by Tara Moss
The woman shook her head.
‘Have they packed up already?’
‘Packed up?’ She seemed confused as to why Mak would want to know. ‘Yes, this morning. Why?’
Because everything happened this morning. While I was distracted.
Damn. Mak had so hoped to find Adam Hart in Brisbane, and she could no longer be sure he was even in town.
THEAT
OVE
JOU
Was that a reference to Théâtre des Horreurs? Adam was with them. He had to be.
She had to track down the Théâtre des Horreurs tour dates on the net, and find where they were bound for next.
They can’t have got too far…I hope.
CHAPTER 36
On Friday, Paris time, nearly two weeks after disappearing from his mother’s house, Adam Hart found himself in the 1st arrondissement in Place Vendôme, staring up at the central column, a replica of a phallic obelisk Napoleon had erected to celebrate victory at Austerlitz. Small European cars dashed back and forth as the cold winter wind carried light rain across the square. He felt empty.
Jetlag was not the reason.
It was his lover, Bijou’s, birthday. All morning Adam had watched as enormous bouquets arrived at her small apartment in Montmartre. She had received each extravagant bundle of flowers smiling coquettishly, pocketing the cards before Adam could read them. Three small packages had also arrived. He did not yet know the contents of two, but one had contained a delicate necklace with a single emerald stone. He had been mortified when she had placed it around her throat without pause. Who would send her such a lavish gift? Jealousy had welled up in him, bringing him near tears. He had gone walking.
Adam had to do better.
He stared wide-eyed at the grand Ritz Hotel across the square, feeling a pauper, an outsider. Within those walls, rich men would be giving sparkling jewels to their partners, their wives, their lovers. Dotcom billionaires and supermodels would be sipping expensive champagne in the Vendôme Bar, whiling away an idle afternoon. A couple stepped out the front door, under a neat ivory awning, the woman wearing a luxurious fur. The man held an umbrella for her, and a long black car pulled up to receive them.
Adam could stand it no more. He looked away sullenly, turned and walked down the Rue de la Paix with his hands shoved deep into empty pockets. His eyes moved from the wet footpath at his feet to the glimmering shop windows he passed, and back down again. His leather boots were soaked through, and he could feel the ends of his toes beginning to turn numb. The rain became more fierce, cold drops of water running down his temples.
A strange, pulsing panic took hold of him. He felt on the edge of something exhilarating and dangerous.
Adam reached Number 13 and his boots stopped moving forward. He looked up. The shop window winked at him with its hundreds of carats of diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, and he gazed at the display in fresh wonder. Those kinds of jewels—who wore them? The likes of Bijou, that was who. He was struck with a frustrated longing of a kind he had not before experienced. He wanted to buy something for her, really wanted to buy something like the lavish jewels his eyes had locked onto—but he couldn’t. He didn’t have any of the money left from selling the watch. Never before had he been made so soberly aware of his deficiencies. Adam absentmindedly touched the wallet in his back pocket, turned on his heel and entered the store.
‘Bonjour, monsieur.’
It was a relief to be sheltered from the weather. No sooner had he stepped into the lush interior than a woman dressed neatly in a black suit greeted him politely. Recognising his accent, she spoke to him in heavily accented English. ‘Monsieur, you will catch your death.’ She ushered him into an old-fashioned powder room—the entire store was old-fashioned—and he patted his damp hair and clothes down with a towel. When he emerged, the woman had a delicate cup of black coffee waiting for him. She offered him a seat, and took her place behind an ornate gilded desk, smiling pleasantly. Catalogues of jewellery were laid out in front of him. He sipped his coffee. It was strong and invigorating.
‘That is better, non?’
He nodded gratefully.
The woman was beautiful. Though she was not Bijou, Adam had to admit that she really was extremely attractive and elegant. Her dark hair was worn in a chignon and her makeup was flawless, accentuating the fine features of a refined older woman. Understated diamond earrings adorned her ears. He noticed a solitaire on her ring finger. He wished he could afford to purchase something like that for Bijou. He would ask her to marry him, if he could dare to, if he could offer her something more than the nothing that he had.
