Deadly Descent (26 page)

Mauvert remained silent for a few moments, searching Anne's face, as he had several times during the questioning. “Now I know who
you
are,” he said, his voice rising. “In Dubois' coat pocket, we found a silver case with two miniature portraits.” He raised a hand as if displaying the case. “You're…”

Anne cut him off. “I'm the young woman, his daughter.”

***

“What was wrong with the inspecteur?” asked Anne, still smarting from his rudeness. She glowered at Georges, as if he were somehow responsible.

“He's ill at ease with an attractive young woman who doesn't know her place.” A gleam appeared in his eye. “Especially if she has brains.”

A servant had withdrawn, closing the door behind him. Georges and Anne were in the investigation's temporary office, alone except for Comte Debussy's black cat, which had followed the servant from the kitchen. The sleek feline meandered about the room, wary, calculating his options. Unmindful of his murdered master, Anne thought. No one, not even the cat, was grieving today.

They pulled chairs up to the table, where a tray of tea and biscuits stood amid a clutter of files. Colonel Saint-Martin was to join them later, after seeing Mauvert off to Paris.

Disarmed by Georges' tact and distracted by the cat, Anne managed a strained smile. “I
had
to stand up to the man! But he'll make trouble for us.”

“Can't be helped,” Georges said kindly. “The inspecteur had already recognized you and Michou and suspected we were prying into the Laplante case.”

As Anne's irritation slowly subsided, her curiosity grew. She glanced at a file box with “Debussy” printed in large letters. “Any progress?”

“Yes, indeed!” Georges rose to open a window, then beckoned Anne. He pointed to the garden pavilion. “That's where the thieves escaped. Someone must have unlocked the trapdoor to the tunnel.”

“Pressigny? He watched the evening fireworks from the pavilion.”

“Yes, but he claims he never touched the trapdoor. He was with Henriette—she vouches for him.”

Anne rolled her eyes upward.

Georges grinned wryly. “By the way, the only keys to the tunnel are in Krishna's office. But Pressigny, or someone else, could have made copies.”

They left the window open and returned to their chairs. A soft breeze wafted into the room. Papers fluttered on the table. Georges poured a cup of tea for her and one for himself. His face was grey and lined with fatigue, his clothes rumpled. But he kept a smile on his face. She felt touched by his kindness.

At that moment her eye caught sight of a black furry tail, erect, moving between the file boxes. The cat emerged from an opening in front of Anne, his yellow eyes fixed on the tea tray. Georges cleared the area, set down a saucer of milk, and broke up a biscuit.

“The comte got him half-grown a year ago,” Georges remarked. “Called him Orcus. The Roman god of the Underworld, land of the dead. The cook's adopted him.” Georges seized the cat by the front legs and drew him up to eye level. Yielding to the firm grip, the cat stared still and silent at his interrogator. “Tell us who killed your master,” Georges demanded. “You slept with the comte. You must have seen the whole thing.” The yellow eyes blinked. No other response.

Georges loosened his grip and turned to Anne. “When servants broke into the room early in the morning, the cat was on top of an armoire watching the body.” He put Orcus in front of the saucer.

Anne lightly stroked the cat's back. He purred, then sniffed the food and set to eating it.

“There's more on Pressigny,” Georges continued. “He bribed the butler for the key to the wine cellar. Said he'd serve his guests. That meant he had the basement mostly to himself.”

Sipping slowly from her cup, Anne recalled Debussy's architectural plans of the chateau. While Georges looked on and offered advice, she took up a pen and quickly sketched the thieves' most likely escape route. “They left by the private stairway from the comte's apartment to the basement and then on to the tunnel.” She added, “Pressigny could have unlocked the doors for them.”

“Others could have done the same thing,” Georges countered, “and Pressigny has an alibi of sorts. During the evening he was looking after his guests. He spent the night with Henriette.”

“She
would
lie for him, wouldn't she.”

“I'm sure she would.” Georges broke another biscuit for Orcus. “Pressigny remains a suspect.
And
I found a couple more.” He paused to bait her curiosity. “The tunnel's wet. There are fresh footprints in the clay floor, including a woman's.”

