The Expiration of Elise

by Annette Moncheri

  He stared at me, wide-eyed, and I suspected I looked at him the same way. I struggled to compose myself, but the cross was still exposed, unnerving me through and through.

  “Get out.” I gestured toward the front doors. “And never return. Ever.” But I had lost all my confidence, and the words were ordinary ones, mortal ones.

  Still, he was frightened, and he went out silently.

  Ah well. I had at least told him to stop thieving, and that would have an effect.

  Just after he went out, in came Hélène Bachelet, one of my favorite people. At the sight of the sweating pickpocket and my own face, she swept her short, brunette bob out of her eyes and frowned. “What’s wrong with him? And you?” she asked as she exchanged cheek kisses with me.

  “Oh, well, he’s learned a life lesson—I hope.” I heaved a sigh. “And it came at some cost to me, but never mind. I will be fine.” I took her hands in mine for moral support. “It has been quite an evening already, Hélène.”

  “I saw Monsieur Carré coming up behind me,” she said. “Is it that kind of an evening?” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “That and more,” I said regretfully. “But I can speak no more of it for now.” Hélène was far too much of a gossip for me to confess anything to her.

  “Oh—not a word?” She pouted prettily. “That’s unfair!”

  “Just not yet, I promise,” I said with a smile.

  In the drawing room, she glanced about with her bright, mischievous eyes and promptly said, “Uh-oh. Your new admirer is present. Look, he’s waving at you.”

  “Oh, I know,” I said, deliberately turning my face the other direction. “That was only problem number two of four tonight, if we’re counting. I must find a moment and the right method to dissuade that man.”

  “I can beat him up,” Hélène said eagerly, her eyes glittering. “I’ve been having karate lessons.” She hiked up her short skirt and assumed a wide stance, then delivered some abrupt motions to the air—narrowly missing a tray of hors-d’ouevre and champagne carried out by Monsieur Georges.

  “Yes, I see,” I said drily.

  She shrugged with a broad smile and then spotted a likely partner in crime in the crowd and took off gaily, like a songbird in flight.

  I still had the task of returning the wallets to their respective owners. Fortunately, Monsieur Leblanc wasn’t the only one with some skills. Moments later, everyone had their possessions again, and no one was the wiser.

  I surveyed the drawing room again, as I habitually did, to ensure I saw laughter and smiles and not a frown among them.

  Ah, well, there was Anaelle at a card table, playing bezique. She frowned at her cards—the over thin girl was always a bit sour in attitude—but looked unharmed from her episode with Monsieur Martin in the ropes room. So that was, at least, one less concern for me to deal with tonight.

  Monsieur Georges materialized at my elbow, as he was so wont to do. “Monsieur Carré has been seen to your office, Madame.”

  “Very good. I will join him there momentarily.”

  He bowed slightly and set off. Then a different voice came from behind me.

  “Madame.”

  The gentle and reverent tone surprised me, and I turned to see Monsieur Escoffier. My heart dropped in my chest. “Monsieur,” I said, attempting to smile. “Bonsoir. Hadn’t you best be at home?”

  “Why would I be at home when you are here?” he asked gently.

  He took my hand and raised it to his lips with such tenderness that, in fact, despite all the reasons against it, I felt a little thrill in my stomach. He was awfully attractive, after all. I found myself smiling and told myself that I really needed to not do that.

  “Slut!”

  The shout was loud and sour in tone.

  An attractive redhead held center stage at the balcony where the two staircases met. She glared down at Estaban and me, and my teeth ground together.

  It was Estaban Escoffier’s wife, Elise.

  4

  “Slut!” she shouted again, louder this time, and the crowd gradually fell quiet, except for that “oooooh” sound a crowd always makes when trouble is brewing.

  People do love a bit of excitement.

