The fellow nodded agreeably, gave me a sideways smile, and dove back into the party.
“And you can spread that word,” I said to Hélène. “Tell the whole world. Le Chat Rose remains open for business.”
6
By the time this visit was over, it was near dawn, and I was forced to into slumber. I greatly disliked having to sleep through the developments of the next day. But I had no choice. The pressure of sunlight on the atmosphere pushed me into sleep whether I chose it or not.
I went to my sleeping cabinet feeling pensive. Someone had died on my premises, one of my girls was in danger, a woman who was probably innocent had spent the night in jail, and my maison could suffer for it. I didn’t like any piece of this puzzle.
The next night, I woke anxious and hurried out of my secret sleeping chamber beneath my bedroom and from there rang for Monsieur Georges.
As was the usual custom, Monsieur Georges had taken a briefing from the day butler, Monsieur Herbert, of all that had passed while I slept, and he brought it to me written on a page set upon a tray along with my petit dejeuner of toast and coffee.
Monsieur Herbert’s notes from the daytime were brief: “1. Monsieur Carré reported no incidents. 2. Mademoiselle Bachelet stopped by to report no new information about the connection you had spoken of, but she does have the story about D. and B., mundane though it is. 3. Inspector Baudet requests an appointment to discuss the results of the doctor’s examination of the deceased. 4. We are overrun by people curious about the events of last night, but few are hiring the ladies.”
That last point made me frown. I quickly headed out into the public rooms of my maison.
Inspector Baudet was grimacing at a set of papers at a far table when I entered the drawing room. But I hardly could see him for the sea of people. Despite the room’s spacious dimensions, there were no seats available. A number of them were filled with society women looking about disapprovingly. Altogether, it was clear that the day butler’s note was accurate.
I climbed a few stairs to get some height, straightened my back, and perhaps put a bit too much of my true nature into a fierce scolding. “We are a place of business, ladies and gentlemen, not a spectacle. Please spread the word of what you’ve seen here—which is to say, not a thing except a perfectly appointed brothel with beautiful ladies, open for business as per the usual. Tonight being Wednesday night, we have a special for wounded veterans of only twenty francs per visit. Good evening.”
They took my announcement as they should and slunk away with their tails between their legs.
I went then to Inspector Baudet. He was watching me, I noted, with his attentive eyes, and I wondered whether he had observed anything about my little speech—the hint of pouvoir that I’d thrown into it. A smile seemed to be playing about his eyes.
I will confess that my heart beat a little faster. For some reason, the man had an effect on me.
I could use my charme on him and encourage his interest in me… yes, I could do that… but I had discontinued that practice decades ago. It was always a letdown compared to pleasure freely given.
“Madame, bonsoir,” he said as he stood and gestured to a chair.
“Bonsoir. You have news?” I asked as I sat down.
“I do. And I do apologize for bringing you unsavory information. You might brace yourself.”
I tried to give my best impression of a mortal woman bracing herself. “Do go on.”
“Monsieur Pascal Lemare did not die from hitting his head.”
“But I saw—"
He shook his head. “He hit his head, yes, but it would not have been a fatal injury. He died because he had been given a poison.”
“Poison?” I have to confess that I was taken aback. Perhaps I should have braced myself better.
“A powerful strain of batrachotoxin was found in his blood as well as in his stomach and mouth. There’s no doubt that he consumed it very shortly before his death. The amount was sufficient to cause death within minutes.”
“But this makes no sense,” I protested. “A murder-suicide? What reason might Monsieur Lemare have to kill himself? No, wait”—I caught my error—“it can’t have been suicide. The letter in his possession promised him wealth, and he could not have collected on that promise if dead.”
“I concur with your reasoning, Madame,” said Inspector Baudet. “Unless he had some sort of agenda against Madame Daucourt as well as Mademoiselle Bouvier, such that his act would avenge two grudges at once.”
“Meaning that he forged the letter,” I said. “Forged it and kept it on his body so that we would blame Madame Daucourt.”
