Gisele slouched over and studied the rows of lettered spines. There was a wary look in her peasant’s eye, but also a desire to please. “If I must read,” she sighed, “I prefer this.” She took down a copy of The Innocent Libertine. “At least you wrote it.”
“In spite of the title, my novel may bore you,” Colette warned. “Now let’s have a nice game of piquet.”
Why am I wasting my time with this illiterate girl? Colette asked herself at the end of the week. There were Goncourt Prize submissions to plow through, roses to stitch. Her new story was languishing. She wondered if her unconscious mind was preparing a coda to Gigi—the after-the-happily-ever-after—Gisele her model.
She dismissed the notion. It was hardly unconscious if she could describe it. More likely, she was playing at mother, since her own daughter rarely came to call. Or pretending the indifferent Gisele was the ghost of her own young self.
Next visit, perhaps sensing Colette’s withdrawal, Gisele confided her longing to escape the apartment over the restaurant. “I’m dying. He won’t let me out, except to visit you.”
Truly, Gisele’s complexion had worsened, pale as winter endive. She was standing with her back to the balustrade, cocooned in a sweater. “He thinks he owns me.”
“My first husband owned me, in a way,” Colette confessed. “I was so young and in love I didn’t mind. Until I grew up and discovered the difference between being owned and being possessed.”
“There is no difference. And I hate it.” Gisele’s face turned cold and blank. Colette had once seen a farmer with that face, cramming corn down the throat of a goose.
From her raft, she formed a sudden impression that a spider had crept onto Gisele’s wrist. “What is that?” She grabbed Gisele’s arm and pushed up her sleeve. Blue-black contusions stained the white skin. “He beats you?”
“When he’s angry he pinches my arms and neck.”
Two things were clear to Colette, who understood danger: Pinches lead to slaps, and this country girl was pining. She sent Gisele home with a pocketful of chocolates, then telephoned Roland.
“Your wife has hurt herself.” She cut off his surprised effusions. “Poor little thing insisted she fell, but there are bruises in the oddest places; do you follow me, Monsieur Roland?”
He did.
“Lack of fresh air makes her dizzy. You must let her out for long walks in the Bois every day.” When he hesitated, she added, “Is it next Wednesday that Cartier-Bresson is supposed to photograph the cherries and me?”
Roland needed no more than this quiet reminder of her power to give, and more to the point, to take away.
That night when sleep wouldn’t come Colette revisited her childhood in the fields and forests of Saint-Sauveur, where she and her brothers had wandered from dawn until dusk, in every season. How necessary it was for her mother’s savage children to roam. Even now, flooded by pain she never acknowledged, Colette could smell the almond husks, taste the ice and dust of Lancet’s brook, feel the garter snake, electric in her hand.
By her third day of freedom, Gisele’s complexion was verging on roses. “The Bois is full of lakes,” she chirped to Colette. “The Count de Rossat showed me.”
“You know Henri?” From her window this morning, Colette had watched Gisele cross the gardens at the same time as Liane’s husband. A coincidence, she’d thought.
“He and the countess often have supper at the Petit Corsair. The countess is very kind, always asking for me.” Gisele plopped down across from Colette. “Is Henri really a count?”
“As a matter of fact, he is. He’s got the title, she’s got the money. The perfect marriage. They’re wild about each other, so Liane says.” Colette smirked, but Gisele didn’t notice.
“Piquet?” Gisele tore open a new pack of cards and set to work.
“You shuffle like a sharper,” Colette said, watching cards and fingers fly. “I mean that as a compliment.”
“I’ve begun The Innocent Libertine.”
“Is that so?” Colette lifted an eyebrow.
Gisele blushed.
A single piercing shriek interrupted Wednesday’s first cup of coffee. From outside? Colette couldn’t tell, and Pauline had gone to the apothecary. Somewhere below, a door slammed, followed by a brief silence, then more shrieks. Curiosity finally drove Colette to hobble on her canes to the balustrade, where she watched a kitchen boy from Petit Corsair gallop across the gardens and disappear into her building. Excited voices followed, and seconds later Pauline burst into the room, accompanied by a breathless Madame Boyer.