  I wished she had chosen a less public confrontation. I didn’t want to embarrass her. But jealous wives were simply a hazard of my profession—one I’d learned to handle years ago. If I didn’t keep the mood light, the husbands present would get nervous and go home, and the scene would cost me half the night’s profits.

  I drew myself up to my full height and channeled my charme into my words. “No, no, my dear,” I said loudly, but with a sweet, innocent tone, “’whore’ is the word you’re looking for.”

  The crowd erupted in guffaws, and the redheaded Elise flushed red in anger.

  “You see, my attentions are far too valuable to simply give away.” I ran my hands down my body, and the men erupted in whistles and catcalls. At the piano, the musician punctuated the moment with a perfect run over the keys.

  Of course, I did not, myself, entertain clients any longer, since I was the madame of the brothel, but I didn’t need to say so. Everyone here knew it.

  Elise fought to break out over the noise. “I have had it with you!” She pointed accusingly at me. “You stay away from my husband!”

  “My friend, if you want your husband to stay at home,” I said lightly, “you will have to do a better job of enticing him there.”

  More laughter from the crowd.

  Monsieur Carré had made an appearance at the hallway below the staircase, and I signaled him to hold and wait. I would get with him as soon as I could.

  Meanwhile, Elise came down to the foot of the stairs and took to screaming right at Estaban. “You get away from that hussy! Come home with me! Right—now!”

  “Darling…” Estaban pleaded weakly, taking a few steps in her direction. He looked back at me, his conflict plain to see on his face.

  “Don’t you look at that… that woman!” Elise insisted. She shook her fist. “I will break your face when we get home!”

  “Oh, my friend,” I said lightly, “that’s not enticing at all. You’re doing it all wrong! You have to promise to give him a little St. George when you get home.”

  More laughter.

  “Now, I think we’ve had enough,” I said, putting a little of my preternatural command into it. “You’d best be on along home, unless you’d like to stay for some champagne and a game of bezique—and as for Estaban and all the rest of you”—I paused for effect as I looked around—”it’s two for the price of one tonight!”

  Men cheered, and jubilant conversations broke out.

  When I looked back, Elise was stomping her way down the hallway that led to the back entrance.

  Estaban, in mid-curse, headed out after her, and after I joked with my patrons long enough to make it appear that I had nothing to worry about, I followed. I said briefly to Monsieur Carré, “I will be back momentarily,” and he nodded agreeably and set out to find conversation in the drawing room.

  Once I was out of sight of anyone, I used all my supernatural speed to close with Estaban.

  I met up with him in the antechamber to the back courtyard. He was just opening the outer door to go after Elise, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  At the look on my face, he let the door go, and stepped closer to me.

  Another thrill ran into my stomach, and my breath caught. Oh, he was handsome. How I wished things were different!

  “Dear Estaban,” I said kindly. “It is time to put an end to all of this.” I placed my hand on his chest, to further strengthen my enchantement. With a heavy heart indeed, I uttered the words, “You must not return to Le Chat Rose. You must not see me again. Our association is at an end.”

  His face fell, and it nearly broke my heart.

  “Yes, Madame,” he whispered.

  “Adieu,” I said gently, and I pushed open the door for him.

  It was then that I he
ard the helpless and weak cry outside.

  As soon as I saw the crumpled form on the ground, I knew. Her red hair lay out like a fan on the cobblestones, and a knife protruded from the center of her back.

  “Stay back, Estaban!” I ordered, with all my pouvoir, and he obeyed, his face drawn and pale.

  Up close, I confirmed that she was altogether gone from this life.

  I looked around. She lay where my courtyard met the sidewalk. The street here was a back alley, a narrow lane only large enough for bicycles and carts, and apart from a young couple walking past the alley in a leisurely way, talking and laughing, there was no one here.

  I looked back over my house. No one in the courtyard. No one on the balconies above who might have seen anything.

  I turned back to Estaban, who awaited a verdict with terror in his expression.

  “Go for Monsieur Carré!”

  He obeyed promptly.

