“There’s nothing in the lining of my jacket. This jacket is from Ede and Ravenscroft. I assure you it has nothing wrong with its lining.”
Rachel didn’t know who Ede and Ravenscroft were, but they didn’t sound like the sort of place where a man swimming in debt should be buying his clothing, and they also pretty clearly didn’t make their clothing as well as Robert Cavill thought, because she knew she had seen something in the lining. She met Boussicault’s eyes.
“Monsieur Cavill, may I see your jacket, please?” The capitaine held out a hand.
“Certainly not! I’ve spent hours in here being interrogated by you, ending in a very unpleasant scene, and you’ve been able to prove nothing. And now you want me to hand over a piece of my clothing? Absolutely not.”
“I’m afraid I must insist. If you don’t feel able to hand it over to me yourself, I can call some officers to help you.”
It was a standoff, and Cavill lost. He stood still for a moment and then, with a sigh clearly meant to indicate his contempt for the whole scene, shrugged off his sport coat. As he did so, Rachel saw that his shirt cuffs were monogrammed. She suddenly felt enormously sad.
Taking the jacket, Boussicault slowly turned it inside out and ran his hands over the front lining. One of his fingers snagged on something: a horizontal slash near the breast pocket, about three inches long. He looked at Cavill.
“I’ve no idea what that is.” Cavill’s face was growing red again. “Or where it came from. I must have ripped the lining somehow.”
The slash was very clean, Rachel could see. It certainly wasn’t an accidental rip. It looked more as if it had been made with a sharp blade. Boussicault inserted his thumb and forefinger into the gap it left, his other hand lifting the remainder of the jacket so that the bottom eventually met his grasp. Rachel could see his fingers grope, then grope again. They pinched something. He let the bottom of the jacket fall and drew out his fingers. Between them was a piece of paper. It had been folded so it was perhaps one inch square, but the folds weren’t tight. They had bulged and separated, and it was this that had made the shape noticeable against the lining.
Boussicault put the jacket down, placed the paper on the table, reached into his own breast pocket for a pair of tweezers, and began to unfold it. After what felt like an age but could only have been about thirty seconds, it lay open before them.
It was very old, and all four of its margins were filled with elaborate patterns of curling stems and fleurs-de-lis, with what looked to Rachel like a disembodied angelic head at the center bottom. In the middle of the page was a woodcut of a man bending over another man, who appeared to be fast asleep. Out of the side of the sleeping man the bending man was lifting a tiny woman. After a moment, Rachel recognized it as a picture of the creation of Eve. After another moment, she realized it was the missing page from the Supplementum Chronicarum.
She didn’t say anything.
Boussicault didn’t say anything.
Robert Cavill said, “No. No. No, no, no. I have no idea how that got there. I had nothing to do with it. I would never steal. I would never deface a book. Someone planted it. Someone must have planted it …”
The room became silent. Then Boussicault looked up from where the page lay on the table.
“Robert Cavill,” he said, “I am detaining you on suspicion of the délit of theft, and on suspicion of the crime of murder against Giles Morel on thirtieth July, as well as suspicion of the crime of murder against Guy Laurent on sixth July. You have the right to answer questions, make statements, or remain silent. You have the right to an interpreter, if you need one. You have the right to an attorney and the right to notify your embassy, or to have us notify them for you …”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rachel sat alone in the timeless, airless interview room. Once he had charged him, Boussicault had left with Cavill, taking the young brigadier with him and saying to Rachel only, “Wait here.” So she waited. She had been required to leave her bag at reception (“to ensure no interviews are recorded,” the young gardien at the desk had explained apologetically), so there was no way to message Magda about developments, to look up French arrest procedures, or even to play a game.
After fifteen minutes the capitaine had not returned. Nor had he returned after twenty minutes. After half an hour Rachel opened the door and poked her head out. The only person in the hallway was a harassed-looking woman frowning at a clipboard as she walked swiftly past Rachel.
