by Heron Carvic
“Le Préfecture? M. l’Inspecteur Chiffard, s’il vous plaît.”
Another wait. Quickly, soundlessly Librecksin moved.
“Allo?” asked the instrument.
Lilianne took a nervous breath, but hard fingers closed on her windpipe, cutting her communication with the police; Librecksin’s left hand caught the falling receiver and replaced it, then joined the other to encircle her neck—cutting all communication.
Librecksin humped the body to the bathroom, stripped it and dumped it in the bathtub. Lilianne must disappear: should she be found the police were likely to connect him with the killing; if she disappeared the police might well presume that she—and maybe he—had quitted France. He repaired to the kitchenette. As he remembered: a gift unit of a meat chopper with its complement of kitchen knives including the wicked blade of a frozen food saw. He set to work.
A weighted hatbox held the head, the glittering cache-sexe and the coveralls—that for the river Seine. The rest of the dismemberment, wrapped in polythene and stuffed in suitcases, could be distributed between the different points of the railway’s compass. Crossing the living room with one of the cases, his eye lighted on Miss Seeton’s parcel. He studied it. He began to laugh.
Luck was running Librecksin’s way. He had been surprised to find how little time his amateur butchery had taken him. The longest part of his self-appointed task had proved to be the cleaning of the bathtub and the wiping of all surfaces in the flat that he had touched.
He had planned his itinerary carefully: first the one long leg, the most tricky, southeast across the city to the Gare de Lyon, the only sizable station near the river. It was as his taxi approached the Bastille that they met the first traces of a river mist and by the time they reached the station it swirled and eddied, transforming people into phantoms. He dismissed the taxi, stacked his luggage for plausibility close to a porter’s barrow against the wall and, taking the hatbox with him, set out for the nearest bridge.
Beside the river he had to pick his way and on the Pont d’Austerlitz visibility was down to feet. He saw no one on the bridge and no outcry accompanied the splash when the hatbox fell.
Back at the station he found his luggage untouched and deposited the heaviest of the cases at the left luggage office; then with growing confidence he piled the remainder into a taxi. The worst risk, that of leaving the luggage unattended, was over, but the fog which had helped him was now a hindrance and he chafed as the cab crawled up the Rue de Lyon, hugging the curb, with the driver grumbling incessantly that people who wished to travel in such conditions must be mad or criminal or both and that for himself he had no idea but to quit the streets and take the Métro home.
As they went north the mist thinned and the Boulevard de Magenta was clear. He got rid of another case at the Gare de l’Est, the short trip to the Gare du Nord relieved him of another and a final taxi took him west to the Gare Saint-Lazare, where he left the station encumbered only by Miss Seeton’s parcel and but a short distance from the Casino.
Librecksin stood at the corner of the Rue d’Athènes, opposite the theater. His financial position had improved. Having known where Lilianne hid her valuables, he was now the richer by several thousand francs and some pawnable trinkets. Close by, the essence of Parisian night life ululated from a basement, where an accordion screaked and mewled an old favorite, “Si Tous les Cocus.”
The front of the casino was dark except for a dim glow at the back of the foyer. He looked at his watch: half-past ten. It was unlikely that the dress rehearsal would be over yet. He had no idea what had brought Miss Seeton to the theater, nor any assurance that she was still there. It was a possibility, no more, but a chance worth taking on a night when fortune appeared ready to favor him. He realized that unless he dealt with her, Mantoni would refuse to go to England. The fool was hysterical about her and credited her with the evil eye. The other point he had to consider was had she seen him? He thought not—was almost sure not. She had certainly seen Mantoni and she had seen the cardboard roll containing the canvases, although it was arguable that she might not have grasped its significance. She had been speaking to Lilianne when he had come up behind her and although she had twisted in falling after the blow, could she have seen his face before losing consciousness? The glimpse must have been too brief and too confused for recognition; of that he was virtually certain. Still, virtual certainty was but two-thirds of a guarantee. Safety lay in her riddance.
