Deadly Descent (12 page)

He stopped at the time in 1785 when the murder and so-called suicide took place. “Copy this section, Anne.” He pointed to the pages for the month of August. “Something may be hidden there.”

For an hour, while Anne worked on the journal, Georges sifted carefully through letters, business records, and unsorted notes. “Nothing here,” he sighed, stretching his arms. He shuffled the papers into a semblance of their original order. “We should slip out before the party breaks up.”

“Just a minute, Georges, I'm on to something. The pages I've copied refer frequently to a new play for the Amateurs' theater party, planned for August 15, last year, but canceled. Have you seen the manuscript? The title changes from page to page but it's most often,
The Cuckolded Clown: a Tragi-Comedy in One Act
.”

“I'll have a look.” Georges walked across the room. “I hadn't thought of checking here.” He picked the lock of a cabinet, rummaged through it, and returned to Anne with a thick folder. “This is it.”

She skimmed the manuscript, then laid it on the table and leaned back.

“Georges.” She lifted up the open journal. “Antoine has written these pages. I recognize his hand.” Then she patted the folder in front of her. “He has also written this manuscript.” Picking up a sheet, she gathered her breath. “Listen to this.”

The one I've loved betrayed me,

so I've stabbed her dead.

Now I too must cease to be.

The shame of it I dread
.

“That's the Clown's confession, after he thinks he's killed his mistress. Allowing for the poetry, it's almost identical to Antoine's.”

“So?” Georges wrinkled his brow.

“Both the journal and the script were
dictated
to him!” She measured each word. “And so, I believe, was his own confession!”

Georges shrugged. “Or, the Clown's confession was in Antoine's mind when he wrote his own.” He anticipated her protest with a shake of his head. “We can't solve the problem now.” He quickly calculated. “Tonight's scripts are already here. The Amateurs' next theater party is two months away. They have no reason to go into this cabinet for at least two or three weeks.” He picked up the manuscript and a few other samples of handwriting he had selected from the files. “The colonel can surely find someone to study them. I'll put them back before they're missed.”

Their work finished, Georges and Anne swiftly restored furniture and papers, doused candles, unlocked the door. Anne peeked out into the hallway. She saw no one, although she could still hear revellers in the building.

“They seem to be making their way to the back exit,” said Georges, locking the door. “Let's leave our costumes downstairs and join them.”

***

Arm in arm, pretending to be tipsy lovers, they staggered past a weary watchman and out of the building. Fresh morning air struck their faces. The thin, blue light before dawn illumined the great expanse enclosed by the apartment buildings. Small human shapes were soon moving in and out of the arcades. The distant sound of bells announced the first mass of the day at Saint-Roch.

“Anne, shall I walk you home?”

“I would be honored, Sir,” she replied in a teasing voice. She took his arm. “How did you join the party?”

He smiled mischievously. “To get into the theater, I picked an invitation from the pocket of a guest. When the lady in charge of the wardrobe left the room unattended, I slipped in and put on a pirate's costume. I checked her list. Pressigny and several others had chosen the same kind of garb.” He grinned. “We were enough to capture a small ship. That made it easier for me to follow you.”

They set out across the garden. A thought began to nag Anne. “Do you think Derennes might have killed Lélia Laplante and Antoine?”

“Possibly. He has the instinct. The answer might be here.” He patted the papers hidden in his coat. “I'll interrogate him when I can slip back into the basement. I want to find out first if he had motive and opportunity.”

“And learn the identity of the corpse you just discovered.”

“Right. In the meantime, Derennes can't hurt you or anybody else.”

Nearing the fountain in the center of the garden, Anne asked, “What will happen to him?”

Georges stared at the fountain. “I think Pressigny wants to get rid of him, finally, secretly. Bur Derennes has water, I saw it running from a pipe into a drain. He could survive for a week or more. The other Amateurs will soon discover he is missing. If they search for him, they won't think of looking in the dungeon. It's unused and almost forgotten. They could prefer Derennes vanish before he creates a scandal and becomes a burden to them.” He turned toward Anne. “Don't pity the villain. He was going to put you in that pit with the corpse.”