“Excusez-moi?” The woman stopped. “I was helping Capitaine Denis Boussicault to interview suspects, and he told me to wait here. Do you know when he’ll come back?”
The woman transferred her frown from the clipboard to Rachel. “Boussicault is in booking.”
“Do you know how long he’ll be?”
She shrugged. “Booking is like purgatory: no one knows how long anyone will be there.”
Rachel admired her turn of phrase, but she still wanted to know how long she was supposed to wait. “Well, I’ve been waiting here for half an hour, and this is a lot like purgatory, too. Could someone go ask Boussicault what I should do?”
“No one goes to talk to the arresting officer when he’s in booking.” But she thought for a second. “D’acc. Come with me.”
She led Rachel through the corridors, then the familiar maze of desks, and at last deposited her in Boussicault’s aquarium office. “I’m sure he won’t be long.” She gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
Rachel sat. The minutes passed. Gradually her bored gaze focused on the piles on Boussicault’s desk, then on the specific pile where he’d placed their sheet of notebook paper in its plastic protector almost two weeks before. Was it still there? She could see a little corner of plastic sticking out midway down the pile. Seriously? Hasn’t he even made use of our discovery? She slid her eyes left, to the desks outside; no one seemed to be watching her. Half standing, she leaned forward to ease the plastic further out of the pile. In this awkward position her gaze fell on the folder on top of the pile. Its label said FOURNIER.
There was no question of making a choice. She slid the folder toward her with her index finger and then, angling her body away from the window, opened it in her lap. The top sheet inside was a form headed INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT SUMMARY. She kept reading.
DIFFICULT INTERVIEW, began the typed paragraphs beneath.
LF both belligerent and in some degree of shock. Stated that she had intended to arrive early on 29 July to “catch up on work,” but due to commuting issue arrived at BN only fifteen minutes before opening. Left travel card @home: used cash for bus. Entered via employee lounge, placed personal items in assigned locker, proceeded to record room. Only five minutes remaining before BN opened, so proceeded to reading room via stacks. [LF crying.] Found Morel facedown. Blood clearly present. “Lost control.”
Further questioning: Stated she does not carry a knife, or any weapon. Did carry one, but stopped due to therapy. “Why don’t you ask my therapist if you don’t believe me?” Found Morel “like a puppy. More irritating than threatening.” Voluntarily added that she is “More than able to defend myself against any man, inside a library or out.”
Refused to answer further questions. Demanded a lawyer.
A few lines below, where the form offered the options ACCUSÉ / NON ACCUSÉ, the interviewer had circled NON ACCUSÉ. But beneath that someone—Boussicault, she assumed—had written in script that somehow seemed to telegraph irritation, AUSSI NON EXCLUE.
Not charged, but also not ruled out. Rachel had to agree that that was about the size of it. She didn’t blame the second writer for being peeved. There was just as much in the summary to raise doubts as to allay them. A suspect alleges she no longer carries a knife but is antagonistic about it; a suspect says she didn’t consider the victim an antagonist, then asserts that in any case she’s more than a match for any antagonist, then demands a lawyer. You didn’t have to be a criminal mastermind or an ace detective to
see how all this sowed confusion—nor to see how this confusion might let a murderer slip free.
Was the interview transcript itself any more helpful? Still mindful of the rows of police behind her and aware that Boussicault could return at any second, she flipped through it.
LF: I forgot my Navigo. I used cash. LF: We had been friends. We were not anymore. LF: It did affect me, yes. But it doesn’t anymore. LF: I know how to take care of myself if I need to.
At this last remark Rachel groaned softly and closed the folder.
She looked at her watch. It had been over an hour since Boussicault had abandoned her in the interview room. By anyone’s reckoning that was a long time to wait. No one would be suspicious if she left. As she walked through the halls to reception, she repeated the contradictory substance of what she’d read over and over in her mind until it became matched to the rhythm of her footsteps: no knife, lost control, puppy dog, clammed up.
