Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (7 page)

“How did the police know to call
you?”

Sophie de Masson eyed Serafina
as if she were a dullard. “She had identification in her reticule.”

“And you’re positive it was the
body of your niece?”

Again she shot her a look. “Of
course. Even in death she managed to look like a trollop. Such a horror that a
member of our family could do so much to tarnish our name. It was one thing not
to want to assume her role in our business. She had brains, but no time for
them. Like my oldest, I’m afraid. We could have made inroads into ready wear.
For all his laziness, Beniamino has some interesting ideas on that score. He
tells me we need to play a greater role in the middle classes, must have a
presence in the grand department stores. Ever since that man and his peasant
wife opened
Le
Bon Marché
, it
is the thing to do, and I fear for the name of Busacca in fifty years. Yet I am
hesitant, but he begs me to be a part of it. He says we should sell in
Le Bon Marché
,
La Samaritaine
, show in
les grands magazins du Louvre
. But you see I’m old; I have neither
the time nor the energy to become involved. And I worry. Such a decision to
make by myself.”

“But there’s your brother.”

“What does he know of French
taste? If we were to sell in these large stores, perhaps it would cheapen the
name. I have such fears for the way Beniamino wants to give up our stores, but
at least he is interested enough to pose the question. Now, as to Elena. I was
delighted to receive her when she arrived. I had expectations, you know, and
such plans. You must admit she attracts a crowd. But right away she made
friends with the artists, the poets. Beyond the falling out over business, her
life, such as it was, left me no choice but to have nothing to do with her. She
was a horror. Spoiled, as a child. Had everything given to her. So you see, we
never had much in common. When she arrived, I didn’t quite know what to say to
her, and she’d disappear for months at a time. Her life was an abomination. She
disgraced the family. And her death is not much better, such a brutal affair.
But she deserved it.”

Serafina felt the blood in her
veins turn to ice, and she stole a glance at Rosa. The madam was pale.

“But I need to find out exactly
what happened to her,” Serafina said.

Sophie straightened in her
chair.

“Have you been in contact with
her husband?” Serafina asked.

“Never. I have nothing to do
with him.”

They were silent, the three of
them, for a moment.

“If you will excuse me,” Sophie
rang the bell.

“I think we’ve heard enough for
now, except for one more question. What convinced you that the body you saw was
indeed that of your niece?”

“Her purse of course with
various papers of identity. There was a card with her husband’s photo and one
of my brother. Not a good likeness, but, well, unmistakable. I knew, therefore,
that the body I stared at could only be Elena’s. The shape of her body was
roughly the same, although the dead do have such a foreignness about them.”

“No other marks that would
identify her? Rings? Necklaces? Family jewels?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t
recall seeing any. Now if you will excuse me ...” She rang again for the
butler.

They walked to the carriage in
silence, Serafina breathing in the fresh air, glad to be done with Sophie.
Paris was serene, this neighborhood leafy and silent, spared from Baron
Haussmann’s harsh restorations, haunted in a way that only old neighborhoods
can be. They watched a family in black walking on the other side of the street,
a father and sons with curls and fur hats and prayer shawls, the mother and
girls following behind. A grocer in his apron stood in the doorway of his shop,
his arms crossed, his face pleasant. He nodded to them as they passed.

“Sophie is such a arrogant
creature. A beauty in her time but a shame she’s let herself go,” Rosa said. “I
knew we’d get nothing from her.”

“On the contrary,” Serafina
said.

* * *

They stood on the Pont Neuf
admiring the statue of Henry IV and the charm of the Place Dauphine. But the
flying buttresses of Notre Dame reminded Serafina of the creep of despair. For
a while they watched the barges glide up and down the Seine until she said
something about her feet.

“That’s all you can say of Paris
is that your feet ache? Look around you. The style, the vigor, the glorious
food, the pomp, the gilt, the spectacle.”

“Will you stop?”

“The parks and buildings,
Haussmann’s magnificence, Paris glittering and transformed, the romance of
it—so beautiful it wets my eyes.”

Serafina was amazed. The madam
waxed poetic. She wished she could stick her feet in a bowl of hot water.

Rosa continued. “The buildings
freshly whitewashed, the slate roofs gleaming with pale light, the doors
covered in such luscious colors and such thick lacquer. Even the chimneys
complement the scene. And look at the wide boulevards and how they’re paved. If
I have to listen to you complaining about how cold you are one more time, I’ll
scream, I swear it. We have an hour to spare before we meet with the prefect.
Take Busacca at his word and have them design a hat for you. No wonder your
feet are frozen.

Rosa had a point. They hired a
fiacre and made their way to Busacca et Fils, Milliners, a large store on the
corner of Rue de la Paix and Rue St. Augustin. A beam of sun shone on the
glass. Hats, hats, hats filled the window, and the shellacked wooden façade was
painted a lovely shade of chromium oxide. As they opened the door, a brass bell
sounded their arrival. They were met by a man in a waxed mustache and frock
coat.