She shuddered, overcome by sympathy for Derennes' victim, someone who'd been tricked as she almost was. “Will Colonel Saint-Martin tell the police?”

“I doubt it. Derennes would claim someone assaulted him. Threw him into the pit. He knew nothing of the corpse. Given his connection to the ducal family, the police would release him.” Georges stared again into the fountain, as if its rhythmic pulse could clear his mind for what he had to do. “Derennes is too dangerous to let loose. In the next few days, before the police or the Amateurs find him, he must be moved to a secure place.” Georges looked up at Anne, his voice fell to a whisper. “You have seen evidence of his crimes. He will kill you if he can.”

Chapter 13

A Cautious Smile

Anne woke later that morning to a dull, throbbing headache. She shuffled to the washstand and splashed water on her face. Drying herself, she glanced in the mirror. Her cheeks looked pale, her eyes red. Too much excitement. Not enough sleep. Touches of powder and rouge would conceal most of the damage.

The evening with the Amateurs had also bruised her nerves. How frequently does one encounter a man like Simon Derennes? Vile monster! He got what was coming to him. Several hours in that stinking black pit! Now, for the first time, it occurred to her, someone might have told him of her unusual interest in Antoine Dubois' case. Henriette perhaps. Well, it could have been much worse. The iron pincers flashed before her. With an effort she shut them out of her mind.

While dressing, she remembered Colonel Saint-Martin was away on a mission. She or Georges could tell him later about Pressigny's assault on Derennes. She tied on a pale blue bonnet and shaped it to shadow her face. The sun would burn hot today. And she must venture out to learn more about the little seamstress they called Michou.

By noon, Anne was at the Foundling Hospital of the Holy Spirit speaking to Sister Justina, a pink-faced, ageless nun. Distracted by a hawker's cry, Anne glanced out the window. In Place de Grève, a noisy, odorous outdoor market extended from the Hôtel de Ville almost to the banks of the Seine. The nun followed Anne's gaze. “Unwanted infants come from that market and are left at our doorstep. That's why we're here.”

Anne had heard that nuns were rich, their convents large as palaces. Some had formal gardens, like Hôtel des Capucines at the north end of Place Vendôme. Anne had seen it with Comtesse Marie. The Foundling Hospital was also large, but crowded into the city's teeming center. The two women sat on a pair of straight wooden chairs in the reception room. A crucifix hung on a wall. The room was otherwise bare. And recently scrubbed. The tile floor gave off a faint scent of lye. Probably typical of the living quarters as well, Anne mused. The nuns didn't appear to spend much money on themselves.

A lingering suspicion on Sister Justina's brow disappeared when Anne said she wanted to employ Michou, the little seamstress. Yes, the nun knew her. Abandoned as an infant at the hospital thirty years ago on the feast day of Saint-Michel, she was christened Michelline du Saint-Esprit and nicknamed “Michou” by the nuns. For years she had been a burden to the hospital until one of the older nuns discovered her talent for sewing.

“She learned to sketch as well,” said Sister Justina. With awe in her voice, she explained that Michou's teacher, Sister Madeleine, the daughter of a certain great painter at the royal court, had been a skilful artist herself before entering the convent. “Michou draws beautifully. From her pictures and gestures, we can usually puzzle out what she needs.”

“Sounds like much talent still hidden.”

The nun agreed. “It's a pity she never learned to read and write. When she was growing up, it didn't seem worth the effort to teach her. She helped in the hospital in the hospital's linen room until she found work in a clothing store.”

“I understand she sewed for the actress Lélia Laplante,” Anne remarked offhand.

