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

by Craig McDonald

  ***

  It was one of the rare times Hector could remember seeing Estelle without a companion. They were in the cab together. He said, “What brings you to my place?”

  “I tried to find you at the hospital,” the British mystery writer said. “Opinions are split. I mean, split regarding whether you walked out, or were kidnapped. Either way, while I was there, that policeman, Simon, he was giving his men a frightful tongue-lashing.”

  Hector said, “Since you came to my place looking for me, I’m going to assume you were one of the ones who believed I walked out of there of my own accord.”

  “That’s right,” she said. A little smile. “You’re a resourceful fellow…like one of those lads in your stories.”

  Lads? But Hector said, “Sure I am.” He pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He said, “You don’t mind?”

  “Only if you share.”

  Hector handed Estelle a cigarette, struck a match, and got their smokes going. Hector couldn’t remember having seen Estelle smoke before, but she seemed adept enough. He said, “So why are you looking for me, Mrs. Quartermain?”

  “You can resume calling me Estelle…or just Elle, if you prefer.” She looked at her gloved hands. “This that I have to tell you is awkward, on many levels.” She inhaled from her cigarette…exhaled…bit her lip. Estelle had done something more to her hair. Hector realized it was several shades darker than he remembered it. Estelle still had it slicked back from her forehead and behind her ears. She blew some more smoke from the side of her mouth, away from Hector, and said, “This matter of Brinke’s abduction — do you believe what’s in the papers?”

  He said, “About Brinke being dead?”

  Estelle seemed a little taken aback at how bluntly Hector had put it. But she swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, for one thing. Acid in the face…a knife to the heart? These nihilists kill on the spot, directly. Brinke’s ‘murder’ doesn’t fit the template.” He held up a hand, anticipating Estelle’s next remark — the one he’d already had thrown at him by Simon. “I was a special case. They wanted me to suffer before they shot or stabbed me.” Hector narrowed his eyes, exhaled smoke through both nostrils. “I sense you don’t buy her kidnapping either.”

  “Not the kidnapping, and certainly not the death,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve been doing some of my own sleuthing, Hector. You may not know that my husband is a kind of well, private detective.”

  Hector tried to suppress a guffaw. “You mean like…Sherlock Holmes? Arsène Lupin? Or your guy, the Armenian accountant?”

  Estelle smiled like she thought he was silly, like she thought her smile was charming. “No, they’re pretend, Hector. My husband works for a British detective agency. A kind of English equivalent of your Pinkertons.”

  That analogy didn’t endear Mr. Quartermain to Hector. He said, “So that affords you what? Access to public record searches? To lab resources? To what, exactly?”

  Estelle waved the question away. “That’s not important now. What is important is that I began noticing some things a while back. I believed, as you did, that some — I qualify with some — of these murders in recent weeks were committed by the nihilists, just as you’ve asserted. But some others? Those, I think, had a different motive.”

  Hector thought about that. It wasn’t the first time he’d weighed that possibility. But he suspected that his own candidate for at least one of those non-Nadaist-directed murders was going to be a very different one from Estelle’s. He said, “Do go on.”

  “I think someone used the cover of the little magazine murders to settle some personal scores…old scores,” she said.

  Hector nodded. “Which murders in particular?”

  “Jeremy Hunt, for one. Lloyd Blake, for another. And Charles Turner.”

  Her choices didn’t surprise Hector. Lloyd Blake: the man with the faux mistress clad in white who had introduced the name “Margaret W” into the mix as a potential little magazine buyer and murder suspect. Jeremy Hunt: He of the arranged fingers…MW. And Turner…the poisoned man. But Hector played along. He said:

  “Why those victims particularly?”

  “Killed indoors,” she said. “Not stabbed in some doorway or on a bridge. And the poison? That’s never fit with the other murders, as you pointed out yourself.”

  “What else do you suspect?”

  She shrugged her shoulders a little. “I’ll confess I used some of my husband’s connections to check into the backgrounds of some people around this whole affair. Not you, of course. And not Mr. Hemingway. You both seem good and sturdy men. Good American stock.”

  He smiled crookedly. “Thanks, Estelle, that’s swell of you.”

  “It’s only the truth.” She smiled and shrugged again. “But I did take the liberty of investigating Brinke Devlin. I’ve been aware of her for some time — not as ‘Brinke,’ of course, I mean in terms of her nom de plume…Connor Templeton. I was driven to do so by whispers one hears within our sector of the writing community.”

  Hector lit another cigarette. Estelle eyed it. He slipped it from between his lips and held it out to her. She smiled a little uncertainly, then accepted. He lit another for himself. He said, “What kinds of whispers?”

  They were heading westerly on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Their driver asked for a direction or destination. Hector told him to turn right onto the Rue de Vaugirard and keep going until he hit the Boulevard Saint Michel. Hector figured they’d make the circuit around the Jardin du Luxembourg.

  Estelle said, “The story I’d hear was that this Connor Templeton had a kind of penchant for writing what he lives and living what he writes. Apparently there was, from time to time, official interest resulting from odd parallels between actual crimes in various jurisdictions and plots and story points in Templeton’s novels.”

