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

by Craig McDonald

  Hector figured if he did that, then Brinke might be freshly angry at him. But he said, “It is only fair.”

  “That’s right. It’s only that.” She looked at him for a time; he couldn’t read her expression. “I’m going over things in my head,” Brinke said. “Thinking of things about the past few days that might feed your suspicion of me. Thing is, if you mull it all, you could become just as suspicious of Molly. And we know for a fact that Molly, ‘Margaret W,’ is tied to Nada, and by extension, to Leek. And only a casual reader of mystery novels — you know, like maybe a poetess — would try to frame someone as ham-handedly as Molly has been set up.”

  Hector thought about that. Brinke seemed right, again. But Brinke was also very intelligent — a strategist and a master plotter…her many novels proved that.

  What if — Hector found himself wondering — what if this was some double bluff on Brinke’s part?

  What if Brinke was deliberately “ham-handedly” framing Molly in order to deflect suspicion from herself as the mastermind behind Molly’s fall? What if Brinke was counting on someone like Simon or Hector to expect a much more elegant conspiracy from the likes of Brinke?

  That kind of thinking just made Hector’s head hurt.

  He thought more about what Brinke said about Molly.

  Oftentimes, the obvious solution is the right one, he told himself.

  Except in crime and mystery novels.

  But this was life, not some contrived world moving at the whims of an Estelle Quartermain or “Connor Templeton.”

  Hector could tell from the hollow sound of the horse’s hooves and the smell of the air that they were crossing the Seine. He felt he was running out of time to patch things up with Brinke — that he would lose his opportunity to stay with her through morning on the off chance she was tied to Leek and determined to warn him of Hector’s pending visit.

  Impulsively, Hector leaned across and kissed Brinke. She pulled away as far as she could. Hector pressed harder against Brinke, pinning her to the seat with his weight. She bit his lip, drawing blood. She beat on his back with her fists. Then her tongue was in his mouth…she slid to the floor, moved to all fours. He roughly pushed her coat up over her waist and unfastened her trousers and pulled them down around her knees. He tore Brinke’s silk panties getting them off her. Hector took her from behind. They moved frenziedly and Brinke again bit her own hand to suppress her cries.

  Afterward, still inside her, he kissed the back of her neck. He said, “Germaine believes we’re secretly engaged. Why don’t we really do that?”

  He shuddered as she abruptly turned, his body slipping from hers. Brinke stared at him. “You mean that?”

  “Yes. I love you, Brinke. Let’s look for a ring tomorrow.”

  He saw her struggling with it. “I’m still dreadfully mad at you, you know.”

  “For good reason. Say yes, and I’ll have a lifetime to repair the damage.”

  “I still get to read your book — what there is of it. Tonight. Yes?”

  Hector said, “You might be madder at me, after.”

  “Like you said, you can spend years making up to me. Besides, I’m a writer, too. I understand the tension between the page and all this.” Brinke gestured with her hand —indicating the world, Hector figured.

  She said, “You truly certain about this proposal? What about Molly?”

  “I want you. Only you.” Hector had lingering suspicions about Brinke but he was following his own gut, bending to his own wild desire now.

  “Hector, a few days ago, you said you’re happily ‘solo lobo.’”

  He kissed her again; tasted his own blood on her mouth. “Lone wolves are never truly happy.”

  Brinke wiped the blood from his lip. “And hawks don’t share. But why do you do this now?”

  How would the French put it? Hector said, “Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.” His hand caressed her cheek. “Will you marry me, Brinke?”

  “I will. Yes. Yes, I will. But let’s keep it secret a while longer, yes?”

  They kissed, slow and hard. Brinke ended it. She hesitated, then said, “You have fresh sheets at your place? Because if you don’t, I don’t want to go back to your place.”

  “Yes, I have fresh sheets. In the armoire.”

