by A W Hartoin
“Are you still pissed at me?” Chuck asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Me, either.”
We stared at each other for a moment and that’s when I realized that he shouldn’t be facing me. The settee shouldn’t have been there, blocking the entryway to the apartment. He’d moved it to block the exit.
“That’s a fire hazard,” I said.
“I was willing to risk it,” said Chuck, sitting back and putting his long, sinewy arm across the back of the settee. Blackie trotted across the back, right through his arm and sniffed his head. I caught my breath and stared until Chuck looked, directly in the face of the cat, and then looked back at me.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“Er…nothing,” I said, wanting to cross my arms so bad. “So what were you doing, trying to keep me from escaping?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“I might have a hole in my shoulder, but I can still push a settee out of the way.”
“Not with me sleeping on it.” Chuck stood up and pushed it back to its place on the wall. “Are you going to tell me what really happened yesterday?”
“Didn’t the cops tell you?” I asked.
“They told me a version of the truth. I want the whole thing. That woman wasn’t some stranger you happened across. I knew you were up to something, so I followed you yesterday. Who is she?”
“Corrine Sweet.” I spun around and marched back to the bedroom.
He followed me. “I can’t believe I bought that bullshit about you going to cooking school with Aaron.”
Me, either.
“I did go to cooking school,” I said, looking through the rack of Madam Ziegler’s outfits.
Chuck pushed the rack away from me. “You were on a case. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was none of your business. Get out of the way.”
He got in front of me. “No. I won’t get out of your freaking way. I never will. You are my business.”
I snorted. “Like you’re mine. Puhlease.”
“Let’s not start that again.”
“I agree. Go away.”
“I’m not going away. You may as well tell me. Your dad’s on it already. He’s going to find out what the hell you were doing.”
I was going to have to tell him. I knew I would have to, but I still didn’t relish the thought. The words ‘shit storm’ came to mind. “Her name is Angela Riley. She disappeared six years ago in Chicago and was presumed dead. Happy?”
“Thrilled. Go on.”
I gave him Novak’s cover story, how Gina hired me and whatnot, but I could see he wasn’t buying it. I’d have to give him a better reason why I’d lie to him and hide what I was up to.
He crossed his arms and stared at me. “You expect me to believe that this is a simple missing person’s case?”
I was hoping you’d never find out anything at all.
“I did a favor for a friend. It was the right thing for Gina and I didn’t actually expect to find Angela. The very idea was ridiculous.”
“Who is this Gina? I’ve never heard of her. How much of a friend can she be?”
“She wasn’t the friend.” I turned away and pulled up the covers on the bed so he wouldn’t see me swallow hard and brace myself for the onslaught that was sure to come.
“Who was the friend?” asked Chuck, his voice now hard.
“Oz Urbani, if you must know.”
“Calpurnia Fibonacci’s nephew? Are you crazy?” Then he went into a stream of consciousness rant that went on for at least ten minutes. I was bored by the time he stopped, panting at the foot of Elias’s bed.
“Are you done?” I asked.
“Your dad’s going to flip. What am I going to tell him?”
“I don’t care what you tell him. I’m an adult,” I said, selecting the bias cut dress to wear. “Do I have someplace to be? Aaron acted like there was an appointment.”
“Huh? What? God dammit, Mercy,” yelled Chuck.
“It was a simple question. Do we have someplace to be?”
“Yes. Dammit.”
“You can stop swearing. It won’t change anything. Uncle Morty has provided ample proof of that.”
“We’re supposed to be meeting a guy,” he said, softening up.
“Who is it?”
“The old Marais apartment manager. The Paris cops helped me out.”
I flashed a smile at him. “Because you’re a hero that attacks terrorists without a weapon.”
He flexed and gave me his fabulous rakish smile. “I could be considered a weapon all on my own.”
“You’re just trying to win me over.”
“Is it working?”
I pondered him and our future. “Are you going to tell me what happened with you?”
“Nothing happened,” he said.
“Then it’s not working.” I pushed him to the bedroom door. “Get out.”
He put on the brakes. “What for? What are you going to do?”
“Climb out the window and escape with my arm in a sling,” I said with a sneer.
“Fine. What are you doing then?”
I shrugged off my robe and revealed my nightie and a good amount of breast. “Getting dressed. Wanna help?”
Chuck practically ran out the door.
“That’s what I thought!” I yelled after him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chuck and I arrived in the Marais a half-hour later, having not spoken three words to each other. I think he believed that Gina hired me to find Angela, mostly because I admitted that Oz was my friend. He obviously wasn’t going to give up what was going on with him. Try as I might, I couldn’t see a way forward. He wasn’t alright, at least not with me. It was galling to know that Nazir knew what was up and I didn’t. Dad probably knew and, if he knew, Mom knew. The whole thing made me tired.
At least my parents hadn’t been able to get a flight to Paris and had settled for hearing my voice and yelling about jumping off bridges, as if I hadn’t heard that before.
When we were three blocks from the Marais apartment, Chuck said, “There it is.”
