The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  I surveyed the nearby scene. A uniformed gendarme gazed at the self-service photos. An Arabic-looking boy went by with an armload of yellow roses in cellophane cones. A rat-faced man in a loden coat consulted a Metro map. A woman in red leather pants browsed at the window of the bookstore. I moved up to first in line.

  The jowly occupant of the middle booth slammed the phone into the receiver and stalked away. All my limbs jerked, I rushed forward and shut myself in. By the time I got the door closed, the phone rang. I grabbed it and panted, “Hello?”

  “Georgia Lee Maxwell?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “On the Rue St. Andre des Arts you will find the Bar St. Andre. Go downstairs to the telephone and wait.”

  “Wait a min—” Of course he’d hung up.

  I slammed down the receiver with at least as much force as the jowly man had used. I had nerved myself up to do this once, but not to going through the same thing again. Would I have to run all over Paris before we talked? And where the hell was the Rue St. Andre des Arts?

  I was never without my pocket street atlas. I checked it and discovered that the Rue St. Andre des Arts was in the Latin Quarter, one of the streets running into the Place St. Michel. It was only a few stops on the Metro, which I could go downstairs and catch here in the station.

  I had to walk for what seemed miles underground— over moving sidewalks, past flower-sellers, candy-sellers, jewelry-sellers, an accordion player, a guy who would laminate personal papers— before I reached the right platform. Once there, I studied my companions, trying to figure out if the police were still with me. Could these giggling teenage girls in down jackets be members of the Paris S.W.A.T. team? Or was my protector the hunched old man in the beret who was heavily loaded with shopping bags? Or had Inspector Perret’s colleague lost me after all?

  I got out at St. Michel and found the Rue St. Andre des Arts without difficulty. It was narrow, funky, and clogged with students. The Bar St. Andre, a block or so from the Place St. Michel, was similarly populated. None of the clientele was over the age of twenty, and they were all drinking beer, playing pinball, and shouting above the combined noise of jukebox and television set. I made my way to the staircase leading down to the bathrooms and telephone.

  The phone booth was in an alcove outside the men’s room and smelled of toilets that should have been scrubbed a couple of weeks ago. The dimly lit area was deserted, although reverberating with noise from above. I had visions of a masked figure with a gun stepping out of the men’s or ladies’ room and blasting away. As this thought, or fear, formed itself, I heard footsteps on the staircase and a woman with a shoulder-length black pageboy, wearing a coat of fluffy white fur, swept past me into the ladies’ room. She was searching for something in her purse. I caught just a glimpse, underneath her coat, of red pants that might have been leather. As the door swung behind her, the phone rang.

  I picked it up and said, “Talk now. I’m not going to another booth.”

  The muffled voice said, “The proof is satisfactory?”

  “The proof is fine, but I’m worried about what happened to Lucien Claude.”

  “What happened to Lucien Claude has nothing to do with you, or with our negotiations. Do you want the mirror?”

  “Yes. We’ve offered one hundred fifty thousand francs.”

  “Get the money. We will make the transfer tomorrow.”

  “Look. How do I know—”

  “Get the money. You must handle this yourself. We are watching, and we know you.”

  “Listen—”

  “We will know if you tell the police. If you do, you will be in trouble.”

  I was paralyzed. The line remained open a couple of seconds before he hung up, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then he broke the connection. We will know if you tell the police.

  The woman in the white fur came out of the ladies’ room and ascended the stairs. I didn’t know if she was the woman in the red leather pants at the bookstore in the Gare Montparnasse. A policewoman, maybe. We will know if you tell the police. I had to get out of here. The smell was getting to me. I climbed the staircase and shouldered my way through a bunch of kids with no worries other than their next exams and went out into the cold Paris night.

  Inspector Perret

  “I have said already, there is no way they can know.” Inspector Perret sounded weary. He had said it, several times, but I could still hear the hateful voice: We are watching. We know you. We will know if you tell the police.

  We were in my apartment. He had come back with the French version of a pizza: a small round crust, a smear of tomato sauce, a couple of artichoke hearts, and a thin slice of ham. It was infuriatingly inadequate.

  “He told me to get the money,” I said.

  “We will get the money.”

  “Real money?”

  “Why not? They won’t have it for long.”

  He was a blond, barrel-chested, picture of imperturbability. There were no furrows in his broad brow, no tremors in his oversized hands. Why should there be? I, after all, was the one who’d be executing the fancy maneuvers. And I was both furrowed and trembling.

  “I hated the sound of his voice. Hated it,” I said. I was working myself up into a snit. Lonnie, my former husband, could have told Inspector Perret that this was a good time to escape— grab a shotgun and go out to kill squirrels, or turkeys, or whatever was in season.

  “Nevertheless—”

  “He sounded completely cold-blooded. What’s to stop him from shooting me?”

  Inspector Perret didn’t answer. He was rubbing Twinkie behind her ears. She was purring loudly. I said, “Considering my cat loves you better than me, I hope you’ll keep her if I get killed during this lunatic scheme.”

  “I couldn’t possibly. I have a dog,” Perret said.

