by Anne Stuart
“Where were you today?” Nicole’s sallow face was accusing as she sat at one end of the formal table, buttering an overlarge piece of bread. When Marc had left, Claire had suggested she move closer, to the seat beside her, but Nicole had declined with unconcealed contempt, and they’d continued their stilted dinners from across a wide expanse of polished walnut.
Claire dropped her fork with a clatter, then looked anxiously at the dinner plate, terrified that she might have chipped the scalloped gold edge of the Limoges. It was still intact, and she breathed a sigh of relief, followed by a wave of anger as intense as it was unexpected. She was damned if she was going to live in fear of Marc and his possessions. Tomorrow she would go out and find a store that had cheap dishes. Failing that, she’d buy paper plates and plop them down on Marc’s priceless walnut table, and to hell with everyone.
“I asked you where you went today,” Nicole repeated with the faint sense of hauteur that sat so well on her nine-year-old shoulders. “You weren’t here when the taxi brought me home. We had to drive around the block for hours and hours, waiting for you.”
Claire stifled the guilt that had been plaguing her. “Nicole, I got back here at five-thirty. You leave Madame Langlois’s apartment at five every day. You couldn’t have been waiting for more than fifteen minutes.”
“What if I told you Grand-mère was ill today? That she sent me home early?”
More guilt, Claire thought wearily, squashing it down. Nicole wore the expression she’d long ago perfected, the testing, manipulative smirk that lingered in the back of her flat brown eyes, and for not the first time Claire wondered why she cared. Why such a prickly, unlovable child mattered to her. She wasn’t simply a surrogate for another nine-year-old still recovering from a hit-and-run accident—Nicole was too strong a personality for that.
“Did she send you home early?” Claire asked calmly enough.
Nicole shook her head. “No. We waited only five minutes,” she admitted, a rare, mischievous grin lighting her dark face.
Claire smiled back. “You’re a beast, Nicole.”
“I know,” the child said calmly, stuffing another piece of bread into her small mouth. “Did you know, Claire,” she continued, mumbling through the food, “that you’re a lot happier when Marc isn’t around?”
Claire dropped her fork again, her smile vanishing. Damn the child. “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped. “I miss him terribly.”
“Oh, I imagine you do. Marc is very good in bed. All his women say so.”
“Nicole!”
“But he’s not very comfortable to be around,” Nicole continued, unfazed, her precocious, old-woman’s face serene. “Don’t you find that you like it better when he’s not creeping around, watching you?”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” she murmured, echoing Marc’s words absently. She could think of a great many things more important to Nicole’s well-being than proper filial respect, but she owed it to Marc to make an effort.
As usual, Claire’s reprimand didn’t faze Nicole. “But it’s true,” she insisted calmly. “He does lurk around, watching one. He says it’s for research, but I know better. Grand-mère says he gives her …” For a moment the child looked blank, struggling for the right word, then triumphant as she found it. “He gives her the creeps. Isn’t that how you say it?”
“That is not how I say it.” Claire hated the prim, repressive sound of her own voice, but she couldn’t let Nicole sit there and tear her father apart. It would break Marc’s heart if he knew. Wouldn’t it? Or did he already know—had his own coldness and distance been part of the cause? “Your father loves you, Nicole. He’s just not a demonstrative man.”
“What is ‘demonstrative’?”
Claire pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. Nicole was so absurdly precocious she’d forgotten that she was talking to a nine-year-old. One with an amazing command of English, but even most American nine-year-olds wouldn’t know what demonstrative meant.
“When someone is demonstrative they show, they express their emotions and thoughts, rather than talk about them.” She was sounding like a schoolteacher again, and Claire felt a sudden, searing loss. She missed it, the work, the children, the sense of being needed, making a difference.
“Then don’t you think it strange,” Nicole said quietly, “that a mime, someone who never uses words, is not … demonstrative at home?”
Claire had no answer, but then, Nicole wasn’t expecting one. They finished their meal in strained silence, listening to the steady beat of the rain outside their windows.
Yvon looked down at his hands. They’d clenched into fists, and it took all his strength to open them, flex them. The fingers were cramped, useless, and he held them out into the pouring rain, watching as the water splatted against them. They were still shaking.
It was after eleven. Lights were blazing in the old woman’s apartment, but he’d seen no shadows against the heavy curtains for a long time. The old bitch was probably too rich to worry about electricity bills. She probably left all her lights on, afraid of the dark. Tonight, he told himself, it would be a waste of time. The lights wouldn’t keep her destiny at bay.
He started to move, out into the heavy rain, oblivious to the passersby, the cars sluicing through the deep puddles, oblivious to everything as he crossed the street. He had no plan, no thought at all beyond the certainty of what he must do. The black hole in his heart grew larger, devouring him as he stood in front of the heavy wooden door that fronted the residential side street. When he reached out to press the bell, his hand no longer shook.
Thomas Jefferson Parkhurst was whistling as he raced up the endless flights of stairs to his artist’s garret. Even the final flight failed to wind him, though the whistle became more strained. Nothing could quench his buoyant spirit, not flights of stairs, not the empty apartment, not even the memory of Claire’s eyes when he’d asked her about the man.
