Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (12 page)

“And this photo, is it of the
man you saw her with?”

“Like I said, I never seen him
before.”

“Then why did you tell the
police you had?”

He ran a thumb over his
mustache, silent, hugging a cork-lined tray to his middle, his face now
mottled, his eyes cast down.

“This is a photograph of the man
you told the police was the companion of the woman who was shot. Would you like
to see it again?”

He coughed.

“Is that a yes or no?”

He wiped his face with a towel.

“Are you having second thoughts
about your identification of him? You’ll have to testify in court and trust me,
the man’s attorney will delight in making you look like a fool unless you’re
absolutely sure you saw him.”

“Didn’t say I’d have to testify.
Light’s dim here. Hard to tell one face from another.”

“When asked shortly after the
murder, why were you so sure?”

He looked at her like she’d been
born on the moon.

Serafina felt heat rise up her
neck and flood her cheeks. “You were paid, weren’t you? You were paid by
someone to recognize this man as Elena’s companion.”

Water beaded on his forehead.
“Now I never said—”

“Who paid you?”

He shook his head and she
realized she’d be there forever. She looked at her watch pin.

“No matter. A man can change his
mind,” she said. “Give me pen and paper.” She sat down and wrote an account of
her interview with him. Handing it back to him, she said, “Just sign this. It
says you’ve thought about it, and you couldn’t swear under oath that the man
you identified was in fact with Elena that night. We’ll forget any mention of
bribe.”

Hunched over the zinc and rimmed
with light from the streetlamp, he coughed into a handkerchief and looked at
the piece of paper, turning it over, swiping at his forehead, and finally
signing it.

“Like I said, I didn’t know
they’d make me swear to it. Couldn’t say for sure that he’s Elena’s man. Tall,
angular, all right, but not the one in that photo.”

* * *

But before she paid a call to
the gendarmes, she wanted to spend more time on the Rue Cassette. One or two
gates were open and Serafina peeked in at courtyards and gardens, one with a
two-wheeled contraption leaning against a tree. She stopped in front of the dry
cleaners, intrigued by the gown in the window.

Peering inside, she saw a light
on in the back of the store so she turned the handle, but it was locked.
Looking inside, Serafina saw a few garments on hangers toward the front, but
what drew her into the shop was the lovely dress on a mannequin in the window,
a light green watered silk like the one Carmela described Elena as having worn
to the exhibit on its opening night. Odd that it would be in a shop on the
street where the murdered woman’s body was found.

Serafina heard a pounding in her
ears as she rapped on the door. No answer. She looked left and right, knocked
again as loudly as she could and rubbed her knuckles. In a moment, a rather
broad-shouldered woman lumbered into view.

Clothed in homespun and wearing
a long blue apron, her sleeves rolled and a scarf tied around her head, she had
a pleasant round face.

“Coming to pick up clothes,
Madame?”

“Not exactly. I’m interested to
learn how that dress came to be hanging in your window. I believe it’s a
garment belonging to a friend, and I’ve spent the day trying to find her. I’m
new to the city, as you might have guessed.” Serafina felt her eyes stinging
and her throat dry from whatever substance they used in the cleaning process,
and she wondered how this woman could stand breathing it all day.

“Italian?”

Serafina smiled.

“Thought so. You can tell by the
R’s, at least that’s how I tell. We swallow the R’s and you roll them around
your tongue,” she said. “First time here?”

Serafina told her she’d been to
Paris once before, studying midwifery several years ago, but she hadn’t been
back in over twenty years.

“In that case, you speak French
very well.” All the while the woman spoke, she was peering into her ledger,
running a finger down each page. When she found what she was looking for, she
told Serafina that the garment was brought in by a M. Gaston last Thursday and
that he’d promised to pick it up tomorrow. That’s why we’ve hung it in the
window, showcasing it, you might say. Difficult one to clean.”

“He passes by here often?”

She nodded. “Good customer.
Fastidious man. Stained pretty bad and unfortunately it was on the front of the
jacket. We had to work hard on it, especially since the fabric’s so delicate,
quilted and all, and a pure gold thread runs through it.”