“Precisely,” he said. “Do you have any reason to believe he would do such a thing?”
“I have no knowledge of any connection between Monsieur Lemare and Madame Daucourt,” I said. “I know little of Monsieur Lemare. He was a relatively new customer of my establishment. Do we know yet if the letter was forged?”
“Not yet. I have sent both samples for analysis and should have an answer by tomorrow, I expect.”
“What about the other possibility?” I asked.
He tilted his head slightly to the side in inquiry.
“That he was poisoned by someone else?” I said. “I can see the possibility that someone knew of the attempt to be made on Mademoiselle Bouvier’s life and stopped it. Although a poison is a curiously indirect method to use. It seems that alerting the authorities or Mademoiselle Bouvier herself would have been more effective.”
“Or the poisoning of Pascal could be unrelated, I suppose, though such a coincidence sounds farfetched.”
I nodded slowly. Something about the use of poison was tickling at my mind. There was a lead there, though I could not yet place what it might be.
“I do hope you will let me know,” he said, “if any of what’s churning in the back of your mind can shed light on the matter.” This he said in a half-jesting manner which brought a smile to my face.
“Am I so transparent?”
“Not at all, Madame. You are as mysterious as the Seine in the night.” And with a nod and a slight smile, he took his leave.
I chastised myself for the blush which took entirely too long to fade from my cheeks. And then I said to myself, “Aha, I remember. Poison. Anaelle knows something about poison.”
I went upstairs.
7
I found Mademoiselle Anaelle Le Gall in her room but unoccupied, reading a book and laying on a chaise. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back and past the edge of the furniture toward the floor. She looked up when I knocked lightly at her open door.
“Come in, Madame,” she said. She stretched and yawned prettily. “I’ve had no custom at all tonight.”
“It’s the news of the murder,” I said. “We’ll be back to normal in no time, I’m sure of it.”
“Murder?” Anaelle’s eyes widened in surprise and horror. “Who? Not Melodie?”
“No, no—I’m sorry—I wasn’t clear. No, Melodie is fine.” I sat on the chaise next to her and straightened her skirt where it lay across her legs. “It appears that Pascal’s death may have been a murder. He was poisoned, Anaelle. His head injury was somewhat coincidental.”
She took the news with grave calm. “I see.”
“Do you know anything about batrachotoxin?”
Anaelle shook her head, her eyes suddenly wide. “Why would I?”
I hesitated a moment, wondering whether this was the time and the place to call her out on a little habit of hers I had noticed some time ago. At length, I decided it was. “Anaelle, I have noticed the little vial that you sometimes take a sip from when you think no one is watching. I also know that you will stop at little to maintain your beautiful figure. It’s not difficult to put these things together. You visit a chemist, n’est-ce-pas?”
Anaelle looked down and her chin trembled a moment. I patted her leg consolingly. “I’m not here to scold you, Anaelle. Of course, I do take an interest in your health, both as
a sort of second mother to all my mesdames and also as a businesswoman, but I will give you your little foibles so long as you’re not doing yourself any real harm. I merely hoped that you might have some useful information to give me.”
Anaelle straightened herself up. “I do visit Monsieur Escoffier, I will admit to that. He gives me a very slight dose of a mild toxin, only enough to keep my appetite down. He says it’s harmless. It’s not the poison you mentioned, unless it has another name. And I know very little about poisons in general. It’s Monsieur Escoffier or another chemist you would need to ask.”
Estaban Escoffier, alas, kept his office on the Left Bank, which meant I could not go there myself to inquire, and in fact there were no chemists on the Île. But I could leave him a letter for his reply tomorrow.
“Thank you for your honesty, Anaelle. I’m sorry to have called you out.” I gave her a gentle hug and stroked her beautiful hair. “How is your Monsieur Valentin Adnet carrying on? Is he still at war with Jean Daucourt?”
“At war with Jean? What do you mean?”
I tilted my head. “Hélène pointed out to me their antipathy. In fact, it’s plain to see.”