Sister Justina's face turned a deeper shade of pink, her eyes widened. “What happened to that poor woman terrified Michou. She shrank into herself like a mouse trapped in a corner. Afraid the same thing might happen to her, I suppose.” The nun let out an exasperated sigh. “And to make matters worse, the police broke into her room—she couldn't know they were knocking on the door! She's stone deaf. They carried her off in manacles. Then that
horrid
little man, Inspecteur Mauvert, asked her questions she couldn't understand. Barked at her, shook his fist, treated her as if she were a criminal. I'd say he scared the wits out of her. She couldn't work for weeks! She's better now, but she still hides from people she doesn't trust.”

Anne wondered about the inspecteur's interest in the little seamstress. “Did the police think Michou was somehow involved in the crime?”

“I don't know what they thought,” replied the nun. “But, in the end, they decided she didn't know anything and let her go.”

Thanking the nun, Anne rose to leave. “Where can I find Michou?”

“At the Théâtre des Petits Comédiens in the Palais-Royal. She's been there since it reopened a month ago.”

***

Freshly painted, the theater graced the north-west corner of Palais-Royal's ensemble of buildings near the Beaujolais portal. The crowds had thinned out in the early afternoon. To Anne's eye, the theater appeared deserted. She approached the service entrance, then smoothed her dress and walked in.

“Michou's with the others, getting costumes ready for this evening,” snapped the harried wardrobe manager. “Don't disturb her.” He glared at Anne. “She'll have time off in an hour. You can't miss her—the tiny one wearing a white bonnet.”

As the manager ran off, Anne retreated to a small café with a view of the theater. Sipping lemonade, she observed the human comedy being played out in the shaded avenues of the garden. The tempo began to increase. Well-dressed men came from dinner at the Café de Conti, business papers stuffed into their pockets. A pair of fashionable women paraded before her, their bodies encased in enormous skirts, their heads covered by great plumed hats. Anne shut her eyes and smiled inwardly in a moment of playful fantasy. Transformed into festive barges, the two ladies glided majestically over the shimmering waters of Versailles' Grand Canal.

In an hour, the theater's service door opened and several working women emerged, blinking in the bright afternoon light. After them trailed a small thin figure in a white bonnet. Anne paid her bill and followed the deaf woman to the center of the gardens.

At the fountain, Michou nibbled on a crust of bread, watching goldfish dart below the glassy surface of the basin. She tossed them crumbs, then danced with delight as they rose to snatch them.

“That's a start,” Anne murmured to herself. “At least she's comfortable with fish.”

Michou left the pool and walked south toward the “Camp of the Tatars” and its covered rows of temporary wooden sheds and booths connecting the eastern and western arcades near the palace. At midafternoon, the camp's lanes were visited by smaller, quieter crowds than in the evening. The deaf woman moved quickly up and down the rows, looking for free entertainment. Finally, she stopped in front of the Tatar Puppet Theater to watch an outdoor show of
Punch
.

The puppeteer caught Anne's eye; he seemed confused. She nodded and he carried on with the show. Victor Benoit was a man Anne had cultivated as soon as she became acquainted with the Palais-Royal. Watching his performance for the first time, she had sensed an opportunity to supplement her occasional work at the variety theater. Victor could fashion puppets and manipulate them with great dexterity, but he lacked the talent for creative story telling. His plays failed to fascinate and few people came to watch them. Anne had offered to put a little money into the enterprise. She would assume responsibility for writing scripts and directing the productions. Victor had readily accepted.

Entranced with the puppets, Michou had not noticed the silent exchange. Anne came up beside her, stretching to watch the performance. When a dog bit Punch, the little woman shook with laughter. She clapped her hands as Punch tricked the hangman into hanging himself. Gradually sensing Anne's close presence, Michou tried to move away. But the crowd pressed the two women together. They were soon exchanging glances at the amusing turns of the story.

The show ended, the crowd scattered, and Michou left Anne's side without looking back. Her chest tightening with anxiety, Anne wondered if she had gained any measure of the woman's trust. After a few steps, Michou turned and smiled cautiously. Anne replied with a wave of her hand. And breathed more easily.

