Overton’s voice was rough with emotion. I could hear his breathing.
“In the mirror’s depths I saw the figure of a man, naked, walking toward me,” Overton said. “He was stumbling, at times almost crawling, and I soon saw that this was because he was bleeding copiously, hideously, from a number of wounds.
“It was a dreadful sight, sickening. I didn’t know how he could continue to move, yet he came closer. When he was close enough, even though his face was distorted with pain, I recognized him as myself.”
Overton ran his hands over his heavy jowls. “I felt the most ungodly despair,” he said. “I wanted to take the mirror and smash it against the wall, but I couldn’t. In the mirror, the man’s gaping wounds had poured out so much blood that he was wading through it, ankle deep, and as I watched, the stream grew deeper, up to his knees, and deeper yet. He was wading, painfully, laboriously, through a river of his own blood, and then he sank into it.
“I cried out, I think, but I could not stop looking, and as I watched his head reappeared and he began to swim. He swam strongly, carried along by the dark river that had emerged from his own wounds. I saw that he was in his element. I saw that his wounds hadn’t healed, but that he might make use of them.”
“But that’s awful!” Kitty burst out. “It would have been so much better to see him get well!”
“Perhaps it would. But that isn’t what the mirror showed me.” Overton paused. “Still, what I saw gave me hope. The man— my image— wasn’t engulfed, after all. He continued, and progressed, in his way. And so did I.”
Kitty shuddered and turned away.
Overton said, “I put the mirror back in its case and replaced it in the drawer. A short time later the director and my mentor came for me, and my visit to the Bellefroide was over. I didn’t return until you and I, Ms. Maxwell, went there together a little more than a week ago. And this time I knew the mirror had brought me back.”
Bruno’s Obsession
Silence fell. Overton took a drink of water. The rest of us stirred, as if during intermission in the theater.
“How about coffee?” Jack said. “Anybody want some? I’ll make a pot.”
“That would be lovely,” Overton said.
Kitty’s face was still somber. “Sure,” she said, almost inaudibly.
Jack said, “Do you still keep it in the same place, Kit?” and when she nodded, he went into the kitchen. In a minute or two, I heard water running.
Overton lay back, massaging his leg. I got up and moved around the room, pulled back the curtain and looked down on the empty and peaceful Avenue Gabriel. Neither Kitty nor Overton spoke. Eventually, I went to the kitchen to see if Jack needed any help.
The water was boiling. The coffeepot, all prepared with the paper filter in place and the coffee in it, sat on the counter. Jack was leaning next to it, scribbling in his notebook.
“What are you doing?” I said.
He glanced at me. “Just want to get a few points down before he goes on.”
“Why? A few points for what?”
“Hang on a sec.” He continued to write.
I poured the water into the top of the pot and inhaled the aroma as it started to drip through. “Don’t do this to me,” I said.
He stopped writing. He clicked his ballpoint, closed his notebook, and turned to look at me. “Do what?”
“You know what.”
His gaze was level. “No, I don’t know what. Tell me.”
I felt as if all the awful things that had ever happened to me were flying at me at once. “Don’t take this story away from me, Jack. Don’t. I know you can do it. You’ve got the outlet. I’ve told you everything, and—”
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“I’m just asking you—”
“—not to do my job. Is that right?”
“No! No it isn’t. But you know I’ve been involved in this from the beginning!”
He crossed his arms. His tie was loosened, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, just like a newsman’s should be. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “Your story is your story. I can’t possibly take it away from you, because you’re the only one who can write it. But two murders and the theft of this mirror are news, too. You can’t expect me to keep a complete hands-off attitude, and you shouldn’t ask me to, either.”
“I wish I’d known how you felt before I told you everything.”
“Jesus Christ!” He slapped the counter with his open palm, making the coffeepot jump. “I’m not a thief, Georgia Lee. I’m not going to rip you off. Do you understand what I’m saying? I can’t write your story. Only you can write it.”
I slumped against the wall. I didn’t know what to say. He turned his back to me and leaned heavily on the sink. I heard a movement behind me, and Kitty’s voice said, “Uh, how’s the coffee doing?”
“Ready,” said Jack. I went back to the living room, and in a minute he came in with a tray. When everyone had a cup, Overton said, “I’m sorry to be making such a long job of this. It’s only that I want you to understand fully what’s happened.” He stirred his coffee and put down his spoon. “You may find it difficult to credit, but during the following years I rarely thought about my experience with the mirror. I accepted the lesson it had given me, and in time my life became easier and happier. I was more interested in fortune-telling, crystal-gazing and such than I’d been before, but it wasn’t a dominant part of my life. It became so only after I’d met Bruno Blanc.”
Overton’s face softened. He said, “Bruno and I were introduced by mutual friends here in Paris several years ago. Before long, I became aware of his remarkable gift for divination. I was more and more fascinated by it, and seeing this he introduced me to the Speculatori. Bruno and I became close friends, and at last I told him about my experience, years ago, with Nostradamus’s mirror.