He looked down toward La Trinité. The top of the church had disappeared and fog was already clouding the square in front of it. If she was still in the theater, transport would be difficult and the conditions ideal for him. If not, he would use her parcel as an excuse and make an opportunity at her hotel in the morning.
Shouts, stamping and cries of “bis” from the boîte de nuit greeted the final chorus of “Si Tous les Cocus,” making him turn his head, and when he looked back the theater facade was shrouded in mist. He moved forward into the Rue de Clichy. Behind him the accordion started again and an inept understudy to Jean Sablon began to lament “Vous Qui Passez Sans Me Voir.”
On cue the side door opened and a figure emerged. Librecksin felt a surge of triumph. Unmistakable; those clothes, that hat, that umbrella questing its way forward in the murk. Allowing a few seconds for his quarry to get clear of the theater, he started in pursuit. Underneath the street light by the church he caught up, raised a knife and stabbed. Alerted by a sense of danger, his prey wheeled suddenly, swinging the umbrella in defense so that the knife, missing the vulnerable triangle between the collarbone and shoulder, was deflected by the rib cage and sliced down to the waist. Librecksin dropped the parcel and stooped over the tumbled form to strike again but was halted by shouts and the thud of feet as two indistinct trousered shapes loomed close. Librecksin jumped clear of the body, groped his way down the thick darkness of the Rue de la Trinité above the church and into the Rue Blanche. If not dead, he congratulated himself, at least disabled, and this time alone—for long enough—with no Mme de Brillot to effect a last-minute rescue.
Mme de Brillot disliked Paris. She found its reputation as ill-founded as its Eiffel Tower: a city where a spurious warmth and gaiety, like a waxed veneer, overlay the grim business of living in an essentially gray metropolis where generosity was at a premium and the violence of the apache and of the barricades smoldered beneath the surface. She sat in the hall of the Ritz-Palace with an untasted drink in front of her, ignoring Thrudd Banner’s conversational gambits.
At last. Of a sudden she knew what had been wrong with the dressing room. Two men, two stools—but one armchair. She rose and hurried to the line of telephone kiosks at the back and asked the switchboard for the stage door of the Casino. There was an appreciable wait before the call was answered and a morose voice demanded her business.
The director? Not there. No one was there. The rehearsal was over and the theater closed. A dressing room? No, he would not. It was not his affair to search dressing rooms. As if he had not enough to do with guarding the theater and answering questions from the police. The police? Why, about the attack, of course, what else? Where? But evidently down by the Trinité, where else, and not, God be blessed, one of the company. Who? How should he know? Some old woman, or so he understood from what the police had said. No, he had not seen her. It was not his affair to leave the theater and set foot on the streets with murderers about. No, he did not know. One of the twins had returned excited and had used the phone—without permission or paying, which would have to be regulated—to call for an ambulance and the police, and had then departed precipitately. And to what good, with all the delay before the police and ambulance could arrive thanks to the fog. What hospital? How should he know? It was not his affair. The receiver clicked.
Mme de Brillot looked through the glass door of the booth at the hotel clock. Nearly midnight. Her best contact at the préfecture would be . . . Thrudd Banner was on his feet, staring. Her glance followed his to the revolving doors. In
the name of God . . . Two slim boyish figures stood, uncertain, by the entrance. One, bareheaded, held a long narrow parcel and the other, sporting a visored cap, carried a handbag and umbrella. A brief consultation between the two and Cecil ran forward.
“Duckies.”
The long nose down which the night receptionist had been looking twitched. Affronted by this vulgar invasion of the Ritz-Palace by such—such types, he had been upon the point of signaling to one of the bellboys to remove them. Now he waited. If Mme de Brillot recognized these—these deplorables, then he and the hotel must do the same. Overhearing the greetings and the exclamations, he sniffed. Ah, all explained itself; English, and everyone knew the English did not know how to conduct themselves. He watched with disdain as the strangely assorted group settled round the table. The frightful cap was removed, the ill-fitting yellow wig under it was lifted to reveal a bandage around gray hair. Death of God, it was the English miss, the one whose suite had been booked by M. Stemkos, no less, with precise instructions that everything possible should be done to give her pleasure. He hastened to them. With a smile as artificial as the teeth that it displayed, he bowed.
