One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1)

by Craig McDonald

  “Another man living upstairs.”

  “Does this man living up there ever ask women up?”

  “Sometimes. A woman here I like, not a friend, but one who is friendly, she went up yesterday. I’ve not seen her again.”

  “I doubt you ever will. You should never go up there if called. Promise me that.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t go up tonight at least. Find some excuse if you’re asked. Say you have your curse. Run…take a cab. I’ll leave you my address. If there is trouble, you come to me and I’ll give you sanctuary.”

  “Who is this man?”

  Hector saw a shadow in the crack under the door. He heard floorboards squeak. It occurred to him then that women of a certain size trying to be stealthy should never kneel.

  He tangled his hand in Victoria’s hair, a bit roughly, urging her head as though he was close to peaking. “That’s it,” he growled. “Faster. Use your tongue.” He kept it up until he heard the floorboard squeak again…saw the shadow under the door drift away.

  Hector tipped Victoria’s face up, searched it. He said, “My question to you, Victoria, is have you heard a name? Victor, or Oswald? Leek or Rook?”

  “He’s registered under the name Crowley.”

  Perfect.

  “The man with him now, do you know his name?”

  “No,” she said.

  Hector untangled his fingers from her hair, stroked it smooth. “Have you ever thought of cutting your hair?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. It’s quite beautiful. And so long, so dark.” He ran his index finger down her cheek and lifted her chiseled chin. She was really quite lovely in her way. He said, “You live here?”

  “No. Across the river.”

  “My side.” He smiled. He counted out notes. “I’m going to guess this is equivalent to two days pay. Tonight, in a few minutes — after I’ve left — I want you to curse me for the worst degenerate known to existence and you quit your job here. Hole up at home for a couple of days. When I’ve taken care of this man, and settled some other things, I swear I’ll come to you. When I do that, I’ll either find you a better house in which to work, help you find your way home if that’s your ambition, or help you find some other way in your life. Will you do this? You seem new to all this, and not without hope. That man upstairs is a murderer, but I’m not sure the courts can touch him yet. So you must quit immediately.”

  “You’re really police?”

  “I’m here to bring this man to book for many killings. Including women in your present line of work. But I can’t quite bring him to justice yet. At least, not tonight. Not until I know just a bit more.”

  Solange — Victoria — rested her head against his knee. She shook her head, trying to absorb it all.

  He said, “You’re wondering how you’ve come to all of this, aren’t you?”

  Her cobalt eyes searched his own much paler blue eyes. She said, “You’re what, a psychiatrist, too?”

  “No. I’m just a man. What brought you to Paris, Vick?”

  “I wanted to be a singer…perhaps do some dancing, too. I did a little of that. But not enough to survive.”

  “Where is home?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Do you want to go back there?”

  “No. My mother would take one look in my eyes and know. I know that. I write her letters. Letters about how good my life is here. Mother quit writing back last month. Guess I wasn’t convincing in those letters about how gay my life is here in Paris.”

  “Two days, and I’ll come for you, Victoria. You’ll do this for me?”

  “He really kills?”

  “With a knife. He cuts women’s throats. He’s mutilated between his legs. He can’t perform as a man. It’s made him insane.”

  “But the other women here…?”

  Hector said, “I can’t throw my arms around the world, pretty Vicky. But I can damn well get you out of here. Help you put your life back on track. I’ll bet you’re a lovely dancer. And I can tell from your voice that you would sing beautifully, as well.”

  Hector pulled out his notebook and fountain pen. “Now, it’s time for an exchange of addresses.”

  ***

  Hector’s taxi driver said, “Where to now? Headquarters?” Hector checked his watch: five minutes to four. He’d be fashionably late, but at least he was on the right side of the river. He said, “Rue des Bourdonnais, vite!”

  27

  Molly sat alone at a table with three empty chairs. She saw Hector and waved. He shrugged off his overcoat and snow-dusted hat and threw them over an empty chair.

  Hector wondered how Molly would play the greeting. Would it be the Mayfair kisses of the time before they’d slept together? A familiar hug? Something more passionate?