“Could I have my bag?” There was a different gardien at the desk. “I was with Boussicault,” she explained, “and I had to leave my bag at reception. Rachel Levis.” He unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, checked for ID to confirm her identity, then handed her the bag. “Thank you.” She took the notebook and a pen out and wrote on a page, I WAITED AN HOUR. YOU CAN REACH ME AT HOME. Not, she suspected, that he would try to reach her. She ripped the sheet out, folded it in half, wrote CAPITAINE BOUSSICAULT on it, and handed it to the gardien. “Please give this to him when he becomes available.” And with that she left the commissariat and headed home, her feet still drumming out what she’d discovered. She needed to talk to Magda as soon as she could.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What about the saliva?”
“What about the saliva in relation to what?”
Magda thought. “In relation to anything, I guess. Was it mentioned at all?”
Rachel shook her head. “Once Boussicault found the woodcut, he didn’t say anything to Cavill besides the charge. And Cavill didn’t say anything else before they took him away. As for LouLou, that interview was before they knew about the saliva, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Goddammit. Well, what do you think?”
“About what?”
Magda thought again. “About Cavill, to start with. Do you think he’s the murderer?”
“Well, they caught him. Red-coated, as it were.”
“Yes, they found a piece of evidence on him, and they arrested him. But do you think he did it?”
Rachel bit her lip. She’d been thinking about this on the Mètro over. She didn’t like Cavill’s pretensions, and she’d seen evidence found on him with her own eyes. But without that piece of evidence, Dale and Stibb had just as much motive. And LouLou …
“I just think other people have motives, too. Maybe better ones.”
“Such as LouLou.”
“Yes, such as LouLou. But I—”
Magda held up a hand. “Do you remember Dr. Gilbert?”
“Yes.” Dr. Gilbert had been Rachel’s freshman writing instructor.
“Remember the time you went to see her about your gun control paper? And she said to you, ‘Rachel, every time you don’t like something—’ ”
Rachel chimed in from bitter memory, “ ‘You say it’s stupid.’ Yeah, yeah.”
“Well, I think you’re doing that now. Yes, LouLou’s had a shit time. Yes, you really don’t want it to be her. Yes, sisterhood is powerful. But still … Just because you don’t like it, that doesn’t mean it’s a dumb idea. You have to acknowledge that it could be her.”
Rachel looked into her friend’s kind but firm face. Magda was right. Dr. Gilbert had been right, and Magda was right. The last time they’d solved a crime, she’d refused to entertain certain suspects until very late, and because of that she’d missed an important clue. Okay.
“Okay. All right.” She took a huge breath, focusing. “Well, we already said LouLou could be the book thief. She could have killed Laurent and Morel because they were interfering with business.” She stopped, frowning. “But why one with string and one with a knife? And why one in a men’s room and the other in the stacks?”
“Those are fair questions.” Magda thought for a second. “Maybe just because that’s what was available. Think about it. Laurent takes her to Chez Poule to discuss the blackmail—he certainly wouldn’t want to have that talk in the library—and she’s enraged. Plus, she’s already angry at him for destroying her, as Doctor Dwamena put it. He goes to the men’s room; she finds a bit of old string she’s left in her bag, follows him in, and does him. Then she starts carrying the knife again because she’s paranoid she’ll be found out. Or maybe she never stopped. We only have her word for it that she did. And a couple of weeks later when Giles accosts her in the stacks because he’s found out about the thefts—” She made the sound of a blade ripping through skin.
Rachel thought about it. She really did. But, “Old string she left in her bag?”
Magda made a face. “Is that really more improbable than a hitherto-nonviolent academic suddenly killing two people?”
Rachel tried again. But again, “Frankly, yes. Not least because that academic is male. And so is another, who also owes a huge amount of money. If we’re looking for good suspects, either of them would be much more able to commit a murder in a men’s room.”
