Maggie dropped her purse on the floor and placed her hands on his table.
“Roger, I...” She didn’t know what to say. He looked at her with confidence, even pleasure. She felt baffled.
“Please, dear girl, sit, sit. Have some wine.” He reseated himself and waited until she sat down across from him. “Such a nice surprise, I must say! Garçon!” He waved over one of the speeding waiters and asked for another wine glass and a menu. Then he turned back to Maggie. “So, old girl, what brings you to Paris?”
Maggie took a deep breath.
“The child isn’t Nicole.”
Roger sighed and removed his earplugs. He paused for just a moment and then looked at her again, sadly.
“Ah, no. I’m afraid not.”
The waiter brought the glass and menu but Roger waved it away. “The Mademoiselle will have an omelet also.” He turned to Maggie. “They’re jolly good here. Like nothing you’ve ever tasted.” The waiter departed and Roger proceeded to pour the wine. Just like old times, Maggie thought.
“Where is Nicole?” she asked bravely.
“That’s hard to say, Maggie.” Roger flapped his napkin out onto his lap.
“Is she alive?”
“I don’t believe she is, no.”
“I see.” Maggie felt her hands begin to tremble and she pushed them into her lap under the table.
“You must see it from my position, Maggie, dear...”
“You flim-flammed me,” she cried and then looked around her at the other diners. She really didn’t feel like making a scene in one of the world’s most famous restaurants. “You conned me,” she said more softly. “It was all a set-up. Did you kill the child?”
“You must be joking! Are you serious? Maggie, really! I cannot imagine you would even—“
“Roger, I haven’t got the energy for this bullshit of yours. I really don’t. Maybe the gendarmes have more patience for it, but I’m not used to it.”
“Jolly well put, yes, well. All right, from the top.” He ran a thin hand through his dark blond hair and then massaged his jutting chin with the same hand. He looked at her as if he were about to drastically cut the selling price on a set of china they were haggling over. “We took advantage, shall we say, of an existing situation,” he said. “I knew the child had died—“
“You knew the murderer?”
“I’m not sure there really was a murderer, my dear. I believe the child died...naturally.”
“I didn’t know someone could die ‘naturally’ at five years of age.” Maggie felt warm. Her cheeks were flushed. “I thought ‘natural causes’ involved old age, Roger.”
“I’m just telling you what I know, pet. The girl was dead, maybe an accident, I don’t know. What I did know was that her mother’s family had money and they had never laid eyes on the girl.”
“How did you know Elise hadn’t sent us a photograph of the child?”
“Honestly, Maggie, you must think I just took up the business or something. I’m not a total get, you know. It was known to me that Elise was disinherited or at least—“
“That’s not true!”
“In any event, the child was not bandied about in snapshots to doting grandparents. Am I wrong?”
Maggie didn’t answer him.
“It was quite the ready-made scam, if I may say so. Something an artist dreams of. Rich family, dead main players...nothing but for a chap like me to step in and make it all happy and right.”
“Is that what you think you did?”
“You were happy. Your parents, I take it, were happy?”
“And the little girl? Is she happy?”
“My dear woman! The child was virtually rescued from a swarm of male relatives who’d had the rather perverse pleasure of her sex from the time she was two years old! Am I to believe that my taking her from a ghetto of incest and poverty and dropping her into the lap of one of the wealthiest families in Atlanta, Georgia was doing a disservice to the little mite?”
“My God.” The tight feeling returned to the pit of her stomach. “She’s been molested?”
“That’s delicate, my dear. She’d been overhauled by every man within spitting distance to her. Do you think I didn’t enjoy the idea that her life—in one miraculous stroke—was going to change for the better? You think that didn’t appeal to me?”
“She needs psychiatric help, Roger. She’s in bad shape.”
“No, my darling, she’s in very good shape now. She’s in your hands, isn’t she? I assume she’ll not be dumped into some social worker’s jurisdiction now that you know you’re not blood-related?”