“Ah, such a shame, you have just
missed Madame.” He wrung his gloved hands. “She left not five minutes ago for
an appointment.”

“When do you expect her return?
I’ve a question I forgot to put to her earlier today.”

“Soon.” He smiled. “She went
around the corner. She shouldn’t be long. If you care to wait, I will have my
designer show you something to suit your extraordinary face.”

After she presented Busacca’s
card, the clerk begged her to be seated at one of many small tables and rushed
to the back of the store. She saw elegantly attired women at other stations,
clerks dressed in black showing them hats with feathers, small pill boxes with
elaborate veils. He returned with a woman wearing a smock, a measuring tape
draped around her neck. She carried several hats, most of them in wool, some in
velvet, others in straw; some large with interesting brims to guard from the
sun, but all were serviceable and stylish at the same time.

“A woman is not dressed until
she wears a hat, Madame.”

“This is not her usual costume,”
Rosa said. “She’s a sleuth. She’s been following seedy types in different parts
of town and dressing down for the occasion. Imagine her in suitable attire,
please, and do design for a more mysterious but serviceable look. She’s not
used to the bite of Paris stones in the spring.”

“Yes, Madame. We have women come
to us from all over the world and in all manner of dress who are not used to
wearing hats, especially if their climate is warm. But the right hat brings out
the unique mystery of a face. And both of you have such interesting faces, I
welcome the chance to design for you.”

The designer stuck a wool hat on
Serafina. Ridiculous, too much red, it clashed with the rose color of her dress
and made her hair look like an orange spider’s nest. But the designer fussed
with it, shaping the brim, experimenting with different angles, with feathers,
ribbons, veils. “No, no, won’t do,” the woman muttered. “But wait,” she said,
through the pins in her mouth while her fingers flew. From her pocket she
pulled out a small flower in various shades of rose and dark red, held it to
one side, wedged in a large curving feather and a few light green velvet leaves
and pinned the arrangement to the silk moiré ribbon with a turquoise clasp.

“Now, Madame, regard,” the
designer said, stepping back, one hand on her creation.

Serafina looked at her
reflection in the glass. The hat had something, she had to admit. She smiled
into the mirror. “A transformation. You are an artist.”

Rosa agreed and asked the woman
for her card.

“Let me do something for you,
Madame. Sit, please.”

As the designer worked to fashion
a hat for Rosa, Serafina looked at her watch pin.

“I was hoping to speak with
Madame de Masson, but the gentleman at the desk told me she had an appointment.
Do you expect her back soon?”

The woman seemed not to have
heard the question. Serafina asked it again.

“Yes, Madame, she should be back
soon. Her doctor’s office is around the corner, on a small street in back of
the store, the Rue St. Arnaud. We expect her very soon, to be sure.”

“Dear me, I hope nothing’s
wrong,” Rosa said.

The designer was silent.

“So there is something wrong,”
Rosa said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Nothing any of us can mend, I’m
afraid. She’s losing her eyesight, poor woman.”

Church bells chimed the hour.

“No more time. Best be going,”
Rosa said and tugged at Serafina’s sleeve.

Chapter
9: The Prefect of Paris

On the way to their appointment with the prefect, Serafina
thought about what she’d heard from the designer at Busacca et Fils.

“If Sophie’s going blind, how
could she have identified Elena?” Rosa asked.

“I’m increasingly uneasy about
her ability to identify anything, let alone the body of a niece whom, by
admission, she seldom saw.”

“You mean Elena’s alive?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Past who?”

“Elena, of course.”

“That’s interesting,” the madam
said. “Why are we here?”

“To sort out the mystery, of
course.”

“But that’s not why Busacca
commissioned you, is it?”

“Don’t split hairs. Perhaps,
just perhaps, I can bring her back to life.”

Rosa waved a hand back and forth
in front of her face while Serafina wrote in her notebook.

“Anyway, this investigation is
becoming interesting. Do you remember if Elena was right- or left-handed?”

“Why would I know a thing like
that?” Rosa asked.

Serafina was silent as their
carriage turned onto the Rue de Rivoli and was stopped by heavy traffic ahead.

“Plenty of time,” Rosa said.
“How the French love to parade. But you’ve got to admit, they know how to
dress.”

They watched as guards with
their plumy hats trotted their horses two by two, trumpets blaring while their
coach waited for them to pass.

“Perhaps Elena is ambidextrous.
Given her temperament, it figures.”

Serafina made no reply.

“There you are, dreaming again.
Loffredo would know, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You haven’t heard from him?”

Serafina bit her lip. “I sent a
message to his hotel, his usual accommodation in the sixth arrondissement, but
there was no reply.” She took deep breaths.