  Who would have done this thing to Elise? Two attempted murders in one day! One of them far more violent, and far more successful. Would the killer come after more of us?

  5

  And so this is how it was, that an hour or so later, in my office, Monsieur Inspector Thibauld Baudet met my gaze and reluctantly uttered the words, “You must know that you are a person of interest in this investigation, Madame.”

  “The devil I am!” I cried. “Why would you say so?”

  “A number of obvious reasons, Madame. You are the third in the love triangle at hand, and had just had a confrontation with the jealous wife who is now deceased. You and Estaban were near the victim when she was killed, the murder had no witnesses, and your only alibis are with one another.”

  Estaban and I looked at one another in dismay. Indeed, we could not have appeared any more guilty from the circumstances. Suddenly I felt guilty, although I knew full well that I was not.

  “And what of the attempt on Madame Dorothée Thomas?” I asked the inspector. “Do you blame this on us as well?”

  “It could have been a deliberate attempt to throw suspicion elsewhere,” he said. “You are an intelligent woman, Madame. I doubt very much that you would be careless if you were to attempt a murder.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to be complimented or appalled.

  Baudet leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice. “To be clear, Madame, I do not personally believe that you had a hand in this. But it would be irresponsible of me to leave your name off the list of suspects based on my personal feelings.”

  He patted my hand and got up to open his briefcase.

  The brief touch left me awestruck. “Personal feelings,” he had said! Did he have feelings toward me? I felt my heart soar, and said to myself, No! We will not entertain these thoughts about Monsieur Baudet. No good will come of it.

  “I would never have done it, either,” Estaban said defensively. “I loved her.” His voice broke, and his chin trembled.

  I wanted to comfort him, but since I had just emphatically rejected him an hour ago, those would have been mixed signals of the worst kind.

  “I believe you, Monsieur,” the inspector said kindly. He took his fingerprint kit out of his suitcase and began to unroll it. “These questions are, however, both obligatory and urgent. I will ask you this—who else might it have been? What enemies did Elise have?”

  Estaban wiped his hand over his face. “Unfortunately, Elise is not… was not… well liked. She rubbed everyone the wrong way. She was prone to angry confrontations exactly like the one she had with us right before…”

  He trailed off, then straightened his shoulders with an effort. “She was jealous and possessive… She was stingy and would fight over the prices of everything… she would buy expensive dresses and then return them…” He lapsed into a gloomy silence, and I felt sorry for him.

  “Being abrasive is one thing,” I said. “But who might have been so angry as to do… what was done?”

  Estaban thought for a long while.

  I found myself admiring his wide, handsome face and was forced to shake myself and turn my gaze… to Inspector Baudet—who was just then applying a fine powder to the knife? No, he was hardly a wiser idea. I gazed instead on the portraits hanging on the walls. Dead men are safe, n’est-ce-pas?

  “She had family that is particularly acrimonious with her,” Estaban finally concluded. “Because of her greed, there were squabbles over inheritances. Elise fought with family over her father’s estate before he even passed away. She hired barristers and all the worst sort of behavior. Perhaps there is lingering resentment there.”

  He shook his head. “Although, come to think of it, I believe that everyone she could have squabbled with has passed away. There may yet be family on her mother’s side. But they live in Bordeaux. Very far from Paris.”

  “I see,” Baudet replied as he examined the knife carefully under a magnifying glass. “That seems an unlikely angle, then.”

  “Whoever it was, they were quick,” I said. “I got to Elise only one second, perhaps, after she cried out. And yet the area was clear of anyone.”

  “And it was a criminal of some skill with knives,” the inspector said. “I would suspect this person to have advanced training with weapons.”

  “Oh?” Estaban asked.

  “The place where the knife entered the body,” he said. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Escoffier, to speak of such morbid details. But the blow was directly into the heart, from the back. It was an expert strike, to bypass the backbone and reach the heart.”