‘My name is Colette.’ She offered him a cool, velvety hand.
‘I’m Adam.’
‘Adam, welcome to Cartier. How may we assist you?’
He shifted in his chair. The building was very old, and extended across two floors, with staircases reaching to an open mezzanine above them. The carpets were red, the fittings gilded and luxurious. Numerous glass cases on both levels contained priceless objects of beauty, and on the walls were framed portraits of queens, princesses, models and actresses of former days. The ceiling was an elaborate skylight, the panes of glass thrashed violently by the increasingly heavy rain. Overwhelmed, Adam focused on a catalogue. ‘Um, how much is that one,’ he asked, pointing to an image of a small ring. His beautiful host referred to her own catalogue, one elegant finger tracing the page. Finally the price was indicated at the end of her polished fingernail. His heart sank. He could not buy Bijou such a gift. It was impossible.
‘I was thinking of something…simple,’ he said, and swallowed nervously.
She smiled gently. ‘Perhaps a necklace, or a bracelet?’
He nodded, hopeful.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne while I bring you some items to look at?’ she asked him, rising from her chair.
‘Merci,’ he responded awkwardly, his heart speeding up. She motioned to someone, and barely one minute later an immaculately dressed man delivered a fresh, chilled flute of effervescent champagne, then disappeared again. Bubbles rose in the glass, and broke on the surface. Adam took a sip and with pleasure felt the cool liquid travel down to his stomach. He began to feel better, successful even. Though he was a tall young man, and it was only a single glass, Adam had been a teetotaller most of his life, and had only experienced champagne since meeting Bijou. He still did not realise how slowly it ought to be sipped, and the alcohol went to his head immediately.
‘I have brought you a selection of items I am certain you will like,’ the woman said, returning. She looked at his glass. ‘Would you like another?’
He nodded then stopped himself. ‘Non. Merci.’
Adam was, nonetheless, emboldened by the glass he had enjoyed, and had begun to believe he could achieve his desire of purchasing something for Bijou which would impress her. On the velvet tray Colette placed before him, he saw a thin bracelet without embellishment save for a small square charm with a tiny stone in it. He felt sure that this would be within his price range.
‘How much is this one?’ he asked.
‘Oh, a wonderful choice, sir. This is our classic charm bracelet in white gold. Very elegant.’ Again the price list came out, and that elegant finger scanned the page and stopped on a number—1500 euros, considerably less than the ring had been, but still far more money than he could afford. ‘The charm is 900 euros,’ Colette explained. This was a further blow. He had assumed that it was included in the bracelet’s price.
‘Actually, I was thinking of a ring. Something plain,’ Adam said abruptly, now fighting a fresh sense of desperation.
‘Oui, monsieur,’ was her reply. ‘Of course.’ She excused herself.
When she returned, the expensive charm bracelet was gone, and in its place were several women’s rings of minimalist design, none extravagant, and each placed lovingly across the velvet-lined tray. The gold shimmered.
‘Um, this one,’ Adam said, and pointed eagerly to a del
icate ring with a distinctive circular design carved into the gold. It was one of the few items without any precious stones. ‘Can it be engraved?’ he asked. If he could not afford even a tiny diamond, perhaps having something engraved would make it more special?
‘I would see to it personally, with no charge,’ she assured him.
‘How long would it take?’ he asked nervously.
‘I could have it ready for you tomorrow.’
Damn. He would miss Bijou’s birthday. Perhaps he could give it to her before their debut together on stage?
The beautiful saleswoman presented the catalogue to him, and again her elegant finger traced the page until it found the price of the ring.
Adam frowned. It was nearly as much as the bracelet. Blood began pumping in his temples. He felt on the edge of tears. What could he do? He could not return to Bijou empty-handed.
On Sunday he would be performing. Bijou was giving him her love, her confidence, the chance of a lifetime. He had to give her something in return. Something worthy of her. It pained him that he might not even be able to purchase the simplest item in the boutique.