“Mademoiselle has had an accident?” Was there anything that he could do? Any way in which he could be of service?
Miss Seeton began to shake her head, then stopped. Although feeling so very much better, it was brought home to her that her head was not yet in a condition to be abused.
“Ducky,” said Cecil—the receptionist flinched—“if you could give birth to some sandwiches? Miss Seeton’s had no dinner and I’ve only had a teensy omelet since brekker.” He looked a query at Mme de Brillot and Thrudd: relief allowed both to realize that they too had not dined and that curiosity could wait on appetite.
Sandwiches? The receptionist winced. For a protégée of M. Stemkos? Unheard of. The improbable teeth flashed again. Unfortunately the dining room was closed, the chef off duty, but if he might suggest—some crème de vichyssoise, pâté de maison aux truffles, a specialty, a salmon mayonnaise with salad and, it went without saying, some champagne. He eyed Miss Seeton’s borrowed jacket and trousers. Perhaps mademoiselle would prefer that the repast should be served in her suite?
“No.” Miss Seeton was firm. It was such a relief to be sitting down after all that had happened. That quite shocking business of the stabbing in the street—thank heaven that it had proved to be not too serious. The fog. And then the police. The questions. The ambulance. The hospital. She was feeling almost light-headed and did not wish to move. Cecil was right. For the first time since she’d been abroad she was really hungry. But she was still determined to stop this foreign habit of serving late-night meals in bedrooms.
Cecil gazed at the receptionist with ardor. “Ducky, you’re inspired—I could kiss you.”
The man retreated hastily to get matters under way.
Mme de Brillot’s present feelings would have been Chief Superintendent Delphick’s sympathy: the mixture of relief and exasperation that made her want to smack Miss Seeton to assuage the hours of worry. How dared she return thus from the grave, or at least from hospital, with nothing to show for it except one small bandage and disguised in trousers, with that ridiculous wig and cap.
“. . . so you do see, duckies, don’t you,” Cecil was apologizing, “that we simply dared not risk it? For all we knew you were the ones that slugged her and there was nothing we could do till we got out of the theater so we bandaged her, filled her up with headache powders and half a sleeping tablet and hid her in our loo. Then Cyl got this stupe idea of dressing up as her and we tossed for it but Cyl won—though I think he cheated because he loves a bit of drag—and off he went looking the spit an’ image and we followed. Then by the church this bastard jumped him with a knife”—fleetingly the hard core of anger showed through the affectation—“and we dashed up shouting and he slid off somewhere in the fog and we told the police,” he protested, “over and over again we never really saw him—just a shape—and there was Cyl bleeding all over the pavement and ducky, here, insisted on staying with him though Mack the Knife could’ve been back at any moment—so brave—while I went to telephone and everything took simply ages because nobody could see a yard, but here we are and do you wonder”—he grinned warmly at Miss Seeton—“she’s still feeling a bit woozy? But she’ll strut her stuff as soon as she’s had some food, you’ll see.”
As if in answer to a summons, waiters appeared, flicked tablecloths, laid cutlery, wheeled in the meal and served it. All four set to with appetite.
“Your brother—” began Thrudd with soup spoon raised.
“Brother?” Cecil was pained. “Oh, no, ducks, no relation.” He giggled. “Just good friends. And neighbors,” he amplified. “Me, I’m from Lancashire and Cyl’s from a dreary little place next door called Yorkshire—so inferior.”
Thrudd smiled. “You had me fooled there with the color of the hair.”
“I should hope so, ducky; it’s out of the same bottle.”
The reporter persevered. “But seriously—anything we can do? Is your—is Cyril all right?”
