The Passing of Pascal

by Annette Moncheri

  “I will of course re-open the case, and I will have an interview with Monsieur and Madame Daucourt. Hopefully we can keep those buzzards the press out of it, but I must do my duty regardless.”

  “I don’t suppose I might tag along?” I asked with my most appealing look. “I’m worried about all of this. I’m sure it’s occurred to you that Mademoiselle Bouvier’s life is still at risk as long as the true villain is at large. Wrapping up this investigation is of utmost importance to me personally and professionally, and if there is any way that I could be of assistance…”

  Inspector Baudet gave me a faint smile and patted me briefly on the hand. “Madame, I appreciate your concerns, and in fact I would be most willing to appoint Monsieur Carré to your maison to watch for any problems, if that would set your mind at ease.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated,” I said with all sincerity. After all, so long as I was present at my establishment, I could use my own powers to keep an eye on the situation, but I would need to leave the maison for the investigation. But he left out entirely any mention of my joining in the interview, I noticed. It was such a classic way of saying no without saying no. I decided to press the point. “And you’ll allow me to join in the meeting with the Daucourts?”

  “I’m afraid that is not at all possible,” he said. “Thank you very much for the tea. Au revoir.”

  He stood up to take his leave, and I silently fumed as I bade him au revoir. I could, of course, have applied a bit of my enchantement to sway him to my way of thinking, but that is much harder to do once a person has flatly refused a request, and that means applying so much power that it carries the risk of having the target become infatuated with you—a fate I might not have terribly minded when it came to Inspector Baudet… but I digress.

  At any rate, I had other ways to ensure I was present for the interview.

  I hurried upstairs and out onto my private balcony to which only I have the key, where I took care that no one was watching me, and then shapeshifted into a bat. I then flitted out into the night after Inspector Baudet.

  As it happened, Monsieur Carré had been obtaining a fistful of pastries from a corner shop, and when they met up again, I overhead the inspector telling him, “The intended target is still at risk, and therefore I will take the risk of offending the Daucourts sooner than later. I will proceed immediately to interview them, and I would have you remain here to guard the maison until I have more information. You can set the ladies’ minds at ease.”

  That was perfect.

  I flitted from building to building, keeping pace with the inspector, until he approached the home of the Daucourts.

  I was fortunate that the Daucourts resided here on the Île Saint-Louis. As I believe I previously mentioned, I am confined to the island—a fact which I foresee I will have reason to regret at some point.

  Inspector Baudet spoke to the butler and was admitted. I could not go inside as a bat, of course, so I quickly flitted from window to window until I spotted the inspector being received in the drawing room on the east side, and then I settled onto a windowsill to listen.

  The Inspector sat formally on the edge of his seat and waved away a tray of tea from the butler, while Madame Daucourt settled herself with a perturbed expression on her face. The lady of the house was a sturdily built woman with a large frame and a wide face, with handsome features veneered with makeup and perhaps too much lipstick.

  “I hope you are here for pleasure rather than business, my dear Inspector?” Madame Daucourt was saying.

  He watched her closely as he spoke, I could see that from my perch on the windowsill. “I’m afraid I have business here tonight, Madame Daucourt. I assure you I would never have come so late otherwise.”

  Just at that moment entered Monsieur Daucourt, his likewise stout frame dressed in a fine silk bathrobe, his mustache neatly styled despite the hour.

  “Inspector,” he said. “What could possibly bring you to my house at this hour?” He did not extend a hand to shake, and his bearing was so hostile that for an instant I wondered whether he could have hired Pascal Lemare to murder his own companion.

  “I regret to inform you that your wife’s name has come up in connection with an attempted murder and a death.”

  As both Daucourts exclaimed, Inspector Baudet produced the letter. “Do you recognize this seal?”

  Monsieur Daucourt took it and looked it over. “Why, of course I do. This is my own seal. I’m not going to deny that. What’s the sense in that?”

  “Take a look at the inside,” Inspector Baudet said.

  Monsieur Daucourt read it and let out a hearty wheeze of dismay. “Melodie Bouvier? She was the one attacked?”

  I applied every bit of my superior senses, and I could detect no artifice in his face or voice. If he was pretending surprise, he was skilled at it. Even his face was pale.

  “I’m afraid so,” the inspector was saying. “Don’t be alarmed—the attempt failed and Mademoiselle Bouvier is unharmed.”

  He cast Madame Daucourt a shrewd look. She was taking the letter from her husband’s hand and she read it slowly—once, then twice. “Mon Dieu,” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “I am a suspect now, n’est-ce-pas? This letter is supposed to have come from me?”

  “May I ask your butler to bring a piece of correspondence that would reveal your handwriting, for purposes of comparison?” the inspector asked. He watched her closely and carefully.

  “I have no objection,” she said steadily. “Although I will tell you now, it is a skillful forgery. The hand is very much like my own. I hope you will not take this at face value.”

  Madame Daucourt’s bearing was unusually still. Either she was caught out and knew it, or she was terrified of being wrongly accused. But it was difficult to guess which it might be.

  Monsieur Daucourt stood and poured himself a drink. Notably, he offered none to the inspector—very much a slap in his face. “All of this is absurd,” he protested.

