In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  There was scarcely time to say goodbye to Richard. While Daumier and Hugh waited outside in the car, Richard pulled Beryl into his arms. They shared a last embrace, a last kiss.

  “You’ll be perfectly safe here,” he whispered. “Don’t leave the compound for any reason.”

  “You’re the one I worry about. You and Jordan.”

  “I won’t let anything happen to him.” He tipped up her chin and pressed his lips to hers. “And that,” he murmured, “is a promise.” He touched her face and grinned, a confident grin that made her believe anything was possible.

  Then he walked away.

  She stood on the doorstep and watched the car drive out of the compound, saw the iron gates close shut behind it. I’m with you, she thought. Whatever happens, Richard, I’m right there beside you.

  “Come, Beryl,” said Reggie, affectionately draping his arm around her shoulders. “I have an instinct about these things. And I’m positive everything will turn out just fine.”

  She looked up at Reggie’s smiling face. Thank God for old friends, she thought. And she let him lead her back into the house.

  Jordon was down on all fours in his jail cell, rattling a pair of dice in his hand. His cellmates, the two shaggy, ripe-smelling ruffians—or could that odor be Jordan’s?—hovered behind him, stamping their feet and yelling. Jordan threw the dice; they tumbled across the floor and clattered against the wall. Two fives.

  “Zut alors!” groaned the cellmates.

  Jordan raised his fist in triumph. “Oh, là là!” Only then did he see his visitors staring at him through the bars. “Uncle Hugh!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Am I glad to see you!”

  Hugh’s disbelieving gaze scanned the interior of the cell. Over the cot was draped a red-checked tablecloth, laid out with platters of sliced beef, poached salmon, a bowl of grapes. A bottle of wine sat chilling in a plastic bucket. And on a chair beside the bed was neatly stacked a half dozen leather-bound books and a vase of roses. “This is a prison?” quipped Hugh.

  “Oh, I’ve spruced it up a bit,” said Jordan. “The food was wretched, so I had some delivered. Brought in the reading material, as well. But,” he said with a sigh, “I’m afraid it’s still very much a prison.” He tapped the bars. “As you can see.” He looked at Daumier. “So, are we ready?”

  “If you are still willing.”

  “Haven’t much of a choice, have I? Considering the alternative.”

  The guard unlocked the door and Jordan stepped out, carrying his bundle of street clothes. But he couldn’t walk away without a proper goodbye to his cellmates. He turned and found Fofo and Leroi staring at him mournfully. “Afraid this is it, fellows,” he said. “It’s been—” he thought a moment, struggling to come up with the right adjective “—a uniquely fragrant experience.” On impulse, he tossed his tailored linen jacket to the disbelieving Fofo. “I think that might fit you,” he said. “Wear it in good health.” Then, with a farewell wave, he followed his companions out of the building and into Daumier’s limousine.

  They drove him to the Ritz—same floor, different room. A fashionably appropriate place for an assassination, he thought wryly as he came out of the shower and dressed in a fresh suit.

  “Bulletproof windows,” said Daumier. “Microphones in the front room. And there’ll be two men, stationed across the hall. Also, you should have this.” Daumier reached into his briefcase and pulled out an automatic pistol. He handed it to Jordan, who regarded the weapon with a raised eyebrow.

  “Worst-case scenario? I’ll actually have to defend myself?”

  “A precaution. You know how to use one?”

  “I suppose I can muddle through,” said Jordan, expertly sliding in the ammunition clip. He looked at Richard. “Now what happens?”

  “Have a meal in the restaurant downstairs,” said Richard. “Take your time, make sure you’re seen by as many employees as possible. Leave a big tip, be conspicuous. And return to your room.”

  “And then?”

  “We wait and see who comes knocking.”

  “What if no one does?”

  “They will,” said Daumier grimly. “I guarantee it.”

  Amiel Foch received the call a mere thirty minutes later. It was the hotel maid—the same woman who’d been so useful a week before, when he’d needed access to the Tavistocks’ suites.

  “He is back,” she said. “The Englishman.”