“Don’t be obscene. You think you played God, you think you actually did a good turn?”
“I do. I must say, I do. Your parents needed someone to help assuage their guilt over their daughter—“
“What do you know about what my parents need?”
“You’d be surprised the things I have to know in my business. And little ‘Nicole’ needed people to love and care for her. And not just anybody. As you pointed out, she needs special care now.”
Maggie shook her head.
“And Laurent? Where does he fit in to all this?”
Roger shrugged and took a sip of his wine.
“He was my partner, that’s all. A good chap, Laurent. He knew Elise and Gerard—“
“Don’t lie to me, Roger! I know Laurent is Gerard’s brother.”
“You’re not going to let me finish a full sentence, are you?” He smiled at her briefly. Maggie glared at him. “All right, all right, so of course he knew him. Anyway, that’s the connection. Laurent knew about the little girl and Elise’s family having money—“
“Laurent knew so much,” Maggie said bitterly.
“Hmmm? Well, he’s quite a capable chap, if you know what I mean. Likable, I must say. Yes, quite likable.”
“For a criminal.”
She watched the sea of faces at the surrounding tables, faces laughing, smoking, pouting, shoving huge amounts of rich food into moving, chewing mouths.
“Great fun to work with too,” Roger continued. “Good sense of humor. Haven’t you found that? Aren’t you two—as the French so politely put it—à folie à deux? Involved? I thought you were. Laurent gave me the impression that you were.”
“He did?”
“He most certainly did. It’s not true?”
“I don’t know what’s true. Nicole’s dead, Elise is dead. And Laurent is a very mysterious equation to me all of a sudden. He lied to me.”
“Dear girl. That’s the nature of his business. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you, or love you, come to that.”
“How very strange you people are.”
“’You people.’ By that, I take it you mean ‘non-Americans?’”
“He could lie to me, cheat me, intend to continue lying and cheating me—and still love me?”
“Sounds jolly rude when you put it like that. But I dare say he’s not interested in cheating you again. As for the lying, well, once you start, it’s bloody difficult to pack it up if you see what I mean. He can’t very well come clean on Nicole, now can he? I’m sure he doesn’t relish living a lie the rest of his life in regards to her—“
“But he could do it.”
“Maggie, life isn’t perfect, or haven’t you come to that yet?”
“I could have you arrested.”
“Well, that’s very nice, I must say.”
“You cheated my family out of fifteen thousand dollars.”
“I’m not going to give it back, if that’s where this is leading.”
“I don’t know what to make of you, Roger. I sort of like you but you’re a definite felon.”
“You Americans and your backward charm. Look, Maggie, I’ve been honest with you, haven’t I? Why not go back to Atlanta, go back to Laurent and pick up the reins again? Let Nicole go on being Nicole and enjoy the fact that you and your family are doing your best for one of the world’s downtrodden.” He shrugged
again. “I really don’t see what else is to be done.”
Maggie opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. She turned away and looked once more at the frenetic crowd. This is where Elise sat, she thought. This is where Elise felt at home and happy. This is where Elise met Gerard.
Maggie took a sip of her wine, aware that Roger was watching her closely. Still holding her glass, she looked at him with resignation.
“A good year, I suppose?” she asked wearily.
“Of course, my dear,” he said, reaching for his own wine glass. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from ol’ Roger, would you?”
She noticed that his eyes seemed to twinkle with real pleasure.
Her meal, which Roger paid for, was a plain egg omelet with a healthy serving of the ever-present pommes frites. The omelet—fluffy, light, with barely a hint of the cheese, green pepper or ham that had gone into it—was, without doubt, the most exquisite thing Maggie had ever tasted. Later, when she happened to see the bill the waiter planted in front of Roger, she began to understand where her father’s money went during Elise’s first year in Paris. Her omelet, heavenly though it was, cost Roger nearly $US65.