Because the rest of the time Claire’s eyes had been on him, and they’d been warm, happy, and full of promise.
It was after eleven when he got home. Claire had left him at five, but he’d been too restless to go home and work when he knew damned well he ought to. He’d gone out to see friends, spent the entire evening talking about Claire, and then finally ended up back at the apartment, still too dreamy and lightheaded to tackle the novel.
Claire was part of the problem. She’d made her appearance in chapter seven as Elizabeth, the madonna. Then he’d revised her into Violette, the whore. But now he knew her too well, he couldn’t turn her into a stereotype and make her do what he wanted.
Ignoring the typewriter, he flopped down on the bed, letting his big body absorb the vibrations from the ancient springs. Who the hell was he fooling? He wasn’t a novelist. He wasn’t a dancer, a clarinetist, a playwright, or a painter. He couldn’t even run a vineyard. He had seven more weeks left, but he already suspected he knew the answer to his quest. He was a damned, dull, boring stockbroker. His creative gifts lay in making money, whether he liked it or not.
He knew something else, too. Irrational, unbelievable as it was, at the age of thirty-two, with a decent amount of experience behind him, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with a stranger. And while common sense told him it was absurd, common sense didn’t make a dent in his conviction. For almost two years he’d been convinced he’d come to Paris to find himself. Right now he wasn’t so sure. He might very well have come to Paris to find Claire.
The old lady had opened the door, and Yvon knew why. Even soaking wet he looked the model of a French bureaucrat, sane, unimaginative, unthreatening. France had more people in civil service than the rest of Europe combined, and the French were used to interference in their lives.
The old lady was already dressed for bed. Her soft wool bathrobe would have cost him a week’s salary, and her faded blue eyes were chilly with hauteur. She believed him when he said they were checking gas meters, though her snobbery and impatience were clear. She didn’t look like Grand
-mère Estelle, but the cool contempt in her eyes brought back his childhood with dizzying force. That, and the smell of her apartment, of papery old skin, of wool and cough drops and strong tea. Of sweet pink roses.
She let him go into the kitchen alone. It didn’t take him long to find the knives, and his conviction strengthened. It was right, it was his destiny. Everything was falling into place so easily. The old woman had let him in, the knives were at hand, the rain was falling, beating against the old house.
His hand was still damp with rain, with sweat, as he clutched the knife. He’d chosen a sharp one, not too big, not too small. He would take it with him when he finished, and at last he would be free.
She was just replacing the telephone in its cradle when he walked back into the coolly elegant living room.
“Your meter is in order,” he said. “Who were you calling?”
She couldn’t see the knife. He’d done nothing to alarm her, he knew that. So why was she backing toward the door? There was no fear in her disdainful old face, only contempt, and he felt the black hole in his heart reach out to engulf him.
“The police,” she said in her cool, upper-class voice. “I was very stupid to let you in without proper identification, particularly at this hour. They will be here in less than five minutes. I would suggest you leave.”
“Five minutes,” said Yvon. He smiled, and he could feel the grin devour his face. “That should be time enough.” He started toward her, the knife no longer hidden.
The police car raced through the wet streets, klaxon blaring to warn away the nonexistent traffic. They’d come to fetch Malgreave, Josef and his nemesis, Vidal, driving. Malgreave barely had time to give his excuses to Marie.
Not that excuses would do any good anymore, he thought. It was a lucky thing he hadn’t yet gone to bed. He’d pulled on his heavy raincoat and battered old hat and followed his assistants out into the rain. He’d known all along something would happen that night. His instincts were well honed after all his years on the force, and he knew the killer, the killers, would be half mad with bloodlust after their forced inactivity during the last sunny spell. He’d even considered staying late, staying all night if he had to, waiting for the call to come in, but then had decided against it. If he’d been waiting, the call would never come. And he knew, ghoulish as it was, he would have been disappointed.
“This may be a wild-goose chase,” Josef said as they careened around a corner. “The call came in and they passed the message on to me while they sent someone to investigate it. Just an old woman near the Pompidou Centre with a late-night intruder. Probably harmless—the man said he was with the Department of Public Works and she said he looked respectable.”
“Then why did she call? Why the hell did she let him in in the first place?” Malgreave fumed. “Doesn’t she read the papers, doesn’t she know old women are being murdered? Why the hell can’t these people show some sense?”
“They’re probably all senile,” Vidal offered from the driver’s seat. He was younger than Josef, not nearly as thorough, but he made up for his lack of attention to detail with flashes of intuitive brilliance that couldn’t be learned.
Malgreave shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. You heard the report, Josef. Was this woman confused, disturbed?”
“Madame Bonheur? Not according to the dispatcher. She sounded very sensible.” Josef glared at his subordinate. There was no love lost between the two men. Josef disapproved of Vidal’s cowboy ways and brightly colored jeans. Vidal couldn’t be bothered to disapprove of Josef’s stodginess in return, a fact which made Josef even more hostile. In easier times Malgreave used to enjoy setting them against each other. He learned a great deal about both of them when they were quarreling.