Rosa patted Serafina’s hand.
“There must be a reason why he’s not shown up. Something simple, I’ll wager,
like your forgetting he told you he’d be out of town, traveling in the south or
some such explanation, so simple it slipped your mind.”

Serafina gave her a look and was
silent, their carriage stopping for more congestion. She looked at her watch
pin. “I hope the time on this thing is wrong. We have twenty minutes before our
meeting with the commissioner or whatever it is they call him.” She felt her
stomach doing somersaults and borrowed Rosa’s fan to wick away the moisture on
her face. “How do I look?”

“Like a fairy princess. And they
call him prefect. He’s a handsome one, and popular. Stern, but we’ll get around
that. They say his salary is fifty-thousand francs.”

They were silent as they passed
the gutted hulk of Hôtel de Ville, a reminder of the disaster that was the
Commune. In her mind Serafina heard the shouts, smelled the blood, the powder
and the fury, reminding her of uprisings at home. But as their carriage turned
into the quai and crossed the Pont Notre-Dame, she was entranced by the scenery
and the dash of midmorning Paris, the clop of horses hooves, the city workers
in their striking blue overalls and jackets, the sun glinting off the windows
of their carriage. Presently they stopped in front of the prefecture of police
and the driver helped them out of the carriage. He pulled out his watch and
rubbed a dirty thumb over the crystal. “Plenty of time. Up those stairs and
through that door. Tell the secretary you’re to meet with the prefect in ten
minutes. My Belle Hélène and I will be waiting over there.”

“Belle Hélène?”

“The horse,” Rosa said.

He gestured to a spot underneath
a row of chestnuts. “Can’t miss us. Just look for the most beautiful woman in
all of Paris, that’s my Hélène.”

Inside, they climbed the marble
staircase, following an agent of police who led them up to the first floor of
an ornate building, the new home of the prefecture of police. The honorable
Léon Renault himself stood at the top of the stairs to greet them, accompanied
by his assistant.

Serafina found herself staring
at the man, struck by his bearing, the clarity of his voice, a certain humor
about the eyes, and the transparency of his demeanor. Although he appeared to
be in his mid-thirties, his mutton chops were already flecked with gray. He wore
striped pants, a gray waistcoat and starched shirt, silk cravat, and a frock
coat. They fitted his large frame to perfection. She’d read of his bravery
during the Franco-Prussian War culminating in the Siege of Paris and afterward
his role in quelling the Paris Commune.

“Your mayor, Notabartolo,
telegraphed our office, Madame. Welcome. You have many admirers in your
country.”

“And this is my friend, Madame
Rosa Spicuzza, my assistant.”

Renault took Rosa’s hand and kissed
it. The madam responded with a regal smile.

“You investigate the death of
Elena Loffredo, countess of Oltramari. What may we do for you in that regard?”
he asked. “And this is the inspector assigned to the case, Alphonse Valois.”

A slight man in frock coat and
cravat, Valois inclined his head.

“First, on behalf of my country
and the family of Elena Loffredo, thank you for your warm reception and for
your handling of the case thus far,” Serafina began.

“You have my full cooperation.
When it comes to the particulars, Inspector Valois is better able to assist.”

The inspector smiled.

Renault turned to him. “We have
someone in custody you told me? But not charged as yet?”

Valois cleared his throat. “Not
a French citizen, your honor. We were afraid he’d flee.”

Serafina found it difficult to
breathe. “Excuse me? His name?”

Valois said nothing.

Renault frowned. “Madame Florio
and her assistant are to be given every courtesy, as if she were one of our own
detectives.” He looked at Serafina. “If you need anything, please call on me.”

She nodded slowly, her heart
racing, convinced their suspect was Loffredo. She must free him. “I’ve just
begun, of course, but I have some questions.” She felt rather than saw Valois
stiffen, but she persisted. “A woman losing her eyesight identified the body.”

“The nearest living relative,”
Valois said.

“Except for the woman’s husband
who happened to be in Paris at the time of her death.”

Valois opened his mouth to speak
but the prefect interrupted.

“You were saying, Madame?”

“Why wasn’t her husband shown
her body and asked to identify it? And I’ve other questions about the case,
such as—”

Rosa intruded herself, smiling.
“Sometimes haste is our greatest enemy, but our country appreciates your adept
handling of this gruesome murder. We believe we’ll learn a lot from mutual
understanding and commitment.”

“Exactly.” Renault smiled. He
brought out his watch and slapped his forehead. “Please excuse me. I have a
meeting with the president in less than five minutes. Remember, you have an
open door to my office. Take care of them, Valois. Don’t forget—extend
every courtesy and share our knowledge.”

* * *

Serafina turned to Rosa. With
her eyes, she begged the madam to make conversation.

“We must seem like foreigners bent
on taking over the case, but I assure you that’s not our intent. What a lovely
suit. English, no?”