  Brinke pulled up her slacks, buttoned them, and fastened her belt. She wadded her torn and discarded panties into the pocket of her overcoat. She rapped on the roof of the coach and gave the driver Hector’s address. Brinke tried to smooth her hair. She said, “Just one promise from you, Hector. You ever have doubts about me again, you confront me directly.”

  PART IV

  mercredi

  29

  Placing his manuscript aside, Brinke said, “No, I’m okay with it, really.”

  “I mean to change the names later,” Hector said. “Just figured using names familiar to me would save me having to check constantly to remind myself who’s who as the manuscript got longer.”

  “It’s not a new trick, Hector. I do it, too.”

  “I’ll change the ‘Alison’ to something else in the final draft.”

  Brinke shook her head. She took off her reading glasses and tossed them on the stand by the bed. “No, it’s fine, really. ‘Alison Wilder’ sounds like a real dangerous ‘twist.’ Your ‘Alison’ was the femme fatale from the get-go?”

  Hector squirmed. “Right.”

  “Life doesn’t often imitate art. Learn that lesson now, Hector.”

  “So noted,” Hector said. “Speaking of names, I’ve been thinking about yours.”

  “I’m keeping my maiden name, Hector. Partly for business reasons, partly for sentimental ones. But also because, well, frankly, ‘Brinke Lassiter’ doesn’t ring for me in the same way that ‘Brinke Devlin’ does.”

  “I was going to suggest you keep it.”

  Brinke smiled. She was sitting nude at the foot of his bed, her head pressed against the footboard. Brinke was propped on one elbow and her left hand rested on her right thigh. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and she looked a little like a prettier take on Edouard Manet’s Olympia. She said, “Maybe you’re not so old-world after all.”

  “Not from the waist down.”

  Brinke smiled and crawled back up the bed. She straddled Hector. “So, when do you go back to that brothel?”

  “In a bit.”

  “Armed?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m coming with you,” she said. “Hem should probably come, too.”

  “I thought about asking him. When we get there, you should wait in the coach, be ready to run to the police for help. In case things should go badly, I mean.”

  “Sure.”

  He said, “We’ll have breakfast, then go fetch Hem.”

  Her fingers traced his mouth. “Think you can do that at will? Hadley said that because of John’s crying, Hem’s taken to writing in cafés.”

  “There’s only one good café for that — Hem’s special café. We’ll find him if we get there before ten. I’ll dress and go down and get our breakfast.”

  He gently urged Brinke off his lap. Nude, Hector walked to the window, pulled back the drapes, and searched the street for black-clad men.

  “Anyone?”

  “Nada. I mean, that literally.”

  Brinke said. “Un homme d´esprit. God help me. Do you mean literally there is nothing there, or literally some of those Nada-types are lurking?”

  Hector said over his shoulder, “There you go, editing me again. I mean the former. The proverbial coast is clear.”

  “Is that good news, or bad?”

  Hector said, “I’ll let you know when I decide. He turned, sat on the window ledge. He said, “You have any thoughts about what kind of ring you might want?”

  Brinke rolled onto her belly, facing him, resting her chin on her hands and bending her legs at the knees, crossing them again at the ankles, her feet swaying in the air. “It’s so funny. I saw one yesterday in the st
orefront of an antique shop on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Very old, very French.”

  “Sounds lovely.” Hector smiled. “If we hurry, maybe can we take a look at it on our way to find Hem.”

  ***

  “This place is new for me,” Brinke said as Hector held the door for her at the Closerie des Lilas. “Thank God for a warm café,” she said, rubbing her arms. She brushed snow from her shoulders and stomped her feet.

  Hem was sitting at a table in the corner at the rear of the café. He sat with his back to the wall and facing the room. It was a gunfighter’s table choice…or a writer’s, Hector thought. It provided a man the panorama of the place. It was a prime spot from which to watch and absorb and perhaps eavesdrop on those close by. To listen for a snatch of dialogue or an interesting speech pattern to appropriate.