“Claire's?” Anne felt a twinge of apprehension. She had begun to wish the woman well.

“I searched her room. A pair of her shoes have traces of mud and fit some of the prints. She admitted going back and forth in the tunnel with René Cavour, the young gardener, and spending the night with him. A pair of his shoes also matched some of the prints. They claimed they saw two men hurry from the pavilion in the dark about an hour after the fireworks. Could be true. I found other fresh prints I haven't matched yet.”

“Did you try Noir and Gros?”

He shrugged. “They have alibis in Paris for the night of the crime. Mauvert needs to check them. None of the shoes in their cottage fit the prints.”

Anne glanced at the piles of ledgers and business papers in front of Georges. “Poor man! Do you have to go through all that?”

“I've already found a few choice morsels. Let me show you.”

Anne moved around the table to the seat next to his. Orcus quickly curled up in the chair she had vacated.

Patting a large ledger, Georges explained that it contained the chateau's accounts for the past three years. He muttered impishly, “Krishna pays too much for wine!” In the next breath, his voice took on a serious tone. “He buys from a young widow in Rue Saint-Marc, close to Café Marcel. Something else for Mauvert to look into.”

There was a knock on the door. Paul, Anne thought, but then she realized he would walk right in.

Georges called out. A courier entered with a sealed packet from Debussy's lawyers. “The comte's last will and testament,” remarked Georges, “dated three years ago.” He dismissed the courier and turned to Anne. “I've read a lawyer's summary of it in Krishna's office.”

For a few minutes Georges scanned the document, occasionally murmuring a phrase. Finally he laid it on the table and pushed it sideways to Anne.

She began reading, then became engrossed. “This looks very strange!” she cried, lifting a page. “Debussy left his jewels and his works of art to the Crown rather than to his heirs.”

Georges nodded. “Read on, it gets better.”

Her eyes worked to the bottom of the page and fixed on a codicil. She sighed, then looked up from the text. “Too much legal language. Explain it to me, Georges.”

He grimaced in mock desperation. “Years after Debussy's return from India, the government claimed he wasn't entitled to his Indian jewels. But they wanted to keep the matter out of the courts, where it would have dragged on forever. He agreed to will his entire art collection to the Crown. They allowed him to enjoy the treasure during his lifetime!”

“An easy bargain for Debussy,” observed Anne. “He didn't have a family of his own, and his wife's children meant nothing to him.” She settled back in the chair, staring at the comte's will. “Did he leave anything to his heirs and the people working here?”

“They learned three years ago what would happen to the comte's collection. Plenty of time to plan the theft,” Georges replied, then added, “The comte was deep in debt. The executors are to sell the chateau and its property to pay off creditors.” He waved a hand at the account books. “Nothing is left for the others.”

“He must have angered many people,” observed Anne, “but no one appears to gain by killing him.”

“As far as we know.” Georges closed the ledger and pushed it to one side, then handed her a preliminary coroner's report from Monsieur Desault, chief surgeon at the Charité. “The comte's disease of the liver was far advanced, incurable. Murder shortened his life by only a few weeks.”

“I see,” she said, perusing the report. “If the thieves were from the family or household, they must have known he would soon die. They had to steal the treasure quickly or it would go to the Crown and beyond their reach.”

“That's true,” Georges said. “And there's another curious thing.” He leaned toward Anne and turned a page of the report. “Desault found heavy use of an opiate that the comte's physicians hadn't prescribed. It might implicate Krishna in the theft.” He shuffled the coroner's report and the comte's will into a pile. “Who was better placed to supply him with the opiate and control his movements?”

“Have you talked to Krishna?”

“Yes, though he's still groggy.” After the fireworks, Georges explained, Krishna had waited in the bedroom while servants helped the comte to retire. The old man dismissed the servants, took a dose of the opiate, and soon fell asleep. Krishna was about to extinguish the candle and leave the room when he heard a strange sound from the treasury. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. That was all he could remember.