A small café sat on the corner, packed with people sipping coffee, reading papers, or just watching the world go by. And there was a whole lot of world to watch that morning. I’d thought the streets had been busy the day before, but it was even worse that morning. The metro had been nuts and I ended up under not one but three armpits and none belonged to Chuck, who was the best-smelling thing in the whole car. He got a lot of looks that morning with his bruised face and dour demeanor. He wore mirrored sunglasses in a vain attempt to cover up, but they couldn’t begin to conceal the purple and red bruises that decorated the side of his face. I wore sunglasses and the cloche. It was the only hat I had left that didn’t have blood on it. I was able to tuck all my hair up inside, so the blonde wasn’t visible.
Chuck took my elbow to lead me across the street and I resisted the urge to snatch it away from him. We walked into the café and a large man at the back stood up and waved to us. He was a big man, bulky and muscular with dark hair and a weathered face. He looked much younger than his seventy years and tougher, too. If someone put him and Poinaré in front of me and asked which one was a Corsican mafia assassin, I’d have picked the manager.
“Bonjour. Bonjour,” he called out, beaming at us with a gap-toothed grin. Maybe not so assassin after all.
We wove through the tightly-packed tables to the back. “Monsieur Masson?” asked Chuck.
“Oui,” exclaimed Monsieur Masson before pulling Chuck into a bear hug and kissing both his cheeks. Chuck was so astonished, he didn’t even react.
Then Monsieur Masson turned to me, looking at my arm. It wasn’t in a sling. That would’ve been a dead giveaway to my identity. I’d put my hand in my jacket pocket and that was enough support. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am honored with your presence.”
We exchanged cheek kisses and he offered me the most
comfortable chair at the table. It had pads and I was grateful for them.
“So you know who we are,” said Chuck.
“Everyone in Paris knows who you are. The incident on the Seine will be part of our history and we do not forget our history. There is a call to give you both the Legion of Honor, which, of course, you must receive.”
More publicity. Exactly what I need.
“We would be honored,” said Chuck. “Did the officers tell you why we wanted to meet you?”
“They did not, but I have been waiting these many years for you to come,” said Monsieur Masson with complete confidence.
“You’ve been waiting for us?” I asked.
“For someone.” He gestured to Chuck. “You are police.” Then he looked at me. “And you are a detective. What else could it be? I managed the mysterious and I’ve been waiting for you to come to ask me about it.”
“The apartment?” asked Chuck.
“Oui. What else?”
The waitress brought us café crèmes without being asked. She recognized us, but was too polite to say anything. I warmed my good hand on the golden cup and said, “Have you been inside?”
“No, no. That was not my place.”
I slumped. “So you don’t have a key.”
He laughed and thumped the table. When his big hand moved, a small silver key ring remained with a big, tarnished brass key and a small padlock key.
“But you never went inside?” asked Chuck. “Why?”
“I was waiting for you and I was the manager, sworn to do my duty,” he said, leaning forward, his bulky form casting a shadow. “Now I’m retired, free to do as I like.”
“So you’ll let us in?” I asked.
“But of course. What else have I got to do? Play boules all day? Non. Let us see what is in there.” He held up a finger. “But first, tell me why you have come.”
Chuck and I exchanged glances. I wasn’t sure what to say, but it appeared that Chuck wouldn’t say anything, so I went ahead and told Monsieur Masson that we were investigating the death of a policeman in Berlin in the ’60’s. He’d had an obsession with that apartment and we wanted to know what it might have to do with his death.
“This apartment has never been opened in all my years,” said Monsieur Masson. “This policeman didn’t enter it. I would’ve known.”
“We don’t think he got in there, but he wanted to. We need to know why it was so important to the man.”
Monsieur Masson finished his café and pondered us quietly. “Many people have come over the years. Every few years, someone would come and I would say no.”
“Really?” asked Chuck. “Who came?”
“Mostly people who wanted to buy the place and others who couldn’t give me a reason to go in. I pretended not to have the key.”
“Why tell us that you have it?” I asked.
“You fought for France. Malraux said I could trust you.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“I think I saw that policeman and another man. This was 1965, yes?”
“Yes.”
“He came several times, but he couldn’t give me a good reason why he wanted to know about it.”
I sipped my café. “I can’t believe you remember them.”
Monsieur Masson went on to describe Werner Richter and his brother, Paul. His descriptions matched the pictures Spidermonkey had dug up. We finished and Monsieur Masson insisted on paying, but the waitress quietly said it was on the house.
“Shall we go find out?” asked Monsieur Masson, offering his arm to me.
I took it. “I think we shall.”
The padlock came off easily, but the big brass key took some force. It ground and groaned in the old lock before there was a click and thump. Monsieur Masson turned the knob and pushed. There was a grinding creak and the door opened, revealing a dim interior. I couldn’t make anything out, but the apartment wasn’t empty. I could tell that much.
Monsieur Masson went in first and turned a knob on the wall. Nothing happened.
“There is electricity,” he said in consternation.
“But really old light bulbs,” I said.
