The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (18 page)

“Well, I sort of thought Ally died because he ate so many more snails than us. He always eats fast, and he was on his second bowl when I'd only just started eating.
And
he'd been eating them in the afternoon. He said he had to try out his butter stuff, so he made himself some while I was getting ready. He said he didn't feel very well, so he took his pills. I told all this to the policeman!” She seemed annoyed that we might also like to know.

“As for how the poison stuff got there, well, I don't know. Ally got the snails delivered here from the farm on Monday and they sat in their box things over there all week,” she waved her arm airily to the far corner of the balcony. “I don't know all the ins and outs, but he always seemed to be hosing them down and feeding them, then he kept going on about how well they were ‘drying out,' though I don't know what that means. He got them ready on Friday morning. It took ages! All that boiling, and pulling them out of their shells—yuk! I know he'd finished before he went to the Cours Saleya for his drinky-poo because he took the shells with him in a big bag to give to a friend of his who has a restaurant there.”

“What about the snails after they were prepared? They weren't in plain sight when we all came through the kitchen to the balcony on Friday evening, were they?” I was quick on the uptake because I thought I might be able to discover something useful.

Tamsin furrowed her pretty little brow and then replied, “Well, I know that Ally cooks them with all the butter and wine, and bits and pieces, in a really big pot. It's blue. Le Creuset.”

“Okay, it was on the cook-top,” I interjected. Everyone gave me an odd look. I let it pass. “Any one of us could have put something into that pot, if we'd known what was in it. I know that every single person left the group at one time or another, so everyone had the chance to slip in the poison.”

“What do you mean ‘any one of us'?” wailed Tamsin. “None of
us
wanted Alistair dead!” She seemed genuinely taken aback at the thought. I found it hard to imagine it hadn't already occurred to her. It had certainly occurred to everyone else! She carried on, “
I'm
his
wife
!
I
loved him . . . and everyone else there was his friend. Well, except
you
!” She stabbed a perfectly manicured fingernail in my direction as she spoke. Of course, everybody turned to look.

Beni furtively lit a cheroot, thereby avoiding all eye contact, and Chuck elaborately cleared his throat. Gerard nodded his head sagely. I felt I had to respond.

“Which means that I'm the only one who didn't know him well enough to want to kill him. Whereas each of you—” I didn't point, but I made sure I looked at them all in turn, “had a good reason to want him out of the way. There's his money, the swimming pool, the missing necklace, and let's not forget Alistair's unusual ability to get people to tell him their darkest secrets.”
Ha! Take that!

They all exclaimed that I was talking rubbish . . . each in their own way, which was good, because that's what I'd wanted them to do: I wanted to try to get them to defend themselves. I kept going, regardless of their cries of protestation.

“Beni—you said you were ‘relieved' about Alistair being dead,” Tamsin looked shocked at my comment, and I could see Beni blush, even in the dim light that washed across the balcony from inside the apartment. “What did you mean by that?” I didn't expect a straight answer, but I knew that whatever his response was, it would be interesting.

I got no answer from Beni at all. Instead, Tamsin piped up and said, “You never forgave him for telling your wife about that red-headed girl he saw you with in the Place de la Magenta, did you, Beni? Apparently she was
very
young,” she added, almost as an aside to the rest of us. “That's what sent wifey running back to her mummy in Milan. It's why you're on your own now. He told me all about it. Or was there more? Ally was clever about knowing things. People liked to tell Ally stuff. Like Cait said.” She sounded quite pleased with herself. I could picture her pulling the wings off butterflies.

Beni huffed and puffed a bit, then replied sharply, “There
is
no girl. There
was
no girl. Alistair did not speak to my wife. She is in Milan because of her work. She designs clothes, as you know. That is where she needs to be for her business. Besides,” I sensed he was about to retaliate, “with Alistair gone, you get all this—” he waved his arm in the air toward the apartment, “and all his money too. You like money. You are very good at spending it. Good at making Alistair spend it on you. He must have spent a
lot
of money to get that necklace for you. You do not even know what it is. It should be in a museum!”

Ah, good, we were back to the necklace again.

“I
do
know what my necklace is . . . it's pretty, and gold, and magical,
and
it's a part of history. I should have it, but my necklace has gone, and Ally has gone. How can you be so cruel, Beni? I thought you liked me! I like you!” Tamsin was whimpering like a child, and employing much the same sort of logic as one. “Maybe,” she added with spite in her voice, “if you wanted that necklace for your precious museum so much,
you
stole it and killed Ally too! He told me about what you said about the necklace—that you'd do
anything
to have it. He
told
me!” I was surprised she didn't poke out her tongue as a parting shot.