‘Do you believe in the significance of history?’ the woman asked, quite out of the blue, as he stared forlornly at the catalogue and the small, gleaming ring. He nodded. ‘I would like to show you around this building, our headquarters since 1899. There are many interesting rooms and displays…’
Adam found himself trailing behind her as she ascended one of the grand staircases to the mezzanine. He saw portraits of dark-eyed Indian princes with long feminine eyelashes who were weighed down by hundreds of carats of diamonds, and a woman, a Spanish actress, smoking an extravagant cigar and posing in a large-brimmed hat, her ears, her tanned neck and the length of her arms swathed in bejewelled golden crocodiles and snakes. In a case next to him, the very same crocodile necklace reposed, its emerald eyes gleaming. Adam had never seen such things, and he asked many questions.
Bijou ought to be immortalised in such a place, he thought.
He was barely aware that everywhere they went, his new friend carried the small velvet tray, displaying the shiny ring.
CHAPTER 37
On Saturday, Glenise Hart waited in line at the supermarket near her home, pushing an overflowing trolley.
She felt a stab of loneliness, contemplating the groceries. She could not escape the fact that she was about to buy a lot of things she did not need. The household was not running out of supplies as quickly as usual. Adam’s favourite snacks still lined the cupboards, and her shopping trolley was brimming with stocks of food necessary to satisfy her son’s young appetite, stocks she didn’t really need. But Glenise was still shopping as if everything were normal. Though it had been almost two weeks since Adam had disappeared, she had not told anyone except the police, the investigation agency and the Murphy family, who’d recommended them. No one at work needed to know and, anyway, she would not have been able to handle their questions and concern. Glenise was barely containing her fear that she had not only lost her husband to a freak accident but had also pushed her only child away.
You will be alone.
‘G’day,’ the check-out boy mumbled.
‘Hello,’ Glenise responded, with a cheer she did not feel.
‘That will be two hundred and thirty six dollars and fifty cents. Cash or credit?’
She dutifully handed over her credit card.
‘Credit or savings?’
‘Credit, thank you.’
Normal. Everything was so very normal. She would return home with the groceries to the same home that until recently had been inhabited by both her husband and their son, and try to feel normal about it.
The check-out boy swiped her MasterCard, and tapped his fingers a few times while he waited for it to go through. The fingers stopped and he frowned. ‘It says your card is declined.’
Glenise blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘Your card has been declined. Do you have another one?’
Glenise frowned. How could the card be overextended? By her calculation it should have at least another $3000 on it, more than enough for this grocery expedition. Despite the fact that her late husband had previously balanced the bills, she was very good at doing the family accounts herself, and there were never purchases made that she didn’t know about or could not account for. There had to be some mistake.
‘Can you try it again?’ she asked, confused.
‘Sure,’ the young man said unenthusiastically.
He swiped the card. He waited.
‘Sorry,’ he said simply and handed it back.
She reddened. For a moment Glenise did not know what to do. Her thin veneer of normality had been torn open.
Adam.
Of course. She peeled her wallet open again and pulled her American Express card out of its slot. ‘My mistake,’ she said, smiling stiffly. ‘This one should work.’
Seventeen minutes later, Glenise was on her home phone, barely breathing as she waited. She had been on hold for what seemed an eternity.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, ma’am.’ The voice on the other end of the line sounded slightly concerned. ‘There was a fairly large purchase made outside Australia on the card in the past twenty-four hours. In euros.’
There was a long pause, interrupted only by a crackle of static. ‘Ma’am, are you there?’
‘Yes. Can you give me details please?’
‘The payment was made to Cartier in Paris. I’m afraid the exchange rate isn’t very good at the moment. The total came to $3482.75 Australian.’
Adam!
‘Ma’am, do you want to report the card stolen?’ the woman asked.
Glenise paused. ‘No. No thanks. It’s fine. I remember now. Cartier in Paris. Oh, yes. Silly me. Everything’s fine. Thank you for your help.’