Serafina looked at the jacket
and shook her head. “I don’t see any discoloration. What made it?”

“Hard to say.” She shrugged.
“Some kind of vegetable, or perhaps just soapy water. That would cause the
mark. We worked on it hard, and in the end there was no trace of it, as you
say. If it had been wine or blood, well ... Take a good look, we’re proud of
our work.” She brought the dress over to the counter and showed Serafina,
touching it with fingers that were tender, gentle although they were red and
swollen from years of work and from whatever substance was used to dry clean
clothes. “Made an awful mess, darker than the cloth, but see, no trace of it
anymore, not even on the silk underside.”

* * *

Serafina left the store and took
great gulps of fresh air. She examined her watch pin, glad that she’d paid her
driver to wait because she wanted to pay a surprise visit to Elena’s current
lover. Unfolding her map as she walked back to Rue de Vaugirard, she stopped
underneath the nearest streetlamp and pinpointed the Rue d’Assas. It took her a
only a few minutes to find number 23, a narrow but tall building next door to a
monastery.

A short butler in fussy garb
answered her knock and escorted her to the visitor’s parlor after she asked to
speak with Monsieur Étienne Gaston.

“I’ll see if he’s receiving.”

“Tell him I’m a friend of Elena
Loffredo.”

The man’s face blanched. “One
moment.” He flounced out of the room.

She waited more than a few
moments and had a chance to look around, admiring the floor to ceiling books in
the receiving room. An oriental carpet lay on the parquet floor and a crystal
chandelier hung from the ceiling. In the bay window stood a black walnut table
with carved legs, the top covered with a damask cloth underneath a lamp with a
fringed shade. A wooden box sat next to it with Gaston’s name engraved on a
brass plaque. No dust anywhere, and she suspected that everything was in its
place and for show. Even the books looked as if they were arranged by size. In
one corner was a harpsichord and Serafina imagined Maria running to it.
Suddenly the room shifted and she had trouble breathing. She missed home.

To pass the time, she walked
over to the instrument. The casing was covered with an elaborate inlay.
Absentmindedly, she touched the wood and was standing next to it, fingering the
keys when Gaston entered the room.

“Do you play?” he asked. Before
she could reply, he walked quickly to her, a thin man, taller than Loffredo,
and she held out her hand. His lips brushed it lightly. “Étienne Gaston.”

“My youngest daughter plays, a
prodigy. Unfortunately she couldn’t travel with us on this visit.”

“A pity. And you are?”

The man didn’t offer her a seat,
so she took one after handing him her card. “I’m a friend of Elena Loffredo.
And you are lovers.”

The man blushed but did not deny
it. “A brash manner of speaking, you’re obviously not from France, Madame.”

“I’ve traveled from Oltramari,
Elena’s hometown. I’ve been commissioned to investigate her ... disappearance.”

He pursed his lips, said
nothing. Could it be that like the rest of her friends, he hadn’t heard of her
death?

“When was the last time you saw
her?”

“I’d have to consult my
calendar.”

Serafina decided to say nothing
and waited for him to speak. Silence, she found worked wonders. In time Gaston
squirmed. He rubbed his chin, patted the pockets of his smoking jacket, a very
interesting garment, velvet, perhaps indigo, hard to see in the dim light of
the room. “Excuse me while I consult my appointment book.”

She bit her tongue instead of
making a remark and wished she’d taken Rosa along, imagining how the madam
would handle him. She took the plunge. “Oh, how silly of me not to see it
before this, but I’ve just noticed your jacket, what an exquisite garment. No
wonder Elena is so taken with you.”

The man smiled. “Do you think
so? It was a gift from my mother some years ago.”

“And looks so well on you. For a
scholar, you maintain yourself very well. Some men begin to look like the
chairs they sit in, and while I’m sure you sit most of the day reading and
writing and so forth, yet you have the physique of a man who works in the open
air, without his roughness of course.”

“Such a nice compliment.”

