Clarie pulled away. Really, he was making too much of an effort, treating her like a child or an invalid. “Your coffee’s getting cold,” she murmured as she went back to the armoire. “Do you want me to pick out a cravat for today?” He used to like her to choose one in the morning and tie it under his collar. There was no reason why he had to know what was going on in her mind.
During the hours between Bernard’s departure and Madeleine’s arrival, Clarie tried to read, to sew, to think of next week’s menu and shopping list, all to no avail. Finally, at three o’clock, Clarie started to dress. Rose helped her with the corset and pinning up her hair—things Clarie always did for herself. But for some odd reason, her fingers were incapable of finding the clasps. Clarie knew that Rose loved doing these things for her, but it didn’t seem right. Clarie towered a head above the older woman, and yet Rose was doing all the work.
“There now, look at you,” Rose said as she pinned back the last errant strand of dark hair. “You look lovely.”
And useless, Clarie thought as she sat staring in the dresser mirror. That must change. She reached up to pat Rose’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry you’ve been working so hard.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Not so hard.” The maid leaned down so that their faces reflected back at them. They both looked ashen and worn out.
“Well,” Clarie said as she got up, “tomorrow you will have the day off. Monsieur Martin is taking me to dinner.”
“Lovely.” Rose clasped her hands together, smiling. “But I can still come to help,” she hastened to add. Her gray hair was so thin, it was always falling out of the pins. Her plain features seldom came to life, except in response to something happening to Clarie. When had Clarie stopped worrying about what Rose’s life was like? It was unfair.
Unfair, too, that she was releasing Rose tomorrow less for Rose’s sake than for her own. She wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to be hovered over. “No, do take some time to rest,” Clarie insisted as she went to the armoire to get her coat.
Madeleine was always on time. Even so, when the bell rang, Clarie’s heart leapt in her chest. She swallowed and started to button her long blue coat, which fit her rather loosely. She hadn’t needed the corset. She had no idea what was happening to her.
She hurried out of the bedroom, through the living room to the foyer. She wanted to get this over with. She needed to learn to go out on her own, do things on her own.
She greeted Madeleine with a kiss on each cheek and said good-bye to Rose. Then they stepped into the hallway. When Clarie heard the door close behind her, flashes of fear pulsed through her body. She grasped the banister. She should have gone, they should have let her go to the grave. That’s where she should be going now, she thought frantically as she looked down stairs that heaved and ebbed like ocean waves before her. She took the first step. Then the second. Madeleine was slow and patient behind her, encouraging her forward whenever she stopped.
When she got to the ground floor, she flattened herself against the wall, panting despite the slow descent. The wall was cold. Everything was cold. When Madeleine opened the door, it was colder still. Finally, Clarie stepped outside into the street and gazed around her at people going to and fro, pointing at shop windows, hurrying home, greeting each other. This was normal life. Sooner or later she had to become part of it again. Clarie took in a few deep breaths. She felt as if the cold was painting her alive, in pink and rose. It did feel good, to be here, among strangers, among people who did not know what had happened to her.
“Let’s see what’s in the gallery,” she suggested, and Madeleine took her arm as they crossed the street, skirting past the other pedestrians and a peddler’s cart, to look at the prints in the window. Clarie especially loved examining the street scenes and the pictures of old buildings, which took her to other times and places. She drew Madeleine closer to her as she felt her body relaxing. She could do this.
“Watch out,” they heard a man cry behind them. When they turned they saw Rebecca Stein barely avoiding a collision with a portly gentleman and a carriage as she ran across the street toward them. She had obviously run out of the Steins’ drygoods store without her coat.
She landed in front of Clarie. “Madame Martin,” she said, still panting. “Madame Froment.” She curtsied to both of them before going on. “I saw you from the window,” she said to Clarie. “Maman says that I mustn’t bother you. But I know that your maid does not come in on your sabbath, and I am learning to cook, and I…” she gulped hard, the look in her dark brown eyes eager, almost pleading, “I could bring you some lentil soup and bread from the baker.”