  “Oh, I see,” Estaban said tremulously, wiping his eyes.

  I felt terrible for him. Here was a man who had been banished from his aimé’s home and had his wife murdered all in one day. He had no refuge left.

  “I will be able to let you go shortly, Monsieur Escoffier,” Baudet said kindly as he took out an ink pad. “I only need to compare your prints to any that may appear on the knife.”

  “I suppose I should be relieved that we have such science now,” Escoffier said dolefully. “It will show beyond a doubt that I’ve not touched that knife.”

  “Nor I,” I added.

  That aside, however, I hated to be fingerprinted. Managing my identity, as a person who never aged, was tricky. Every so often, I was forced to disappear for a few decades, until everyone I had known was gone, then reappear with a new name and a new look. Those years of quiet were good for the soul—a welcome rejuvenation—but I wouldn’t want them to last forever. Yet as new science kept popping up, the odds of my going without notice were beginning to creep down.

  No, I would need to avoid being fingerprinted—or, perhaps, ensure that my fingerprints went missing later. Yes, that would be considerably easier.

  “Madame!” The distraught cry came from the doorway. The painfully thin Anaelle de Gall was just then throwing the door open and stamping in, her long, blonde hair surrounding her like a saint’s halo from a medieval painting. “How could you have banished Léo? For what reason?”

  Anaelle stomped her foot again for good measure. “Léo was a good and regular customer. You can’t just exile people out of hand.”

  “The matter was in hand, my dear,” I said mildly. “And that’s the problem. Sit and let me explain.”

  Still frowning, she sat in an armchair next to me, perching on the very edge of the seat and holding her posture perfectly upright as she always did.

  “Your Monsieur Léo was a pickpocket,” I said, not unkindly.

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “I won’t hear any protests, my dear.” I squeezed her delicate shoulder. “I caught him red-handed with two wallets which he had just liberated from other customers. He did not argue with my findings, and he bore his dismissal bravely. Now it doesn’t surprise me that he chose to tell you a different story, but this is the reality. Monsieur Léo may not return to Le Chat Rose.”

  “Léo Leblanc?” the inspector asked as he placed Estaban’s ink-stained fingertips on a piece of card stock.

  “The very one,” I said.
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br />   “Ah, yes, he has a record at the commissariat central,” the inspector said. “You don’t wish to press charges?”

  “Not at this time,” I said, remembering my more potent words to Léo. “He may be in the midst of turning over a new leaf, and I don’t wish to disrupt the process.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Anaelle said. In truth, however, she looked as if she were coming to terms rather quickly. “Why, wherever did you get that knife?”

  Inspector Baudet looked over at her. “This one? Well, it’s awkward to say…”

  I saw Escoffier’s heartbroken face, and hastened to interrupt. “Do you know anything about that knife?” I asked Anaelle.

  “Well, of course. I’m just surprised Martin would let it out of his pocket, let alone out of his sight."

  “Martin?” I asked.

  “Bien sûr. Martin Martin, the knife maker. His work is exquisite, don’t you think?”

  The inspector brought the knife over closer to myself and Anaelle, and we gazed on it with new eyes.

  “You see here, the carvings on the handle?” Anaelle said. “It’s hard to see with the powder all over it… but Martin is so fond of white tigers. He’s often carved them on the handle, but this is the only one where he put three tigers on a knife this size. He thought it a failed experiment, because the tigers are too small and the detail is obscured, but he was so fond of it that he kept it as his personal knife.”

  “Is this the very same Martin Martin whom you kicked in the face this evening?” I asked.

  One of Baudet’s eyebrows crept upward.

  “In the ropes room,” I explained. “There was an incident.”

  Anaelle’s jaw dropped in protest. “Only because he tried to mount up before I had the ropes properly fastened!”

  Baudet’s eyes closed, and I felt that perhaps he was trying to prevent too vivid a mental image from forming. I held back a laugh.