“Not so, I assure you.”

He looked at her card. “Madame
Florio, I have just—”

“I don’t wish to take up much of
your time. I know you must be so busy preparing your talks and reading and
whatever else it is you scholars do. Just help me with the answers to one or
two questions, that’s all, I beg you.” She smiled, batted her lashes, wishing
she’d rouged her face.

“Hmm, the last time I saw Elena.
You know her well? She can be quite beguiling. Quite.”

“Surprising, a free spirit, I’d
call her,” Serafina said. “In many ways unique. We’ve known each other since we
were very young.”

He smiled. “Then you’ve known
each other a very long time.”

She betrayed nothing, deserved
it, perhaps, but she kept a quiet face.

“She takes me to interesting places
and last week was no exception,” he said. “We went to ... how to describe it.
We attended an opening.”

“Sponsored by the Salon?”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.
No, unfortunately, an exhibit of twenty-five or thirty painters, similar in
style and temperament, it seemed. Hundreds of the things hung in Félix Nadar’s
studio. He lent it to them for the occasion. Lighting not so good, but they
drew a large crowd. Many of them are Elena’s friends. She’s taken with them. I
found them uninteresting at best, some lacking all ability. However, I went to
please her.”

“And that was the last time you
saw her?”

“Yes.”

“At the exhibit? You didn’t go
to a café afterward, perhaps for a drink?”

“As I might have mentioned, I’m
quite busy, Madame. Not that you’d be interested, but I’m preparing a paper on
the world perception of French thought for the Academy. No, unfortunately, I
saw her to a cab and we made an early night of it.”

“On the Boulevard des
Capucines?”

“Precisely.”

“So you didn’t notice her in
your bed that night? Hard to miss, I should think.

Gaston blanched.

“You see, I happen to know you
took the garment she wore that night to the
nettoyage à
sec
on the Rue
Cassette. By the way, it’s ready for you to pick up, a lovely frock, hanging in
the window. They’ve done a brilliant job. The stain is gone, totally gone.”

He stared at her, the light in
his eyes extinguished. A succession of emotions brushed over his
face—exasperation, anger, fear, amusement.

“Not difficult to see why you
and Elena are friends. You’ve caught me out, good work. I admire that.” He
stood, walked back and forth and faced her. “Elena is my temptation. I cannot
do without her.”

She was silent for a while,
letting the man have his emotion, watching him sink back into the chair.

“Too much, she is too much at
times. Her friends are ... no one I’d want to associate with. The exhibit, how
can I put it, the work of beginners. And she’s so taken with them. Sometimes
she can be so mean, so unthinking.”

Serafina thought he was about to
cry and compassion for the man overtook her.

He slumped forward, elbows on
his knees, his head in his hands. “One minute she tells me we’re through, that
she can’t stand me, and the next she tells me she’s going to have my child. I
don’t understand her. I proposed to her Thursday night after she told me about
the child, but she laughed at me. She said after two months or so of marriage,
I’d bore her.”

“And is that why you killed
her?”

Startled, he stared at her. “I’d
never touch Elena, except in tenderness. Never.” He stood and paced the floor
some more.

She could hear monks chanting
next door. “Let’s back up. When did you last see Elena? What hour was it?”

“After the exhibit, we went to
the Café Odile. It’s around the corner on the Rue de Vaugirard. Not my kind of establishment,
but she loved it. We had wine, talked to some of the other patrons, and then we
came here. We ... spent the night together. Or at least I thought we’d spend
the night together, but she left shortly after we made love—right here in
this room, if you can believe it. She tore off her dress here and ... she was
passionate, wild, almost mad. After that, I thought we’d sleep together, in
bed. I mean, spend the night together, sighing, touching, sleeping, the way
couples do, but she picked up her dress, chastising me for soiling it. She
asked if I’d have it cleaned since I was the one who ruined it. I said nothing.
We went upstairs, but instead of crawling into bed, she riffled through her
closet, choosing a set of clothes and told me goodbye. ‘This is goodbye,
Étienne, you boring old thing.’”