  “Why is that? You don’t suspect your wife?” the inspector asked calmly.

  I admired his nerve. Clearly he was skilled in these sorts of interrogations and prepared to provoke his targets into anger. People who lost their cool, as the Americans like to say, were more likely to give something away.

  “Suspect my wife?” Monsieur Daucourt fairly shouted. He turned, red-faced, with the gin bottle still in his hand, and for a moment, I feared he would hit the inspector with it. I tensed in the windowsill, ready to change shapes and break through the glass if I had to. I would reveal far too much about myself if I did, but I couldn’t let this brute hurt Inspector Baudet.

  The inspector remained seated, calm and steady as before. “It is known that she has a jealousy of Mademoiselle Bouvier. The scene that was made in the L’arbre a Cannelle is known to many on the Île.”

  “But to suspect her of murder is outrageous,” Monsieur Daucourt retorted. He tossed back his glass of gin and stared furiously at the inspector as he went to his wife’s side and put his hand protectively on her shoulder. “My wife may have a temper, but she would not hire a killer. She is not a murderous coward.”

  “May I ring for the butler to bring some sample of her writing?” Inspector Baudet asked again.

  “Do what you will,” Monsieur Daucourt said. “But be done with it and then leave us in peace. You have done enough to upset the equilibrium of this family in years gone by. Your presence is not welcome here.”

  I would have felt my eyebrows go up if I were in human form. Instead, I flapped my wings in anticipation. I did not know the story behind that outburst, and I wanted to.

  Inspector Baudet gave no reply. Instead, he rang the bell, and the butler appeared as quickly as if he had been waiting just outside the door—which he surely had been.

  The inspector sent him for a letter and then returned his eagle gaze to his two suspects. “Monsieur Daucourt, since you were intimately acquainted with the intended victim, do you suppose you would know of anyo
ne else who might seek to harm her?”

  Madame Daucourt stood up abruptly. “I don’t need to listen to this,” she said.

  The inspector stood quickly. “Please, Madame, be seated.” He extended his hand toward her chair in a manner that was entirely gracious.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Madame Daucourt sat down again.

  “You mentioned a death,” Monsieur Daucourt said suddenly. “If the death was not Melodie’s, whose was it?”

  “Her intended murderer and the recipient of this letter, Monsieur Pascal Lemare.”

  I watched both parties closely. Madame Daucourt did not react. Monsieur Daucourt looked at both parties in puzzlement. “I don’t know that name. Lauriane, do you know that name? What has he to do with it?”

  “I don’t recognize it,” Madame Daucourt said, and again I saw the trace of fear on her face. “Go ahead and try to find a connection. There won’t be one.”

  The butler returned at just that moment, carrying a piece of stationary on a silver tray, which he presented to the inspector.

  The police inspector carefully examined both letters and again put both letters to his nose. I could see that he found something odd about the parfum, for he compared the scents of both letters a second time, with a thoughtful expression on his face. As much as I wished to, I could tell nothing at this distance through the intervening glass pane.

  Monsieur and Madame Daucourt waited in suspense, both so still that I could have thought the scene a painting.

  At last the inspector looked up. “Do you deny writing this letter, Madame Daucourt?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. “Not even my outrage at my husband’s behavior could drive me to such a thing.”

  She spoke passionately, and I wanted to believe her.

  “I’m sorry to say that there is a close enough match to justify an arrest,” Inspector Baudet said wearily. “Because the intended victim is still in danger so long as the person behind the assault is still at large, I must take the precaution of keeping you out of society until we can prove your innocence.”

  Madame Daucourt stifled a sob. “Not to jail,” she begged in a voice so thin I could barely hear her. “Please, don’t put me through that.”

  “Listen, man, this is outrageous,” Monsieur Daucourt said forcefully. “If you suspect her—fine, it will all come out at trial and you’ll see she’s innocent. But to take her to jail… like a common thief… think of what you do to our reputation. Our family name. Haven’t you done enough to the Daucourts already?”

  Inspecter Baudet stood, and although he was a slender man compared to the portly Daucourts, still there was something in his face that would cause you to take him seriously. Yet he only asked a mild question: “Can you assure me of Mademoiselle Bouvier’s safety?”

  The Daucourts exchanged surprised glances, and then Monsieur Daucourt answered, “Of course we can’t say that. And yet, if we did, that would mean we were behind the attempt. Either way, we are still suspect.”

  “Then you see my quandary,” the inspector said. He turned to Madame Daucourt. “I trust you will cooperate? If you give me your word that you will give me no difficulty, I will not handcuff you, nor will I have you go in the company of Monsieur Carré. We can simply take a car to the station together.”

  “Of course,” Madame Daucourt said faintly. “Dear, will you ring the butler to bring my personal things, and…” She stood up, and almost as quickly, she swooned.

  Monsieur Daucourt tried to hurry to her, but the inspector was faster, and he caught her by the elbows and lowered her back down to her settee.

  I had seen enough. I do not consider myself naïve—not after all my decades on this earth—but I did not suspect Madame Daucourt any longer.

