Just as a side note, dear delicious Reader, I have always thought this an absurd question. If the asker’s identity is so certain to bring about cooperation, and that cooperation is so far lacking, then doesn’t that speak for itself?
The inspector smiled slightly. “Do inform me.”
Monsieur Red must have realized that his name wouldn’t get him the desired result. Instead he balled up his fist and shook it in my direction as he bellowed, “You will let me out of here right now or you will regret it! I promise you’ll regret it. I am a very powerful man.”
The inspector said something very quiet. I focused with my otherworldly senses, but I was too late—he was too brief. All I saw was the result: Monsieur Red gave him an ugly squinting glare from over his red nose but dropped his fist.
Inspector Baudet watched him with a steady expression, his hands balled up in his pockets as if he hadn’t a care in the world, until the other man slinked back to his seat. As he sat, he muttered loud complaints to the tables near him.
Meanwhile, conversation broke out again, louder than ever, but no one else took a chance on asking to leave.
The inspector met me at the stairs. “I need to speak with you, Madame.”
“Of course,” I said, and we went back upstairs and into the hallway.
There, my girls were milling about excitedly and trying to persuade Inés to give them a peek at the body. (It is my observation that people can’t help a touch of morbidity.) And Inés was dealing with it very poorly. In fact she seemed about to collapse in tears, with red-rimmed eyes.
I shooed the rest of the women away. “If you don’t have a customer right now, when you have a captive audience, I should like to know why not,” I said with more than a bit of reproof in my tone, and the girls went downstairs immediately.
“May I go, Madame?” Inés asked desperately.
“Of course, darling,” I said, taking her hands in mine. Of course the situation was unusual and upsetting, but it seemed to me the Inés was far more upset than I would have expected. “Why so distraught?”
Her eyes darted about anxiously, and she struggled to find words. “Just… knowing what’s on the other side of that door,” she said. “It’s horrible, Madame. I can’t bear it.” Tears spilled, and she wiped them away.
Perhaps I had forgotten just how young and innocent Inés was. “I’m so sorry I gave you this task,” I said as I brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I should have known it would be too much for you, my child. Go and ask Monsieur Georges for some tea and have a rest.”
She hurried off with a wan and miserable look, and I shook my head sadly.
“Monsieur Carré will be here shortly,” the inspector said. His dark brown—almost black—eyes met mine, and he seemed to remember that we’d hardly spoken a civil word to one another so far. He took my hand and bowed over it. “Madame. My apologies for being so brusque tonight. Business has to be attended to.”
This was only the… third? or fourth? —time that I’d had the pleasure of speaking with the dashing inspector with the angular Indochine features. And he’d always made me feel butterfly wings in my stomach. This moment was no different.
“Inspector,” I murmured. “It is understood. There is no need to apologize.”
“Of course I must speak with you, as you were the first to find the body. May we step into another room?”
“Truthfully, I’m the second,” I said as I led him into Anaelle’s room—she was on holiday with her monsieur—“but the first is not likely to have any observations for you. Madame Safia is approaching her later years and her mind is not entirely present.”
“I see,” he said as he took a seat on a silk-covered side chair. “But I’m afraid it is essential that I speak with her at the earliest opportunity.”
I rang for the butler and sat down. I didn’t like to allow Safia to be disturbed, but this was important business. “Very well, I will make the interview for first thing in the morning. I do think it best we give her some time to rest and recover herself.”
He nodded, although I could see his reluctance. “I will defer to you in this, Madame. Now as for yourself, please do tell me everything that you know.”
I related my tale in brief. There was so little to tell. My only stray bit of information was about Madame Gagnon and how suspiciously she had acted right before I found Isabelle’s body, but I decided to save that little tidbit for myself. Call me overprotective or overly loyal to my staff—I suppose I am. They are all I have in the world, and I would do anything for them.
“And as for you, Inspector, what curious timing it was that you showed up right when you did. May I ask what the purpose of your visit was?”
“Oh, that’s easy enough,” he said grimly. “I was told that there would be a murder here tonight.”
3
I took in a surprised breath.
“Of course, I’d hoped to avert it,” the inspector went on, “and at that, I failed.” His dark eyes cast toward the floor regretfully. “But the message was perfectly timed, I believe, to ensure that I was present to witness the aftermath, and not present to stop it from happening.”
Monsieur Georges entered just then and served us tea as I grappled with this fact. “Who was it gave you the message?” I asked.
“It was an anonymous tip. I’ve already sent word back to the commissariat to see if they can run down the messenger that brought it, or anything about the paper or handwriting. We’ll see what comes of it.”
My head seemed to spin, and I got up to pace. “If it’s an anonymous tip, and if you suspect it was sent by the murderer, then it seems to me that someone has done it as a setup. To implicate Le Chat Rose.” The very idea…!
“Or to implicate yourself, Madame,” he said. “Or this Madame Safia.”
“Or Madame Gagnon,” I said reluctantly. “Safia’s night-time chaperone and nurse.”
“’Madame Gagnon,’” he repeated, writing down the name on his notepad. “I would like to speak with her at the earliest opportunity as well.”
