wondered exactly what he meant by that as I watched the man wipe at his eyes with a large, grubby pocket-handkerchief. He looked around, as though in a daze. He seemed to be smiling as he cried. He seemed . . . relieved. It was odd. I gave him a moment.

Beni's head reappeared around the corner of the room. “The police are on their way. They say to leave and do not touch anything. I am taking this lady back to her family. It is best,” he said, and was gone.

I looked again at Gerard. His expression puzzled me: it looked as though he'd won something—his eyes shone with victory.

“Are you feeling alright?” I asked.

“Yes. It is finished. She is gone.”

He didn't seem to be referring to an old lover.

I looked around the room again and walked a few steps toward the kitchen. On a little side wall there was a large rectangular mark on the wallpaper—it was darker than the rest of the wall. Something that had hung there for years was gone.

“Gerard—there's something missing from this wall. What used to hang here? Can you remember?”

Gerard walked up beside me and looked at the wall.

“I have not been here for many months, but every time I am here there is a photograph of Madelaine here.”

“It was a large picture?” I asked. The mark on the wall measured about two feet by three.

Gerard nodded. “Yes, large. Head to toe.” He used his expressive hands to illustrate. “A photograph. A portrait. She is in a fine gown, with feathers.” He waggled his hand above his head. “She is a good-looking young woman. This picture is taken in the war. But after the war, then she is not so beautiful anymore.”

I didn't understand. I'd thought of her as a handsome, if aged, woman the night before. “Why was she less beautiful after the war?” I asked.

Gerard looked back at the body in the chair and wiped his eyes again, then almost whispered, “When the women in the town they get hold of her after the Germans leave, they shave her head, and beat her and kick her until she is broken in many places. She leaves and goes away. She cannot be in Nice anymore. She is known. She is hated. She becomes ‘Madame' Madelaine Schiafino. But no husband. But her name is Mademoiselle Madelaine Roux. Always. She is a prostitute for the Gestapo. She informs on other women. She lives here at the Palais in the war, now she comes back to die. It is right. The picture . . . that one—” he flung his arm toward the empty space, “she is showing how proud she is, how clever. Women come here to the Palais and are never seen again. She tells the Gestapo where to find women for this. My sister . . . my sister is one of these women, she disappears . . . My father, he has hidden her away from the town when the Germans come, but one day we see her come back here in a truck, then she disappears, and from then my father is never the same . . . Always he cries for my lost sister . . .” He subsided into sobs. I had a feeling they were for his sister, not Madelaine, who I was beginning to see in a whole new light.

Considering that things couldn't get much worse for the poor chap, I decided to strike while the iron was hot. “How did the hated Madelaine Roux manage to become the lawyer Madelaine Schiafino? It can't have been easy . . . or cheap! And didn't anyone around here recognize her as the same woman? You did, after all.”

“She takes the money, the gifts, that the Germans give her and goes to Paris to study law. She comes back to Cannes after many years, and she has everything different about her: her name, her hair, her shape . . . she is much thinner than in the war—in the war everyone was thin, but she was not. No one thinks of her as Roux. It is when she comes here, back to the Palais that I meet her, but even I do not recognize her, until I see this picture. She tells me it is someone from her family, before the war. But I
know
. I have seen her standing on the balcony that is now the Townsends' with the Gestapo and the
SS
officers. I never tell anyone, until M. Townsend asks me about her. He knows her from Cannes, I think, but I do not know how. I tell him about the picture and the way she is dressed, ready for a ball, showing off the fine gifts the Gestapo give her . . . So much gold, so very fine in her . . . sin.”

“Did you ever confront her about this, Gerard?” I was curious. The man was old, but his hatred was clearly still strong. Had he acted upon it? I found it hard to believe.

Gerard shook his head. “I do not need to. She knows me, and I know her. The only time it is ever mentioned is when I am here, and I see the picture and ask I her about it, and she says, ‘Sometimes we must do things we know are wrong to save ourselves.' I ask her if this is what she accepts when she is a lawyer and she says no, so I say that God knows sinners and will find them out, when it is their time. She says she knows this is true, and that she is happy to meet her Maker. She is not afraid. I think it is for God to punish her. Not me. These women, who are beating her after the war, what they do is wrong too, and I must not do wrong. We answer to God, that is all.”

