by Anne Stuart
Rocco only nodded, staring at his boots.
“I must say, I appreciate this, old friend,” Marc continued softly. “While part of me deplores the necessity of our meeting, another part welcomes it. I’ve wanted to compliment you on your artistry. It’s always been easy to tell which has been you and which has been poor Gilles.”
“You heard about him?”
“And Yvon. So our ranks are diminished, Rocco. We must be careful.”
Rocco nodded, not raising his head. “Shall I take care of your mother-in-law?”
“I think not. I will reserve that pleasure for myself.”
“Is that wise?”
“Probably not. But we all have to take risks sometimes, and this is one I can’t resist. We can put this one to good use, though. The police have had their suspicions of you, am I right?”
Rocco nodded. For some reason he felt thirteen again, listening to his leader with mingled resentment and respect. He sat very still, waiting for Marc to make his plans, to give him his orders.
“Well, we must make sure that Madame Langlois meets her fate at a time when you are very well, and publicly accounted for. It should make the police livid.” Bonnard laughed softly, and the sound ran like a razor across Rocco’s backbone.
“The man in charge of the investigation is Louis Malgreave,” Rocco mumbled, despising himself. “He’s a fool, of course, but not as big a fool as most.”
“He hasn’t caught us yet,” Marc pointed out gently. He looked upward, at the gray, drizzling sky. “We’re due for more rain, are we not?”
“Something more than this stupid gray piss?” Rocco said. “So I hear. Tomorrow and the day after.”
“All right. The first rainy day. At five-thirty in the afternoon, I think. By that time my darling little stepdaughter will be home, and Harriette will be all alone. I’ll take care of the old lady, making enough noise when I leave so that she’ll be found immediately. In the meantime, you might choose that time to make a little visit to Malgreave. Take your lawyer with you, and demand he stop harassing you. It should be very effective.” Bonnard’s beautiful face shone with delicious anticipation.
“How can you be sure the old bitch won’t leave something incriminating? She thinks she’ll be able to frame you.”
“She never was a match for me, and she never will be. It was stupid of her to even think she could attempt it. Never fear, old friend. By the end of the next rainy day Harriette Langlois will be dead and we will both have perfect alibis.”
And without hesitation Rocco had believed him.
He sat in the café, staring into the coffee cup. The rain was supposed to start later that morning. Today would be the day—Bonnard had never been one for procrastinating. It would serve them both well, Rocco had to admit it, and it would drive Malgreave utterly crazy.
Still and all, old habits died hard. The moment he came within his sphere he was an underling once more, a skinny pickpocket from the streets of Paris in awe of the upper classes. And he didn’t like that feeling, not one tiny bit.
With any luck at all he’d never have to meet with him again. Once more he had to admit that Marc had been right, and the rules he had laid down twenty years ago had been wise ones. They should never meet. Better to go their own ways, without having any contact with each other, any the police could trace.
For Rocco’s sense of well-being, he was more than happy to keep that covenant from now on. As far as he was concerned he would be happy never to see Marc again. He hadn’t deferred to anyone for years, and now he was feeling like an adolescent again, awed by a boy younger and weaker than he was. Not anymore. He didn’t like the feeling, and he had no intention of letting Marc gain power over him again. He’d kill him first, and break the chain of dependence.
The more he thought about it the calmer he felt. That was exactly what he would do. As long as Bonnard kept away from him things would be fine. Otherwise Bonnard would simply join Achilles and the Spaniard in the limitless repository of the Seine.
Twenty-four hours for a new American Express card. Three to five days for a new passport. Claire was back out on the damp streets in less than an hour, her pleas and anguished demands going for nothing. Finally she gave up, accepting defeat at the hands of the State Department and James Donner for the time being. At least the wheels had started turning. Maybe there was some way it could be expedited, some way she hadn’t yet discovered. There was no way on earth she could sit in that apartment for three days, waiting for Marc to come back.
