I hung up and sat on the edge of the bed. “I think it’s a trick,” I said, and told Perret the arrangements. “What’s to stop them from taking the money and leaving false instructions about the mirror?”
“Nothing,” Perret said. “But if they pick up the money, we will have them, and once we have them, we’ll have the mirror, too.”
I still wasn’t crazy about it, but Perret was getting the flight bag from the bookcase. “The money has to be in a plastic bag,” I said. “There are some under the sink.”
He went into the kitchen, and a few minutes later emerged with a reasonably full bag. It was white plastic with burgundy lettering that said “Au Bon Marché” and had come from the big department store of that name nearby. I looked inside, but he had wrapped the contents in newspaper.
I got my coat. I was dressed for the occasion in green corduroy pants, a white sweater, comfortable shoes. To lighten my load I left my handbag, but put my wallet and keys in my coat pocket. I told Perret exactly what the man had said to do.
“You must follow the instructions without deviation. You understand that.”
“Yes.” There was so much I wanted to say. I managed, “They killed Lucien Claude there, at the Luxembourg.”
“Lucien Claude was almost certainly trying to cheat them in some way.”
“Right.” And what had I done? Betrayed them completely by telling the police.
He started to say something, but I was turning away. If I was going, it was time to go. I picked up the bag and went out the door.
In the Luxembourg
The Rue de Rennes is a major thoroughfare: broad, congested, and not especially pretty. Buses and cars roar up and down it, dispersing fumes over the numerous pedestrians. Holding my plastic bag in what was meant to be a casual grip, I started on my assigned route.
Because the sun was out, the street was busier than ever. People seemed to flood toward me, and all I could think about was somebody grabbing the bag, or knocking it out of my hand so that hundred-franc notes went swirling, causing a riot.
I could barely feel my feet hitting the pavement. I tried to concentrate on what I was passing: the sidewalk bins of Tati, the cheap department store that was once bombed by terrorists; FNAC, a huge book-record-camera emporium; boutiques selling shoes and clothes, where I sometimes browsed. All of it kept fading in and out.
There’s a crêpe stand at the intersection where the Rue de Rennes crosses the Rue de Vaugirard, and as I waited there for the light to change I watched the vendor spread jam on two of the thin brown pancakes, roll them up, and hand them to customers. My mouth watered, but it was fear rather than hunger. I crossed and continued on the Rue de Vaugirard.
Within ten minutes, I was crossing the Rue Guynemer. I didn’t even glance toward the place where Lucien had been shot but continued toward the Luxembourg Palace, the beige-gold stone edifice that houses the French Senate. Crossing the entrance to the palace courtyard where the senators and staff parked their cars, I turned in at the gate to the gardens on the other side.
Even in my present state, I noticed that the gardens looked magnificent. It was the perfect setting for an autumn stroll, and I only wished that was my purpose. I proceeded along the wide, sandy walkway beside the palace. The flower beds were bright with gold and magenta blossoms, bordered with white stone urns containing bursts of bronze chrysanthemums. I clasped the bag more tightly. I was passing the Medici Fountain. At the end of its shaded, urn-bordered pool bulked an ornate grotto where a pair of white marble lovers were shadowed by a giant who intended them no good.
A short way beyond the fountain was the statue of a carefree, posturing Pan, and beyond him the steps to the terrace. As always in the Luxembourg, there were people around: joggers, mothers with toddlers, tourists sitting down to consult guidebooks, citizens of all descriptions strolling, striding, and wandering on their various ways. There were also plenty of gendarmes guarding the palace. It took real audacity— or real stupidity— to set up this crime at the scene of a previous murder, and in such a stronghold of the law.
I looked toward the stone railing and immediately saw the lined-up bench, trash can, tree. The sight was like something I’d seen already, in a dream, and as if in a dream I floated toward it. I was rolling the bag up, wadding it up like garbage. The trash can was a basketlike contraption of curved metal slats, with a solid metal lining. Behind one of the slats, near the ground, a piece of white paper fluttered.