  I took to wing and took myself back to Le Chat Rose.

  5

  If it wasn’t Madame Daucourt, then who had set her up? And this led to another question—at what point was the trail a false trail? That is, did Pascal Lemare believe that it was Madame Daucourt when it wasn’t, or did he originate the whole plan plus the attempt to frame Madame Daucourt?

  Something Madame Daucourt had said was nagging at me. About Pascal. She had said there was no connection between herself and Pascal Lemare. Proving an absence of a connection is a difficult thing indeed, but I could certainly put in a few inquiries.

  I had grown accustomed to leaving various communications in mail slots around the Île and collecting responses the following night. It was the only way to have a private conversation with those who were early to bed and early to rise. Some, of course, that I was on better terms with, I could visit late in the evening, but now it was reaching into the early hours of the morning and even they would be difficult to find.

  Ah, but not Hélène. Dear Hélène Bachelet, who was emancipated enough to spend hours at the nearest brothel. Hélène was a natural gossip, although sly about it, but she was observant and seemed to know a lot about a lot of people. And she never went to bed before dawn.

  I was disappointed not to find Hélène at my maison, so first I left word with Melodie Bouvier that Madame Daucourt was safely behind bars for the moment, and then I began a tour of all the studios where Hélène was likely to be attending a party. I guessed right on the second try.

  A good half-dozen ne’er-do-wells were drunk and up to no good among the high-ceilinged rooms rich with tapestries and woodwork. It was all the rage at the moment for young women to ride astride the shoulders of young men and from their perches to either pillow-fight or neck with one another while the men craned their necks upward to catch glimpses.

  Hélène was too poised for such a thing, and instead she perched in her favorite place, a banister high enough to take in all the excitement. She held a martini glass in one hand and steadied herself with the other.

  I made my entrance and exchanged greetings with a number of party-goers. But halfway up, I found myself trapped..

  This particular studio was outfitted with a massive gold-framed mirror. And due to my particular… situation… I cast no reflection in mirrors. By and large, I bypass this issue by claiming a certain phobia. In fact, I’m known to be a bit of an eccentric due to my utter unwillingness to cross the Seine or to catch myself before a mirror. Nor have I ever set foot in a church, though I do not believe anyone has ever noticed this fact about me.

  In the present instance, I signaled Hélène from the stairway until I finally caught her eye, and then I pointed elaborately to the mirror.

  She caught my meaning quickly and gracefully swung down onto the stairs and from there snaked through the ravening hordes to my side to exchange cheek kisses and bonsoirs.

  “What brings you here, Madame?” she asked. “Is there any news about the attempted murder?”

  “Madame Daucourt has been taken into custody,” I replied. It hurt me to have to pass on this information that would so quickly make the rounds and cast such a shadow on the Daucourt name, but this is the price of gossip—one must offer a valuable tidbit from time to time to receive more in return.

  Hélène’s eyes widened and she nodded gravely. “The handwriting and wax seal were a match, I take it.”

  That such detailed facts had already made their way around surprised even me.

  “They were,” I replied. “But I still don’t believe it. You see, Madame Daucourt says that she has no knowledge of Pascal Lemare. Do you believe that?”

  Hélène lit a cigarette while she thought. Before us, the women astride men’s shoulders had thought to form a sort of shoulder-top conga line and were now in a procession going through into the neighboring rooms.

  “I have never heard of any connection between the two of them,” Hélène said. “Nothing direct. Pascal Lemare does not live on the Île. You may recall that you had not seen him in your maison until after he met Inés separately.”

  “Yes, and I remember that Inés’ mother is not too fond of Pascal in particular.” Madame Dejardin was the other D. name that I had original
ly suspected when I saw the letter.

  Hélène’s bare, pale shoulders rose and fell with elegant disinterest. “So it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that they aren’t connected. But then, one never knows.”

  “C’est vrai,” I said—“That’s true.”

  “Where are you off to now?” Hélène asked. “What is your next lead?”

  “Oh, am I the inspector now?” I teased. But in truth, I did feel responsible, in a sense, for the situation. It had happened in my maison, and it had befallen one of my clients and one of my ladies. “I do believe that Jean knows something, although he is not willing to tell me about it. But that aside, I have another question for you, although this is only a matter of personal curiosity. For what reason does Monsieur Daucourt hold a grudge against Inspector Baudet?”

  Hélène’s eyes lit up with eagerness. “Ah, that I don’t know either. But I can assure you that I can find out. Oh, this will be fun. And oh, that inspector! Isn’t he handsome?”

  “I’m sure he is,” I agreed blandly, though I couldn’t help a smile from breaking across my face.

  One of the men who’d been tearing by a moment ago came up, sweating, his neck still red from his lady’s legs. “Are you closed down for now?” he asked me.

  My eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. “Closed down? Why?”

  “Because of the attempted murder, of course,” he replied. “Surely it isn’t safe to take customers for now?”

  I frowned. Was this the word on the street? “Not at all,” I said loudly enough that I hoped it would carry. “Monsieur Carré has been appointed to keep an eye on things just in case, but I can assure you that we are perfectly safe and that we remain open for business. Nothing closes down a maison, my friend.”