  “Jordan Tavistock? But he’s in prison—”

  “I have just seen him in the hotel. Room 315. He seems to be alone.”

  Foch grimaced in amazement. Perhaps those Tavistock family connections had come through. Now he was a free man—and a vulnerable target. “I need to get into his room,” said Foch. “Tonight.”

  “I cannot do it.”

  “You did it before. I’ll pay double.”

  The maid gave a snort of disgust. “It’s still not enough. I could lose my job.”

  “I’ll pay more than enough. Just get me the passkey again.”

  There was a silence. Then the woman said, “First, you leave the envelope. Then, I get you the key.”

  “Agreed,” said Foch, and hung up.

  He immediately made a call to Anthony Sutherland. “Jordan Tavistock is out of prison,” he said. “He’s taken a room at the Ritz. Do you still wish me to proceed?”

  “This time, I want it done right. Even if I have to supervise it myself. When do we move?”

  “I do not think it is wise—”

  “When do we move?”

  Foch swallowed his angry response. It was a mistake letting Sutherland take part. The boy was just a voyeur, eager to experience the ultimate power—the taking of a life. Foch had sensed it years ago, from the day they’d first met. He’d known just by looking at him that he’d be addicted to thrills, to intensity, be it sexual or otherwise.

  Now the young man wished to experience something novel. Murder. This was a mistake, surely, a mistake….

  “Remember who’s paying your fees, M. Foch,” said Sutherland. “And outrageous fees, too. I’m the one who makes the decisions, not you.”

  Even if they are stupid, dangerous decisions? wondered Foch. At last he said, “It will be tonight. We wait for him to sleep.”

  “Tonight,” agreed Sutherland. “I’ll be there.”

  At eleven-thirty, Jordon turned off the lights in his hotel room, stuffed three pillows under the bedspread, and fluffed it all up so that it vaguely resembled a human shape. Then he took his position by the door, next to Richard. In the darkness they sat and waited for something to happen. Anything to happen. So far, the evening had been a screaming bore. Daumier had made him a prisoner of his own hotel room. He’d watched two hours of telly, glanced through Paris Match, and completed five crossword puzzles. What must I do to attract this assassin? he wondered. Send him an engraved invitation?

  Sighing, he leaned back against the wall. “Is this the sort of thing you used to do, Wolf?” he murmured.

  “A lot of waiting around. A lot of boredom,” said Richard. “And every so often, a moment of abject terror.”

  “What made you leave the business? The boredom or the terror?”

  Richard paused. “The rootlessness.”

  “Ah. The man longs for home and hearth.” Jordan smiled. “So tell me, does my sister figure into the equation?”

  “Beryl is…one of a kind.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “The answer is, I don’t know,” Richard admitted. He squared his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles. “Sometimes, it seems like the world’s worst possible match. Sure, I can put on a tuxedo, stand around swirling a snifter of brandy. But I don’t fool anyone, least of all myself. And certainly not Beryl.”

  “You really think that’s what she needs? A fop in black tie?”

  “I don’t know what she needs. Or what she wants. I know she probably thinks she’s in love. But how the devil can anyone know for certain, when things are so cra
zy?”

  “You wait till things aren’t so crazy. Then you decide.”

  “And live with the consequences.”

  “You’re already lovers, aren’t you?”

  Richard looked at him in surprise. “Are you always so inquisitive about your sister’s love life?”

  “I’m her closest male relative. And therefore responsible for defending her honor.” Jordan laughed softly. “Someday, Wolf, I may have to shoot you. That is, if I survive the night.”

  They both laughed. And they settled back to wait.

  At 1:00 a.m., they heard the faint click of a door closing in the hallway. Had someone just stepped out of the stairwell? Instantly Jordan snapped fully alert, his adrenaline kicking into overdrive. He whispered, “Did you hear—”

  Richard was already rising to a crouch. Through the darkness, Jordan could sense the other man tensing for action. Where were Daumier’s agents? he wondered frantically. Were the two of them on their own?

  A key grated slowly in the lock. Jordan froze, heart thundering, the sweat breaking out on his palms. The gun felt slippery in his grasp.