She walked slowly down the Boulevard de la Madeleine and watched the evening people scurry about their evening activities. Sunday night might not be one of the more bustling times in Paris, but it was not sleepy either. Plenty of people were running to the opera, to the nightclubs, to late-night restaurants, to sit in the always-teeming cafés to smoke and drink and watch the pedestrians.
Remorse had not been Roger’s tendency, Maggie thought as she walked. He made no apologies for his behavior or his profession. And he seemed to genuinely like her. She wondered if that was truly compatible with the kind of person he was. She wondered the same of Laurent. Incredibly, Roger seemed to think that lies were little, annoying things—necessary to do from time to time and imminently forgivable if you got done to. Of course, she thought, the man lies for a living. He admitted to her, in a conspiratorial moment that should have flattered her, that he was in town posing as a near relative to the Princess Michael and serving as an aristocratic Parisian guide for a group of wealthy East European tourists.
And so this had been Laurent’s work too, she thought. She had been afraid to ask Roger—in case he decided to tell her the truth—exactly how far he and Laurent would be willing to go in their chosen profession. Where did murder fit in? Blackmail? Kidnapping?
She waved down a taxi and gave him the address of her hotel. Tonight was not a night for negotiating grimy Metro stations with their late night clientele graduating from mild panhandling to a more forceful rendition of acquiring a stranger’s money. The night lights of Paris never ceased to thrill, she thought, as she watched the golden, carnival glow of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, illuminated like some wonderful Ferris wheel. She eased back into her seat and wished she could feel the thrill without experiencing it through the veil of gloom and listlessness she felt wrapped around her.
In spite of the wine at dinner, she was sober and dispirited as she paid the taxi driver and ascended the entry steps to Hotel de L’Etoile Verte. The snotty young woman wasn’t on duty tonight. At least Maggie could be grateful for that, she thought as she asked for her room key. The middle-aged man who had taken the girl’s spot for the evening seemed weary and world-soured, yet not so aggressively peevish as the mademoiselle before him.
“You have messages,” he said with no curiosity. He pulled out two small pieces of paper with her room key and handed them to her.
She felt a sharp pang. Laurent had called. She thanked the night concierge and trudged to the hall elevator, shoving Laurent’s message into her purse. The second communication was from Michele, suggesting lunch tomorrow at a café called L’homme. Maggie could get directions from the front desk.
Not much of an investigative trip, really, Maggie thought as she punched the up arrow button for the elevator. She had decided, in the taxi ride back to the hotel, that she would leave Paris the day after tomorrow. First, she would say good-bye and thank you to Michele, maybe take a quick walk down the Champs Elysee for sentimentality’s sake and then put some closure to this Elise-in-Paris thing. She knew her parents must be wondering why she hadn’t called them yet. In a rare, self-indulgent moment, her load began to feel very heavy and she could feel the message in her pocket from Laurent start to leave scalding marks on her jacket lining. The last thing she felt like doing right now was talk to Laurent.
She raised her hand to give the elevator button another impatient jab, a mild curse forming in her mind, when the doors finally jerked open. She stepped aside to let the sole occupant out and then dropped her purse when she realized that that occupant, now staring menacingly at her from the elevator interior, was Gerard Dubois.
Chapter Twenty
1
He stood, wavering, in the elevator, then stepped clumsily over her purse and positioned himself in front of her. Maggie could smell the alcohol wafting from his rumpled clothes like steam. He looked at her through rheumy eyes as though he didn’t know who she was.
He knew.
“So, you’re back,” he slurred, blasting her with a vaporized mixture of cheap wine and garlic.
She made a face and took a step away from him.
“Whatza matter?” He leaned toward her in a threatening sway, as if he might topple over onto her at any moment. “You are in Paris to see Gerard, eh?” He licked his lips and grinned obscenely. “Gerard is here.”
Maggie was visited by a vision of awful similarity: Laurent standing in her mother’s garden at Brymsley, his hands open in a disarming gesture, his eyes full of love and relief to see her. Laurent is here.