Chapter 14

Missing Person

Georges stared vacantly out his office window into the garden, stirring sugar into a cup of coffee. As he leaned over his desk, his mind drifted back to last evening in the palace. He smiled at the thought of Miss Cartier. A brave and clever young lady. He and she had worked together as a team. And more than that, he realized. She had been tender towards him, like a daughter, holding his hand and kissing him goodnight. To other women he was merely a passing plaything, a good fellow.

Sipping his coffee, he heard a fluttering on the wall behind him and turned in time to see several sheets of paper floating zigzag to the floor. A breeze from the window was telling him to tidy up. To clear space on the desk for his cup, he gingerly pushed aside stacks of precariously piled folders. He rose from his chair and approached the clutter of police sketches pinned to the walls. Most of them were two or three years old. A dozen missing persons stared blankly at him, as if they had already found death in Paris. What had become of these serving girls, prostitutes, and poor young peasant women? One of them could well be the corpse in the pit with Derennes.

Georges picked up the fallen sheets, his own crude sketches of valuable objects stolen within the colonel's jurisdiction. They revealed a pattern of theft—exotic pieces of jewelry and decorative art bound for London, Amsterdam—anywhere but Paris. He refreshed his mental image of each object as he pinned its sketch to the wall.

He moved on to pictures of criminal suspects that had come from Paris police headquarters. Comtesse de la Motte and some of her accomplices in the theft of the queen's necklace held pride of place. He removed the pins, crumpled the sheets into small tight balls, and threw them expertly into a basket. The Parlement de Paris had convicted the felons last week. Whipped and branded, the comtesse was now in prison. Georges saved pictures of her husband and other accomplices still at large, as well as the necklace since the police had not yet recovered it.

Enough housekeeping, he thought, stepping back. Now to the business at hand. Had Derennes slept well? Georges was eager to question and then dispose of him, but the more he thought about it, the wiser it seemed to wait until he could speak with Colonel Saint-Martin. A day or two in the pit might persuade the villain to talk more freely. In the meantime, Georges would visit police headquarters. He might learn Derennes' background and find out what he had been doing on the mid-August night in 1785 when Laplante was murdered.

It was late afternoon when Georges returned to the office. After a light supper at his desk, he leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling. On that night in August, Derennes had been attending the variety theater, a five-minute walk from the scene of the crime, in the company of Chevalier de Pressigny and Monsieur Robert LeCourt, a rich Dutch financier currently living in Paris. The audience was often up and about during several intermissions. Derennes could have easily slipped away from the others to kill Laplante and Dubois. Or, the murders could have taken place shortly after the theater closed. Derennes had ample opportunity. But what could have been his motive? The police files offered no answer.

Frustrated, Georges mumbled a curse. He left his desk and ambled into the garden. Derennes had grown up in the palace, son of an architect in the duke's service. Searching for a hiding place, Derennes had probably studied records in the palace archives that led him to the secret dungeon. Pacing back and forth in the twilight, Georges wondered why Derennes had wanted to attack Miss Cartier? For sadistic pleasure? Why her, rather than a prostitute? Simply because she was alone and the dungeon ready for a victim? Georges was unpersuaded.

He stopped at the garden fountain. Hands clasped behind his back, he leaned over and gazed into the water. Derennes' attack was not random. He'd had his eye on Miss Cartier. Caught her prowling in the theater office, her hands on his book. He'd waited for her outside the dressing room.

Had he feared she was a police agent who might uncover something damaging to him—like the murder of Laplante? Georges returned to his office with the feeling he needed to talk to someone from the ducal household who might have known Simon Derennes. It was still early enough in the evening to pay a visit to an old acquaintance.

In a few minutes, Georges was at the door of Louise Tremblay, retired governess of young girls in the household of the deceased Louis, Duc d'Orléans. Mademoiselle Tremblay, an infirm spinster, lived in a small room in her niece's garret apartment on Rue St. Honoré near Palais-Royal.