  “We all draw inspiration from our lives,” Hector said. “It’s called writing. Experience a moment, then distill it down to one true sentence. You know — writing.”

  “But our writings don’t anticipate events, Hector…particularly not criminal matters.”

  “And Templeton’s do?”

  “It’s the story I’ve heard,” Estelle said. “Time and again.”

  “Whispers. So you investigated.”

  “I tried a few times in the past…only to learn Connor Templeton was a pen name for some mysterious, unknown writer,” Estelle said.

  “Then Gertrude let the cat out of the bag at her salon,” Hector said.

  “Precisely!”

  “And what have you learned as a result of that?”

  “Brinke Devlin is another, well, kind of non de plume, if you will.”

  Hector tried to look surprised. “You mean…an alias?”

  “I didn’t want to be the one to say it. Alias implies criminality.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you’re implying? What’s her real name?”

  “Margaret Walker.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No, it’s quite true.”

  Hector nodded slowly. “Margaret Walker.” He said portentously, “MW.”

  “Like the bathroom stall’s door,” she said. “Now you see.”

  “So what are you saying, Estelle? Whoever took Margaret — Brinke — knew about this other identity and wrote it there?”

  “Or Brinke wrote it there herself. She knew I was closing in, perhaps. She sensed that Simon and I would confront her soon.”

  “So she faked her own kidnapping?”

  “That’s my theory,” Estelle said.

  “I’m confused. Why put her own initials up there like that?”

  Estelle smiled, holding up a gloved finger. “I think it was a reckless bid to round off a larger gambit. That ‘MW’ came up in a couple of other contexts in the course of my investigations. Jeremy Hunt, for example. When the polic
e found him, his fingers had been positioned in a very particular way. Three fingers on his right hand formed an ‘M.’ Three fingers of the other hand formed a ‘W.’”

  Hector said, “No! Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “Of course.” Hector was having some difficulty stifling the urge to laugh. “You think that this man, with his dying breath, tried to leave us some clue to the identity of his killer?”

  “That’s what the police here thought,” Estelle said. “Silly Frenchmen.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Brinke deliberately posed the fingers that way.”

  “To incriminate herself?”

  “To exonerate herself…deflect suspicion from herself,” Estelle said. “It’s so obvious a frame, nobody would believe it…presumably not even these French police.”

  “Sounds a little too bizarre for me,” Hector said. “Bluff and double bluff…brinkmanship. These are not games to play — not with your own life at stake.”

  “That’s just it — the net was closing around her,” Estelle said. “She knew that I was putting it all together. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Why are you convinced of it?”

  “Her disappearance for one thing — and the fact that it was obviously faked. I forgot to tell you. Shortly before her disappearance at the hotel, a bellhop on duty that night told me he saw Brinke conversing with some man who handed her a bag in exchange for a few francs. The bellhop said Brinke opened the bag and pulled its contents out a little ways to examine them before letting the man take his leave.”

  “What was in the bag?” Hector was truly curious…this story he found himself believing for some reason.

  “A man’s shoe.”

  “Large, I guess we should suspect…to press into the spilled powder,” Hector said, “to leave a man’s footprint in the ladies’ room.”

  “To bolster the deception,” Estelle said. “Precisely. And then the package arrived at our flat yesterday.”

  “What package?”

  “Some cakes…a note congratulating me on my latest novel, The Mysterious Affair of Manchester.”

  “Was something wrong with the cakes?”

  “They smelled quite bitter,” Estelle said.

  “Poison?”

  “I think so. My husband’s firm is looking into it.”

  “Why not call Simon and turn them over to him for testing?”

  “I have no confidence in him.”

  “I see.”

  Hector took a deep breath, sat back in his seat, then let it out slowly, puffing out his cheeks. “And you came to find me to tell me this…why?”

  “So you’d know the truth — that mourning for Brinke might not be worth your while on several levels. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but you’re too good a man to allow to wallow in sorrow over a woman like that. Not after all she’s done.”

  “It’s good of you to say.”

  “I also remembered what you said the other day in your room.”

  “I was pretty doped up, Estelle. Prick my memory.”

  “You said if we identified a culprit in these crimes, and if we judged the evidence wasn’t sufficient for officials to prosecute upon, that we might have to take matters into our own hands.”

  Hector looked taken aback. “I said that?”

  “You did.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I think we’ve come to that point now, Hector.”

  “What? You suggesting that we hunt down Brinke, wherever she’s hiding? That we…render some punishment ourselves?”

  “I’m asking you to think about it. I’m not sure I can do it alone. She’s formidable.”

  They were on the Boulevard du Montparnasse again. They were approaching the Rue Vavin. Hector told the driver to pull over. He said to Estelle, “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

  “I’ve certainly given you plenty to think about,” Estelle said.

  “You have. And I had feelings for Brinke. I have to resolve some of this before I can think about trying to bring her to book.”

  “Of course. But you don’t have much time. God only knows what she’s plotting next.”