“Oh, God, oh, God.” A feathered go-to-market hat fluttered against the concierge’s orange curls. “I found him! Me! Why me?”
“Found who?”
“Cherries all over everywhere!”
“Will someone kindly tell me what’s going on?”
“Roland is dead!”
“Have you called the police?”
Curls and feathers nodded.
“Where—”
“Lying in the alcove,” Pauline said. “Stabbed through the heart.”
“With his own fruit knife.” Madame Boyer groaned. “I recognized the handle.” Her eyes darted from Colette to Pauline. “The kitchen boy told me everything started at two this morning when Pauline rang up the Petit Cor—”
“I did no such thing!”
“Well, he thought it was you. Both boys sleep near the pantry, but nothing wakes the little one.” A tear dribbled down Boyer’s nose. Her story came in garbled bits that Colette reassembled in her orderly mind:
The woman who called herself Pauline had an urgent message about the photo session. Roland must arrive at seven, not nine. He must bring two Cerises Colette and ingredients for a third.
“Ah, the cherries,” Colette said.
“The foyer is littered with them!” Madame Boyer rushed on. “And Roland was supposed to come alone because Madame hates a crowd in the kitchen.”
“That’s absurd.” Colette threw out her hands. “I love a crowd.”
“I’m only repeating what Pauline—”
“Are you deaf? It wasn’t me called the kitchen boy.”
“If people are going to keep butting—”
“Go on. We won’t say another word.”
“Yes, well, the woman who called herself Pauline said she knew it was short notice and extra work, but there’d be a publicity bonus. Madame herself wanted to make the dessert. She intended to whip the meringue, and Cartier-Bresson would photograph this historic event.”
“Whip meringue? With my arms?” The blue lamp swayed over Colette’s head, and she pushed it aside. “That my name should be dragged into this.”
“What about me!” Anger overcame the fear in Pauline’s eyes. “How could those idiots believe such monstrous lies?”
“Because the monstrous is so often true. Look at Europe.” Colette folded a pillow under her neck. “Or me.”
From far off came the whine of police sirens.
“They’ll be here any second. Hurry and finish your story.”
“I’m talking as fast as I can!” With rough fingers, Madame Boyer tweaked her feathers. “So Roland gets out of bed in the middle of the night and labors until dawn. Anything to promote himself.” She tossed her head like an angry rooster. “Just before seven he loads his trolley and walks out to his doom. When I found him I rang his establishment, even before I called the police. Not that his bumpkin bride was at home. Out galavanting like the tart that she is.”
A faint knock interrupted her denunciation of Gisele, and the kitchen boy sidled into the room. “P-pardon,” he stammered. “The p-police want Madame Boyer.”
As he followed the concierge out, Colette noticed bruises like spiders on the back of his neck.
Cartier-Bresson came and went, sorry to lose his session with Colette but thrilled to photograph a crime scene. At ten o’clock, Inspector Ducasse mounted the stairs. A thin man with small eyes, he displayed not a shred of deference in the presenc
e of monuments. There was something disagreeable, even English, about him, Colette thought—maybe the baggy tweeds or the thick-soled, too-serviceable shoes.
While Colette gave her account of Roland, Ducasse frowned at her canes as if he inferred secret stilettos from the curved handles. She used one to hook her workbasket. “Fishing from my raft, Inspector.”
He didn’t crack a smile.
She found a skein of madder rose and held it to the light. “I often sit by my window. Not much activity this morning. The dairyman. Our concierge off to market. At no time did I see Jules Roland. He must have pushed his trolley beneath the arcade.”
She didn’t mention that Gisele had left for her walk later than usual. And that Henri hadn’t gone for his ride. Let the sour inspector find things out for himself.
Without warning, Ducasse whipped a small cloth out of his pocket. Inside the folds lay a carved ivory comb. “Do you recognize this?”
Colette shook her head. “Should I?”
“It was under Roland’s body. Doesn’t your protégée wear trinkets like this?”
“Gisele? You’ll have to ask her what she puts in her hair.”