  On the table before Hem there was a nearly depleted plate of oysters and a carafe of white wine. Hem’s blue, student’s notebook was closed and a pencil rested atop it alongside a pencil sharpener. The ashtray on Hem’s table was full of peanut shells and pencil shavings. Hem saw them, rose, and said, “There’s my girl.” He gave Brinke a bear hug and squinted at her left hand. He took her hand and raised it to his face. He smiled at the ring there and said, “Happy Christ, is that what I think it is?”

  Beaming, Brinke said, “It is.”

  Hem smiled and kissed her on the mouth. “I can already hear the hearts breaking all along both banks of the Seine.”

  Laughing, Brinke said, “Aren’t you the silver-tongued devil, you writer you?” She smiled and hugged Hem again. “I’m being choosy about wearing this for now. Around whom, and where I wear it, I mean.” Brinke said. “But it is what it appears to be. We want you to be best man, Hem. You will, won’t you?”

  “Just tell me where and when, Dev.”

  “We’re still talking about that,” Hector said. “But it is a closely held secret.”

  “Last month, I was a working journalist,” Hem said. “I can keep a secret. But some advice for you, Lasso. Seal the deal quickly, before this beauty figures out how much better she can do than you.” He clapped Hector’s arm. “Congratulations, Lasso. You’re definitely marrying up.”

  “I know.” Hector looked around the café. Old men with beards were playing dominoes and arguing politics over cups of espresso or tisane. At the other corner of the café, his back to the rear wall, just like Hem, a one-armed man sat scribbling in a notebook. Hem saw Hector watching the maimed man. “That’s Blaise Cendrars, the poet,” Hem said. “He’s one of the good ones.”

  Hector said, “At least there are no men in black suits. No obvious Nadaists.”

  “No,” Hem said. “No danger of that here. Blaise is the only poet who ever comes here.”

  “Good news, that.”

  Hem pointed at Brinke’s engagement ring. “Who else knows?”

  She said, “Hector’s femme de ménage and you. That’s it.”

  Hem thought about that…looking at Hector. It was as if he could read Hem’s mind: What will Molly say? How will she react after what I saw at your place night before last?

  But Hem forced a smile and said, “I can tell Hadley, can’t I? I mean, if I swear her to secrecy, too?”

  Brinke nodded. “Of course. I want her to stand with me…Hadley, and Sylvia.”

  “I’ll answer for both of them — of course they will,” Hem said.

  “We have a second reason for finding you here this morning,” Hector said. “Interested in riding shotgun again?”

  “Leek?”

  “I’ve found him again.”

  “For certain?”

  “As of last night, yes. A sporting house on the Rue Quincampoix.”

  Hem said, “Just us? No police?”

  “Just you and I, if you’re game. Brinke will wait outside…to go and fetch help if it’s needed.”

  “You bring that Mauser?”

  “Sure.”

  Hem slapped Hector’s arm again. “What are we waiting for?”

  ***

  The street was crowded with gawkers and police…newspapermen and photographers.

  The police presence seemed to be centered around the house that Hector had visited the previous afternoon…the one above which Victor Leek was hiding. Brinke picked up her purse. She said, “Uh-oh. There’s Simon. And he’s waving at us, Hector. Better put your guns in here.” Brinke opened her purse and Hector and Hem thrust their guns inside.

  Simon cast down a cigarette stub and leaned into the window of their coach.

  “You’re eagle-eyed,” Hector said to Simon.

  “I also instructed my men to look for you,” he replied. “I expected you to turn up.”

  “Why?”

  Simon wasn’t his usual affable self. He said, “That will soon enough become apparent. Get out please, Hector. Your friends can stay here. In fact I insist they do that.”

  Hector swallowed hard. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “Time will tell. Get out now.”

  Hector obeyed. He closed the door of the coach and said to Brinke, “Back soon. I hope.”

  Simon took Hector by the arm, began walking him away from the commotion in front of the brothel. “It’s very bad in there.”

  “What has happened?”