“Of course,” I said. Still I decided not to reveal her strange behavior earlier in the night. I hoped I could catch up to her before the inspector did.
“Do you know anything about the identity of the deceased?” he asked.
I shook my head. “All I know is her first name—Isabelle—but then, it was Safia who told me that, and she may well have been confused at the time.”
Just then, a knock came at the door. The inspector got up to answer it. It was Monsieur Inspector l’Agent Carré, a roly-poly fellow in a blue uniform with a matching hat. Normally he was all too eager to sit and have a portion of le goûter and chat up my ladies—he was an ardent fan of brothels—but at the moment, he was all seriousness.
“Inspector, Madame—bonsoir—or I suppose it’s nearly bon matin. We’ve secured the premises. We found no one in hiding. All the guests were either in the drawing room or else occupied with a lady. And the staff were doing their regular work. I’ve made note of the identities of everyone who is present, and no one is acting suspicious.”
“No one except that one fellow,” I said. “The one who demanded to leave earlier, Inspector. Who was he?”
The inspector shook his head. “I don’t know him. But the good news is that, since we’ve completed our inventory of those present, we can now release your guests into the morning. My men and I will remove the body from your house. And I hope you won’t object if I return immediately afterward to continue my interviews with your staff.”
“Not at all,” I forced myself to say with a smile. But their comments about the morning brought my attention to a fact I was unable to ignore—the sun would soon rise. “To be clear, you don’t suspect any of my staff of committing this crime?”
“I would need clear evidence in hand to trouble any of you, Madame. And I do not have that at this time. Adieu.” He bowed slightly and stepped out.
That was good, so far as it lasted. If any policeman we
re to attempt to take me into custody, I would be in a bit of a trouble. As you no doubt recall, I cannot resist the pressure of the sun on the atmosphere as it rises—it forces me right into sleep. And I must sleep beneath ground. A jail cell would not suit.
I gave orders to Monsieur Georges to ensure that any gawkers downstairs were sent away and that word was spread that Le Chat Rose remained open for business as normal the following day. The last thing I needed was for my business to be impacted by ugly rumors.
I wanted to see to it all myself—and especially I wanted to be witness to the interviews—but the sun was rising. I hurried off to my room and to the coffin beneath the floorboards.
What a frustration it was to need to sleep when everything was in disarray!
4
The next night, I woke anxious and eager to know what had transpired during the day. I hurried out of my secret sleeping chamber into my bedroom and from there rang for Monsieur Georges, who rose and began his work only slightly before I did.
He brought me the briefing from the day butler, Monsieur Herbert, along with my petit dejeuner of toast and coffee. The note said, “1. If anything, the excitement from the previous night has only bolstered our business. The curious have stopped by to take in the scene and learn what gossip they can, and they’re enjoying the ladies while they’re here. 2. Monsieur Inspector Baudet requires your company at an interview with Inés Dujardin at your earliest convenience. 3. Madame Gagnon awaits you downstairs with an urgent matter.”
Madame Gagnon! I was as eager to speak to her as she was to speak to me. The point about Inés gave me pause, but I would handle that second.
I got myself presentable for the customers downstairs, where I found Madame Gagnon lingering in a corner like a brooding thunderstorm, her eyebrows knit together and her face pale. I gave her a reassuring squeeze of the arm. “Madame Gagnon, I am sure that all can be made right. Do come with me upstairs, and we will talk.”
She nodded briefly and said nothing as we made our way up the broad stairway and up to Anaelle’s room.
As soon as I’d closed the door behind us, she said, “I didn’t know Isabelle was dead.” She paced nervously and wrung her hands. “I didn’t even know she was sick or dying. When I left the room, she was sitting up and talking to Madame Safia. She must have taken ill very quickly. I promise I had nothing to do with it and know nothing about it. The inspector wants to interview me, but I can’t speak with him. Please, Madame, you must protect me from him.”
“Protect you from the inspector?” I said. “Sit down, Madame Gagnon. You’re making me nervous.”
I gestured to an overstuffed chair and rang for the butler to bring some tea. I could not imagine what reason Madame Gagnon could have to be so anxious.
“Why ever would you need protection from Inspector Baudet?” I asked, taking a seat on a settee. “He is a reasonable fellow. He will not cart you off to jail for no reason.”
“It’s not myself I’m worried for,” Madame Gagnon said, still standing.
“Do explain,” I asked.
“I cannot tell you, Madame,” she said. “I know I have no right to insist on that, but the story is not mine to tell, and I must beg you to let me keep it secret.”
Then a knock came at the door, and Inspector Baudet opened it and stepped in. “Mesdames, pardonnez moi,” he said.
Madame Gagnon reacted with a strangled whimper and stepped back toward the window.
“And who is this?” the inspector asked, his eyebrows raised.
I stood up and placed myself between the two. “Inspector, I’m so very sorry, Madame Gagnon and I were in the midst of a conversation which I fear must remain private.”
“I don’t suppose this conversation is pertinent to my investigation,” he said pointedly.
“I’m afraid I must insist that you take ‘private’ to mean exactly that,” I replied just as pointedly, standing my ground, but with a slight smile to soften it.