“Your mother is right, no one must bother Mme Martin.”
“No, wait,” Clarie said, ignoring Madeleine’s stern admonition as she laid a gloved hand on the girl’s arm. “That would be very kind, Rebecca.” How could one refuse a young girl, especially one who reminded Clarie how much she loved all her students and of what she had been to them. “Now, run along, or you’ll catch your death. And be careful of the street.”
“Yes, Madame Martin, yes.” Rebecca was on her toes with eagerness, before she scampered across the street, taking more care this time not to run into anyone.
“Humph. Always interfering.”
“I don’t think so. Why do you say that?”
“They are always getting into everyone’s business. Don’t you know that?”
“They?”
“You know.”
“Madeleine, come.” She wasn’t in the mood to have a dispute about the Israelites, but at least her companion was acting herself, not like the nursemaid to an invalid.
“Yes, let’s go to our church,” Madeleine said, steering Clarie down the block.
But when they rounded the corner and came within sight of the cathedral, Clarie froze. She felt as if someone was squeezing her heart, wringing all the blood out of her. The episcopal church was so overwhelming. All she could think of was that they had bundled up Henri-Joseph and brought him there to baptize him, that they knew, they had suspected. And that she had let them take him out of her arms. She had not gone to mass for months, and she could not imagine finding solace in the massive, princely building. Clarie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Bernard said I should walk.”
“You’re sure?” Madeleine asked.
Clarie nodded and turned the other way, toward the rue Saint-Dizier, away from the cathedral.
“Shops, then? The market?”
“The market, yes. Flowers. Good.”
The Central Market was only a few blocks away. Women were coming out burdened by sacks filled with the preparations for dinner. They looked so happy, so ordinary. When Madeleine started to go inside, Clarie stopped her. “Let’s stay outside with the flowers.” She didn’t want to smell the meat or the cheeses or see the hanging flesh. Red and pink-tipped white roses, fiery orange gladiolas, brave little violets in the waning sunlight, that was enough. Clarie leaned over to smell a white rose. When the vendor was busy with a customer, she touched its soft petal. Bernard used to bring her flowers. Perhaps he would today. “Where do they come from in the winter?” she asked dreamily.
“Greenhouses, you know that.”
Clarie blushed. Where had her mind gone?
They kept on going down the broad, busy street. Clarie had a feeling that Madeleine was guiding her, but she didn’t care. Walking, seeing people, this is what she needed.
“This is my parish, maybe you would be more comfortable here.”
Clarie paused a moment and looked up at the single tower of Saint Pierre. The church was beautiful. Even though it was much smaller, bone-white and new, it reminded her of Notre Dame in Paris. It, too, had an ornate façade which soared over its three doors. And inside, she knew, the arches would reach almost to the sky, and everything would be light and airy. It might not press down on her, it might allow her to pray for her son and find a bit of peace.
She took Madeleine’s hand as they walked up
the four low steps to the main entrance. They had only penetrated a few meters into the interior of the church when Clarie knew where she had to be. A flood of memories propelled her to a side altar with its two humble, familiar plaster statues. It was, Clarie knew, Our Lady of Lourdes, the youthful virgin in white and blue standing on a rock just as she had appeared many times to the other statue, the kneeling peasant girl, Bernadette. Clarie’s mother had loved to tell her this story. For Clarie’s mother, the apparitions and the pilgrimages they inspired were proof that miracles could happen and would continue to happen in her lifetime. Then her mother had died. And Clarie, submitted to the discipline of the unbending nuns, no longer had any reason to believe in miracles or apparitions. But the statue seemed to be smiling at Clarie so sweetly. Even if the vision had cured no one, even if miracles did not exist, she had made the sickly Bernadette happy. She had made Clarie’s mother happy.