Next, Ducasse struck at Pauline. “You were friendly with Monsieur Jules Roland before his marriage?”
“Certainly. When he came to see Madame I guarded the silver.”
Don’t be insolent, Colette tried to warn with her eyes.
“You never met privately with him? On your day off? In the evening?”
“Never.”
“Was two in the morning your usual time to call him?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. I have never in my life telephoned Jules Roland.”
“The kitchen boy swears it was you.”
“Slander is a crime in France!”
“So is murder.”
With the ferrule of her cane Colette tapped Ducasse’s knee. “The boy is mistaken. Pauline was with me. We played cards from midnight until dawn. I’m an insomniac and sometimes she humors me.” Colette’s Burgundian accent was suddenly as thick as clotted cream. “My Pauline didn’t budge from this room.”
“Coming from you, I must accept that, Madame. Who besides your immediate household knew about the photography session?”
“The entire Palais Royal, I imagine.”
“I imagine so, too.” Ducasse sighed.
After he left, Pauline touched Colette’s sleeve. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, my dear.”
Over the next days, Colette watched Ducasse and his men invade the Palais Royal, where each building had its concierge and its theories. Shop owners, residents, street urchins—all passed through the inquisitors’ wringer. Pauline hobnobbed everywhere and carried every tale back to Colette.
Other suspects besides Pauline had serviceable alibis:
Raymond Oliver had spent Wednesday in bed with influenza.
Madame Boyer had been haggling over onions in front of all the world.
The kitchen boys, both dotted with Roland’s pinch marks, vouched for each other.
Only Gisele’s hours roaming the Bois couldn’t be verified. On Sunday morning, the police took her away, for questioning, they said. They warned the count not to leave Paris, and that afternoon over coffee Liane fretted out loud to Colette:
“Henri was at his mother’s country estate from Tuesday night through Wednesday afternoon. Wasn’t he, Topaz?” Liane had left her dog in the arcade and kept stumbling over his absence, now and then leaning down to stroke an empty place near her foot. “But the young widow, now, that one has gained a few francs. Her parents have, too. Did you know Roland held a mortgage on their farms? One hundred hectares of pure gold—truffle oaks, a trout stream, the vineyard.”
“Everyone knows he made them an interest-free loan,” Colette said. “He loved to lower his eyes and mention his generosity.”
“Generosity, my foot! I’m sure he kept a sharp eye on their land. Ready to pounce at the least provocation.”
“My dear countess, are you suggesting Roland would have destroyed the parents in order to punish the child?” She watched Liane closely. “For example, are Gisele and Henri having a fling?”
“Heavens, no. Not that I would mind. When Henri and I tied the knot we put flings in the contract.” Liane’s laugh came from deep in her chest, and Colette knew her old colleague was telling the truth, about her indifference, at least.
“Gisele probably moons over my handsome Henri.” Liane widened her eyes, which nevertheless failed to sparkle. “He tells me they often meet after his ride and sit chastely by the lake. He reads to her, one of your books, I believe. That’s the beginning and end of their fling. If Gisele murdered her husband, I can assure you my Henri wasn’t involved. He’s much too lazy for murder.”
“Gisele is certainly capable of murder,” Colette said. “But we Burgundians kill strictly from passion. We never premeditate.”
“Well, there are plenty of other suspects.” Liane inclined her supple body toward the raft. “They say your Pauline was madly in love with Roland.”
True to herself, Colette hid the anger Liane had squeezed from her tired heart. “Oh, Roland chased after her for a few weeks before the war. But Pauline is a woman of taste. She found him even less appetizing than his tripe lyonnaise.”
On cue, Pauline came in from reconnoitering the neighborhood. “Countess,” she said. “What’s wrong with Topaz? He refuses to set one paw inside the lobby.”
“I know. I think he’s afraid.” Liane tapped her nose, and Colette noticed the Gypsy bracelet outlined under her sleeve, rubies puckering the silk. “My poor little puppy must smell Roland’s blood.”
“But the floor has been scrubbed with carbolic.”