There was no time for that now. “Not sensible enough to keep strange men out of her apartment on rainy nights.” Malgreave leaned forward and tapped Vidal on the shoulder. “Drive fast, Vidal. She’ll be chopped into little pieces at the rate you’re going.”
Vidal nodded, grinning, and the car skidded around a corner. Malgreave leaned back with a sigh. “We’ll be too late, I know it.”
“The police station was only three blocks away,” Josef soothed him. “They should have made it in time.”
Malgreave shook his head. “We’ll be too late.” And leaning back against the uncomfortable seat, he shut his eyes wearily, preparing himself for blood and death.
It shouldn’t have been like that, Yvon thought as he stumbled through the back alley. There shouldn’t have been so much blood. He was covered with it, swimming in it, and still the old lady had fought. He was so much younger, so much stronger, and yet the frail, aristocratic old woman had had the strength of tigers.
And then there was the dog. The damned stupid yapping dog, attacking his ankles, barking and yelping and raging at him. No sooner had he finally finished with the old lady than he’d had to contend with the furious assault of the tiny poodle.
He chased him all over the apartment, trailing bloody footprints. He’d caught the wretched brute by the back door, finished with him, and flung the little carcass across the room. And then he’d heard them, pounding at the front entrance, and he knew he’d taken too long.
He didn’t dare go back to the living room. He’d left the old lady where she’d fallen; he hadn’t been able to arrange her properly, to do all the small, ritual things he’d promised he would do. This wouldn’t count, he’d bungled it, he’d have to do it again, properly next time, or he wouldn’t be free.
He was sobbing as he fumbled with the back door, muttering over and over to himself as he staggered out into the rain. The back alley was dark, deserted, only the rank smell of garbage mixing with the heavy, metallic odor of blood and sour sweat. He slammed the door behind him, seeing his bloody fingerprints with blind eyes, and stumbled into the darkness.
There was no escape. There were dark figures at the end of the alley, milling around. He would have to hide, back among the garbage, and wait for daylight. Wait for them to give up, to go back to their cars and their police station and realize it was hopeless. They were too clever for the police; even hopeless, bumbling Yvon was too clever for them.
He tucked himself back among the battered garbage cans, ducking his head beneath the heavy onslaught of rain. He should have realized, should have planned it better. When they were young he had always screwed things up. The others had teased him unmercifully. Gilles had hit him, hurt him, his brutish bullying somehow less devastating than the quiet contempt of his idol. From him he had suffered pinches, slaps, and soft, jeering laughter.
He would laugh again, if he wasn’t too angry. He would read in the paper how Yvon had once more screwed up, and unless it endangered him he would simply shake his beautiful head, sigh, and say, “Poor Yvon. He never could do anything right.”
Gilles was another matter. If he made it past the police, made it home safely to his apartment just three blocks over, Gilles would find him. Gilles wouldn’t be able to tell what endangered him and what didn’t, and he’d always hated Yvon. No, when it came right down to it he was in as much danger from Gilles as he was from the police milling around.
He must have dozed off. The rain had lessened somewhat, the sky was growing lighter. It must be near dawn. Yvon stirred his cramped muscles, peering out into the darkened alleyway. The police were gone. Standing alone, silhouetted against the street light, was a figure, a man.
It was him. His idol, his hero, the god of his childhood, the one he’d worshiped with blind obedience. He was standing there, waiting, and Yvon could see the gun in his hand. He was there to punish him, punish him for failing in their pact. Yvon hung his head, and the rain sluiced down around his face. His hands were clean of blood now—the steady downpour had washed it away, but his clothes were black with it. He would show him, he would throw himself on his mercy.
But his idol had no mercy. He was waiting there for him, waiting, and Yvon knew he could be a coward no longer. Slowly he rose, kno
cking over the piled garbage, and stepped into the alley.
Suddenly the place was flooded with light, blinding him. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear the words. He lifted his arms, and his hand still clutched the knife. And then there was a rushing, roaring sound, a thousand fists struck his chest, and he was hurled backward by an invisible force, thrown against the building. He looked down at his body, and there was still blood everywhere. He would have thought the old lady would have stopped bleeding by now, but there was fresh blood pouring all over his body. He watched with dazed surprise, tumbling forward onto the puddled streets. And before he died he said one word. “Marc.”
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Malgreave fumed, watching as they carried the corpse away. The black plastic body bag wrapped up the bullet-riddled remains of a minor bureaucrat named Yvon Alpert. It wrapped up Malgreave’s only chance at finally getting a few answers.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Josef murmured miserably.
“What did the men think? He had a knife, a small knife. He couldn’t have thrown it far enough to hit anyone, even if he’d been a circus performer and not a pencil pusher. Damn their trigger-happy stupidity!”
“They saw what was left of the old lady,” Vidal offered. “Most of them have grandmothers. This has spooked them all.”
“I suppose they think they’ve solved the problem.” Malgreave’s voice was bitter. “That they’ve killed the murderer, that justice is served.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it isn’t. They haven’t. Alpert didn’t kill the nun in La Défense, or the twins, or the old lady last week. Unless I’m mistaken, Alpert never killed anyone before.”
“He won’t kill anyone again,” Josef offered.