“Maman, Maman.” The altar became a blur as tears filled Clarie’s eyes. Could it be possible that her mother was in heaven watching over her, praying for her, sheltering her son? Clarie swiped her hand across her nose and cheeks, and began to search frantically for a coin in the little sack hanging on her wrist. When she found it, she dropped it into the vertical slot of the tin box beneath three rows of candles flickering in their blood-red glasses. Madeleine steadied her hand as she took a straw and transferred the flame from one burning candle to a fresh wick. Still sobbing, Clarie fell to her knees in front of Bernadette and the Blessed Virgin, and Madeleine Froment knelt beside her.
28
Friday, December 7
EARLY FRIDAY MORNING, JACQUETTE ARRIVED bearing two gifts. The first was expected. Still, Martin received the good news with a sigh of gratitude. The rabbi had been wrong: Thursday had passed, and no one had been murdered or even threatened with violence.
“And what else?” Martin asked, impatient. His sense of relief had evaporated before he could sustain even the slightest pleasure from it, leaving a hard, leaden taste in his mouth. The reality was that Martin did expect that, sooner or later, on Thursday or Monday or any other day, unless they caught the murderer, there would be more killings. They desperately needed a break in the case.
“I believe we have an informer.”
“Here? Now? A witness?” Martin got out of his chair, as if ready to go to the door himself.
Jacquette held up his hand. “Not exactly.”
“Well, then?” Martin stopped short. “Who?” It wasn’t like Jacquette to be coy.
“I just want to prepare you to meet him before we think about how we can use him.”
“I’m perfectly capable of deciding how to use a witness.” Martin threw himself into his seat, thoroughly annoyed.
“They call him Shlomo the Red Dwarf.”
Martin slumped back. A dwarf? A red dwarf? His frustrations would have gotten the better of him if he hadn’t noted how eagerness, triumph and anxiety were vying for dominance in Jacquette’s usually placid face. Obviously the man thought he had found a treasure, and he was groping for a way to convince Martin of its worth. The police, of course, relied on any number of degenerates and small-time crooks to help them solve the tawdry crimes that were their stock in trade. But to use one of them to solve the murder of two prominent men? “Sit,” Martin commanded, giving in. He’d hear Jacquette out.
Jacquette reached into his pocket for the comfort of a Blue Jockey as he bent into the seat. He held the cigarette suspended between two fingers as he began. “I wanted to prepare you because at first sight you might think I picked him up at the circus or off the street for begging.” With the deft thumbnail of his left hand, Jacquette struck a match and lit up. “In fact, one of my men caught him trying to filch a pen and paper from the Papeterie by the railroad. Our dwarf claimed that he needed supplies for the ‘translations’ he does for his community. ‘His community.’ Those words caught me, I’ll tell you. And the reason that François thought I would be interested in the first place was that this little fellow speaks French as well as German, and apparently all the other languages of the Israelites. And, what is better, he loves to talk, willing to tell you everything he knows. He’s the kind of guy who for a few sous or a little ‘consideration’ can keep us informed about certain ‘types’ for years.” Having rammed through his argument, Jacquette took a well-deserved pull from his cigarette.
“What makes you think he knows anything about Ullmann or Erlanger?”
“I’m not sure he does,” Jacquette conceded as he emitted a line of smoke from the side of his mouth. “But you know, sir, I think it’s time to look the other way. To see if there is some reason that the Israelites might have for killing their own.”
And go against the wishes of Didier and Singer. And deny the righteous anger of the rabbi and the Widow Ullmann.
“He told me—I swear this fellow cannot keep from talking—that he would be our guide to the ‘other half ’ of the Israelite community. He says unless you know these Jews, you don’t know what a Jew is. Maybe we can pick up something from him. Some hate. Some resentment. Maybe, for a little ‘consideration,’ he can help us hire a few other sets of eyes to be on the alert as they go out on the street with their carts, selling and begging.”
