Victoria had her long, blue-black hair pulled up in a French twist. Hector said, “You must be stir-crazy by now.”
“I’m trying to decide what to do next,” she said. “My landlord’s talking about setting me out.”
“I’ll see to him on the way out.”
“You can’t do that forever.”
“I don’t mean to,” Hector said. “I’ll just pay through Monday for now. Then we’ll see about getting you work — something more in keeping with your dreams.”
“You’re a romantic…a sentimentalist…a fool.”
“Certainly the last.” Hector smiled, said, “I haven’t had dinner. You haven’t been able to go out in a few days. Let me buy you something to eat. Some good red wine. Some place warm with quiet music.”
“And then we return here and I reward you how? With my body?”
“We return here and you sleep in your bed. Alone. Though I frankly wouldn’t say no to an invitation to spend the night on your couch. I can’t go home.”
“Why not?”
“Police, for one thing. They’ve been watching me…thinking that in doing that, they might catch that other. This murdered man, the ‘maniac,’ was hunting me, you see.”
“But you just said he’s dead.”
“But he has a few dangerous friends left. Really more like followers.”
“So it’s not over.”
“For you? Yes. For me? Well, it may be another day or two.”
Her cobalt eyes considered him. “All right. You can take that couch tonight. And this restaurant better have a wonderful chef. I haven’t eaten in two days.”
“Then for God’s sake, let’s go right now.”
“What’s your name again? Your last name?”
“Lassiter.”
“All right. Let’s go then, Hector Lassiter.”
***
That night, Hector sat on Victoria’s couch. Victoria was across the room, asleep in her own bed, her black hair spread out on the pillow. She was shivering a little from time to time; the windows were crooked in their casings and there was a draft through two or three windows — the curtains rising and falling with the gusts of cold wind.
They had stopped for a couple of bottles of red wine on their way back from dinner. Hector sat by the window, next to a flickering candle, a glass of red wine in one hand and his notepad propped up on his knee.
But he wasn’t writing.
Instead, Hector kept running scenarios in his head. Trying to reconcile recent events against Estelle Quartermain’s string of bizarre revelations, assertions, and theories.
Gradually, Hector evolved a theory of his own — one suitably bizarre to rival any of those of Estelle Quartermain’s.
Hector decided there really was some kind of history between Estelle and Brinke — or, rather — between Estelle and Connor Templeton. Hector believed Estelle was being honest with him when she said that she’d only learned of Connor’s true identity when Gertrude introduced Estelle to Brinke.
Hector also believed that Estelle had never heard of Molly Wilder. If that was so, then Estelle would only associate MW with Margaret Walker — not with Margaret “Molly” Wilder.
He sipped some of his wine, held it in his mouth before swallowing it. Estelle had claimed to have been shown photos of Jeremy Hunt’s corpse. But Simon denied that was the case. Presuming that Estelle’s husband, the alleged private investigator, did not have access to those photos of Hunt’s body through back channels, then Estelle would have had to have actually seen Hunt’s body to describe the dead man’s hands. She would have had to have been present at the murder scene to describe the arrangement of Hunt’s fingers to form the telltale M and W.
Philippe had denied that Jeremy Hunt was one of the magazine editors targeted by the nihilists for murder. The nihilists had been courting Hunt, according to Hem. Presumably, the Nadaists were still pursuing that angle with Hunt when someone else killed him.
Then there was the woman in white — Lloyd Blake’s alleged mistress — the one who had confided to Hector about Blake’s planned meeting with a prospective magazine buyer named “Margaret W.” Estelle knew that Gertrude had more or less assigned Hector and Brinke the task of snooping around Blake’s murder.
Hector had told Gertrude Stein about Brinke’s plan to attend Blake’s funeral to look for clues. Estelle had been with Gertrude when Hector had informed Stein of their plans. If Gertrude shared Hector’s plans with Estelle, then Estelle would have had the foreknowledge to place that woman in white on the hill…to tip Hector to this “Margaret W.” Again, Estelle would have done that thinking the trail would lead him back to Margaret Walker, never knowing it would instead cast suspicion on Margaret “Molly” Wilder, of whom Estelle Quartermain knew nothing.
There was more: Estelle said her husband was some kind of detective agency operative. What if he had had Hector followed during the past few days — presumably followed by men more skilled than the nihilists in the art of shadowing…maybe better even than Simon’s men?
If that was so, then Hector could have been followed by Estelle’s agents to that brothel on the Rue Quincampoix. Through them, Estelle could have come upon the murder scene there, and planted the false note from Victor Leek implicating “the queen.” And in a gambit to divide and conquer, Estelle might also have left that similar, threatening note on Hem’s apartment’s door.
Then, at the hotel where Brinke was “abducted,” in a desperate moment of ill-conceived action, Estelle might have made a last bid to incriminate Brinke by scrawling that M and W on the bathroom door in lipstick before the police reached the scene. Those initials written in lipstick struck Hector as an act of regrettable innovation. As something a mystery writer would bin or strike in the process of revision. But Estelle couldn’t take back that hastily scrawled M and W from that door. She couldn’t edit away that impulsive false clue.