It was raining again. According to Donner’s secretary it was going to rain for the rest of the week. And Claire knew if she didn’t get out soon she’d go absolutely mad.
At least she’d arranged for Nicole to stay longer with her grandmother today. While the old lady might have paranoid delusions, anything was better than the haunted apartment. She would go pick Nicole up herself after six today, and they’d eat dinner at a bistro instead of cooking. She might even drag Nicole to an English-language movie on the pretext of improving her vocabulary. That is, if she could find one suitable for a nine-year-old.
One more night in the apartment. Tomorrow she’d have the new American Express card, and they’d start making the rounds of hotels, moving every couple of days so Marc wouldn’t be able to find them.
Tomorrow, when Claire felt more able to face it, she would tell Madame Langlois what she had planned. The old woman might even have Nicole’s passport. If she didn’t, she would know how to get a new one. With the number of bureaucrats working in Paris they would doubtless be able to get it faster than Claire’s.
One more night. Surely they could all survive that long?
CHAPTER 13
Typewriter keyboards were made for smaller fingers, Tom thought, staring down at the X’ed-out mess in front of him. How in the hell did Hemingway, not to mention Thomas Wolfe, manage to control one of these tiny keyboards without his fingers getting stuck?
Maybe he didn’t. Tom pushed back from the table in disgust. The room was dark and gloomy on such a rainy day, and he couldn’t concentrate. It was no wonder. Bonnard’s apartment had been deserted—no ghostly images at either the second- or third-floor windows, no answer to his insistent pounding on the doors on both floors, no answers to his telephone calls when he gave up and went back to his apartment. For a moment he allowed himself the macabre fantasy of Claire lying bruised and bleeding behind one of those heavy doors, and then he dismissed the notion. Claire was right—Bonnard wasn’t the violent type. Was he?
Tom shook his head, trying to wipe the grisly image from his mind. The sooner he faced life and his own limitations, the sooner he returned to New York and reality, the better. He’d take with him the memory of two years spent chasing rainbows, a time when he’d indulged every creative whim that had passed his way. That memory should help him through a life devoted to more prosaic matters.
Of course he could take something else back from Paris besides memories and uncomfortable self-knowledge. He could take Claire MacIntyre. And he had every intention of doing his damnedest to ensure that happened.
He got up and crossed the room, restless, edgy, uncertain, ending up by the rain-streaked skylight. It was no wonder he was going nuts. This constant rain was enough to drive anyone crazy.
Where the hell was Claire? Why didn’t she answer the goddamned telephone, why didn’t she show up at his doorstep and sleep in his bed again? Damn it, had he scared her off so badly with that simple kiss?
He didn’t think so. Despite her confusion, despite her anxiety and uncertainty, he had the suspicion that she didn’t scare easily. If she didn’t want him to kiss her again she’d simply tell him.
Most likely she didn’t know whether she wanted him to or not. Or even better, she knew, but didn’t like the answer. Tom stood staring over the gloomy, rain-swept rooftops of Paris, wishing there was something he could do to help her make up her mind. He knew, with a depressing certainty, that the best thing he could do was give her time.
In the meantime, he had friends in Paris, friends who either knew things or could find them out. Claude was a journalist for one of the leftist newspapers. While the Théâtre du Mime didn’t normally fall under their jurisdiction, Tom had great faith in Claude’s contacts. If Claude couldn’t find out something about Marc Bonnard, then no one could.
He looked out into the rain once more. The last thing he wanted was to spend more time on the cold, wet streets of Paris. With a resigned sigh he reached for his navy jacket and pulled the collar up around his neck. Some things were worth the trouble, some things weren’t. There was no question at all in his mind where Claire MacIntyre fit in the scheme of things. And he headed out into the icy rain.
He wasn’t home, damn it. Claire leaned against the flimsy, locked door, panting from the six-flight climb. She could feel tears of exhaustion and frustration burn her eyes, and angrily she rubbed them away, smearing her flawless makeup. She couldn’t afford to spend her time moping around weeping. Too much depended on her, Nicole depended on her.