  This was too much. Because my apartment is a studio there was no bedroom to stalk into and slam the door, so I stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door. I sat down on the toilet seat, put my head on my knees, and wept.

  Eventually Perret did the gentlemanly thing and knocked discreetly, inquiring if I was all right.

  “I certainly am not!” I said. “I’m scared to death of being killed!”

  “But Madame—”

  “Why does everybody call me Madame? I’m sick of it! Can’t you call me Georgia Lee?”

  I thought I heard him clear his throat. He said, “Georgia Lee,” stumbling over it badly. Then he said it again, getting the hang of it.

  “Georgia Lee? Will you come out now?”

  I was mollified. The man knew how to wheedle, an admirable trait. I splashed my face with water and came out, just in time to catch the ringing phone. I had the dreadful feeling it was going to be Ray, but it was Bruno Blanc.

  “Something is moving. The mirror is moving. I can feel it,” he said, sounding agitated.

  I wondered if Jane had prompted this call somehow. “I don’t—”

  “What do you know about the mirror? You must tell me.”

  “Nothing… nothing.”

  My disclaimer didn’t stop him. He said, “I see the mirror, and I see you. The mirror is rolling toward you like a shining black wheel, and the closer it gets the larger it grows.”

  Bruno’s visions were so reassuring. “I don’t know anything about it. Ask the police.”

  “They will tell me nothing.”

  “I can’t help you.” Firmness worked best with Bruno, and in this case it got him off the phone.

  I told Perret, “Bruno Blanc says he can feel the mirror moving. He says it’s rolling toward me like a wheel.” I didn’t know if Bruno was clairvoyant, but I had no doubt he knew about psychological manipulation. I recounted the rest of the conversation to Perret, who made no significant comment. I finished by saying, “Bruno and Jane. What a pair. What did you think of her story?”

  “I think she admired Lucien Claude very much, and he used her.”

  “What was Lucien up to in the Luxembourg?
”

  “It seems clear that he wanted to see who picked up the envelope. This must have been a prearranged way to communicate secretly.”

  “And he got Jane to leave the envelope so he couldn’t be identified himself.”

  “I suppose so. She must have horrified him when she sat next to him and talked to him afterward. That would have ruined his chances of remaining incognito if someone was watching.”

  So Jane, unwittingly, might have fingered Lucien for his killer. How ironic.

  Perret said, “I must go. There’s a great deal to do. If you like, I can ask a woman officer to stay with you for the night.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t feel like being hospitable to a woman police officer. I felt like getting in bed and staring hollow-eyed into the darkness for the next eight hours.

  At the door, Perret turned. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Jane said to you that I looked like ‘a pistol.’ I don’t know that expression. Can you explain?”

  His wide, tough-guy face expressed polite curiosity. I sorted through a couple of possible responses before saying, “I took it to mean that she thinks you look like an extremely good lover.”

  Perret seemed flabbergasted, but not displeased. He said, “I see,” and left, and Twinkie and I were alone.

  Waiting

  I got up at dawn and made coffee, then opened my curtains and looked up and down the Rue Delacôte. Across the street water was sluicing through the gutter, and a man was sweeping the trash out with what looked like a picturesque bundle of twigs. I knew from watching other street cleaners that it was a bundle of twigs, but the twigs were plastic. I had spent some time trying to decide whether this represented progress or not.

  Nobody was stirring except the street cleaner, but someone must have been watching my window because soon the phone rang and Inspector Perret announced his imminent arrival.

  He came in burdened with a white paper sack and an Air France flight bag. He placed the bag carefully on the bookcase.

  “What’s that? Your lunch?” I cracked nervously.

  His expression said humor should be restricted to appropriate occasions. “The money.”

  I gulped and offered him coffee. The white sack proved to contain half a dozen croissants, and he was generous enough to share them with me. We had a breakfast that was as congenial as a meal can be when one party is suffering from a near-terminal attack of nerves and the other is lost in the joy of chewing.

  “When do you think he’ll call?” I asked.

  He shrugged. He had the French talent for shrugging.

  “Do you think I’ll have to run around town to different phone booths, like last night?”

  His shoulders went upward again. He helped himself to the raw honey, cream-colored and thick as peanut butter, that I’d put out to go with the croissants.

  “Do you think—”

  The phone rang. So early? I got up to answer.

  It was a woman who said she was Madeleine Bellefroide’s nurse. She was calling on behalf of Madeleine, who wished to speak with me. I said to put her on, and in a minute I heard Madeleine’s voice, which sounded distant and slow, almost drugged.

  “Madame Maxwell? Is that you?”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “I’m not well. Not at all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I had a dreadful night. I woke this morning with the idea that I must see you.”

  “Um. Would tomorrow—”

  “Today. Now.”

  “Well… Could you hold on for a minute?”

  I put my hand over the receiver and told Inspector Perret what was going on. He nodded. “Go. But don’t be long.”

  “What if it’s a trap? Will somebody be following me?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  I told her I’d be right over and hung up.