  “What do you think? A slaughter, all of the women, killed. All of them. Nearly a dozen. Le massacre…” Simon shook his head. “It’s insane in there, Hector. Bodies everywhere. And one man couldn’t have done this. But then, we know that one man probably didn’t do this, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you here, Hector?”

  “Why were you expecting me?”

  Simon shook his head. He squeezed Hector’s arm tightly enough to make the writer wince. He said, “You don’t get to pose any questions this time, Hector. Not until my own queries are exhausted. Exhausted, and answered in full. Now begin.”

  Hector lit a cigarette. He said, “I was followed from my apartment yesterday. I managed to turn the tables on my shadow and followed him here yesterday afternoon. I engaged a woman, a prostitute new to the trade — an American — who told me the man I followed was upstairs with another man registered as ‘Crowley,’ just as Leek had been registered at the Hotel des Lions. Having been rendered a eunuch, I don’t quite understand why Leek keeps coming back to prostitutes like this. What do you think? Nostalgie de la boue?”

  Simon wasn’t to be distracted. “You knew all this yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Hector said. “Or, at least, I thought I knew it.”

  “But you didn’t immediately alert me. It doesn’t bear pointing it out to you, but I will, nevertheless. If you had called me yesterday, all of those unfortunate women back there might be alive now. Theirs were terrible deaths.”

  Simon was right. Hector didn’t need to be told that. “I meant to call you this morning.”

  “Why the fatal delay?”

  “To give my source — this American — time to get safely out last evening,” Hector said. “To buffer my visit yesterday and Leek’s apprehension today with some time so my source wouldn’t be compromised…perhaps put at some further risk.”

  “Stupid. Stupid. But as you say, this harlot countrywoman of yours should be at no risk now. Not as everyone whom your ‘source’ knew in that place has since been slaughtered.”

  “I need to get into there,” Hector said. “I need to see that my source did indeed leave last night.”

  “Impossible. It’s a crime scene now.” Simon relented, just a bit. “What does this woman, this American, look like?”

  “Very attractive. Aristocratic-looking, in a Creole-French way. Pale skin…long, blue-black hair. Slender. She has very unusual, cobalt-blue eyes.”

  “There is nobody like that in there. The dead women are quite coarse-looking. Plump. There are none that look as though they would have been particularly attractive in life.” Simon hesitated, then said, “Do you realize what you have done, keeping this f
rom me? Leek is still out there and getting more destructive by turns. You’re now in tremendous jeopardy because of what you’ve done.”

  Hector nodded, his mouth dry. He said, “For suppressing evidence. It’s an offense, I know.”

  Simon frowned. “C´est plus qu ´un délit, c ´est un crime.” I can’t imagine there being a next time, but if there is, you come to me immediately. Understood?”

  “Bien entendu. I swear.”

  “I don’t envy you your conscience, Hector. Were you trying to protect someone, handling this yourself? Trying perhaps to protect someone other than this improbably attractive American prostitute, I mean?”

  “Non. Next time I come straight to you, Je le jure.”

  Simon squeezed his arm. “The alternative will produce dire consequences for you, perhaps on many levels. We understand one another, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Entirely.”

  “Where do I find this American prostitute?”

  “I don’t know,” he lied. “I didn’t get her real name, or learn where she lives. Her working name was ‘Solange.’” Hector didn’t want to have the woman harassed by the police. If she’d gotten wind of what had happened, she might already have bolted.

  “Useless.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Simon turned Hector around, began walking him back toward the coach where Brinke and Hem sat waiting. “You may see some men in the days ahead,” he said. “I will send photos of my men around to your apartment later, so you will know them by face. That way you may distinguish my men from others who might be watching you.”

  “I don’t need any garde du corps.”

  “It’s not exactly like that, Hector. Not just that.”

  “You’re having me watched because you don’t trust me anymore?”

  Simon nodded. “There is also that. But you’ve made yourself a critical target for Leek now. You asked how I knew to alert my men to look for you. There is a reason. We found this in the room where Leek was hiding.” Simon handed Hector a slip of paper stained with a partial, bloody thumbprint.