  She hugged him tightly to her, looked up at him, then, closing her eyes, she leaned into a kiss. Hector kissed her back. He felt the tip of her tongue, went with it. He smoothed Molly’s hair back across her forehead and sat down close to her, scooting his chair over to rest his hand on her thigh.

  Molly said, “You really like my hair cut short like this? Like a boy’s?”

  “You look quite striking and you wear it well. I like you with longer hair, too.”

  She pulled at her short hair. “I’m going to let it grow out. It was exciting; a little scary to cut it. I still like it, but it leaves me few options. I miss feeling it on my shoulders.”

  “Then grow it back.”

  “Brinke is running late. Said it might be closer to five.” Molly searched his face again — Hector guessed maybe for signs of disappointment. She leaned over and kissed him again. He felt his body responding.

  He said, “It’s good we have some time alone. To talk.”

  She smiled, looking a bit hesitant about what their talk might encompass. She ran her hand down the lapel of his black suit. “You look a bit like a Nadaist. Or as if you’re dressed for a funeral.”

  “I’ve actually been to several funerals. And it sounds like I’ll likely go to at least one more tomorrow.”

  “Some of our friends?”

  “Little magazine editors and poets, yes. I thought I might see someone at their funerals. I thought that I might see something useful. It was really Brinke’s idea.”

  “You really are poking into all this, aren’t you?”

  “I am. With police sanction. And someone seems to know that I’m a threat. I was followed this morning from my apartment. Three men in black suits. Have you and Brinke had any trouble today? Seen anything suspicious?”

  “Not at all. These three men? What happened? Did you call the police?”

  “No. I took care of it.”

  “How?”

  “I handled it. Best to leave it at that.”

  Molly said, “You do seem to be getting around rather well, despite the leg.”

  “It’s almost fully healed. I’m doing fine.” He ordered a bottle of red wine and said, “Have you seen Philippe? He came by my place today, looking for you.”

  A little flash in her violet eyes. Molly looked at her lap, at his hand there, still familiarly resting high up on her thigh. “No. I’ve been pointedly avoiding that. Partly what you said, about Nada. About the crimes maybe tied to Nada. Partly because making love with you…with you and…” — nodding at an empty chair — “it’s left me confused about what might be my future. Brinke is a fling. I can tell that. Or, I mean to say, I am. I’m Brinke’s decadent fling, in tandem with you. I mean, the three of us, together. It’s Brinke’s sexy, wicked affair. What you and Brinke have, apart from me, I don’t pretend to guess at. And Brinke has anointed herself as my Pygmalion. Or at least I begin to think she thinks she is that.” Molly’s fingers tugged again at her hair. “And you and I, Hector? What do we really have at this point? We practically raped you while you were doped up. You said as much yourself. I begin to think Brinke is capable of anything. She’s attractive, appealing. But she begins to scare me, Hect
or. And this crazy thing between the three of us? I think it’s almost like research for Brinke. Between breakfast and lunch yesterday, Brinke insisted upon describing to me some of the manuscript of the novel she’s writing. Have you read it?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “Then you’re in for a terrible shock, Hector. It’s our lives, Hector. Brinke’s novel is about two women sharing a man, just like we’re sharing you. How can she do that? And my God, what she — what we — did to you, taking you like that while you were half-unconscious? I’m so sorry.”

  “I surely didn’t hate it, Molly.”

  “If I find that I’m pregnant, you don’t have to worry, Hector. I’ll pay for my own operation.”

  “Jesus, don’t talk like that, Molly.”

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry. But I can’t divide my feelings. Not like Brinke evidently can. Not like you can.”

  “I’m not sure I can, either,” Hector said. “I’m just as confused and flummoxed by all of this as you are.”

  “Until I can sort this out better, I have to stay away from Philippe, I know that.”

  “It’s probably a good idea, anyway.” Hector squeezed Molly’s thigh. Her hand closed over his, pulled his hand up a bit higher. Hidden by the table, Molly pushed Hector’s hand between her legs.