I approached the can and jammed the hundred and fifty thousand francs into it. Then I reached down and retrieved the fluttering paper. Printed on it in black ink were the words: “The mirror is in the right-hand urn at the end of the Medici Fountain.”
I turned. It might be true, or it might be a way of getting me clear of the money. Whichever it was, I had no choice but to go back to the Medici Fountain and look. I returned to the steps and descended.
The pool of the fountain was lined with urns and bordered by swags of ivy. The two urns at the end, though, were wider and shallower, the shape of a candy dish rather than a vase. Both contained a profusion of yellow chrysanthemums. I moved to the one on the right and peered in. There, camouflaged nicely among the leaves, was a circular case of green leather, decorated with metal studs. I slid my hand under the flowers and took hold of it. When I pulled it out, I felt a throb of relief.
The relief lasted approximately a half-second, which was how long it took me to turn and see two young men approaching me, very purposefully. One was burly, with a small mustache, and the other had lank, shoulder-length brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Police, I thought, coming to congratulate me, protect me, take charge of the mirror. I almost smiled at them before I realized that the police wouldn’t be showing themselves so soon. They wouldn’t give themselves away until they’d pounced on whoever picked the money out of the garbage can. Besides, there was a threatening look to these guys.
I didn’t stop and think about it. I ran, propelled by instinct more than logic. I caught a glimpse of their startled expressions as I took off, scampering along the pool and dodging behind the baroque-style bulk of carved stone at the end.
Somebody called out from the terrace. The police might have seen me start to run. Breathless and disoriented, I huddled momentarily in the scraggly bushes. I wasn’t hiding, because there was nowhere to hide. I didn’t think my chances of evading pursuit were very good.
I thought: They may get me, but they’re not going to get the mirror. I pulled the case open and took it out. It was round and black and cold. I slipped to the other side of the leaf-speckled pool, then darted forward. Kneeling. I dropped the mirror into the murky water. It made the tiniest plopping sound as it went in. I backed away.
This had taken almost no time. It was one of the few occasions in my life when getting an idea and carrying it out were almost simultaneous. I could hear a snarl of excited voices as, once again, I started to run.
Captivity
The Luxembourg is a French formal garden, not a jungle where a person could hunker down and hide in the undergrowth. My options were few, and soon exhausted.
I dodged back behind the fountain and started for the nearest way out, a gate leading to the busy Place Edmond Rostand, just off the Boulevard St. Michel. I was focused on my destination— the opening in the black iron bars, the crosswalk, the red awning of the cafe across the street. When the mustached man appeared on the path in front of me I was going too fast to stop. I careened into him, he grabbed me, and I saw from the corner of my eye the other one running out the gate and flinging open the back door of an illegally parked black Renault. I cursed myself for making it so convenient for them as they hustled me across the sidewalk and stuffed me in the car.
My captor and I were inside, and the door had slammed, before I had a chance even to squeak. Then the one wearing steel rims got into the driver’s seat, and we took off down the Boulevard St. Michel. Through the back window I got a brief impression of people on the sidewalk staring a
fter us, looking baffled. I would guess the entire episode, from the time I picked up the mirror, had lasted two minutes.
Next, a jacket was thrown over my head and I was pushed to the floor of the back seat. I curled around the mirror case, making myself into a ball like the armored bugs I used to play with in the dirt as a child. When the man tried to take the case away I scrunched up tighter, and he gave up. “We will have it soon enough,” he said in a cold voice.
It was dark inside the jacket and smelled like perspiration and male cologne. I stayed curled up on the floor. I couldn’t possibly overpower my captors, and I wasn’t eager to make them madder. As we maneuvered through the streets of Paris, I tried to figure out what had happened.
Maybe I’d been double-crossed, and the intention had always been to take the mirror back after I’d let go of the money. But why do it so clumsily? They could have tricked me in a million ways that would have been easier than this.