But why?
If Hector was right, why had Estelle done all this? What had happened between Estelle and “Connor” to prompt three murders?
Hector wondered if it didn’t all come down to Charles Turner. That horrible, vicious poisoning — that was something straight out of one of Estelle’s own books. It was an early murder, committed in public view. A killing whose execution — no pun intended — was set in motion, perhaps by Estelle, before she knew her nemesis, Connor Templeton/Brinke Devlin would be present to witness it. Later, conveniently, Estelle had gotten herself assigned by Gertrude to nose around that very murder.
The more Hector thought on it, the more he believed Turner’s murder was the key to everything between Estelle and Brinke.
But where did that leave Brinke Devlin?
Philippe denied having taken her, though he left open the possibility Molly might have.
Estelle was echoing Hector’s own belief that Brinke might still be alive. For Hector that was a hopeful thought; for Estelle, he began to think, it was a fearful one. And so Estelle had tried to vamp Hector — acting like a femme fatale from one of his Black Mask stories. Estelle had asked Hector to help her punish Brinke — to play judge, jury and executioner.
“Why don’t you come to bed?”
Startled, Hector looked up. Victoria, clad in a flannel nightgown, was sitting up in her bed. “I’m not offering more than to let you share the bed, Hector. It’s cold and you’re much too tall for that couch. If you’d like you can have the other side. But that’s all.”
Hector smiled and sat down his wine and notebook. He took off his shoes and belt and sweater and blew out the candle. He said, “Thank you…that’s so kind of you.”
In his pants, socks, and shirt, Hector slid under the covers, rolling over onto his right side to leave plenty of room for her. After a time, Victoria nestled closer against him. Half-asleep, Hector wrapped an arm around her waist. She took his hand in hers, squeezed it once, then they both drifted into sleep.
PART VII
vendredi
(The Last Day)
40
A goodbye at the door: Victoria said, “You should let the police finish this.”
“I’m not sure they can.”
“Then you’ll be needing the couch again tonight, Hector? Or rather, the other side of the bed?”
“Are you offering?”
“If you think you’re still in danger when this day is over? Of course.”
“I have no idea what this day may bring.”
“I’ll be up late…so if you need a safe place, come.”
He risked leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Thank you so much.”
Victoria hugged him back. He winced as her hands gripped his back. She said, “Thank you for saving my life. I think.”
He smiled sadly. “Life is always worth living, Vicky.”
She shook her head with a half-smile. “So you’re an optimist as well as a fool.”
“Not really. But dead is merely dead.”
***
Hector went to a café on the Boulevard Saint Michel, ordered coffee and some eggs. While he waited for his order, he slipped next door to a pay phone and called Simon. He said, “What new horror has the day wrought?”
“Deux nihilists have been found hanged,” Aristide Simon said. “I suppose they just couldn’t face the void without their guide and guru…is that it?”
“Good a theory as any,” Hector said. “Have you found Molly?”
“Lenore Starr remains missing, or well hidden.”
“Not by me, if that’s what you mean to imply.”
“I imply nothing, Hector. I think you’re desperate to find Molly, or Lenore, too. Before me.”
“Could be. Any sign of Brinke?”
“Non. And the river is frozen over again. I doubt we’ll be finding anything in the Seine for the next few days…not until we get above freezing again.”
“Any clues as to who shot Philippe?”
“It was a cheap revolver…something small in caliber,” Simon said. “As one might find in an antique store, perhaps. As a woman might carry in her purse. What they used to call ‘a holdout.’”
A sleeve gun or derringer. Something small and unintimidating…comfortable and comforting in a small hand.
“You should come in or meet me, Hector. And Dr. Williams is worried about your wounds.”
“I’m fine. I just want one more day to myself. One more day to try and put it all together.”
“What about today is different from any other day?”
“Today is Friday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. I think you should bring Estelle Quartermain in for questioning,” Hector said. “I think she poisoned Charles Turner. I think she’s been the one leaving the false clues, those initials ‘M’ and ‘W’ everywhere. I think she was trying to frame not Margaret Wilder, but Margaret Walker.”
“Brinke Devlin, in other words. I concur. Mrs. Quartermain has fled Paris, however. Quite abruptly. I believe she may be outside my reach. But I am trying.”
***
Hector took a cab to the Rue Delambre. He walked briskly by the door of the Intimations offices, his head down and hat pulled low to hide his face. The hair he had left pasted across the door was still in place.
***
Hector stood in the archway of the church across from his apartment building. After ten minutes, he’d convinced himself that nobody was watching his place. He crossed the street and let himself in. It was strange to find the front desk unattended: at least Germaine had taken seriously his request to go away for a short time.
A stack of mail was mounded on the counter. Hector sorted through the pile for anything addressed to him. He stopped when he found a particular letter. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose.
In the left-hand corner of the envelope, where the return address should be, there was simply a name:
Bud Grant.