She pulled her eyes away from the tottering, malodorant wretch blocking the lift doorway and stooped to pick up her purse.
She was aware that her new knowledge of Laurent had temporarily blotted out her desire to talk to Gerard. She had actually been planning to leave France without speaking to him at all. In light of Laurent’s betrayal, whatever Gerard might have to tell her had seemed somehow inconsequential. In any event, deep in her heart she knew that Gerard was still the key. He’d always been the pivot around which all the pain and confusion had spun. Deep down, she knew the true reason she’d balked at seeking him out was because she was simply afraid to learn any more—about Elise...and about Laurent.
“I won’t talk with you here,” she said grimly. “Outside.” She jerked her head to indicate that he was to follow her into the lobby. There, under the nose of the night concierge, they would talk.
“You are afraid, little peony?” Gerard leered at her and wiped his oily fingers on his pant legs, but he followed her. “You are afraid of Gerard, non?” He snuffled a sort of grunting laugh that put shivers down Maggie’s spine. That her sister could have loved this!
She sat on a long, uncomfortable, settee in the small lobby. It was well lighted and, although late, she felt safe from him there. He heaved himself next to her on the sofa.
“Madame Zouk told me where to find you,” he said, his foul breath blasting into her face.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t? How are you thinking I am finding you, eh? The bitch told me where you were!” He smiled widely at her, displaying yellow and gray teeth.
She looked at him coldly and willed herself to appear more in control than she felt. “Did you kill my sister?”
He shoved his face closer to hers but she did not retreat. His pupils were the size of pinpricks.
“You are a pig,” he said menacingly. “Your family is a family of pigs.”
“Did you kill—“
“I did not kill her. I told the police I did not kill her.”
“Did you kill Nicole?” Maggie swallowed hard. Might as well get all the tough ones out of the way up front.
“You can ask me such a thing? Your own family has stolen my—“
“Cut the crap, Gerard.” Her hands tingled with her loathing. “I kno
w the real Nicole is dead. Did you kill her?”
He softened, his eyes still locked with hers. Then, his shoulders slumped forward and Maggie had an awful moment when she thought he was going to weep.
“I did not kill her,” he repeated, his eyes, half-lidded as if sleepy. Maggie took a deep breath and willed herself not to blink.
Gerard pulled out a crushed pack of Gitanes and stuffed a bent cigarette into his mouth. She waited while he lit the tip with a match. He dropped the used match at his feet and looked at her smugly.
“I was drunk.” He shrugged and smiled. “Very drunk? Peut-etre. She fell off the boat sometime in the night, perhaps.”
Maggie wanted to put her fist through his stinking, decrepit face, wanted to claw his features from their very bones until his smirk lived only under her fingernails. She waited, her heart pounding in her chest.
“After we left her mother.” He blew a smoke ring at Maggie. “Elise was a very bad maman, eh? Nicole and I lived on a little boat. Un petit bateau?” He smiled at her again and took a puff from his cigarette. “One night, she is falling over the side.” He made a graceful, slow gesture with his hands to indicate the soft fall of Nicole over the side of the little boat. “Pshhht!” he assimilated the sound of a small weight spilling into the stagnate water. “In the morning we are finding her little body.” He smoked harshly on the filter. “It was very sad,” he said, smiling ruefully at her.
“Did...did Elise know?” Maggie began to feel cold and distanced from the lobby at the L’Etoile Verte, as if what she were hearing were from a television show, something unreal and unrelated to her. Her mind fought to stop the image of the little four-year old girl sinking to her death in the night-dark Mediterranean Sea with no one to know or care.
He made an abrupt gesture as if waving away a fly.
“Pfut! I did not tell her.” He looked directly at Maggie. “She did not ask.”
Didn’t ask about the wellbeing of her own daughter?
“You came to see Elise in my apartment the afternoon she was killed.”
Little Death by the Sea Page 27