  She said, “I guess I don’t really expect an answer. I won’t be hurt if you don’t answer. But I have to ask: Do you think you might love me, even just a little?”

  Hector wrapped his other arm around Molly’s shoulders. He pulled her into a slow, languorous kiss. “You matter very much to me. More all the time.”

  Molly kissed him again. “That wasn’t quite an answer.”

  “It was. I don’t want to lie, either way. Really, I’m still sorting through this, just like you.” Another kiss, her tongue in his mouth.

  Their waiter cleared his throat. Molly blushed. Hector paid their waiter, then checked his watch. He said to their waiter, “Bring us a third wineglass, won’t you?”

  ***

  Four-thirty. Hector said, “I need to ask you a little more about Lloyd Blake. Were you ever in his house? You said you were one of his magazine’s contributors. How well did you really know him?”

  Molly sipped her wine. Stared at her glass. “Hardly at all.” She looked out the front window. “I don’t even know where he lives.”

  “Ever hear of a Kitty Pike?”

  She looked back at him. “No, Hector. Why?”

  “Something strange happened yesterday. This must stay between us for now. You understand, Molly?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise me?”

  “Yes, Hector. What’s going on?”

  “Yesterday, at Lloyd Blake’s funeral, I met a woman who claimed to be Kitty Pike. She said she was Blake’s employee and his mistress. Kitty said that the night Blake was murdered — stabbed to death in his bed — that Blake was to have a meeting with a woman named ‘Margaret.’ Kitty didn’t know this woman’s last name, but said it started with a ‘W.’ Kitty claimed this ‘Margaret W’ was trying to buy Blake’s magazine.”

  “It’s not me, Hector. There must be some other woman with my first name and last initial. They’re not uncommon, after all. That’s all I can think of to say.”

  Hector said, “Today I learned that the woman I met claiming to be Kitty Pike is not. She was an impostor. A fake who evidently meant to cast suspicion on you.”

  Molly shuddered, “Why me?”

  “I don’t know, yet. But it gets worse.” Hector pulled out the folded-up photo from his jacket pocket. “This is a little grisly. It’s a photograph of the body of another little review editor. He was stabbed to death. The policeman I’m working with is rather obsessed with the man’s hands in this photo. He’s obsessed with what message these hands may or may not be sending. I think the cop might have figured it out over drinks with me earlier today.”

  Molly swallowed hard. She took a deep drink of her wine and said. “I’m ready…show me.”

  Hector slid the photo across to her. “Oh my God,” Molly said, “that’s Jeremy Hunt! He just accepted one of my poems. He edits Rain Shadows.”

  “How well did you know Hunt?”

  “Just in passing at a few parties. I met him once at Stein’s salon.”

  Hector said, “Look at the hands. What do you see there?”

  Molly looked up at Hector, her chin trembling. “My initials.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh my God! Who is doing this, Hector?” Molly looked close to panic.

  Hector realized then, in a terrible moment of clarity, that he actually had a theory about that, a terrible, unthinkable theory. One he couldn’t begin to share with Molly.

  He sat back in his chair, feeling this void opening under him.

  With a shaking hand, Hector slipped out his pack of cigarettes. He tried twice to strike a match with his thumbnail, then, licking his lips, he resorted to the strike bar on the side of the matchbox. He watched his hand trembling as he raised the match to his cigarette. Hector was looking at Molly, but he wasn’t seeing her, wasn’t thinking of her.

  Hector was thinking of Brinke. He was thinking terrible things about her.

  Hector wondered if his goddamn subconscious had been sending him signals for the past several days.

  Hector asked himself if he had chosen to make the lovely villainess of his first crime novel Brinke’s physical twin for some deeper reason than the fact that Brinke’s physique and coloring embodied genre expectations. Had he also given his creation — this “Alison Wilder” — Brinke’s given name and speech patterns for some reason apart from purely creative ones?