“Oh, that nonsense.” Anaelle picked up her book, plainly ready to dismiss the topic. “It’s a show. They’re thick as thieves but don’t want anyone to know of it. I don’t know why, but it’s also no concern of mine. As long as I’m being paid and being treated right, that’s all that matters to me.”
“Ah. That’s curious,” I said. I gave the matter some thought, my curiosity piqued. Why would they hide a relationship? “I don’t suppose they’re... of interest to one another? You don’t know whether Monsieur Adnet has interests on both banks of the Seine, as it were?”
“I suppose he might,” Anaelle said. “Actually, I once spotted him coming out of Hotel Marigny, but he said he was there to bring an urgent letter to a friend. Of course, he could have been lying.”
“Still, it’s curious,” I said.
“Oh, look”—Anaelle brightened as she spotted a bottle of parfum on her dressing table. She got up and brought it to me. “Valentin gave me this as a gift. It’s trés expensive, you know.”
I obediently took a sniff of it and found to my surprise that it held the same hint of artificiality that I had noted on Mme Daucourt’s letter—though it was subtle enough that merely human noses might not detect it.
“It’s very nice,” I dissembled. Perhaps there was some decrease in quality in French perfumes in these times—though I found the thought nearly unbelievable. We French do prize our parfum.
I gave her a final kiss in farewell. “Dinner will no doubt be served soon.”
I went downstairs full of thought. I considered it significant that Jean Daucourt and Valentin Adnet were putting on a show of mutual dislike. There could be few reasons for such a thing. Even my theory of mutual interest on their part did not hold up terribly well, as in our liberated times in the rollicking city of Paris, such a thing was not a great sin, there even being a number of excellent brothels for exactly such preferences. But I supposed Jean’s parents could be the sort who would disapprove, or perhaps the fact would ruin a planned marriage.
What other theory could there be? What could the two of them be up to, such that they would go to such an effort to hide it? Nothing good, that was for certain.
Once back downstairs, I took stock of things. The place had quieted down a lot—too much, in fact. It would be a slow night, although two wounded vets were in attendance now, one with a missing leg and one with a scarred face. Both were soaking up the attention from their mesdames. In fact, most of my ladies were here in the drawing room, playing cards or reading novels. Monsieur Carré was sitting with his feet up and enjoying a hefty portion of le goûter and the conversation of three of my ladies who were simply too bored to do anything else.
Monsieur Georges found me to suggest that we shut down the beach room, as it was trés expensive to keep the “ocean” water pleasantly warm—though we did not turn on the sun lamp or wave machine until a customer booked the room—and I agreed that on such a quiet night, it would not likely be requested.
The nearby brothel One Two Two had an Orient Express room with a reproduction of a train carriage and a train soundtrack and also a pirate room with a rocking “ship” and heated jets of water, but I preferred to have a more elegant set of offerings at Le Chat Rose. I found that my beach room turned a very nice profit, especially in winter. I also had a popular night-in-the-garden room, with a lighted moon and stars on the ceiling, faux greenery, and a faux “grass” carpet.
With business seen to for the moment, I sat in front of the fireplace, enjoying the licking of the flames along the logs, and composed a letter to Monsieur Escoffier, inquiring as to the poison and whether he knew of anyone making such a purchase recently, and I gave it to Monsieur Georges to deliver for me. Then I stared into the fire and pondered all the recent events.
The note from Hélène had reported no news on a potential connection between Pascal Lemare and Madame Daucourt, and I believed that if anyone could turn up such information, it would be her. So if there was no reason for Pascal himself to attempt to frame Madame Daucourt, then it was a false trail laid by someone else—a someone who had then pushed Pascal to kill Melodie.
Or, it occurred to me, perhaps it didn’t particularly matter whether Melodie actually died, if the goal was simply to incriminate Madame Daucourt. Perhaps, then, the intended victim in all of this was not Melodie but Madame Daucourt.
So then, who stood to gain from Madame Daucourt’s departure from society?