“Any idea who might have removed the picture?” I asked, doubting he'd know.

He shook his head. “All I know is my enemy is gone.” It was a statement with a sense of finality.

“Nothing else is gone?” I asked quickly. “What about in the other rooms?”

“I only see this room when I visit,” was Gerard's guarded reply.

“Okay,” I said, and with that I tiptoed across the carpet to peer into the tiny kitchen. There
might
have been something so obviously out of place that even I would spot it. Gerard followed, timidly, and peered in too. He shook his head and shrugged. Before we could make it to the bathroom, I heard footsteps clattering along the little corridor. I motioned to Gerard to follow me back toward the front door, which he did with a surprisingly agile step.

There I came face to face with Captain Moreau.

“Ah, Professor Morgan, we meet again. This is not good.” I was sure he was referring to the circumstances, rather than meeting me—at least, I hoped that was what he meant.

“It's terrible, Captain, but I am glad you are here. We waited—we didn't want anyone to see the body by accident. Doctor Brunetti is farther along the . . . um . . .” I stopped there. I had no idea what the French for “corridor” was, and I knew was making a mess of all my tenses. Thank goodness Gerard stepped in to explain, and the puzzled look on the captain's face cleared. He thanked us both with a little nod, then asked Gerard where we could be reached. I understood quite clearly that Gerard told him that we would all head back to the Townsends' apartment, if that was acceptable. It seemed that it was, and that Moreau would meet with us there, so we were dismissed, just in time for the forensics guys to arrive.

Beni walked up to us as we exited the tragic scene, and Gerard explained to him what was going on. We made our way back toward the Townsends' wing of the building, being passed by new arrivals every moment. As we walked, none of us spoke.

I was deep in thought about the scene we'd just left. I knew something was odd about it, and I was trying to work out what it was. I wanted some space, just a few minutes alone so I could think about it clearly, but that wasn't likely to happen any time soon.

Soon we were back upstairs at Tamsin's front door. Chuck opened it.

“How is she? Okay?” he asked, cheerily enough.

“Dead,” said Beni.

“What?” Chuck squealed, blocking our way inside. He looked horrified.

“Let us in, and I will tell you,” replied Beni, pushing past Chuck, who seemed to be supporting himself with the door. “I need cognac,” Beni added tersely, and he walked in, striding toward the drinks cabinet, where he swept up a bottle and headed for the balcony. “I will sit, and drink, and smoke, and I will think about this terrible day,” he said, very dramatically. I thought that was the best idea I'd heard in a while, so decided to follow suit. Of course, we had to deal with Tamsin first, who, upon hearing that Madelaine was dead, started wailing and weeping, and had to be the first served with the cognac. Typical!

We gave the bare details to Chuck and Tamsin together. Tamsin's responses were, needless to say, all about how this news affected her, whereas Chuck's reaction was less about himself and more about Madelaine, which was refreshing.

“Does she have any relatives we should get in touch with? I mean, is there someone we should call?” Chuck sounded distressed but keen to do something.

I deferred to Gerard, who shook his head and replied, “She is alone. No friends. There is no family. She is the last.” It sounded terribly final and bleak. I felt pretty low. The cognac wasn't working. I poured another, just in case the first one hadn't been big enough. It had certainly been quite a day, and, given Moreau's promise to talk to us when he had left the late Madelaine Schiafino's apartment, I was certain that it wasn't over yet.

Oh yes, and I was hungry.

I DON'T MEAN TO SOUND
heartless, but I really
cannot
think straight when my stomach is panicking that my throat might have been cut. I spent a moment grappling with how to raise the subject of eating. I was a “guest” at someone else's home, I couldn't leave because I was due to meet with the police, and I knew for a fact that there was nothing of any substance to eat on the premises. I decided I'd just say what I thought and hope it wouldn't sound too rude and that I wasn't the only one rumbling out there on the balcony. Luckily, there was a bit of a lull in the conversation, so I took my chance. I used my “apologetic but firm” voice—the one I usually reserve for explaining to a student that I cannot give them a higher grade just because they'd like one.