Emma nodded.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were doing anything improper,” she said in a conciliatory voice. “I just need to get to the bottom of all this, that’s all.”
“Of course you do,” said Charlemagne, glancing at his watch, apparently placated.
“Do you have to get somewhere?” said Emma.
“No, why?”
“You keep looking at your watch.”
Charlemagne looked at his watch again.
“Do I?”
“Yes. You just did it again.”
“It is the time change,” said the lawyer with a shrug. “My clock, she says seven but the rest of me says four. My doctor wishes me to take a pill each night at the dinnertime, and I am confused. Is the dinnertime now, or is it later?”
“Later,” said Emma. “How did you know Esmond Dauber?”
“Who?”
“The man you sold the dragon to. Don’t tell me he read about you in the newspaper, too.”
“No, it was the other way around,” said Charlemagne. “It was I who had read about him. In an article in the New York Times. I looked the collector of the gold objects up in the phone book and we were able to consummate a sale—at a very good price, I might add.”
“That’s all there was to it?”
“What more is necessary? Sometime later Jacques came back to me and asked me to help him relocate to some nice city, far away from New York. I thought of San Francisco because my brother, Napoleon, then lived there. We flew out together to California and with Napoleon’s help were able to buy the house you grew up in and now wish to sell—Jacques still had much of the money left from the sale of the dragon. In the process I found that I, too, liked San Francisco, and moved there myself, several years later. I reconnected with my friend Jacques, made your tiny acquaintance, and that, my dear Emma, is the whole story—locks, stocks and barrels.”
“I wish you had said something before,” said Emma. “It would have saved me a lot of time.”
“Oh, yes,” said Charlemagne, throwing up his hands. “There you are in my office having fled your home because you believed some crazed murderer has just been there to steal a model boat, and what do I say? ‘Excuse me, Emma. I am sorry to interrupt your fear and panic, but how would you like to hear the story of how I sold a family heirloom for Jacques several decades ago?’ That would have been very supportive, yes?”
“I’m sorry, Charlemagne. I know you would never do anything to harm me.”
The little lawyer nodded and finished the rest of his martini in a single gulp. Their conversation apparently had upset him. He usually was the soul of calmness, but tonight he was more nervous than she had ever seen him.
“It’s just that I’m so sure the dragon must have something to do with all of this,” Emma went on. “Did Pépé ever say anything to you about a treasure?”
“The word was all over his vocabulary,” said the lawyer with a dismissive wave of his little pink hand. “But that does not mean anything. You know how obscure was the way Jacques spoke, how he never called a thing directly. Even me he referred to as ‘the treasure of the civil court,’ when it was not ‘my friend with his hand in my pocket.’ Dear Jacques was always philosophizing about wealth and wisdom and things obscure. Who knows what he meant? Why do you ask?”
“Because I think there might have been a treasure map in the model boat that was stolen.”
“Mon Dieu. But how can this be?”
Emma briefly recounted Zuberan’s story of how the dragon had been found and about the Spanish plate fleet that had gone down in the hurricane in 1690.
Charlemagne listened intently, asking an occasional question, shaking his head in increasing bewilderment.
“I knew nothing of any of this,” he said finally.
“The model boat had a secret compartment. That’s how Pépé smuggled in the dragon. Obviously the dragon wasn’t in there anymore. It would have been a great place to hide a map.”
“Perhaps you should tell this to the police.”
“I did. I spoke to Detective Poteet this afternoon.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“So he was not convinced there was a map. Why are you?”
“Look, Charlemagne, there must have been something valuable in the model, or why else would Pépé have told me about it in the will? ‘That she may take her place at the helm and turn the wheel on the legacy that I have kept hidden from her.’ You turned the wheel of the model and the secret compartment opened. What else could have been in there but the map?”
“Maybe he kept money in there, Emma,” said Charlemagne gently. “Have you thought of this? Maybe that was the legacy Jacques wished you to have. And if there was a thief, perhaps he was just looking for money. That is what thiefs seek to find, is it not?”
They both fell silent as the waiter approached with their dinners. Emma was still full from lunch, but the Cobb salad she had ordered looked wonderful. She confirmed this with a taste as the waiter deposited Charlemagne’s fish in front of him and departed.
“Well,” said Emma, sighing, “at least we know for sure now that Henri-Pierre Caraignac wasn’t killed just because he had the bad luck to let me pick him up on the ferry. He bought the dragon and came to San Francisco because of it. He must have been following me that day. Do you know that Jean Bean practically gave him our address when he called your office? He pretended to be a potential client. A Mr. Dubois.”
“Oh?” said Charlemagne, picking at his fish.
“Don’t you remember? Jean said she told you. He never arrived for his appointment.”
“I don’t recall. How do you know it was Caraignac?”
“Who else could it have been? He had a French accent.”
“My dear girl,” said Charlemagne in a kind voice, “half of the people who call my office have French accents; I am a French lawyer. I think your imagination, she is working overtime, yes?”
Emma started to say something but stopped. Charlemagne was right. She was doing it again. It was all just speculation, fantasy. She felt like a fool.