  She had sounded terrible, and the sight of her didn’t reassure me. Looking shrunken in her armchair, she leaned slightly to one side as if trying to avoid some persistent pain. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, yards of dove-colored velvet with satin cuffs and lapels. Her lips were pale, and when I took her hand in greeting her fingers were cold and limp. “So here you are. Is there news?” she said, and in spite of her condition I saw her hunger, still ferocious, for the mirror.

  I couldn’t possibly reassure her. “No. Nothing,” I said.

  She closed her eyes. “I dreamed you had gotten it and were bringing it to me.”

  Wretchedly, I shook my head. “I don’t have it. I wish I did.”

  I could see her gathering her strength, preparing her assault. She looked at me, pleading. “Madame Maxwell, I’m desperate. Desperate.”

  “I wish—”

  “I reinstate my offer. I implore you to get the mirror for me.”

  What a hellish situation. I was going to try to do what she wanted, but I couldn’t tell her. My face was burning. “I just can’t.”

  She sat forward, suddenly energized. “But something is happening. Yes, I know it is. I can see it in your face.”

  “No. Not—”

  “Yes. Soon you will have the mirror. I know it.”

  “No! The police—”

  She fell back and shaded her eyes with one hand. “The police. They will regain it and give it back to Bernard Mallet, to be locked away from me forever.” Her voice was desolate.

  I couldn’t stand this. “Please listen,” I said. “I can only say that if the mirror is regained, and if I have any influence, I will make sure you see it before it goes back to the museum.” Inspector Perret could grant me that favor at least.

  Her tongue slid over her lips. She said, “Do I have your word?”

  “I can only promise to try.”

  She took my hand and her grip, so lifeless before, was strong enough to hurt. “You will get it.”

  I lowered my eyes, unable to meet her gaze. When she released me, her cheeks were pink. “You will call me soon. Very soon.”

  “As soon as I can.” I had to get out. I said good-bye.

  On the Avenue de Suffren, in front of a flower shop, a woman in dark stockings and a tight black skirt was paying for an armful of peach-colored roses. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun. I wasn’t sure what made me think she was the woman I’d seen last night, her hair in a page boy, wearing red leather and white fur, going into the ladies’ room at the Bar St. Andre— my policewoman companion. She didn’t glance at me, but I noticed that the animated conversation she was having with the shopwoman terminated just as I passed.

  Back at my place, I found Perret wadding up pieces of paper and tossing them for Twinkie to bat around. She had never shown any interest in such activity before, but she’d apparently regressed to madcap kittenhood under the influence of her love for him. As she scrambled around, sliding into corners and galloping from one end of the room to the other, he said, “Nothing is happening. The phone hasn’t rung.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Wait.”

  I had a deck of cards somewhere. We could play honeymoon bridge, or maybe poker. The idea didn’t appeal, though. The atmosphere was too fraught. When Twinkie tired of frisking about, Perret settled down to read a secondhand copy of an Inspector Maigret novel that I’d bought hoping to improve my French, and I tried to work on “Paris Patter.”

  Sitting with ransom money at your elbow, waiting for the crucial phone call, can make most concerns fade into insignificance. Under these circumstances “Paris Patter” seemed laughably trivial. Who in God’s name cared that you could get adorable umbrellas at Madeleine Gély, or exquisite notebooks at Papier Plus?

  By lunchtime, Perret was halfway through Maigret et la Vieille Dame. I had accomplished exactly nothing. Twinkie was deep in comatose slumber.

  One of Perret’s colleagues delivered sandwiches to the door, and Perret and I talked as we ate lunch. I told him about Luna Beach, and the beautiful bay, and the swamps, and the pine woods. I told him how I used to write the society colum
n for the Bay City Sun. I talked a little about my marriage to Lonnie.

  “And now you’ve come to Paris,” he said.

  “Yes. Here I am.”

  “You came for no reason? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  “I… needed a change.”

  He looked at me acutely. “It had to do with a man, I think.”

  “Why do men always think everything has to do with a man?”

  He smiled. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

  “Not totally.”

  He told me about himself, too. He’d grown up in an industrial town in the north, moved to Paris, become a policeman. It had been his dream to be part of the Criminal Brigade, and he had achieved it. He had lived for some years with a woman named Marie-Luce, but at the moment they weren’t together. His dog was a boxer named Willy.

  At last, toward midafternoon, the phone rang.

  Same man, same muffled voice. “You have the money?”

  “I have it.”

  “You’ve told no one?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The police?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Put the money in a plastic bag. Something that looks worthless. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take the bag and walk up the Rue de Rennes to the Rue de Vaugirard. Proceed on the Rue de Vaugirard to the Luxembourg Gardens. Repeat.”

  “Up the Rue de Rennes to Rue de Vaugirard, then on to the Luxembourg Gardens.” The Luxembourg was where they’d killed Lucien Claude.

  “Enter the garden by the gate next to the palace. At the statue of Pan, climb the steps to the terrace. Near the railing you will see a bench, a waste container, and a tree lined up in a row. You will put the money in the waste container. Repeat.”

  I repeated. Then I said, “What about the mirror?”

  “When you leave the money, you will find further instructions.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t—”

  “Do it this way or give up the mirror.” The phone was dead.