Glenise hung up, and quickly pulled herself together. This was good news. She knew where Adam’s card was, and that meant she knew where he was likely to be.
Shakily, she picked up the phone and dialled Marian Wendell and Associates Professional Private Investigations.
CHAPTER 38
Makedde drove to St Ives more or less straight from the airport knowing only that the news about Adam was urgent, and that his mother believed there was a chance he had been located. She hoped for Glenise’s sake that was true, and that he was safe and well. A day and a half in Brisbane had done nothing to bring him home.
She rang the doorbell, and the door opened immediately. Her client must have heard the car pull up.
‘He’s in Paris. My boy is in Paris. Get him for me,’ Glenise said, gripping her arm tightly. She appeared even more high strung then before.
Paris.
‘Are you certain?’ Mak asked, her heart speeding up.
Le Théâtre des Horreurs. It had to be the troupe he was following. She’d checked on the net and the troupe that had been in Sydney and then Brisbane had completed its Australian tour and could well have returned to its base in Paris. Was Adam there, too?
He is serious about this.
‘Come in, sit down.’ Glenise hustled her into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, eager. ‘He used my credit card in Paris.’
‘Is he in trouble? What was the charge for?’
‘Something from Cartier.’
‘Cartier? The jeweller?’ My God. He wants to marry someone. ‘Glenise, do you know what he purchased?’
‘No. The lady from the credit card company just said it was from Cartier. It cost more than $3000! I was afraid to ask more questions in case I aroused suspicion and the card got cut off. I don’t want Adam to get cut off! I need him to come home. I need you to go and get him for me,’ Glenise pleaded, her voice rising. The corners of her mouth turned down. Her eyes glittered. Mak worried that her client might be on the edge of tears, this one time she’d forgotten to bring tissues. ‘Bring him back, please.’
Paris.
Paris was one of Mak’s favourite cities. She had modelled there in
her teens and early twenties and had not been back in almost a decade. Naturally she would jump at the opportunity to return.
Mrs Hart went on. ‘I don’t think he’d come back with me. I need you to do it.’ Mak watched as the woman wrestled with some internal conflict. ‘I wasn’t totally open about everything. The truth is, things have been very difficult at home since John was killed. Adam has been, well, playing up a lot, and we’ve had some terrible fights. I’m afraid I must have pushed him away.’
Mak nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry to hear that things have been difficult. It’s hard to lose a spouse, and hard to lose a parent.’
Glenise’s voice wobbled. ‘Please, find my son and bring him home.’
Mak promised to do all in her power to find Adam and persuade him to return. She would be on the next available flight, and the first place she would be looking was wherever Le Théâtre des Horreurs was performing. That brochure was not a coincidence. Not if Adam had been in Brisbane and was now in Paris at the same time as the troupe. He had written about them and ripped out the pages. Or someone else had. Wherever they were, wherever the brunette with the ‘great legs’ was, Mak believed she would find Adam.
But what if he doesn’t want to come back?
CHAPTER 39
On Sunday afternoon in Paris, Arslan the contortionist sat folded into his old stage box, spying on the world inside Bijou’s luxurious bedroom.
This was an oft-adopted position for Arslan, and the pose—though requiring great discipline—comforted him. Over the years he had trained himself to maintain this secretive confinement for hours at a time, his entire frame fitting neatly inside the small, knee-high box. It had several spy-holes through which he could observe the room around him. The box had been replaced—for stage purposes—with a more ornate and beautiful one, of brighter wood, which stood out under the spotlight. Arslan was still attached to his dark old box, however, for reasons Bijou was not aware of. Often, after being temporarily replaced by another lover, he would return to Bijou’s sleeping quarters to be near her in this way. Such was the case now. The young lover who had most recently replaced Arslan was in Bijou’s bedroom with her. Adam. In less than an hour they were all required to be in the little theatre to prepare for their first performance back in Paris. Instead of getting ready for the evening’s show, Bijou was half-listening to her new young lover while she tinkered at her impressive, Hollywood-style dressing table.