“When it comes to scent, dogs have perfect pitch. Think of truffles.”
Truffles, Colette mused after Liane had gone. The oak tree’s dirty and delicious little secret. “Pauline, I have an idea.” She pushed the telephone toward her housekeeper. “Invite the inspector to come here. Now, if he can.”
Ducasse was too busy. “If you have new information,” he said over the telephone, “it is your duty to tell me at once.”
Colette imagined his office—the cast-iron stove, the battered desk, a smell of cheese. Was Gisele somewhere nearby, tired and frightened in her Sunday dress? “Nothing new,” she hedged, “but our minds sort facts differently. Gisele didn’t murder her husband.”
“In affairs of the pen I defer to you, Madame. At the Sûreté, we rely on logic. The peasant loves the prince. The chef blocked her way.”
“You read too many romantic novels, Inspector. A jeroboam of prewar Chambertin says there’s nothing but friendship between Gisele and Henri.”
“I’m a teetotaler, but supposing you’re right, that leaves greed. Different face, same coin. Roland loaned his in-laws a million francs, collectable at will. He was about to ruin them. We found his letter demanding the money or the farms.”
“This letter—he hadn’t mailed it?”
“No. It was on his desk, in plain sight.”
Colette sifted probabilities. “Gisele couldn’t have seen it, or she would have warned her family.”
“No married woman could have missed it. Face it, Madame, your protégée decided to take care of Roland herself. If his threat to her parents doesn’t convince you”—Ducasse paused for drama—“my men found something else. The coin flips back to love.”
“You may as well tell me, Inspector, so I can refute you.”
“Refute this—behind Gisele’s chiffonier was a note asking her to come to the Bois at dawn; in other words, a few hours before Roland was stabbed. Signed ‘your dear friend’ in farcically crude handwriting. The transparent disguise of the exalted Count de Rossat, who was certainly advising Gisele step by step.”
Robespierre must have left progeny, Colette thought, listening to the fury in Ducasse’s voice.
“Anonymous notes? Dashing about at dawn?” She affected a chuckle. “Wha
t a lot of work for a man who had nothing to gain from Roland’s death.”
“I repeat, the answer is love. With Roland dead, Gisele and Henri would be free to marry. The count has no doubt begun to tire of his elderly wife.”
“Nonsense. My husband is sixteen years my junior, and we’re the best of friends. I’m a realist, Inspector. Marriage has nothing to do with love.”
Had she, three times married, really uttered those words? Had seventy-four years so eroded her heart? “Men like Henri need a purse. And Liane’s purse is colossal.”
“Roland’s estate goes to Gisele.”
“The estate of a chef?” Colette clucked her tongue. “Another thing. Why would a murderess leave a trail of bread crumbs—letters, combs, a knife from her own kitchen?”
“I said the girl was in love, I didn’t say she was clever, for all that she carries your novels around in her pocket. Though I must admit, she fooled you, Madame.”
Fooled? Every instinct told her Gisele hadn’t murdered Roland, and yet there was something hidden about the girl, something buried far deeper than truffles. Colette considered how carefully Gisele had selected The Innocent Libertine instead of the Gothic romance, a choice meant to flatter, so she’d assumed at the time. And the secret note Gisele had apparently left for anyone to find. Why, in spite of the note, had Gisele gone for her walk later rather than earlier?
The libertine and the note.
Yes.
A connection slipped into place.
“You’re right, Inspector, Gisele has fooled me. Bring her here, and I’ll give you irrefutable proof of her innocence.”
The day turned chilly, but her fur blanket put an animal warmth into her legs. Ducasse had agreed to bring Henri as well as Gisele. These days wherever Henri went, Liane followed, so in a few minutes there would be four at her table.
She ticked off her arsenal: Tapestry? Handy. Workbasket? Out of reach on a shelf. Lipstick, a touch of kohl. She was ready.
Like a country hearth, the blue lamp invited her visitors to bask inside a circle of light. Pauline offered chocolates, tea, and madeleines, but only Henri, careful of his worsted, was eating. Freshly hennaed and slimmer than ever, Liane sat next to him.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 22