“My story had an extraordinary, and not very healthy, effect on him. He questioned me, over and over, about every detail of the episode. When we were together he talked continually about the mirror, and what a person of his gifts might do with it. Around this time, Bruno made his first petition to Bernard Mallet, who by then was director of the Bellefroide, asking if he could see it.
“Mallet refused, but we hoped he might be persuaded. Bruno became more involved with the mirror. He searched out Lucien Claude, and heard his story about his ancestor Josef. He read, meditated, honed his powers in order to be ready for his opportunity with the mirror, which he had convinced himself would surely come. And he continued to approach Mallet, and Mallet continued to refuse.
“I could have, and perhaps should have, intervened and used my own position as leverage with Mallet. But frankly, because of my career, I was reluctant to be associated with something that would be suspect in so many eyes.”
Overton put down his cup. “Now comes the thing that is hardest to explain,” he said. “And that is why, when Bruno suggested out of frustration that we try to steal the mirror, I consented.”
He looked around at us. Nobody moved. “I can only say that between the time I looked into the mirror and the time I met Bruno, my life had been rational, calm— and a bit constricted. It was productive, but not exciting. I didn’t know people like Bruno, people who cast themselves so willingly into the unknown. If Bruno was obsessed with the mirror, I became obsessed with Bruno.”
His face pinkened. “If he wanted the mirror, I wanted him to have it,” he said softly.
I was astonished. I said, “You mean the day we went to the Bellefroide you knew—” but Overton held up his hand to stop me.
“No. Let me explain,” he said. “Bruno had done everything. He had begged Mallet. He had tried to buy the mirror. At last, crazed with frustration, he approached the guard, Pierre Legrand, and offered to pay him to steal it. And, perhaps the ultimate frustration, Legrand refused.
“Bruno didn’t tell me about this until after his encounter with Legrand. I was horrified, most of all at what the situation was doing to B
runo. I begged him not to take any more action on his own. I told him I would find my way into the Bellefroide and reconnoiter, that I might be able to get the mirror for him myself. Would I have done it? I can’t say. Someone else was bolder and quicker than I.”
He looked steadily at me. “Now we come, Ms. Maxwell, to the visit you and I made to the Bellefroide. I had heard of the damaged altarpiece and had contacted Mallet— who, naturally, knew nothing of my connection with Bruno. The purpose of my visit was not only to look at the altarpiece, but to see if the mirror was still in the same drawer. I would have to return to the Bellefroide to work on the altarpiece, so I believed I would have several opportunities to take the mirror. This first day was to be a general survey. Magazines have often featured me and my work, and in fact this time I was glad enough to have you along, as I thought bringing a journalist with me would establish my lack of ulterior motive.
“Then, to my utter shock, the mirror was stolen and Legrand was murdered while we were there. My first thought was that Bruno had gone mad, disregarded me, and arranged it himself. When the police arrived I collapsed, quite genuinely, and by the time I was able to speak with them I had also spoken with Bruno, and gotten his assurance that he wasn’t behind it. As soon as I was well enough, I went with Bruno to the house where you were later taken.”
“You were in the other bedroom,” I said. “The one with the door always closed.”
“I was badly upset, and needed seclusion. I hardly bargained for what happened next.”
“You mean Georgia Lee’s kidnapping?” said Jack.
“Yes. During that time I was frequently sedated. I know only that Bruno came to me, very excited, and said we now had a chance to get the mirror, that he would have it within twenty-four hours. He didn’t explain the arrangements he’d made, or how he’d made them. The next afternoon, when you arrived, he burst in and said, ‘The fools have taken the woman, too.’ I think, you see, that his plan was for the two young men, who are disciples of his and members of the Speculatori, to take the mirror away from you. You were more alert than they expected, and they felt the best course was to take you as well.”
“I ran when I saw them coming toward me,” I said.
“Yes, well, that threw them off, you see. Bruno was practically beside himself already, and then, when the mirror case was empty—”
“I heard him.”
“His distress was terrifying. I began to think he might be capable of killing after all.”
“But Pierre Legrand? And Lucien Claude? He all but admitted he’d killed them. He threatened to kill me, too.”
“He would threaten anything, if he thought it would bring him the mirror. He wanted to frighten you, but I feel certain he wouldn’t commit murder. You see, Bruno has a sense of mission. He wants to combine his power and the mirror’s in the cause of greater understanding. To begin such a project by killing two people would be a perversion of his purpose.”
“But to begin it by stealing the mirror would be O.K.?”
“You’re being ironic, I realize, but yes. I agree with Bruno that the mirror must never go back to the Bellefroide, must never return to the clutches of Bernard Mallet. This is the case I’ve come to plead.”
He leaned toward me. “Bernard Mallet is an unfit custodian,” he said. “He admits that he cares nothing for the mirror. Why return it to him? It has been taken. He need never know it was found again. You could say the case was empty when you got it. You owe him nothing. Do you see?”
“I see your point—”
“Of course you do. Give the mirror to those who appreciate it, who are equipped to use it. With the mirror, Bruno will do stunning things. He will be a tremendous force for good.”
When I didn’t reply, Overton continued, “I said I’d come to beg you, Ms. Maxwell, and I have. I beg you. I implore you. Give us the mirror.”