The inspector took stock of my determination and Madame Gagnon’s evident fear, and he nodded gravely. “I will give you your few moments, Mesdames,” he said, “with my apologies for my interruption. But I must interview Madame Gagnon before she should depart these premises again. I hope you understand it is a matter of some necessity.” He nodded to us before departing the room and closing the door.
Madame Gagnon came to me and took my hands. “Please, Madame,” she entreated, “you mustn’t leave me with him.”
“But why are you so frightened?” I asked again.
“All I can tell you,” Madame Gagnon answered, “is that I have a personal and private family matter at stake with a relation of mine, a cousin, and if I were to speak with the inspector at any length, I fear I should not be able to keep confidences I have promised to keep. I will reveal too much. I believe that my family member can get himself out of this trouble if given some time, and I must leave it at that.”
“But this has nothing to do with the dead woman?” I pressed.
“Nothing at all,” she said.
I hesitated and took a deep breath. But I detected nothing of dishonesty in her tone or scent. “Well, if you will not speak with the inspector, then I must relay your story to him, so do tell me everything you saw last night.”
At once she sat opposite me and poured out her story in a torrent. “Isabelle came with Safia upstairs, and they seemed to know each other. Safia was plainly delighted to see her. They sat and had some conversation—very light talk of weather and pastimes and such—and Safia asked me to bring some food. I took a call about my cousin before I went to the kitchen, and when I was bringing the food back, that was when I was overcome with concern and realized I had to go immediately. In fact, I only returned because I needed to explain why I’m going away.”
“Going away?”
“For a few days only,” she said. “Until this matter is resolved. My cousin has asked me for my help, and I can’t refuse him. And again, I am so very sorry for the trouble.”
“I wonder if that returned letter in the mail was meant for your cousin?” I asked.
“It was.”
Again, I wondered if I should apply my charme and force her to tell me all. But she had begged me for privacy.
“You realize your refusal to speak with the inspector will only cast further suspicion upon you,” I said. “In fact, he may refuse to let you go.”
“I can make it out of this window,” she said, getting up and indicating one of the larger windows.
“Really?” Few things have shocked me in recent years—I fear at times that I have seen everything that can possibly take place inside a Parisian brothel—but envisioning Madame Gagnon making her way out of the window took me aback.
“Please, Madame,” she pleaded.
With a sigh and a resolute nod, I unlatched the window and let her step out on to the roof of the ground floor. “You’re sure you can get down safely from here?”
“Certainly,” she said, with more confidence than I would have expected.
“Is this something you do often?” I asked curiously.
“Perhaps not,” she answered with a half-smile, and she slipped down onto the roof.
I had to wonder what I didn’t know about Madame Gagnon’s history.
I latched the window and, with another sigh, I returned to Inspector Baudet, who lingered in the hallway with his hat under his arm. I opened the door wide and allowed him to come inside to see that Madame Gagnon was not there. He turned to me with a look of puzzlement.
“I’m very sorry that I cannot give you the opportunity to interview Madame Gagnon today,” I said. “I assure you that she will be available to you in the near future. I can also tell you that she knew very little of last night’s events.” I related what little she told me before she left. “And I will also tell you, for what little it is worth, that I have complete confidence in her.”
The Inspector, to his great credit, did not quarrel with me. I saw frustration in his gaze, but he d
id not give it voice, except to say, “Are there any other interviews which you will be preventing me from undertaking, Madame? I ask only in the name of efficiency.”
I bowed my head, fighting to look properly contrite instead of smiling. “No, Inspector.”
“Shall we to Inés Dujardin, then?” he inquired.
“We shall,” I replied meekly.
5
We went to Inés room and found her lying facedown on her bed and far more of a weeping mess than I had expected, given that, as far as I know, she had never met the victim and knew nothing of the circumstances of her death. Melodie and Mireille were sitting beside her on the bed, both wearing that pitying but tight-lipped smile that appears when someone steadfastly refuses to be cheered up.
I sat beside Inés and stroked her hair. “Darling, I know this is terribly difficult for you.”
“We must have privacy, mesdames, I am afraid,” the inspector said to Melodie and Mireille. “Unless either of you have any information related to the murder?” He paused and studied their faces in his particularly penetrating way.
They exchanged horrified glances and assured the inspector they knew nothing, and he held the door open until they had departed. Inés, meanwhile, sat up, and attempted to wipe her face with a sodden handkerchief. I hastened to get her another one.
“This is my second interview with Mademoiselle Inés,” Inspector Baudet said to me as he took his place on the settee. “The first interview raised some questions, I must say, which is why I asked you to be present for the second one.”
“Oh?” I asked as I sat on the bed next to Inés. I found myself wondering how many more of my mesdames would fall under suspicion before the night was through. “And why might that be?”
“Mademoiselle Inés turned white as a sheet and began to weep when she saw the deceased, and yet she tells me that she does not know her. I wondered if perhaps she would have the same answer in a second interview and in your presence, Madame.” He turned to pin his gaze on Inés, who blanched.
The End of Isabelle Page 2