A scarier possibility was that they didn’t want the mirror, they wanted me. Or they wanted the mirror, but they wanted me, too. Still, the same reasoning applied. They could have gotten me whenever, instead of at such a dangerous moment.
But of course it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. I wasn’t supposed to have told the police.
I ground away at these questions through innumerable stops at traffic lights and the squeals of brakes that were par for the course for Paris driving. There was no indication that we were being pursued. Eventually, we picked up speed and I realized we must have made it to the périphérique, the superhighway that runs around the edge of town.
I didn’t like this development any more than the ones immediately previous. It smacked of being taken to a lonely road, shot in the head, and having my body discovered next spring by bird-watchers. In Paris, there were people around, so if you yelled, somebody would probably hear. There were taxis, buses, the Metro, in case you needed to get away fast. Outside of Paris, there was— what? How did I know? Aside from obligatory day trips to Chartres cathedral, the palace at Versailles, and Monet’s home at Giverny, I’d hardly been outside the city limits.
We were zipping along. I could hear the roar and rattle of speeding trucks, the whizzing of other cars. My companions weren’t given to conversation, and when they did exchange words it was in tones too low for me to distinguish anything. I began to feel queasy. The smells inside the jacket intensified. I had to pee. I clung to the mirror case.
I wondered what Inspector Perret was doing and feeling right now. I hoped he was remembering how he’d assured me I was in no danger, and was so sick with guilt that he couldn’t even stuff his face with whatever food was handy. He’d probably say that my running away was contradictory to his orders, and not in the game plan. So what? I would say. What would you do, Perret, if a couple of bad-intentioned thugs came at you?
I hoped that damn dog-loving Perret would have the decency to go to my apartment and feed Twinkie, who would soon be wanting her dinner. Or Kitty could do it. Kitty had a key. She could do it, if she knew what had happened. And speaking of what had happened— what had happened?
Above all other hopes, I hoped I would get out of this alive.
And then there was the mirror. Clutched in my hands was an empty case. I had a vision of the mirror itself, lying at the bottom of the Medici Fountain, cushioned on dead leaves and other gunk.
The mirror was my weapon. If I used it right, it could get me out of this. I saw it again, through the cold, brownish water. I thought, I hoped, that there were flickers in its depths.
A Room with Lace Curtains
I would guess it was an hour before we turned off, and the car seemed to be on a small road again. Since I didn’t know what was in store for me when we stopped, I wasn’t overjoyed.
Now, the two of them had a conversation. The few words I caught were about directions, a typical exchange being:
“It’s here, isn’t it? No, no, the next one!” from my companion in the back.
“What’s wrong with you? Can’t you read a map?” from the driver.
“Turn here, Louis. Here, idiot!”
So the driver, the steel-rims wearer, was called Louis. The name meant nothing to me.
Eventually, we got on a bumpy surface. I bounced around, bracing myself as best I could with my feet. This might well be the lonely road I feared. I tried to compose my mind for imminent demise, but it was difficult when my head was constantly jarred by my teeth being knocked together. Then the car turned, went along a smooth but crunchy surface for a short time, and stopped. The motor cut off. Wherever we were, we had arrived.
The car door opened, and they pulled me out. I said, “What’s happening?” and then, gathering steam, yelled, “Let me go! Help! Help!” Inside the jacket my voice sounded enormously loud. Outside, it was probably whisper volume.
“Shut up,” one of them muttered in my ear, and his pressure on my arm increased. My legs were so stiff I had trouble standing. I was pulled forward over what seemed to be gravel. A few grassy, country-type smells drifted up under the jacket. I heard a door opening, but whoever opened it didn’t say anything.
“Steps. Up,” one of my captors said, but I dug my heels in and screamed, “No! Let me go! Help!” and I don’t know what else.
I locked my knees, and one of them said, “Let’s go.” They dragged me up several steps, bumping my shins painfully, and over a threshhold. I continued to shriek, thinking all the time that if I’d had the sense to create such a scene in the Luxembourg Gardens I might not be in this fix.