  The door swung open; two figures slowly edged into the room. The first took aim at the bed. A single bullet was all the gunman managed to squeeze off before Richard flew at him sideways. The force of his assault sent both men thudding to the floor.

  Jordan shoved his gun into the ribs of the second intruder and barked, “Freeze!”

  To Jordan’s astonishment, the man didn’t freeze, but turned and fled from the room.

  Jordan dashed after him into the hall, just in time to see the two French agents tackle the fugitive to the floor. They yanked him, kicking and squirming, back to his feet. In amazement, Jordan stared at the man. “Anthony?”

  “I’m bleeding!” spat Anthony Sutherland. “They broke my nose! I think they broke my nose!”

  “Keep squealing, and they’ll break a lot more,” growled Richard.

  Jordan turned and saw Richard haul the gunman out of the room. He yanked his head back, so Jordan could see his face. “Take a good look. Recognize him?”

  “Why, it’s my bogus attorney,” said Jordan. “M. Jarre.”

  Richard nodded and forced the balding Frenchman to the floor. “Now let’s find out his real name.”

  “It’s extraordinary,” mused Reggie, “how very much you look like your mother.”

  The butler had long since cleared away the coffee cups, and Helena had vanished upstairs to see to the guest room. Beryl and Reggie sat alone together, enjoying a nip of brandy in his wood-paneled library. A fire crackled in the hearth—not for warmth on this July night, but for reassurance, the ancestral comfort of flames against the night, against the world’s evils.

  Beryl cradled the brandy snifter in her hands and watched the reflection of firelight in the golden liquid. She said, “When I remember her, it’s from a child’s point of view. So I remember only the things a child finds important. Her smile. The softness of her hands.”

  “Yes, yes. That was Madeline.”

  “I’ve been told she was quite enchanting.”

  “She was,” said Reggie softly. “She was the loveliest, most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known….”

  Beryl looked up and saw that he was staring at the fire as though seeing, in its flames, the faces of old ghosts. She gave him a fond look. “Mother told me once that you were her oldest and dearest friend.”

  “Did she?” Reggie smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Did you know we played together, as children. In Cornwall…” He blinked and she thought she saw the faint gleam of tears on his lashes. “I was the first, you know,” he murmured. “Before Bernard. Before…” Sighing, he sank back in his chair. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “You still think of her a great deal.”

  “It’s difficult not to.” He drained his brandy glass. Unsteadily he poured another—his third. “Every time I look at you, I think, ‘There’s Madeline, come back to life.’ And I remember how much, how very much I miss her—” Suddenly he stiffened and glanced at the doorway. Helena was standing there, wearily shaking her head.

  “You’ve had more than enough for tonight, Reggie.”

  “It’s only my third.”

  “And how many more will come after that one?”

  “Bloody few, if you have your way.”

  Helena came into the room and took his arm. “Come, darling. You’ve kept Beryl up long enough. It’s time for bed.”

  “It’s only one o’clock.”

  “Beryl’s tired. And you should be considerate.”

  Reggie looked at their guest. “Oh. Oh, yes, perhaps you’re right.” He rose to his feet and moved on unsteady legs toward Beryl. She turned her face as he bent over to plant a kiss on her cheek. It was a wet, sloppy kiss, heavy with the smell of brandy, and she had to suppress the urge to pull away. He straightened, and once again she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “Good night, dear,” he murmured. “You’ll be perfectly safe with us.”

  With a sense of pity, Beryl watched the old man shuffle out of the library.

  “He’s simply not able to tolerate spirits the way he used to,” said Helena, sighing. “The years pass, you know, and he forgets that things change. Including his capacity for liquor.” She gave Beryl a rueful smile. “I do hope he didn’t bore you too much.”

  “Not at all. We talked about Mother. He said I remind him of her.”

  Helena nodded. “Yes, you do resemble her. Of course, I didn’t know her nearly as well as Reggie did.” She sat down on the armrest of a chair. “I remember the first time I met her. It was at my wedding. Madeline and Bernard were there, practically newlyweds themselves. You could see it, just by the way they looked at each other. Quite a lovely couple…” Helena picked up Reggie’s brandy snifter, tidied the table. “When we met again in Paris, it was fifteen years later, and she hadn’t aged a bit. It was eerie how unchanged she was. When all the rest of us felt so acutely the passage of time.”