Where the Light Falls
I lay in bed with Kitty’s down comforter tucked up around my chin. The bedside lamp cast a mellow and restful glow, but even without the last round of coffee, I wouldn’t have been able to sleep.
I hadn’t given Overton an answer, and he’d gone quietly without one. Hat in hand, he said as he left, “You will think it over. You must promise me that.”
I promised, and we closed the door after him. He was an unhappy man, I thought, and yet he’d seen his vision and he’d found the love of his life. Maybe he’d had more than most of us got.
Now, I was trying to calm the continuing caffeine rush and sort out his story. According to Overton, Bruno had expected his helpers, Louis and the man with the mustache, to grab the mirror away from me in the Luxembourg. That meant Bruno was privy to the arrangements for the ransom transfer. How could he have been? Nobody but the police and I had known the final plan, and we had known it only a short time before.
So Bruno must have found out from the other side.
Sure. If I didn’t tell, and the police didn’t tell, they told.
Well. Why?
Because it didn’t matter to them who got the mirror. They only cared about the money.
But everybody cared about the mirror. The mirror was the mystic center, the motivation, the fatal attraction. Right?
Across the room, hanging on the wall, was a framed pen-and-ink drawing of a house sheltered by two trees. It was a picture of Kitty’s childhood home in Ames, Iowa. I stared at it, my mind churning. I couldn’t see it very well, because the light from the lamp didn’t reach quite that far.
A voice said: You are standing in a dark place, holding a light. You refuse to look where the light falls, but persist in searching the shadows.
I lay there thinking about Bruno’s words. They seemed to push against my brain until they produced an idea.
I got out of bed, wrapped the comforter around me, and went to the living room, where Jack had insisted (for our protection and, no doubt, in the interest of being where the action was) on bedding down on the sofa. I shook the snoring, motionless pile of quilts and said, “Jack!”
After the predictable complement of “Wha?” and “Whassamatter?” he sat up, shaking his head.
“Jack, tell me about the ransom transfer in the Luxembourg. I never heard exactly what went on.”
“Sure, Georgia Lee,” he said groggily. “Why wait till morning when we can discuss it right this very minute?” When he lit a cigarette, I caught a glimpse of him. His hair was standing up every which way, and he was wearing a V-necked T-shirt that showed a puff of gray chest hair. I suddenly felt tender toward him, sorry we’d quarreled earlier, and sorry that relationships have to be complex instead of simple, and sorry—
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“What happened? Did anybody try to get the money?”
He heaved a deep sigh. “Let’s see. According to the police, you put the ransom in the trash can, picked up a note, and proceeded back to the Medici Fountain. They’re stationed all around the trash can, waiting for the pickup, but of course there are other people around the trash can, too. I think the cops may have had somebody taking pictures surreptitiously. Then there’s an unexpected commotion by the fountain, and the next thing anybody knows you and two guys are jumping into a Renault.”
“They were shoving me into a Renault.”
“All a matter of perspective. The cops break cover and run after you, and that’s it.”
“Nobody approached the ransom?”
“Not close enough to be suspicious. But as I said, they’d have been watching whoever was hanging around.”
“Right.”
My idea was with me, burgeoning. Jack exhaled a drag and put the cigarette out. I felt his hand on my back, rubbing just the right spot between the shoulder blades. So I wasn’t the only one who’d felt the current flowing between us. Knowing it would be better not to, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “You’ve forgiven me?” he said.
“Oh, hell. You know you were right.”
“I know you care a lot about t
his story.”
“It’s …in a way, it’s all I’ve got.” I don’t know why I said something so pitiful, but it’s how I felt at that moment.
“It’s like that, sometimes,” Jack said. “Takes over. Carries you.”
“Until nothing else matters?”
“Nothing.”
He put his arms around me, and I leaned against him. Chest hairs tickled my nose. I could hear his heart. “What’s wrong, Jack?” I said.
He didn’t answer for a while. Then he said, “It’s too boring to talk about. Been written so many times Loretta wouldn’t even want it for ‘Paris Patter’.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nah.”
His kiss tasted strongly of cigarettes, so when I say I responded anyway, instead of pulling away gagging, you’ll know how powerful it was. My arms went around him before I knew they were about to, and it was several kisses later before I could make them let go.
When I did, I said, “Jack, I don’t know exactly what you’re going through—”
“Jesus, Georgia Lee—”
“But I can’t, I really can’t—”
“I’m not—”
“I can’t play it through with you. I haven’t got the resources. I can’t.”
There was a silence. Then, “All right. I don’t think you understand, but all right.”
It wouldn’t have been polite to tell him I’d heard this kind of thing before, so I just stood up, said “See you tomorrow,” and went back to bed. I lay awake a long time.
In the morning, we found a note on the dining table:
Ms. Kitty and Ms. Georgia Lee—
Morning has broken and so, the office tells me, has the Rue de Castiglione bombing case. I’ve got to go. On the way out, I’ll tell the concierge that Kitty’s ex is back in town and that nobody, repeat nobody, is to be allowed upstairs. Will call later.
The Complete Mystery Collection Page 20