“Yes.” Cecil was curt, anger and concern showing again. Quickly he masked them. “They doped Cyl, stitched him up and tucked him into bed with a lovely bit of tatting down his side. And the doctor—beige-colored and so good-looking. Cyl’ll be thrilled when he wakes up, and—”
“You think”—Mme de Brillot roused herself from thought—“that this man with the knife was the same one who attacked Miss Seeton in the theater?”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Seeton was definite. “He was.” With every mouthful she was feeling better. “Or rather, he must have been. Because of the parcel.”
“The . . .?”
“This.” Cecil retrieved the sergeant’s and Anne’s wedding present from the floor beside his chair.
“You see,” Miss Seeton explained. “I had it with me. And then, later, it wasn’t there. But it was there afterward—on the pavement, that is. So it must have been. The same man, I mean.” The paper was a little crumpled and the box was dented at one end. She had wondered whether, perhaps, she ought to ask the shop to do it up again. But, no. There was the label with her name and the hotel’s address, quite unsuitable, so, really, it would be better to leave it as it was and then rewrap it properly when she got home.
Home. This morning home seemed to Miss Seeton to be so very far away. Fog had clamped down on Paris and Mme de Brillot had told her that all flights were canceled until it lifted.
They had been lucky. The doorman at the Ritz-Palace had persuaded a taxi to drive them to the vast pile of La Lariboisière, which had been the nearest hospital for the previous night’s emergency, and there they had loaded a cheerful Cyril with fruit, flowers and gratitude, thankful to learn that, apart from being stiff and sore and that his stitches itched, he was not in serious condition. Cyril was in fact engaged in battle with the nurses over his immediate discharge, since the opening at the Casino had been postponed for two days until Thursday for a rewrite and he wanted to rehearse, ridiculing the doctor’s dictum that there could be no question of his working for a fortnight.
Now on leaving the hospital, the two ladies found that the sparse traffic had come to a standstill to all intents and purposes, only an occasional bus creeping past the cars abandoned by the curbside. The scene reminded Miss Seeton of the London pea-soupers of her childhood. Mme de Brillot shrugged; nothing to do save walk. They strayed erratically down the Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière, since the sole means of distinguishing between the pavement and the road was by identifying the obstacles into which they bumped or over which they tripped. At the Place La Fayette Mme de Brillot, realizing that they would be late, decided to risk the crowded Métro, but kept her arm firmly linked in that of her companion until the train arrived at the Chaussée-d’Antin: experience was teaching her that Miss Seeton, once mislaid, was as likely to eventuate in Spain as Timbuctoo. They surfaced on the Boulevard Haussmann but a few doors from the Stemkos offices and no mor
e than three minutes late for the ex-schoolteacher’s appointment with the multimillionaire.
When the lift door had closed behind her charge Mme de Brillot relaxed. Nothing untoward had occurred but the journey through the fog had stretched trained sensibility to snapping point; now for half an hour she could shelve responsibility. She gave explicit instructions to the receptionist: in no case, for whatever might be the reason, was Miss Seeton to leave the building until her return. For her part she would be at Étienne’s on the Capucines, close to the Opéra, if anything should arise.
She found the anonymity of the darkened streets welcome now that she was alone, and on reaching the café she settled automatically in a corner on a banquette against the wall since the weather had emptied the sidewalk tables, ordered a Campari, marshaled her thoughts and began to prepare a report. It was a tribute to her personality that, although every eye had followed her progress, no man approached her.
A pest that, on such a morning, Stemkos should want to see Miss Seeton; no doubt he too wanted a report. Well, he would learn at least that Mantoni was in Paris, but as to the rest, Miss Seeton’s strongly individual style was likely to obscure the narrative and defeat any conclusion. To her mind the inevitable conclusion was that Librecksin was in Paris. No one else except Mantoni had reason for the attack and, since the Italian had fled before the assault in the theater, Librecksin was the only logical suspect, and for Lilianne to disappear at the same time supported the idea. Meanwhile, how to trace Librecksin? The police were already looking both for him and for the girl. Almost certainly he would attempt to leave the country. The police must have mounted guard at ports and airports, but Librecksin was clever; would probably be disguised; would have obtained false papers. She sipped her Campari thoughtfully. More to the purpose, where was he now?