The mirror case was snatched from my hands, and then I was pulled around a corner and, I thought, into another room. A door closed behind me. I heard a key turn, followed by retreating footsteps.
I was so amazed to be left alone that I stopped screaming. I realized I could take the jacket off my head. I threw it on the floor and felt enormous relief, my eyes dazzled by the daylight. I took deep gasps of air, shaking my head.
The shouting started just about then— a hoarse, crazed-sounding bellow. I couldn’t understand the words but the emotion was unbridled fury. They had opened the mirror case.
While the ranting continued, I looked around. I was in a bedroom. There was a single bed with an iron headboard and a faded mauve spread, a braided rug on the floor, dingy lace panels in the windows. A beige metal gooseneck lamp sat on a chest of drawers that had been given an amateurish brown paint job. The walls were covered in cheap-looking wood veneer paneling. Through the windows I could see a field with tall grass, the rutted clay road by which we must have approached and, across the road, a stand of trees. In the distance beyond the field, more trees and what might have been a railroad crossing. In other words, it was remote. No wonder they’d let me scream my lungs out.
The screaming had now been taken over by someone else, and he continued while I tried the windows and found, not to my surprise, that they were jammed shut and I couldn’t budge them. They were also heavy, double storm-window types that would be hard to break. I tried the door, more as a ceremonial gesture than through any real hope that it had spontaneously unlocked. It hadn’t.
So here I was, captive in a dreary bedroom in the boondocks, listening to a venting of maniacal anger that might, at any moment, be directed at me. I didn’t know what else to do, so I lay down on the bed, still wearing my coat and shoes. The afternoon light was dimming to gold, and a rising wind buffeted the house.
The shouting eventually subsided. It was a relief not to have to listen.
I didn’t have long to relish the quiet before the door opened and Louis, with the steel rims, came in. He didn’t look as substantial as he had before, as if he’d been withered by the blasts of fury. He wore jeans and a green V-necked sweater with a white shirt beneath. He picked up the jacket, leaned against the chest of drawers, and crossed his arms. “Where is the mirror?” he said. His voice was reedy. Over all, he wasn’t an impressive character.
I had expected the question. “You have it. You, or whoever grab
bed it away from me.”
“Where is the mirror?”
“You have it. You took it. It was in that green case.”
He straightened and seemed about to leave when I said, “I want to go to the bathroom.”
He walked out and locked the door behind him, but in a few minutes he was back. “Come with me,” he said.
Surprised that I was being treated so well, I went with him a few steps down a hall, to a cubbyhole with a toilet and sink. He made me leave the door open, but I rose above embarrassment. Feeling much better, I tried to look around on the short walk back to the bedroom. I didn’t see much. A closed door, probably another bedroom, at the other end of the hall. A rapidly glimpsed living room with the same lace curtains and drab furniture, and maybe a kitchen beyond. The place had no personality and didn’t look like anybody’s beloved home.
Then I was back in the bedroom. As he went out, my captor said, “We want the mirror.”
I didn’t respond. The door closed, the key turned.
I lay down on the bed again. I’d make a plan to get out of here. While I was debating how to begin, improbable as it may seem, I dozed off.
I know it sounds ridiculous. I guess I wanted so badly to escape that I took the only immediately available route. I drifted in and out of consciousness until the door opened again. It was almost dark. I sat up to see Louis coming in again. He switched on the lamp and said, “Have you thought about the mirror?”
“Sure, I’ve thought about it.”
“Where is it?”
This could go on forever. I said, “Look. We aren’t getting anywhere being so cryptic. Are you telling me it wasn’t in the case, where it was supposed to be?”
He turned around and left. He must have to consult with his boss every other instant. Much as I would’ve liked to think I’d be leaving soon, I decided to take off my coat. The room had no closet or armoire, so I hung it on a knob of the chest of drawers. He returned. “No. It wasn’t in the case,” he said.
The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries Page 16