  “Interesting choice of words…us all being writers and such.”

  Estelle smiled. She seemed to hesitate, then leaned across the seat and kissed Hector, a bit awkwardly, on the mouth.

  He said, “What was that for?”

  “I’ve been thinking quite a bit since I met you. Thinking about how wasted you were with that terrible woman…that black widow. I feared for you.”

  Hector nodded. He kissed her back, hard. As a kisser, Estelle didn’t live up — or down — to his dark, inexplicable earlier fantasies about taking her. But he acted as though she did. He rubbed her breast through her coat. He said, “You’re a married woman.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “You’re not really that old-world, are you? Think about what I’ve said. Think on it.”

  “I will. If you need to reach me, you can leave word at the Closerie des Lilas. I’ll be checking in there occasionally over the next day or so.”

  Estelle frowned. “What about your apartment?”

  “Figure it’s being watched…police…maybe nihilists.”

  “Probably so. Well, à bientôt.”

  “Au revoir.” He paused. “Oh! How do you know about that dead man’s hands? About how they were posed, I mean?”

  “That policeman, while asking advice of me. He asked what I thought the hands might be trying to convey.”

  “Ah.”

  ***

  Snow flurries twirled in the brisk wind and it was getting colder. Hector figured by sunset there would likely be another sheet of ice forming across the Seine. It would be cold on the bridge at night. Thinking about that, Hector risked walking by the offices of Intimations again. The hair he’d pressed to the door was still in place.

  He couldn’t risk going home, although he thought if he did there was a fair chance that Molly might try to find him there.

  After some searching, Hector finally found a pay phone. Simon picked up on the third ring. The policeman said, “You should be in hospital, Hector. I’ve expended resources looking for you. Come in, and let’s talk.”

  “No time for that,” Hector said. “But a question that will interest you. Did you ever show crime scene photos of Jeremy Hunt’s body to Estelle Quartermain?”

  “Are you daft, Hector?”

  “No. And I didn’t think that you did.”

  Simon said, “She has made a claim to the contrary?”

  “Yes. She knows about the hands. I’m wondering how. One more question: Did you ever have reason to mention the name ‘Molly Wilder’ to Estelle…you know, during one of her visits to give you tasks?”

  “Again, non.”

  “Have you found Molly yet?”

  “Non, Hector. But we have found her brother. He was found murdered in an alley not so terribly far from your apartment. Shot once between the eyes…left dangling from a fire escape. He was not a small man — this Jackson Starr. Or, as we now know him under his other alias, Philippe Martin. It would have taken a strong man to hoist him up like that.”

  “Perhaps several men,” Hector suggested.

  “Perhaps. Your friend Hemingway is missing, too.”

  “I haven’t seen Hem in several hours.”

  “Not since the hospital,” Simon said. “Very adroit, that.”

  “I told you, I mean to find my other friend.”

  “Again with this matter of Brinke Devlin. I’m sure you’re wasting your time, my friend.”

  “You have found her body?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I soldier on, solo lobo…all alone in my hope.”

  “Come in — let’s talk. At least let my men acquire you again for discreet surveillance. Peace of mind for us both, n ´est-ce pas?”

  “I’ll think on it.” Hector broke the connection.

 
He checked his watch: a little before five. Hector slipped into a store and purchased a notepad. Then he flagged down a taxi and asked to be taken across the river…someplace on the Right Bank where he could eat and write among strangers.

  39

  Snow falling on the Seine.

  It was half-past-nine: Hector had waited an extra fifteen minutes. He stared down at the river. Another icy fog crawled across the Seine. The lights of the bridge glowed in the cold mist. Hector wondered what to do with himself next. He couldn’t risk returning to his apartment. By now the Hemingways would be on that night train…riding off in Hector and Brinke’s stead to Italy. That thought filled Hector with immense sadness…some anger.

  But at least Hem and his family were out of harm’s way.

  Hector was toying with finding a hotel.

  Then he remembered a promise. He walked under one of the gaslights and pulled out his wallet. He searched its contents and found the small slip of paper with her address. Hector flagged down a taxi, slid in and said, “Rue Suger.”

  ***

  Hector knocked several times. Finally, a tentative voice:

  “Who is it?”

  “Victoria? It’s Hector. The man who saved your life.”

  She opened the door a crack…looked him over.

  “I thought you’d forgotten.”

  “Much has happened. May I come in for a moment?”

  She stepped back from the door, said, “Come in.”

  He edged in…a small darkish room…fairly anonymous.

  She had a derringer pointed at his chest.

  “You won’t need that,” he said. “I’m on the side of the angels, remember?”

  “You’re no angel,” she said. “Not after leaving all those other women to that maniacs’ hands.”

  “I couldn’t foresee that. Something else precipitated that.”

  Victoria shook her head. “The man who did that? They say he got away.”

  “Not for long. He’s dead. Someone shot him. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”

  “Did you—?”

  “No.”

  She was wearing a simple tweed skirt and black sweater. It unsettled Hector a little…it was a little like a thrift store version of the clothes Brinke had been wearing the night Hector had met her.