  Hem had been arrested on the barest of circumstantial evidence that pointed toward the possibility he might be a murderer, or at least that hinted Hem might be culpable in several of the little magazine murders.

  As he thought about it, Hector began to see how similar circumstantial suspicion could also be seen to swirl around Brinke.

  Dark-eyed, dark-haired Brinke.

  Black-haired Brinke.

  Black-haired, just like the late Lloyd Blake’s mysterious and perhaps murderous mistress.

  Brinke, who spotted the phony Kitty Pike on the hill at Père-Lachaise. Brinke, who had literally pointed to the woman in white, directing Hector’s attention to her.

  And Brinke had given Hector suspicious looks when he was less than forthcoming about all that the phony Kitty Pike had told him.

  Hell, it had been Brinke’s suggestion that they go to the cemetery in the first place. Then, with Hector believed immobile with his injured ankle, Brinke had seemingly abandoned her own plans to visit the subsequent two funerals she had once insisted that they attend.

  Then there was the matter of Victor Leek.

  Hector had taken Brinke by the Hotel des Lions on the Rue des Ursins. He had told her of his plans to return to the hotel the next morning with Hem to confront Leek. He did that only to find the poet had fled…

  Had Leek perhaps run as the result of some warning?

  Brinke.

  Brinke who quoted Aleister Crowley.

  Brinke who spotted that killer snuffbox in Charles Turner’s dead hand and then warned Hector against smelling from it.

  Hell, it had been Brinke who invited Hector to escort her to Gertrude’s in order to witness that murder by poison in the first place.

  Hector thought again of Brinke’s manuscript. It wasn’t enough that it was tracking a three-way love affair just like the one that Brinke had inaugurated with Molly. No, Triangle was also spreading out to encompass a series of murders among the literary set of Left Bank Paris, just like the little magazine murders.

  Again, Hector asked himself which truly followed which:

  Was Brinke using the murders for grist for her novel?

  Or was it possible Brinke was modeling her novel on the very crimes she had set in motion, or, at least, that she was complicit, too?

  Was it conceivable that the mur
ders and Brinke’s novel were concomitant works in progress?

  And was the ménage à trois something Brinke had inaugurated not just to fulfill her creative needs, but also as a means of distracting Hector as it became clear he was closing in on Victor Leek and his nihilist followers? Did their decadent affair spring from Brinke’s recognition that Hector might in fact succeed in his role as amateur sleuth?

  Brinke had picked their café across the street from the scene of François Laurencin’s murder. Had that been more than grisly coincidence?

  And Joan Pyle’s party:

  Hector had simply been told by Brinke and Hadley that they were expected to attend the cocktail party at which Joan was fatally attacked. But what initiated that invitation, exactly? Who initiated it? He thought about how Hadley had phrased it —something like, “Joan told Brinke…” Wasn’t that how it had been?

  And those three men camped outside Hector’s apartment — they hadn’t followed Brinke and Molly. No, they had instead loitered with intent, then struck out after Hector.

  Hector again began to feel like a kind of mark. Like some pawn being pushed around by a chess master.

  Maybe Molly had called it all wrong out of the gate.

  Maybe Brinke wasn’t the muse, but Hector was.

  Was it possible Brinke had cast Hector in the role of her own personal inspiration to drive her first real crime novel?

  Hector remembered what he had told Hem about the possible posing of Jeremy Hunt’s hands, “like someone who has read one too many facile mystery novels.” Perhaps Hector should have instead said it smacked of the work of someone who had written one-too-many such books.

  Someone like an Estelle Quartermain…or a “Connor Templeton.”

  Quartermain.

  Brinke had been fascinated by Hector’s instinctive animus toward her rival mystery writer. Hell, the poison that killed Charles Turner was right up Estelle’s alley. And Brinke had pointed out to Simon that another of Estelle’s novels featured a vitriol pitching. Was it conceivable that Brinke had first “cast” Estelle Quartermain in the role of murderer, before instead switching objectives to cast Molly as the killer?

  Or perhaps Estelle had always been Brinke’s red-herring, her intended false suspect?