How ironic, Martin thought. The mad priest Hémonet accused the poor Jews of spying for their rich co-religionists. Now Jacquette wanted to turn them into police informers. Martin ran his fingers through his hair, wondering, not for the first time, if it had not grown thinner and grayer in the last few weeks, if this case and his own suffocating sadness had not aged him and made him dull when he needed to be sharp. Jacquette wanted to do some real police work, the kind he and his men thrived on. The inspector didn’t give a jot for the politics of the courthouse. Neither had Martin, before this case. What if this case was no different from any other? Envy, greed, humiliation: Isn’t that why people usually killed?
Martin relaxed back into his seat and crossed his arms. “What have you asked him so far?”
“Nothing about the murders. I thought I’d let you put a scare into him. That might guarantee that he’s not just telling us stories, once we get him talking.”
Martin liked that. That he would “put a scare” into someone. Evidently he was not so far off his game that his subordinates would notice. And, if Jacquette was so sure that his find could be of value, why not? “Let’s take a look at this Shlomo.”
While Jacquette bounded out of his chambers, Martin straightened out his desk and asked Charpentier to be ready to take notes. Martin wanted to leave no doubt that he was in command, official, and quite possibly threatening.
When the door opened again, Martin understood why Jacquette had prepared him. Barely a meter tall, Shlomo the Red Dwarf rolled in slowly, swaying from side to side, with the aid of a cane that looked like someone had sawed it in half to accommodate the man’s shrunken legs. At least he was not really red, for his skin, or what little Martin could see of it, bore merely the yellowish pallor of the poor and the sickly. Clearly it was the hair that endowed him with his strange nickname. The unkempt frizzy beard that covered most of his face was blazing orange. Once the man had limped halfway into the room, he planted his cane to give him momentary balance and used his free hand to swoop off his dented, broad-brimmed black felt hat. He moved this oversized dilapidated headgear to his heart as he bowed. “Monsieur le juge, I am honored to be in your presence.” The hair that jutted out in all directions from the top of his head looked like it had caught on fire.
Martin glanced at Jacquette, who towered behind the witness. The inspector could not suppress a mischievous grin. Martin could well imagine what Charpentier was thinking behind him. He hoped he wasn’t smirking.
“Monsieur—” Martin remained seated. This was not the kind of witness that one rose to greet.
“Shlomo, Simon Shlomo at your service.” The man’s outsized head and hands seemed to dominate his diminutive body. His face was so broad, it was as if it, like his shrunken legs, h
ad been compressed by some terrible accident of birth. Across this wide expanse, his mouth stretched into a perpetual smile. Martin knew the expression well. It was the smile of the ugly and the deformed, whose very existence depended upon their ability to please and keep on pleasing. The pleasers were not always the most dependable witnesses. Anything this man said would require corroboration.
“Monsieur Shlomo,” Martin said evenly, “would you like to take a seat?”
The dwarf advanced a few steps, eyed the chair, and shook his head. Martin saw then that for the dwarf getting up on the chair might be a difficult, even humiliating venture. But, like so many of the world’s unfortunates, who suffered more than their due of humbling experiences, Shlomo had the wit to disguise his embarrassment.
“In front of Your Eminence, I prefer to stand,” he said with another bow. The high singsong voice, like the man, was not fully grown. It emanated from somewhere behind his large, hooked nose, and floated out through his yellow-toothed grin. Martin could well imagine the dwarf speaking in rhythms and tongues, telling jokes, or performing tricks before a crowd, and then laying the dented hat on the ground, like a wishing well, waiting for the coins to fall.
Martin had every reason to be wary. “May I see your identity card?”
“Of course, Monsieur le juge, of course. At your service.” The man hobbled a little closer. Leaning against the desk, he reached into his patched brown wool coat and pulled out a tattered leather wallet, thick with documents. He laid it on Martin’s desk and nudged it forward, as if aware that His Eminence, the judge, would not actually want to touch him.
Martin stood up and flipped through it, amazed by what it contained. The man had crossed the borders of the Ottoman and the Russian Empires, he had sojourned in Austria-Hungary and Germany, Belgium and Holland. And somehow they had let him into France.
“Lebn vi Got in Frankraykh,” Shlomo declared, as if explaining his impressive travels.
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