“Police business,” Georges announced to the niece, and gave his name. “Your aunt knows me.” The niece raised an eyebrow momentarily, then showed him into a tiny parlor and went to fetch her aunt. He took in the room's spare, shabby appearance—cracked plaster, no rugs or drapes, plain wooden furniture. Well below the standard Tremblay could have claimed in the duke's employ. The old woman shuffled into the room on her niece's arm, settled into one of the chairs, and motioned for Georges to take the other. The niece withdrew.

“Stiff joints,” muttered Tremblay, grimacing with pain, as she crossed her legs at the ankle. “Don't get old.” She looked at Georges with a sharp, clear eye. “I
do
remember you—Sartine's man. Investigated a cabal at the palace almost twenty years ago. You had more hair on that occasion.” Her lips curled into the hint of a smile. “I couldn't help you then. What can I do for you now?”

“Simon Derennes has disappeared.”

“I know. The police were here a few hours ago—that nasty little inspecteur.”

“Mauvert?”

“That's him. Wanted to know where Simon Derennes was. I said I hadn't any idea. I've had no contact with him or his family since the old duke died last year. Mauvert never asked what I thought of Derennes.”

“But I shall,” Georges remarked, settling back in the chair. “How did you come to know him?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she met his eye. “While I served the duke, I seldom talked about family affairs, never to outsiders. Since his death, I feel no obligation to him or his family. He left me a pittance after I had given more than fifty years of faithful service.” She lifted her hands palms up. “I'm a beggar. I live on the charity of my niece, who has barely enough for herself and her man.” Her eyes clouded and left Georges for a few moments, then turned back to him quizzically. “Who are you working for now?”

“Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin, a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol.”

“I've heard of him. Breteuil's kin. An honorable man. Why's he interested in Simon?”

“Derennes may have killed a woman three years ago and has recently attempted to kill another. The colonel wants me to stop him before he kills anyone else.” Close enough to the truth, Georges thought.

“Someone should have stopped Simon long ago.” Her face hardened in a grim expression. “I'll tell you what I know.” The young man was born in 1763, she explained, when she was a fifty-year old governess, pursuing her family's career of service in the Palais-Royal. She grew concerned about Simon when he was seven. The girls she oversaw reported the young boy teasing them maliciously, pulling their hair, stealing their dolls, tormenting their pets. This went on for a while, the governess loath to complain. When she finally brought the matter to the attention of Simon's parents, they became angry and threatened to have her dismissed. They were proud of their son, a handsome boy, who could be sweet and charming. He had also won the affection of the old duke, intrigued by the boy's talent for theater and his precocious appreciation of the palace art collection.

Neglected as well as spoiled by his parents, the boy grew worse. By the time he was fifteen, certain ladies of the palace accused him of killing their pets and harassing their daughters. The old duke wouldn't listen to their complaints. When Simon was twenty, the police suspected him of sadistic attacks on prostitutes and the rapes of young country girls newly arrived in Paris. A magistrate interrogated him, but didn't press charges for lack of evidence. The Société des Amateurs spoke up for him.

“Simon's an artful deceiver,” she remarked with a tired voice. “And, secretive. He has hiding places—some of them in the duke's palace—where he practices his vices.”

“Derennes, the Amateurs. Pampered parasites, the lot of them!” Georges sniffed with contempt. He leaned forward and held the old lady's hand, then met her eye. “I can assure you, Simon Derennes is nearing the end of his career of deception.”

***

Early the next morning, Georges approached the Palais-Royal dressed as a carpenter. Questioning Derennes could not wait until the colonel returned. He would be out of town until Sunday evening. Getting into the palace should not be difficult. For the past several years it had been undergoing renovation, and workmen moved about freely.

At the service entrance, he talked his way past the guard. Finding the door to the great hall locked, Georges climbed down into the basement of the theater, then snaked through a dense jumble of sets, stage properties, and discarded furniture to the narrow passage into the palace.