“I don’t know about that. Boussicault said the restaurant was so busy that no one remembered seeing Laurent, right? And he was a regular! Who’s going to remember seeing an anonymous woman disappear into the hallway that leads to the bathrooms? And if it was crowded, she could easily have managed to slip into the men’s room unnoticed, too. Especially because she’s so tall. People could just have dismissed her as a man with long hair.”
“All right, but then why not Professor Dale? Who is also tall, and who has actual heavy debt and actual suspicious financial activity rather than imaginary thefts and love rage.”
Silence. Rachel had to admit that Magda had made good points in the end, and judging from the look on Magda’s face, she guessed Magda was thinking the same about her. They were at an impasse.
Except that with Magda around, you were never at an impasse. “Now,” she said, “what I take from all that is that everybody’s plausible. There’s only hard evidence against Cavill, right?”
“Right.”
“And you said the page Boussicault found was from the Supplementum, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, wouldn’t the murderer have the other page, too? Wouldn’t they have both illustrations?”
Rachel thought. “Yes, I guess so. But so what?”
“So the easiest way to find out if Cavill’s really the best suspect is to find out if he also has the page from the psalter.”
“That’s true.” Rachel was still confused. “But it’s irrelevant, since we don’t have any way to find out.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, we don’t. Not without getting inside his hotel room.”
“Exactly.” Magda crossed her arms.
“Exactly?”
“Yes.”
“By which you mean, ‘Exactly, leaving aside the fact that we don’t know his hotel or his room number.’ ”
“We do know his hotel and room number. He told you in the interview, and you wrote it down. You said so.”
Rachel didn’t relish the idea of showing up at Cavill’s hotel and trying to talk their way into his room. Experience had shown her that even regular civilians were suspicious of strangers with questions. Surely hotel employees, who had seen and experienced so much more, would be even more so. It was not a scenario that would end well.
“I threw that page away,” she said hopefully.
“No, you didn’t. You would never throw away something you thought might be useful later.”
“It was in my skirt pocket when Alan put it through the wash.”
“No, it wasn’t. You check all your pockets when you get undressed.”
Not for t
he first time, Rachel became aware of the downside of having a long-term best friend. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter if I have the address, because we can’t get inside his room. They’re not going to let us in without seeing some sort of official identification.”
“They don’t have to let us into his room.”
“Yes, they do.”
Magda looked hard at her. “No, they don’t. We can get in on our own.”
“No we—” Then understanding dawned. “You want me to pick the lock.”
Magda nodded.
“No. No way. I only did it that one time. I don’t even remember how to do it anymore.”
“Sure you do! It’s like riding a bicycle: you never really forget.”
“An illegal bicycle. An illegal bicycle that someone could easily catch you riding.”
Magda waved that away. “We’ll do a quick in and out, just check for the page and leave. No one will have time to catch us.”
“And what if they have key card locks? Most hotels do now.”
“Then we’ll leave even sooner. It’ll be a quick in and out of the hotel instead of the room.”
Rachel wondered why she bothered to try. Magda’s determination was nothing if not adaptable, and Rachel had long ago learned it was best just to do what she wanted. But breaking into a hotel room wasn’t like buying a new dress, or even like picking the lock on an abandoned studio apartment, as she had the last time. A hotel was a business; a hotel would prosecute.
She weighed the options again. If she didn’t do what Magda wanted, Cavill would remain the prime suspect, which meant LouLou wouldn’t be. On the other hand, there was something odd about Cavill’s having the woodcut in his jacket like that, which meant that if she didn’t do what Magda wanted, an innocent man might go to prison. And Magda had a point about the simplicity of the test. If they could get into the hotel unnoticed, if she could still pick a lock, and if they were quick, they might just be able to search Cavill’s room and see what was or wasn’t there. That was a lot of ifs, but the result would allay her doubts, and that was nearly worth it. Plus, she couldn’t help thinking, the whole operation would put them ahead of the police. She would have something to bring to Boussicault to show that she knew how to be a detective, that she had a use beyond spying and occasional note-taking.
The Books of the Dead Page 15