“Ah yes.” He and Chuck went through the main room and threw open the windows and then the shutters. The room flooded with light and my mouth fell open. The apartment was intact. Not intact like Elias’s apartment, but completely intact. It hadn’t been cleaned or cared for in any way.
“I can’t believe it.” But it was true. The room was filled with vintage furniture covered in a layer of thick dust. It was good furniture, too. Elegant sofas and mahogany tables. Heavy silk drapes and thick Turkish rugs. There were papers and books scattered on the floor and a woman’s coat lay on the arm of a heavy Victorian chair. It was like we’d stepped back into the 1940s and the owners had only left for a minute and they’d be right back.
“It’s been searched,” said Chuck.
I looked more closely and I saw what he saw. Drawers in the tables were hanging open. Books had been pulled off their shelves. I walked in, smelling the smell of very old dust, and looked at the papers on the table. “Holy crap.”
“What?” asked Chuck.
“I was thinking the 1940’s, but these papers are dated from November 1938.”
Chuck joined me and, forgetting himself, he put his hand on the small of my back. “I’ll be damned.”
“Do you mind if I touch these?” I asked Monsieur Masson.
He gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “Whoever they were, they are gone forever.”
I leafed through the papers. All from the first two weeks of November 1938. Nothing after that. We all stood in the middle of the room and gazed around in wonder at the dusty woodwork enrobed in spider webs, the beautiful antique furniture, but most of all at the delicate porcelain teacups on the table. There were two with gold rims. I picked one up and showed it to Chuck. “They left in the middle of tea.” The dried remains of the drink marred the cup. It was full when they left.
Chuck nodded at me and we wandered into the next room, the dining room. It had been searched, too. Drawers in the china cabinet were open and linens tossed on the floor. The china and crystal had been rifled through. Next was the kitchen. Dirty dishes sat in the sink, but the trash bin had been emptied as well as the refrigerator, a small, boxy thing that looked more like a washer.
The beds were made in the three bedrooms, but the dressers and wardrobes had been gone through. I looked at the empty hangers and the spots on the top shelves where suitcases would’ve been. They’d had time to pack, but they’d been in such a rush they’d left dirty dishes.
“In here, Mercy!” called out Chuck from another room.
I followed the sound of his voice to a small office. The heavy leather desk chair lay on its side, blocking part of the door. The books had been thrown, leaving dents in the striped wallpaper. Papers were scattered about. Somebody had been in a real temper.
“Check this out.” Chuck held up a letter.
I hopped over some books and took a look. “What does it say?”
“It’s in French, but check out the name.” He gave me the letter and its envelope.
Raymond-Raoul Sorkine.
“Do you recognize the name?” asked Chuck.
I shook my head. “Not a bit.”
“You’ve never seen it before?”
“No. Never.”
Monsieur Masson came in and said, “I can translate the letter.”
I gave it to him and he quickly scanned the pretty copperplate writing.
“It is an ordinary letter. Family news from Belgique, a city called Charleroi.”
“What’s the relation?” I asked.
Monsieur Masson read the letter again. “Marie-Élise Sorkine is an aunt to Raymond-Raoul.”
I turned to Chuck, who was typing furiously into his phone. “Got it.”
“Let’s see how many names we can find.”
Monsieur Masson and I went through all the correspondence. Unfortunately, m
ost of the letters didn’t have their envelopes. We got a lot of first names. Going through the drawers, we found files that were supposed to have birth certificates, but they were gone. We did find bills and college tuition receipts from the Sorbonne. The owners of the apartment were Raymond-Raoul and Suzanne Charlotte Sorkine and they had one daughter, Lucienne, who was college age in 1938.
Chuck and I gathered up all the paperwork and organized it by date while Monsieur Masson turned the chair upright, sat, and read the letters in French. It seemed the Sorkines were multilingual. They received letters in English, German, Swedish, and Dutch. Monsieur Masson was fluent in English and could understand a smattering of German, but that was it. I set about taking pictures of the letters for future translation. I had to use my bad hand to do it, but I found the more I used it, the looser my shoulder got.
While I did that, Chuck dropped to the floor, feeling under the desk.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
He held up a thin, delicate rectangle of paper. “I saw this underneath the desk.”
I took it and the French was so elementary, I could read it easily.
1938 Oct. 14
Aunt
Have arrived Rome. Am safe and well. Have package. No contact.
A
“A,” said Monsieur Masson and he began shuffling through the letters.
Chuck raised an eyebrow at me. “Package.”
I nodded. “What’s the date on the last letter again?”
“November the fifth,” said Monsieur Masson. “1938.”
“Are there any A names in the letters?” asked Chuck, hopping to his feet.
Monsieur Masson and I went through the letters one by one. The Sorkines seemed to keep their letters for two years. There was nothing beyond late 1935.
“We have an Alphonse in The Netherlands,” I said.
“What’s the date?”
“June, 1936.”
Chuck picked up the telegram off the desk. “It could be him.”
“No,” said Monsieur Masson.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Alphonse was seventy-three in 1936. The letter detailed his birthday party.”
I groaned. “Probably not running around Italy in ’38. Seventy-five was pretty old back then.”