At least it meant Melodie was safe, if the villain’s goal was already achieved by simply having Madame Daucourt arrested and accused.
But if Madame Daucourt was being framed, something needed to be done to protect her freedom and place in society.
I heard a soft cough to my side and looked up to see Valentin Adnet looking down at me with a polite smile. He had a fragile and delicate air about him, no doubt partially due to how he leaned upon his slender glass cane. “How goes the investigation?” he asked.
I smiled. This would be an excellent opportunity to plant some seeds and see if they grew. “News travels so quickly around here, I’m sure you know as much as I do by now—perhaps even more. But I spoke to Jean Daucourt about it yesterday and it seemed as if he knew a thing or two about it all.”
Valentin’s eyebrow raised. “Did he, now?”
I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “You know, Anaelle has let me in on the truth about you and Jean. I must admit to being fascinated by all of that.”
“Oh?” His face shifted rapidly, and suddenly he had the sharp scent of anxiety about him, but he put on a convincing smile. “I do hope you don’t put too much stock into Anaelle’s gossip. She is the worst about that sort of thing.”
It was a flat denial, and it was absolutely contradicted by his scent. “Oh come, Monsieur Adnet. You know, these are progressive times. It’s all right if you and Jean do share a certain... mutual interest.” I gave him a meaningful look.
His face hardened briefly, and then he exhaled sharply and looked around the room. “I hoped you might not speak of it too loudly.”
“Oh, pardonne moi. Of course. I will not say another word.” I patted his hand reassuringly where it rested on his cane. Perhaps that was the full story, then? But if that were the entire situation between Valentin and Jean, still it did not explain Jean’s reaction to his stepmother’s letter.
Hélène Bachelet descended upon the scene like an angel and dropped into a neighboring chair. “Are you ready for the story, Madame?”
Valentin excused himself and stepped away, and I turned my attentions to Hélène. “Certainly, my dear. I assume you mean the one about Monsieur Daucourt and Inspector Baudet. You said it was mundane?”
“I’m sorry to say, yes. In fact, it’s only legal matters.” She lit up a cigarette and gave me one as well. “A civil lawsuit was filed again
st a cousin of Monsieur Daucourt in a matter of land ownership. They say it was a gambling house and the two business partners were to share in the proceeds, but then the other fellow insisted that the Daucourt cousin was cutting him out and needed to give him part ownership of the property itself in reparation.”
She paused briefly to accept a glass of champagne from the household staff. “And in the lawsuit, Monsieur Inspector Baudet testified as to how much custom was flowing through the business, to shore up the accuser’s claim. He was subpoenaed, you see, and had to testify, but the Daucourts took it—"
Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from upstairs—what sounded very much like the breaking of crockery. I stood quickly. “Excuse me, please, Hélène.”
I rushed inside as quickly as I dared while I increased my hearing as far as I could. Even before I was in the room, I could hear Melodie shouting—
“Ludovic, you are the worst! How could you do this to me?”
Quieter but still audible to my ears came Monsieur Daucourt’s voice. “I didn’t ask for any of this to happen, you know.”
At that moment I came through the door. I took in the scene at a glance. Dinner had been served but was now sliding down the wall next to an armoire, with broken dishes on the carpet. The two lovers stood facing one another, the war at a moment’s pause.
“Peace, Mademoiselle Bouvier,” I said disapprovingly. “Is this how you behave in my house?”
“He has chosen her over me!” Melodie cried, pointing at Monsieur Daucourt in accusation.
“I have done nothing of the kind,” Monsieur Daucourt insisted. His silver hair was in disarray, as if she had been hitting him with a pillow, and he straightened out his jacket and tried to smooth it down. “I’m here to see you, aren’t I?”
From behind me, the rest of the house—or so it seemed—came in to see what was going on. Inés, Safia, Mireille... even Mademoiselle Marchand, the night maid, a lovely young woman with a tiny gold crucifix on her necklace and a tendency to keep her eyes demurely cast down.
The Passing of Pascal Page 4