She moved to the landing window. Why in the world had Tom gone out on such a miserable day? She’d never even considered he might not be home. It had taken every ounce of her courage, every ounce of self-justification, to make the climb, to steel herself to face him, to tell him what she’d planned.
All that courage screwed up for nothing. Damn and double damn. She looked down at the thin, feminine watch on her slender wrist. Marc had given it to her, disliking the flat, masculine diver’s watch she’d always worn. When she got back to the apartment she’d take off the watch and dump it, she promised herself.
In the meantime it was only two in the afternoon, hours before she was due to pick up Nicole, and nothing to fill her time. She wasn’t going back to that apartment alone, she couldn’t walk the chilly, damp streets of Paris or she’d be courting double pneumonia, and she couldn’t just sit here and wait.
Or could she? Tom lived alone on the top floor—no one would come along and bother her. She sank down on the top step, ignoring the dust and mud, and leaned her head against the stained, peeling wall. It had been so long since she’d slept through the night. One more night, and there’d be the safety of an anonymous hotel room, with clean white sheets and no one knowing where to find them. Closing her eyes, she smiled faintly at the delicious picture and fell sound asleep.
“Nothing,” said Josef, looking disgusted and quite human for a change. “Absolutely nothing.”
Malgreave roused himself from his contemplation of his pencil. Things had gotten worse, so much worse. He and Marie had exchanged no more than ten words in the last two days. Of course, he had never been a loquacious man. And his hours had been longer than usual, as the case heated up. Two suspects dead within forty-eight hours, three new victims in the last week. They’d picked up the butcher’s assistant on suspicion of murder, but they were going to have to let him go. There wasn’t enough to pin Sahut’s death on the boy, and Malgreave didn’t give a damn. If anything, young Edgar had done the world a favor.
Malgreave ran a weary hand through his thinning hair. Things were escalating, usually a good sign. He’d dealt with enough homicides over the years to know—when the killing frenzy became overwhelming the victims began to pile up. And mistakes were made.
He looked over at Josef. “Nothing?” he echoed, hoping he sounded knowledgeable. He spent far too much time mooning over Marie. He had to learn to let go, to accept whatever she decided. He had to keep his mind on business.
“The orphanage,” Josef said patiently. “There were no records left.”
“That’s absurd. There must have been something. We’re a nation of bureaucrats, Josef. Somewhere in the Ministry of Records there must be folders and folders of information on the Marie-le-Croix orphanage.” Josef had gotten his interest by now, his domestic problems forgotten.
Josef shook his head. “As far as I can tell the place was started for war orphans. It was in existence less than twenty years, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, on file since the late nineteen-forties.”
Malgreave stared at his assistant, at the uncharacteristic smugness around Josef’s prim mouth. “What is it? There’s something you’re just waiting to spring on me, I know you too well.”
Josef’s smile broadened to an outright grin. “I was fortunate enough to talk with the deputy assistant to the under-associate secretary. You may remember him, a man by the name of Balfour?”
Malgreave shook his head impatiently, waiting.
But Josef was not to be hurried. “Well, he remembered you. He remembered the fuss you made when Rocco Guillère’s file disappeared two years ago, and your demand that a thorough investigation be made, to see what else was missing. He doesn’t like you very much, sir.”
Malgreave waved away such inconsequential information. “Get on with it, Josef. Though I hope and pray I know where you’re going.”
“Of course you do, sir. The only other files taken at the time of the Guillère file were the Marie-le-Croix orphanage files. Including records of inmates and the complete investigation of its destruction.”
Malgreave leaned back, sighing, a broad smile wreathing his lined face. “Josef,” he said, “we’re going to get them.”
“Yes, sir,” said Josef, beaming. “I believe we are.”