41
Hector sat at the foot of his bed, reading Brinke’s letter:
Darling Hector,
I am so, so sorry my one true love.
What I’ve done is monstrous, but I really saw no other way in the short time left me by circumstances Wednesday. And, if I know you and your sharp brain, you never really believed me dead. You probably also doubt that I was kidnapped. I’m counting on the police thinking differently. The newspapers seem to indicate that is the case.
As I write this, newspapers are also reporting that Philippe Martin, or Victor Leek, has been executed by parties unknown.
I’m supposing that was your doing.
It might have been mine, if you hadn’t gotten there first.
How deeply Molly is or isn’t mired in all of this — in the killings — I don’t pretend to know, and I wouldn’t hazard a guess. I can’t bring myself to punish her. I selfishly leave that burden to you. Pass judgment on her, or don’t. You have to decide that.
But there is someone else you should be looking to — or perhaps pointing your policeman friend after:
Estelle Quartermain is also a killer, and responsible for at least two of these recent deaths in Paris, by my reckoning.
More on that in due course.
I promised you all my truths, my love, and in this letter, I intend to divulge them to you, my darling Hector…every last one.
My real name is Brinke Sinclair, as I finally told you the other night. My parents’ real names are also as I told you then. And I really don’t know if they are still living. My father was a Baptist minister. He also had a small farm holding mostly run by my mother with the assistance of a couple of hired hands.
Theirs — based on my young memories — was a largely loveless marriage. My mother was solitary…remote. My father was pious. Neither one of them was particularly affectionate toward me. And because they were relatively mature when I was conceived, I’m convinced I was an accident.
As an only child, I was lonely.
Ohio gets all the seasons, in full fury. Springs and summers — early falls — I used to go exploring the countryside with my dog, a Border collie I named Cricket. It’s no exaggeration when I say that Cricket was my one true and best friend — there were no children within two miles of our house. At school, the other children tended to shy away because I was the minister’s daughter; my father loomed over his parishioners as a kind of foreboding figure, I see now.
So I was lonely.
There was a neighboring farm.
One day in early May, Cricket, probably drawn by the scent, led me to the back of the neighbor’s farmhouse. A plate had been left out on the back step…candies…a few cookies…some small sweet cakes. Nobody seemed to be around, so I snuck a bite of one or two of the candies. I fed one cookie to Cricket, and pocketed two more.
Then we ran home.
This happened five more times on consecutive days…the offerings on the plate getting just a little larger each time…little me risking taking just a few more pieces of candy each day…filling my pockets with candy.
On the seventh day, a man suddenly stepped out onto the porch with a rifle. He shot Cricket in the head, and then dragged me inside his house.
You can guess the rest. That dark imagination of yours will supply all the details I can’t bear to put to paper, even after all these years.
I managed to escape after a few hours.
I was running home, half-naked and bleeding, when the county sheriff happened down the dirt road between that man’s house and our family farm.
If I had reached my parents’ house, I expect there might have been some kind of cover-up. I suspect my assault would have gone unpunished…certainly unreported.
But that sheriff was dealt a hand.
The man who attacked me, a fearsome old hermit named Leonard Sloane, was put to death. In the course of his brisk trial, they determined Sloane was probably responsible for at least three missing children in and around our town over a period of four years. Sloane claimed to have kept one of the other children a captive in his home for at
least eight months.
I was told I was very lucky to have been in that house for less than a day.
But my parents were ashamed of what had happened. I think they were also quite ashamed of me. Shortly after Sloane’s sentence was handed down by the judge, my parents sent me away to a Catholic boarding school.
Bad things happened there, too. But there was no end in sight, and no big-bellied county sheriff to run to that time.
At the age of 15, tall and athletic, I finally overpowered the particular nun who had abused me for so many years. I escaped and struck out on my own.
The good nuns did instill in me a love of writing and reading, and I guess I more or less found my writing voice through the composition of my own journal. I scribbled long entries nights at the boarding school and after, filling whole notebooks with my thoughts, fears, hopes, and, sometimes, little stories I told myself. But they were dark stories…revenge tales. Stories about clever and pitiless young girls turning the tables on their persecutors and vile parents.
Mystery stories.
Crime stories.
Left to my own devices, my reading tastes also ran to the dark side…to crime and mystery novels. I supported myself as a reporter…a freelance writer…eventually as a writer of short stories in various regional magazines. After the war, I read about the exchange rates in Europe, particularly in Paris, and about how well one could live on so little there.
So I made my way to the City of Lights. I lived in Paris about a year, and then began to branch out to other countries…to see other places. Grist for my fiction.
The origins of Connor Templeton were exactly as I described them to you our first night together.
The first couple of Templeton novels were made up out of whole cloth, and, I think now, they read that way. Around the middle of the third novel, while living in Cairo, I found myself caught up in the coverage of an ongoing murder investigation. I decided to incorporate some of the facts related to that murder into my novel. I was looking to stir in some verisimilitude, I suppose…to give my novel some gravitas. Pursuit of truth.
One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1) Page 29