  There was a long pause. Then Beryl asked, “Did she have a lover?” The question was asked softly, so softly it was almost swallowed in the gloom of that library.

  The silence that followed stretched on so long, she thought perhaps her words had gone unnoticed. But then Helena said, “It shouldn’t surprise you, should it? Madeline had that magic about her. That certain something the rest of us seem to lack. It’s a matter of luck, you know. It’s not something one achieves through effort or study. It’s in one’s genes. An inheritance, like a silver spoon in one’s mouth.”

  “My mother wasn’t born with a silver spoon.”

  “She didn’t need one. She had that magic, instead.” Abruptly Helena turned to leave. But in the doorway she caught herself and looked back at Beryl with a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

  Beryl nodded. “Good night, Helena.”

  For a long time, Beryl frowned at the empty doorway and listened to Helena ascend the stairs. She went to the hearth and stared at the dying embers. She thought of her mother, wondered if Madeline had ever stood here, in this library, in this house. Yes, of course she would have. Reggie was her oldest friend. They would have visited back and forth, the two couples, as they had in England years before….

  Before Helena had insisted Reggie accept the Paris post.

  The question suddenly came to her: Why? Was there some unspoken reason the Vanes had suddenly left England? Helena had grown up in Buckinghamshire; her ancestral home was a mere two miles from Chetwynd. Surely it must have been difficult to pack up her household, to leave behind all that was familiar, and move to a city where she couldn’t even speak the language. One didn’t blithely make such a move.

  Unless one was fleeing from something.

  Beryl’s head lifted. She found herself staring at a ridiculous statuette on the mantelpiece—a fat little man holding a rifle. It had the inscription: “Reggie Vane—most likely to shoot his own foot. Tremont Gun Club.” Lined up beside it were v
arious knickknacks from Reggie’s past—a soccer medal, an old photo of a cricket team, a petrified frog. Judging by the items on display, this must be Reggie’s private abode, the room to which he retreated from the world. The room that would hold his secrets.

  She scanned the photos, and nowhere did she see a picture of Helena. Nor was there one on the desk or on the bookshelves—a fact she thought odd, for she remembered her father’s library and all the snapshots of Madeline he kept so conspicuously in view. She moved to Reggie’s cherry desk and quietly began to open the drawers. The first revealed the expected clutter of pens and paper clips. She opened the second and saw only a sheaf of cream-colored stationery and an address book. She closed the drawers and began to circle the room, thinking, This is where you keep your most private treasures. The memories you hide, even from your wife….

  Her gaze came to rest on the leather footstool. It appeared to be a matched set with the easy chair, but it had been moved out of position, and instead sat at the side of the chair where it served no purpose…except to stand on.

  She glanced directly up at the mahogany breakfront that stood against the wall. The shelves were filled with antique books, protected behind glass doors. The cabinet was at least eight feet tall, and on top was a matched pair of china bowls.

  Beryl pushed the footstool over to the breakfront, climbed onto the stool, and reached up to retrieve the first bowl. It was empty and coated in dust. So was the second bowl. But as she slid the bowl back onto the cabinet, she met resistance. She reached back as far as she could, and her fingers met something flat and leathery. She grasped the edge and pulled it off the cabinet.

  It was a photo album.

  She took it over to the hearth and sat down by the dying fire. There she opened the cover to the first picture in the album. It was of a laughing, black-haired girl. The girl was twelve years old perhaps, and sitting on a swing, her skirt bunched up hoydenishly around her thighs, her bare legs dangling. On the next page was another photo—the same girl, a bit older now, dressed in May Day finery, flowers woven into her tangled hair. More photos, all of the black-haired girl: clad in waders and fishing in a stream, waving from a car, hanging upside down from a tree branch. And last—a wedding photo. It had been torn jaggedly in two, so that the groom was missing, and only the bride remained.