“Have the police learned anything new?” Emma said unhappily, nibbling at a piece of lettuce. “Detective Poteet wouldn’t tell me anything when I talked with him.”
Charlemagne put down his fork.
“There has been a development, Emma,” he said gravely. “This is in fact the reason I have come to New York, why I have needed to talk with you.”
“What development? Why haven’t you told me?”
“I have been wanting to tell you since I sat down, only you have not allowed me to get the word in edgewise.”
“Sorry. So what is it?”
“It is difficult. I am not sure how to say this to you.”
“Please, Charlemagne. Just tell me. My nerves are totally shot.”
“The police, they have taken you very seriously, Emma,” said Charlemagne in a quiet, sober voice. “Although their experience would suggest that the deaths of Jacques and Monsieur Caraignac were random and unrelated acts of violence, Monsieur Poteet was impressed enough with your arguments to keep the cases open, to focus on the common thread.”
“The dragon was the common thread. Pépé sold it; Henri-Pierre bought it.”
“Yes, but you have only just now discovered this. The police, they have known nothing about the dragon whistle. They have been concentrating on finding out who might benefit from both deaths, which is why it is so awkward that Henri-Pierre Caraignac has named you his sole heir.”
“What?!” exclaimed Emma.
This time heads did turn in the room, faces full of amusement, annoyance, curiosity. They turned back to their companions just as quickly.
“Just after you left for San Marcos, the American lawyers for the Caraignac family in France produced the hand-written will of Henri-Pierre Caraignac, dated the day before he died,” said Charlemagne. “It names you as his beneficiary.”
“But I hardly k
new the man,” said Emma in shock. “We were total strangers.”
“Apparently you make the good impression.”
Emma shot the lawyer an angry look. He grinned sheepishly.
“Sorry. I make the little joke.”
“Very little,” said Emma. “Why didn’t Detective Poteet say anything to me about this? I thought he was my friend.”
“He is not your friend, Emma,” declared Charlemagne. “He is the police. Detective Poteet has been investigating. He has been trying to learn why Monsieur Caraignac would have done such a thing.”
“Why did he? What did his family say?”
“Nothing, unfortunately. They are in Paris, so there is no way we can force them to cooperate. They have referred all questions to their U.S. attorneys. But now these attorneys they make the stonewall. That is what I am doing here in New York. I have been meeting personally with Doulange Henrik Swales & Carner, attempting to extract the reasonable explanation that Detective Poteet has not been able to secure. All the lawyers would say, however, was that the Caraignac family would not contest the will, although there appears to be a significant estate involved. Detective Poteet knows this, too. He is very unhappy about it.”
Emma struggled to absorb this shocking development. Charlemagne appeared to be equally troubled. They sat in silence for a few moments, neither touching the lovely meal set out before them.
“You are not still mad with me, are you?” asked Charlemagne finally with a lopsized grin.
“No, I’m not mad at you.”
“You have not touched your salad.”
“You haven’t eaten your fish.”
“Neither of us is hungry, I think,” sighed the lawyer. “A pity at these prices. But we must not let our reunion go entirely to waste. We should put our troubles beside us, not give in to them, yes?”
Emma didn’t answer.
“I know,” said Charlemagne, pulling the napkin out from around his neck and depositing it on the table. “Maybe we go for a walk. What do you say?”
“I’m sorry, Charlemagne. I don’t think I’m up to it.”
“Come, Emma,” he implored, catching the waiter’s eye and motioning for the check. “A walk will do us both good. Go get your coat and meet me in the lobby. I’ll take you over to Lincoln Center, show you the sights.”
Emma didn’t say anything. Charlemagne reached over and raised her chin with a gentle touch.
“It will be okay,” he said softly. “I promise. You do not want to sit alone in your room and be unhappy now. It is not good. All these mysteries will resolve themselves soon. I am sure of it. There is nothing about which to worry. Now get your coat. Please.”
Emma nodded. Perhaps he was right. It was only seven-thirty. She could hardly go to sleep this early, and she hadn’t come to New York to watch television. Maybe a walk would be good for her.
Emma rose and walked slowly out of the room. When she returned to the lobby five minutes later in her coat, Charlemagne was standing by the door in his double-breasted overcoat and fedora, checking his watch. When he looked up, he saw her and held out his arm with a smile.
They walked out the Fifty-ninth Street door. Pedestrians hustled to and fro in the brisk night air, but the crowds were thinner. Behind a stone wall across the street the trees in Central Park twinkled with Christmas lights.
Emma took Charlemagne’s arm, as much for warmth as for comfort. She was still severely shaken by the revelation that Henri-Pierre had left her his estate. Each time she tried to think of some possible explanation, the facts ran away from her; it was like chasing clouds.
Charlemagne led the way across the street to the Central Park side. They walked slowly toward the next avenue, not talking, her arm in his. There weren’t many people on this side of the street. Emma and Charlemagne had the sidewalk almost all to themselves. As they waited to cross Seventh Avenue, Emma glanced back over her shoulder. A tall thin man with his hands in his pockets was directly behind them, no more than thirty feet away.
“That’s him!” Emma exclaimed.
“Who?” said Charlemagne, not turning to look.