“Perhaps he was willing to take a hard knock for the sake of an alibi,” Anne observed skeptically. Though he had helped her ward off the comte's advances, she could not entirely trust him. “What did he say about the opiate?” she asked, recalling the tall poppy plants Claire had shown her.

“Krishna prepared laudanum to cut the comte's pain and at least allow him to feel better. The medicines prescribed by his physicians only made him sick.”

“A plausible story.” Anne leaned back, hands clasped behind her head. “He could also have intended to make sure the comte slept soundly during the robbery. But Krishna couldn't steal the jewels himself if he were going to get knocked out first.”

“He would need help from the city. From Masonic brothers. From people he did estate business with. Mauvert will interrogate them.”

“And Monsieur Robert LeCourt?”

Georges bowed in mock respect. “He and Krishna both belong to a Masonic lodge that meets in the Palais-Royal. Their patron is the Duc d'Orléans!”

Anne tried to imagine the dark-skinned estate steward in such a lofty social circle.

“In that lodge,” Georges remarked, as if reading her mind, “all men are said to be equal.”

“So they say,” she granted, “but Krishna could not join without a powerful sponsor—like LeCourt.” She closed her eyes momentarily, imagining the financier as a puppet master with Jean de Pressigny dancing from one hand and Krishna from the other.

Georges interrupted her thought, shoving an inventory of the stolen goods in front of her. “The thieves knew exactly what they wanted and where it was. Besides the Chanavas jewels, they took the choice pieces from the comte's collection of precious stones. I've marked them in the margin.”

While Anne was studying the inventory, Georges interrupted her again. “Here's something I can't understand.” He rose from his chair and leaned over Anne's shoulder. She felt the warmth of his cheek. “They stole a few worthless pieces from a cabinet of heirlooms.” He pointed to a line and read aloud, “A snuff box, three miniature portraits, an embroidered cushion, and a paste necklace!”

Suddenly, without warning, Paul walked into the room. He stopped in mid-step. Anne looked up, startled. His mouth opened, as if to apologize for intruding into an intimate moment. Anne lowered her eyes to the inventory. Her cheeks burned. Georges stepped back. The cat jumped from the chair and dashed out the door.

An instant later, the colonel recovered his poise and spoke curtly to Georges. “Interrogate the chambermaids again.”

A spiteful errand, Anne thought, as Georges left.

Saint-Martin's eyes appeared clouded with pain and anger. He silently studied Anne. “I'll be brief,” he said. “I need to question the family.”

Slowly, deliberately, Anne stood to face him, as if preparing to listen. She would not let him talk down to her.

Her challenge provoked him. His nostrils flared slightly. “First, I want to bring you up to date.” His voice was thick. He cleared his throat. “Tomorrow morning, I'll urge Lieutenant-General DeCrosne to reopen the Laplante case and to hold Pressigny as a suspect in her murder and in the recent thefts of precious objects.”

Anne looked askance. “Isn't he a suspect in Antoine's murder as well? Or, at least, an accomplice?”

“We're still looking for evidence connecting Pressigny to Antoine's death,” replied the colonel tersely. “Approaching the lieutenant-general,” he added, “is dangerous. Monsieur LeCourt will eventually learn that Michou can testify against Pressigny. She has to be protected. I cannot burden Comtesse Marie with that responsibility. So, I want you to return to Paris tomorrow morning with Michou and stay in my garden apartment.” He paused, as if expecting a protest.

Anne waited coolly for him to continue.

“An officer will accompany you. Early in the afternoon, he will pick up Michou's drawings of the jewels and bring them to Paris police headquarters.”

Anne heard him out, unblinking. He was right of course. But she felt disappointed in him and resentful. “You may trust me to protect Michou.” Unsmiling, she walked to the door, then turned and met his eye. “You were rude to Georges. That was uncalled for.” She turned away brusquely and left without allowing him an opportunity to respond.

Chapter 27

Dubois' Killer

In a corner of Saint-Martin's garden, Anne sat at a table with Michou. Above them in a small plane tree nested a family of sparrows. Their song and the faint rustle of leaves calmed Anne's spirit. The anger and disappointment she had carried with her from Chateau Debussy diminished. She glanced fondly at her companion. Michou was giving the finishing touches to a drawing. A sketch stood propped up before her.