“Me!?” cried Beni, “I did
not
steal the necklace! I
did not
kill Alistair and I
did not
kill Madelaine!” That just about covered it . . . well, he'd left out the theft at the museum, I supposed, but he
was
in a temper.

I jumped in. “So who did, eh? What about you, Chuck? You were against the swimming pool. And I get the distinct impression that you'd like to own
this
apartment—the one with its famous balcony and the truly grisly history. Well, maybe now Tamsin will be persuaded to sell.”

“So I killed Alistair for a
balcony
?
This
balcony?” Chuck's already high register was even higher. “I'd be more likely to kill for the
Kragen des Todes
than a goddam
balcony
!”

Gerard gasped and roughly grabbed Chuck by his arm. “The
Kragen des Todes
? What do you know of this? Why do you speak of this? It is a terrible thing!” Gerard was horrified at what Chuck had said, but I had no idea what either of them was talking about.

“What's the
Kragen des Todes
?” I asked. Beni responded with a shrug, and Tamsin shook her head, indicating she didn't know. I said to Chuck, “Come on, spill!”

I could tell he wished he could take back what he'd said. His eyes darted about, as though he was being hunted and looking desperately for an escape route.

“Ummmm . . . It's complicated,” he replied, weakly.

“It is
not
complicated,” boomed Gerard in a surprisingly loud voice, “it is death. Death is always simple.” It was a bold statement, and he certainly had my undivided attention.

He drank down the last dregs of his cognac, slammed his glass on the table top, and said, “The
Kragen des Todes
is what the Germans called the
Collier de la Mort
. It is the same thing. The Collar of Death. It is what Madelaine is wearing in the portrait that was taken,” he added, more to me than anyone else. “It is a terrible thing that the Gestapo do when they are here. Them and the
SS
. They bring young women, some are just girls, like my sister, to this place. They make them dress like a queen. They make them wear fine clothes, jewels, and the
Kragen des Todes
, then they treat them as slaves, then the women, the girls, they are seen no more. Not by their family. Not by anyone. They disappear. They are dead. This happens many times. Stories come down to us, from the servants who work in the Palais. As soon as a woman wears the necklace, she is dead. And you,” he looked directly at Chuck, “you think this is interesting. Ha! Interesting? It is
real
people. It is my family. It is not history, it is real. You make the Gestapo seem glamorous! You want to live here because you are captivated by them. You are a terrible man!”

Chuck leapt to his feet. “I'm not ‘captivated' by the Gestapo! My grandfather helped Robert H. Jackson lead the prosecution at the Nuremberg Trials, for God's sake! Nazism was a terrible blot on the history of mankind. I truly believe that, but we cannot ignore history. We must learn from it! That's why I write the books I write, so people can learn.”

“Why mention this Collar of Death at all?” asked Beni, now totally engaged and apparently confused.

Again, Chuck looked at his feet and didn't answer, which was fine by me; I was pretty sure I'd worked it out. The necklace part, anyway. Chuck, Beni, and maybe even Gerard, had equally strong motives for wanting to own it: either because of its role in history, ancient or more recent, or because of a personal connection.

“I don't know why people always talk about the horrible things that happened here,” said Tamsin plaintively. “This is my home. You'll give me nightmares.”

Once again Tamsin had managed to take a conversation about man's inhumanity to man, and make it all about her. Wow!

The doorbell rang, and Beni leapt to his feet. “It is the food,” he shouted, looking at his watch. “I will arrange all this,” and he took off toward the kitchen. Meanwhile, Gerard looked sulkily at his empty cognac glass, shooting Chuck the odd disparaging glare, and Tamsin began to whine again that she was cold.

“A good meal will warm you up,” said Chuck.

“Yes,” I added, keen to make at least something of my surroundings, “it's a lovely evening, and it would be a shame to be indoors.” I suspected that my life on Burnaby Mountain meant I was just a bit hardier than our delicate little flower, Tamsin, who had obviously become acclimatized to the warmth of the south of France. Just to be sure, I added, “And I, for one, would rather eat at this table than the one where we ate at last night.”

“Absolutely!” agreed Chuck, a little too loudly.