Valois ran his hand down one
lapel. Beads of water formed on his forehead. “Yes, from London. My wife does
the shopping.”

“Then my compliments to her taste,”
Rosa said.

“There’s a lift to my office,”
Valois said. “This way.”

They walked on either side of
the inspector, Serafina listening to their footsteps on the granite floor. He
was moving faster than he needed to, forcing them to keep up with his pace.

“Until the Communards burned it
down, we were all located in the Hôtel de Ville.”

“I remember,” Serafina said,
smiling. “Although the last time I was in Paris, I was a student and had no
reason to visit you, but I daresay, you were a student then, too.”

The wretched man stared at her
as if she were talking nonsense. She looked at Rosa.

As they waited for the lift,
Serafina swallowed. Acid burned in her stomach, and she felt a lump forming in
the back of her throat. Her nostrils flared but she held her tongue while Rosa
stumbled on as best she could with pleasantries. The madam talked of Marseille,
the administrative genius of France, the weather.

The three of them squeezed into
the lift. Serafina could smell Valois’ cologne,
vetiver
,
she thought. As the machine shuddered and began to move, she closed her eyes,
sure that it could not hold their combined weight, but the ride was short and
as they came to the floor, she dabbed her eyes and forehead with a linen. She
looked at Rosa who shook her head. Both women were silent.

Valois’ office was impressive if
small, and it fronted the building. Serafina walked to the window and looked
out. She could see the Seine, hear the horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the
bustle of traffic in the square below. Breathing in the energy of the city, she
vowed she and the inspector would come to terms with each other.

When she and Rosa were seated,
Serafina said, “You must forgive me,” she began, breathing hard. “I’ve heard
bits and pieces, a disjointed tale of the events surrounding Elena’s death.
Believe me, her father told me of his daughter’s death and asked me early
Friday morning to find her killer and bring him to justice. After I accepted,
he told me I must travel to Paris that very evening. We arrived last night.
We’ve had a long journey, well over seventy-six hours, dropping everything to
travel here, so I would appreciate hearing the details from you.” She drew out
a notebook from her bag.

Valois looked at his watch.
“Understand, Madame, I was unaware of your arrival until this morning when a
messenger from an important Parisian milliner gave us the news of your
arrival.”

Serafina doubted that, but said
nothing.

The inspector continued.
“Unfortunately I have but thirty minutes before I have a meeting which I am
obligated to attend, so I will be thorough, but brief.” He sighed. “A patrolman
on duty discovered a body on the Rue Cassette shortly before dawn on Thursday,
April 16.” He consulted a large folder on his desk, flipped through the pages,
and looked again at his watch.

“You’re uncomfortable, I can
see,” Serafina said. “Would you rather I returned later this afternoon?”

“Impossible.” He slammed a palm
on top of his desk. “You and I must come to an understanding, and the sooner we
do, the better for all.”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Then I’ll get to the point.
Your presence here is a formality. Although he treated you with the deference
due a foreign dignitary, the prefect knows it. I know it. The Busacca family
knows it. Only you seem to be unaware of the perfunctory nature of your visit.
You deal with
La
Sûreté Nationale
,
founded by the great Eugène François Vidocq, the father of modern detection.
Our organization is the forerunner of all such agencies, so make no mistake as
to my meaning, Madame, when I say, we have completed the case on the death of
Elena Loffredo. We have done all your work for you. I cannot state it more
plainly than that.”

Serafina bit her tongue to stop
her lips from trembling and concentrated on breathing slowly. “Please carry on
with the specifics.” The pitch of her voice was higher than normal.

Rosa sat still, a bit out of her
element, but to give the madam her due, she knew when to hold her tongue.

Reluctantly he continued. “The
woman had been shot, one bullet to the left temple. Burns and gunpowder surrounded
the wound. We found papers in her reticule identifying her as Elena Loffredo,
Countess of Oltramari. An autopsy was performed a few hours later. It
determined that the victim was murdered in the early morning hours of April 16.
We made sure the woman was identified by the oldest and closest family member
of the deceased, and following the family’s wishes, we released the body to
them so that it could be prepared for burial in accordance with Judaic custom.
Soon after the woman was discovered, we made inquiries and have detained a
person of interest. With a few more hours of persuasive interrogation, I have
no doubt he will confess to the countess Elena Loffredo’s murder.”

As Valois spoke, Serafina willed
herself to concentrate on the sense of his words, as if they had nothing to do
with her. Her body ached from lack of sleep and her heart beat wildly. So
Loffredo was in prison, about to be charged with the murder of Elena. Why
hadn’t she realized it before this? The pounding in her head grew, making
understanding even more difficult. Her breath came in ragged gulps. Pressing
fingernails into the palm of her hand, she forced herself to stay calm. She
glanced at Rosa who was looking at her feet.