Shielded from the midday sun by a veil of clouds, Anne ventured further out into Paul's garden. It had been neglected while he was away. As she cut dead flowers from the plants, she accidentally broke off a large blood-red rose. She brought the flower to the table and laid it in a low glazed pot of water.

Watching the floating rose slowly turn, and its petals spread out, Anne thought of Paul in the garden when she had arrived early one morning. He had offered her a rose's fragrant scent. And her heart went out to him. She regretted now the hurt that her parting words yesterday might have caused him. His rudeness to Georges had
indeed
been uncalled for, but that wasn't like him. Mauvert had insidiously planted suspicion in his mind about her and Georges.

Anne raised her eyes, aware that Michou was looking at her, an expression of concern spreading across her face. Anne smiled back reassurance, encouraging her to return to her work. For the past two days, she had been drawing the Chanavas jewels for the police, who had only an inventory's sparse description to work with. Anne picked up three finished sheets depicting pendants, bracelets, and the necklace, each full scale and meticulously accurate. Michou gave the last touches to the tiara, while the canopy of green leaves above playfully filtered light onto her paper.

A distant bell struck the hour of one. Glancing toward the house, Anne saw Lieutenant Faure of the Royal Highway Patrol at Villejuif coming to pick up the drawings. With a graceful flourish of her pencil, Michou initialed the tiara—she had recently learned the alphabet. She handed it to Anne, who patted the sheets together and gave them to the lieutenant.

“Excellent,” he said, scanning Michou's work. He cast a smile to her and turned to Anne. “I'll go directly to the engravers.” The Crown, he explained, appreciated Michou's contribution toward the recovery of its stolen treasure. Anne signed his words to Michou, who received them with aplomb. She looked less and less like a frightened bird.

***

Later in the afternoon, as Anne opened the door to the puppet theater, she fought briefly with her conscience. Paul had strictly enjoined her to stay at home with Michou. But, Anne reasoned, he could not have meant to cage them. She was surely free to walk with Michou in broad daylight through the garden of the Palais-Royal, the elegant heart of Paris, to the Camp of the Tatars. And, if she wished, to spend an hour of the afternoon with Michou in a playful skit of Punch and Judy. What she also intended to do, she admitted to herself, was discover more about the death of Antoine Dubois.

For two weeks she had failed to bring Michou beyond the testimony she had initially given concerning Lélia Laplante's death. Further probing made her morose and withdrawn, like an anxious turtle in its shell. But today she appeared serene, buoyed by satisfaction from her drawings. This might be the moment, Anne thought, to question her again with the help of the marionettes.

While Michou played with a pair of Punch and Judy hand puppets, Anne reassembled the scene of the crime. The “Michou” marionette cowered in the darkened wardrobe room; the “Laplante” lay on the floor. When she brought in the “Pressigny,” Michou immediately took notice. Her face pinched and scowling, she hurried away and sat on a bench. Anne followed, entreating her. Just as Anne was about to lose hope, Michou forced a smile and returned to the stage.

At first she balked, refusing to pick up “Pressigny.” Then, with a grimace, she returned him to the fitting room, accompanied by a blank male marionette. “Pressigny” spoke to this companion, who moved off-stage. A servant, Anne thought, going outside on an errand. After a few minutes, he came back with two more blank marionettes, both males. Anne gave Michou a questioning glance. She put aside the strings, stepped out on the stage with one of the blanks, and strutted about, aping the gestures of a fashionable gentleman. She drew an imaginary sword from its scabbard and flourished it.

“A nobleman,” exclaimed Anne, instantly suspecting his identity. Fingering the contours of her face, she asked Michou to describe him. With a few rapid strokes on her pad she created a bare sketch of a young man. “Derennes!” Anne shouted.

The two women picked up the marionettes. A trembling “Pressigny” staggered about the room. At center stage, “Derennes” shook his fist at “Pressigny.” Finally, “Derennes” led “Pressigny” and the unknown servants from the room, leaving the hidden “Michou” alone in the dark. At this point, Michou threw up her hands. Anne understood the story had become too complicated for the marionettes.