“The man I told you about who was following me before. The man with the heart-shaped scar. Quick, let’s cross to the other side of the street.”
“No, I wish to have words with this man,” said Charlemagne, grabbing her wrist with his small, surprisingly strong hand.
“What are you doing?” said Emma, struggling to free herself. Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he see the danger?
“We shall make the inquiry about why this man is bothering you,” declared Charlemagne. “We shall demand to know his business. At least this is one mystery we can arrive to the bottom of.”
The man with the heart-shaped scar had seen her, helpless in Charlemagne’s steely grip. He started to walk faster toward them, then broke into a run.
“Are you crazy, Charlemagne?” cried Emma. “Let me go!”
“Trust me, Emma,” declared Charlemagne, raising his chin aggressively. “It is always better to have things out in the open in matters like these. There is probably some innocent explanation.”
Emma stared at the lawyer in horror. Suddenly she understood why he had been so nervous tonight, why he had kept looking at his watch, why he had suggested a walk. Charlemagne was somehow behind everything! He had known about the dragon from the beginning, and she had kept him posted on everything that had happened since. Now he had set her up for his scar-faced accomplice. Suddenly Emma was terrified of the little man she had known her whole life.
But why? Emma asked herself, her heart frozen. Why would Charlemagne have killed Pépé? Was it the treasure? Had the lawyer stolen the model boat and the map? Had Henri-Pierre expected Charlemagne to share the treasure with him? Was that why Charlemagne had killed him, too?
Emma realized that she would never know any of the answers. Everything was happening too fast, but at the same time seemed as though it were in slow motion. The man with the heart-shaped scar was racing toward them, whipping open his coat. Suddenly there was a hard, black object in his hand. A gun.
Emma let out a scream so loud it surprised even her. At the same time she stomped down on Charlemagne’s instep as hard as she could. The little lawyer cried out in pain as he released his grip on her wrists and collapsed to the pavement. The man with the heart-shaped scar was practically on top of them. Emma spun around and, with a dancer’s grace she had forgotten she possessed, executed her highest kick, catching the man with the heart-shaped scar directly in the chin.
Suddenly half a dozen other men with drawn guns and walkietalkies were leaping out of taxicabs and from behind the stone wall of Central Park. They pounced on her dazed assailant and on Charlemagne, who was writhing on the ground in pain.
Emma turned to run, not looking where she was going, desperate to escape. She had gotten only a few steps, however, when she collided with a rock-solid figure. A rock-solid figure wearing tooled leather boots and a cowboy hat. A rock-solid figure the size of a refrigerator.
“Big Ed!” exclaimed Emma, horrified.
“That’s right, little lady,” replied the phony Chevy salesman with a radiant smile. “Only it’s Agent Big Ed, when I’m not undercover. Federal Agent Edgar M. Garalachek of the joint DEA/ FBI Task Force on Narcotics-Related International Currency Manipulation, at your service.”
19
“Ya gotta understand, Emma honey,” said Big Ed mournfully, hat in hand.”We was getting ready to pick him up as a illegal alien, maybe try for a conspiracy charge. Who knew he’d decide to go after you just when we was closing in?”
“I can’t believe you, Ed,” snarled Emma. “I can’t believe you did this.”
They were waiting in a corridor outside the emergency room of Lenox Hill Hospital, where the man with heart-shaped scar and Charlemagne had been taken. Agent Big Ed had tried to make the little lawyer comfortable on the ambulance ride up, while Emma’s assailant had sat in stony silence surrounded by federal officers, his
swollen jaw beginning to turn purple where it had taken her kick.
No amount of hand-holding and happy talk was going to placate Emma, however. Now that she had learned that it was Big Ed, not Charlemagne, who was behind tonight’s fiasco, she was more than hurt and confused—she was furious.
“You was never in any real danger, Emma honey,” said Big Ed again. “I promise. You wouldn’t have wanted us to try to take him in a crowded hotel, would you?”
“Like nobody could have been shot on the street, even accidentally?” she replied angrily. “Like Charlemagne or I couldn’t have run out in front of a bus? But that’s not even the point. You had no right.”
“Well, there, little lady, I might beg to differ. Your federal government got all kinds of rights when it comes to pursuing international criminals and combating illegal drug traffic. That’s what your Drug Enforcement Administration is all about.”
“Bernal Zuberan is not a drug trafficker.”
“Is too.”
“Is not!”
“All right,” grumbled Ed, “maybe he ain’t actually the man going down the street selling reefers to little kiddies, but he’s the one who launders the money and keeps all them coke barons in business.”
“I don’t believe that. Bernal Zuberan is in financial services.”
“For cryin’ out loud, Emma. What do you think money laundering is?”
Emma folded her arms in front of her and didn’t answer.
“What do you want?” said Big Ed. “You want to see our files on Zuberan?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have to come to Washington, D of C, with me, now, won’t you? ’Cause I got nearly twenty thousand pages on this man. Goes back decades. Whole filing cabinets full of stuff.”
“Has he ever been convicted of anything?”
Big Ed waited to answer until a team of frenzied emergencyroom doctors wheeled a man full of tubes past on a gurney.
“That’s not the point,” he said.
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 25