“Chuck, will you help me carry this?” called Beni from the kitchen. Chuck dutifully helped Beni carry foil containers, plates, glasses, and cutlery from the kitchen, as well as a couple of bottles of champagne and some red wine. We all pulled our chairs to the table, and soon we were tucking into a wonderful choice of pissaladier (a local onion and anchovy tart), salade Nicoise, Provençal stuffed vegetables, veal Milanese, pasta, and gnocci with three different sauces—creamy, meaty or spicy, and bread and cheeses, of course. For me, it wasn't so much a question of choosing as of having a bit of everything. In my own defense, it was all so good it would have been a sin to miss anything.

Tamsin nibbled at the stuffed vegetables; Gerard said he didn't feel up to much more than a little gnocci, then ate a great big pile of it; and Beni and Chuck “grazed,” though less voraciously than I did. Chuck hit the meat in a big way, Beni more the pasta. We were all pretty quiet for a while which might have been a good way to ratchet down the tension, but it meant I didn't have as much of a chance to gather new information.

We were all ready for the cheeses and coffee when the doorbell rang again. It was gone ten o'clock, so I couldn't imagine who it could be but Moreau. I was quite glad, because I wanted the day to end, but I knew it wouldn't until he was done with me . . . with us all.

“I'll go,” said Chuck. Beni and I didn't object because we were smoking, Gerard seemed to be glad to let his food settle, and Tamsin . . . well, it would be unlike Tamsin to volunteer to undertake any sort of action at all, as far as I could tell.

Captain Moreau walked out onto the balcony, just ahead of Chuck. I wondered what his thoughts were at the sight that greeted him; it must have looked as though a wonderful dinner party was just wrapping up. Beni politely rose to greet the policeman, and he pulled an empty chair up to the table.

In French Beni invited the man to join us for some cheese, or bread, or maybe a glass of wine. Moreau sat in the seat he was offered and accepted a glass of red. He pulled out his cigarettes, raised them toward Tamsin with a query on his face, to which Tamsin didn't react at all, but to which Beni responded telling him to go ahead and smoke. He did.

“
Bon soirez
,” began Moreau.

Beni immediately looked at me and Chuck and said, “Captain Moreau says ‘Good evening.'”

A feeling of dread crept over me as I realized that we might be in for a very long night.

“I speak only very little French, as Monsieur l'Capitaine knows from our meeting this morning,” commented Chuck.

Moreau had a busy morning
, I thought to myself. Aloud I said, “Mine's okay, but I don't get every word when people speak quickly. Maybe Chuck and I could just ask you if we don't quite catch something?” Beni nodded. “Do you speak French, Tamsin?” I continued. I could guess her response.

“
Mais bien sur, je parle français couramment
,” was Tamsin's incredible reply.

“You speak French
fluently
?” I asked her. Maybe I had misunderstood.

“Of course, you have to if you want to go shopping,” she replied innocently.

Well now,
that
threw me! I've heard of idiot-savants, of course, but who'd have thought that
this
twit would be able to master a second language? Not me, for one! It certainly put the pressure on Chuck and me to keep up with Moreau. I concentrated hard, and, to be fair, I think Moreau was making a real effort to speak quite slowly and very clearly.

“You all know of the death of Mme. Schiafino,” he began, and we all nodded gravely. “She died some time between three this afternoon—that is when she was last seen alive, by a neighbor—and about half an hour before the body was found. I know that she was a guest at the party last night where M. Townsend died. We now know
how
M. Townsend died; at least, we know what caused his death. I am still investigating how the digitalis was introduced to the escargots. Two unexpected deaths in the same building within twenty-four hours is not likely to be a coincidence—” I could imagine Bud saying much the same thing, “so I am interested in understanding how Mme. Schiafino and M. Townsend were connected. This might help us to understand why they both died. I have had the opportunity to speak with you all about M. Townsend and the gathering here last evening. Now I need to speak to you all about Mme. Schiafino and her relationship with M. Townsend. I am sure you understand. I want to do this privately, and you are all advised to consider if you would like to have a legal representative present when we speak. This is now a formal investigation into murder and you will all be required to make a sworn statement at the end of our interview. To this end, I must ask you all to accompany me to the police station. I have several cars waiting to take you all there, and, when we have completed the process, you will be driven to wherever you wish—either back here to the Palais, or to your hotel, Professor Morgan, or your home, Doctor Brunetti.”