She leaned against the stage, gathering her thoughts. The theater in the Palais-Royal was probably empty, and the back door might be open for tradesmen and workers. A short walk with Michou confirmed her hunch. Inside the theater, two men were noisily repairing benches on the ground floor. The winning smile she gave them was scarcely necessary. To be sure, she could look around. They hardly interrupted their conversation.

Once out of sight of the workers, Michou continued her story. With gestures and sketch pad she revealed she had sneaked out of the fitting room and up the backstage stairway, hoping to find Monsieur Dubois in the office and bring him down to the stricken actress. At the level of the second balcony, she had passed through a large open storage area. Between rows of curtains hanging above the stage, she could see over to the hallway on the opposite side of the theater. The office was open and nearly in full view. Pressigny was sitting slumped behind Monsieur Dubois dictating to him. Derennes was nowhere in sight. After Dubois had written something, Pressigny had ordered him from the office. Two men in the hallway hit Dubois from behind, carried him back into the office, and threw him out a window. Meanwhile, Pressigny had stumbled away.

Acting out the terror she had felt, Michou seized Anne by the shoulders, made her scrunch down. Toward the end of her narrative, she began to shiver; soon she was shaking uncontrollably. Anne held her by the shoulders, rocking and stroking her until calm returned. They dusted themselves off and were about to leave, when Anne heard a new voice downstairs. Peering over the edge of the balcony, she saw François Noir talking to the workers.

“Is the theater empty?” Noir asked.

“Just us,” replied a worker, “and a couple of women looking around.”

“Are they still here?”

“Don't know,” replied the worker. “They may have left.”

Anne turned and alerted Michou. The storage area was dark. Drapes drawn over the windows admitted only slivers of light. The two women crept silently into a jumble of coiled ropes, ladders, and stage furniture. Keeping the office still in view, they hid behind a bench. Noir climbed the stairs to the office and stopped in front of the door. He leaned over the edge of the balcony, scanning the area below. Light cast up from the ground floor windows illuminated his face.

Anne felt Michou violently squeeze her hand. In the darkness, she could sense the deaf woman's terror. She nodded yes to Anne's hand on her head: François Noir was one of the two men who had killed her father. Anne felt a rush of sadness but strangely no anger toward Noir, as if he were merely a mindless instrument of Antoine's death. She sensed Michou staring at the man, capturing his sharp features for the marionette's face she would later paint.

Noir unlocked the office door, looked around the room, and left, locking the door behind him. Then, to Anne's dismay, instead of returning as he had come, he walked through the balcony into the storage area and toward the bench that hid the two women. Fortunately, he seemed preoccupied with the office, the stairways, and other lighted areas, and his eyes were unused to the darkness.

He sat on the bench within a few feet of their hiding place. Anne was sure he would hear them breathing, were it not for the workers downstairs roiling the air with their hammering and chatter. Finally, he got up and left. When Anne thought he was gone, she tugged at Michou's sleeve. They stole out of the palace, glancing nervously left and right.

***

Eyes cast down, scratching his cheek, François Noir wondered about the two women in the theater. If they had hidden from him, he calculated, they were likely to emerge soon. He hurried to a shaded spot behind a column of the arcade on the east side of the mall.

He felt pleased with himself when he saw them. A strange pair. One quite tall, the other very small, both clothed as commoners in plain grey dresses. He left his hiding place and followed them. When they entered the Tatar Puppet Theater, he hid opposite the entrance and waited. They emerged in a short while, the little one carrying a sketch pad in one hand and a plain wooden marionette in the other.

He stared at the tall one. “Cartier. The English actress. Troublesome slut!” he muttered to himself. He followed the women west on Rue Saint-Honoré to Place Vendôme, where they turned into a narrow passageway behind the residence of Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin.

Noir walked slowly away, wondering why they had hidden from him. What business did they have with a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol? And why did they enter through the back way? He scowled. Could the little one have seen something she shouldn't? Possibly. She used to work for Laplante. The tall one came to Paris later. He quickened his steps toward Café Marcel.