He threaded his way past the exotic brass sconces shrouded with cobwebs until he reached the basilisk, sentinel at the dungeon's secret door. He paused for a moment, ears alert for voices or footsteps. Derennes' disappearance had not yet been announced, but the Amateurs might well be looking for him—though not likely in this musty corridor. Still, Georges didn't want them to find him in the midst of an unauthorized interrogation.

He cautiously opened the dungeon door and stepped inside. His eyes swept the room, looking for changes. He froze. The kerchief Miss Cartier had found was missing. She had thrown it on the floor, Georges was certain of that. He stepped quickly to the trapdoor, not bothering to put on a mask to counter the stench. He heaved up the door and peered into the pit.

Empty, as he had feared. Ignoring the stench, he lowered himself on a rope down to the pit's rough stone floor to search for evidence of Derennes and the corpse. Not a trace. Even the animal remains were gone. He climbed out and searched the dungeon carefully. The iron poker still rested on the brazier, the pincers on the wall.

He paced back and forth, his heart pounding. The clack of his boots echoed off the gray stone walls. Incredible! Someone had removed Derennes and cleared out the pit, then arranged the dungeon to look like nothing had happened! Someone knew what had happened to Derennes and where to find him—in the most secret room of the palace. And only a few hours ago—just before dawn.

Pressigny? Not likely. Probably two men pretending to haul trash in and out of the building. Too much hard work, too little time for one man. So what had Derennes' rescuers done with him? Released him, and he chose to remain in hiding? Or, if they were Amateurs and suspected he was responsible for the corpse and would cause a scandal, they might ferry him out of the country with a new identity, or hide him away as a prisoner, or even secretly kill and bury him.

The Société des Amateurs would want to protect its good name and avoid the displeasure of the duke. LeCourt would be equally concerned. He had invested money and, more important, his reputation, in the Amateurs. They had helped him gain entrance into aristocratic society where he attracted its money to his investments. He also was negotiating on behalf of Dutch bankers with the French government for refinancing its debts. He had good reason to be concerned about scandal involving Derennes, especially a double murder of Dubois and Laplante. Georges was at a loss. He couldn't question either Pressigny or LeCourt without reopening the case again.

Georges stopped, then stared at the open door. His mind raced on. Derennes in hiding? He'd want Miss Cartier dead. And, so just might his mysterious rescuers. He glanced at his pocket watch. Eight o'clock. She'd be at the Tatar Puppet Theater. No time to lose. He must warn her.

***

Georges paused for a moment at the entrance to the puppet theater. He had run from the palace and was out of breath. Some theater! he thought, hardly more than a wooden shack. Before him stretched a narrow room with benches for thirty patrons. At the far end, a dark green cloth masked a waist-high plank platform. Kneeling on the platform, her skirt hitched up, Miss Cartier was arranging the strings of a marionette. She recognized him as he walked forward, her expression of pleasure giving way to concern. She jumped nimbly down and met him in the aisle.

“What's happened, Georges?”

“Someone got to the dungeon before I did. Derennes's gone. And so is the corpse. The pit's clean.”

She drew him to a bench and sat on the edge, her eyes fixed on him.

He spoke in a low, insistent voice. “Your life's in danger. If he's loose, he will try again to kill you. Even the Amateurs might want you dead, if they are the ones who pulled him from the pit.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” She looked at him askance.

“You're free to do as you like, but stay in a safe place.” He paused, fearing he might offend her. “And the safest place is the colonel's residence.” He proposed she move into a small apartment in the garden pavilion, the one reserved for visitors. She already had a key to the rear entrance.

She rose to her feet, her eyes black with anger. “I'm free, indeed, and I choose
not
to live like a caged or hunted animal.” She walked to the platform and leaned against it, glowering at him. “I can take care of myself,” she said emphatically. “You are exaggerating the danger.”

“Perhaps. But consider the last time you ‘took care of yourself,' Jack Roach damned near killed you.”

His words had a cold, hard edge. They hit home, he could tell. Her mouth worked with pent-up feelings, struggling to reply. She turned away from him, as if recollecting the shameful punishment she'd received at Islington.