Tom trudged upward. He had to admit, he was getting tired of a sixth-floor walk-up. It wasn’t that he minded the exercise. He just didn’t like it forced upon him, particularly on a cold, gray day following a sleepless night. As he paused on the fourth-floor landing he thought longingly of clean, soulless condos and self-service elevators.
The smells of the ancient hallways surrounded him, that familiar smell of cabbage and dead fish and fresh bread and cats. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounded, and he had no doubt he’d miss it when he was back in the manufactured air of his New York apartment.
Today the smell was subtly different, and he paused, sniffing, trying to place it. The dampness brought out the worst of the old building, adding mildew to the aromatic pot, but there was something new. The faint, lingering trace of flowers in the air. Someone must have a new lover, he thought as he climbed higher. Or a new perfume. If the scent was bottled, he’d have to find out what it was. There was something indefinably arousing about it. It reminded him of warm summer afternoons, and soft breezes, and spring flowers, and … Claire, it reminded him of Claire.
He took the next flight three steps at a time, racing around the corner landing and stopping short, staring up at her. She was still asleep, her red gold head against the wall, her hands resting lightly in her lap. She was wearing those ridiculous high-heeled shoes, and from his vantage point he could see her slender, silk-covered ankles were splashed with mud. The heavy sweater was beaded with moisture, and it looked far too big for her slender body.
There were purple circles under her eyes, and she looked pale. Even in sleep her soft mouth looked determined, and he knew he was right. She might be confused, but she didn’t frighten easily.
As he started up the final flight of stairs, she opened her eyes and looked down at him. He stopped, not moving, standing a few feet below her.
“You’re all right.” His voice, when it came out, sounded like a boy in the throes of adolescence. It cracked, betraying his fear, betraying his caring.
“I’m all right,” she said.
“I was out looking for you.”
“I was here.”
“Bonnard didn’t come home last night?”
He couldn’t miss the faint tremor of fright that danced across her pale face. “No. Why would you think so?”
Now that his immediate hormonal rush was under control he continued on up the stairs, slowly, so as not to panic her into instant flight. He answered her question with his own. “What floor do you live on?”
“I thought I told you. The second floor.”
“What do you consider the second floor? How many flights of stairs do you take?”
&nb
sp; “I take the elevator.” The small attempt at a joke came out rather forlorn, and she accompanied it with a self-deprecating smile.
He’d reached her side by then, and it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms. “If the elevator was broken?”
“One flight of stairs. I’m lazy.”
“You’re on the first floor, then,” he said wearily, his worst fears confirmed. “In Europe the first floor is the ground floor, the second the first, etc. I don’t suppose there’s another apartment on that floor?”
“No, there isn’t,” she said. “Do I want to know why you’re asking me these things?”
“Probably not. Someone was upstairs watching us yesterday afternoon.”
She flinched. “You mean, when you kissed me?”
“Yes.” He waited, half hoping she’d dissolve in tears again as she had yesterday, hoping he’d have an excuse to touch her. She didn’t and while he regretted the lost opportunity he felt his longing and admiration increase.
She stood up, slowly, straightening her shoulders as if preparing to face an invisible enemy. “It must have been Marc.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t think he is gone. I think he’s been hiding, somewhere, sneaking into the apartment and watching me. How’s that for paranoia?” Her voice was cool, brittle.
“I’d say you might have reason to be paranoid.”
“I might indeed.”
“Come inside,” he said. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, or we’ll open a bottle of wine and we’ll figure out what you’re going to do.”
She shook her head, the damp, red gold hair swirling, and he could smell that wonderful, elusive scent again. “Could we go to a café, please?”
“Out into the rain again? My apartment’s drier and quieter, and we’re here already.”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?” He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it, admit it.
“Because if we go in there we’ll end up in bed. And I’m not ready to do that.” She looked up into his eyes, her gaze fearless and unflinching. “I can’t keep hopping from bed to bed, looking for someone to take care of my problems. I got myself into this mess and I need to get myself out of it.”