***

Passing through the garden with Michou, Anne saw Paul in the salon rising to meet them. He must have just returned from Chateau Debussy. Her heart skipped a beat. “He will not be pleased,” she mumbled to Michou, who glanced at her quizzically.

He opened the door for them, his face lined with concern. When she told him where they had gone, his expression quickly changed to anger. With a stiff but courteous gesture, he sent Michou to her room.

Then, eyes flashing, he turned to Anne.

As she approached him, she lowered her eyes slightly, not wishing to provoke him further.

He led her into his office and shut the door. Unsmiling, arms crossed over his chest, he stood behind his desk. “I have insisted Michou live in my home because she may be in danger,” he exclaimed, “but you took her to the scene of a crime whose perpetrators are still loose in this city!” He paused, glaring at her. “If it were necessary to expose Michou to danger, I'd have sent an escort of police.”

“They would have scared off François Noir, and Michou would not have identified my father's killer.” Anne felt a swell of impertinence.

“Your father's killer?”

As Anne described what had happened in the theater, the look in Paul's eyes softened. An amused expression came over his face. He breathed a sigh that released the last of his wrath. “Surely angels must be watching over you two,” he finally remarked. “Did Michou get a good look at him? You said the balcony was so dark that he couldn't see you.”

She ventured a tentative smile. “Light coming up from the ground floor shone on his face. Michou is drawing his features right now and will paint them on one of the blank marionettes tomorrow.” She removed her bonnet and sat down, carefully smoothing the folds of her skirt.

Paul leaned forward, tapping on his desk. “From Michou we've learned that Noir killed Antoine, but it must have been Derennes' idea. Pressigny was too badly shocked to come up with the plan for a scapegoat.”

“And too weak to carry it out,” Anne interjected.

Paul hurried on. “After killing Lélia, Pressigny called in a servant, presumably Noir, to fetch Derennes from the variety theater.”

Anne looked askance. “Why Derennes? He and Pressigny were enemies, even though they worked together.”

Paul shrugged. “Perhaps Noir was supposed to find someone else. But Derennes was the one who came. He thought of how to shift the blame for Laplante's death to Antoine. He knew they quarreled about her affairs with other men. He knew about the confession in
The Cuckolded Clown
. Probably wrote it. He put the pieces together. Correct so far?”

“Agreed. Carry on.”

“Derennes instructed Noir and Gros to lay in wait for Antoine, then sent Pressigny up to the office to dictate a suicide note, slightly different from the version in the play. When Antoine left the office, Noir and Gros killed him. Derennes had already gone back to the theater.…”

Anne interrupted him. “And reported to whom?” The truth leapt at her. A fifth person might have been involved, a man who sent Derennes in the first place. She felt giddy and gasped for breath.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Anne?”

“I've suddenly realized something.” She leaned forward, her clasped hands almost touching his. “Robert LeCourt was at the variety theater that evening, five minutes away from Lélia's dead body. Noir would have gone directly to him.”

“That's likely. Noir worked for him.”

“And even if Derennes were contacted first, he would not slip away without telling LeCourt what had happened. Derennes hated Pressigny and would want him to look bad in LeCourt's eyes.”

Paul sat up and stroked his chin. The room grew unnaturally quiet. “Yes, I see it now. Derennes conceived the plot to scapegoat Antoine, and LeCourt told him to carry it out.”

Anne sighed. “How shall we prove it? Derennes has disappeared. LeCourt is above suspicion.”

***

Hands clasped tightly behind her back, eyes closed, Anne stood at the window of Paul's office overlooking the courtyard. It was early Saturday morning, and the aroma of Georges' coffee filled the room. She hardly noticed. Yesterday's experience in the palace theater with Michou had disturbed her sleep. Horrid bizarre images from her dreams still wracked her mind. Noir and Gros in harlequin costume throwing her father out a window. Simon Derennes urging them on, flourishing a white hot poker. Chevalier de Pressigny cowering nearby, blood dripping from his hand.