The End of Isabelle

by Annette Moncheri

  I had to shake my head, whether in admiration or dismay, I couldn’t say—perhaps both. Inspector Baudet had such a confident air and such a penetrating gaze and such a way of driving directly at the truth that I found it easy to imagine he could break the most hardened of criminals.

  Inés burst into tears anew. “It’s true, Madame, I have seen Isabelle before, but I’m really crying because of the man that I saw her with before. He’s the one who has me so upset.”

  “What man is that?” Inspector Baudet asked.

  “An awful man with a snake tattoo that wraps around his neck like it’s constricting him. Very distinctive, once he loosens his tie and opens his collar. His name is Raoul.” She got up to pace, balling up her handkerchief.

  “There was one night that the two of them came in, and he chose me for their lady for the night. Raoul seemed very taken with me. I’ve never had anyone offer so many compliments and such affection the first time we met. He wanted Isabelle and I to put on a show for him, she and I—together, if you know what I mean. But she didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to pressure her. He was a brute to her, and he was a brute to me as well.” She collapsed on the bed next to me, her shoulders rounded, and held back sobs.

  “Inés,” I said in gentle remonstration, stroking her soft, fair cheek. “You know that you have only ever to ring the bell, and Monsieur Georges will come escort out any man who is out of line in any way.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I did not have to ring the bell, because I became upset, and Raoul said that the mood was ruined, and he stormed out with poor Isabelle in tow. But he also said…” She lowered her head, shamefaced. “He said he would come back sometime, and wouldn’t take no for an answer next time. He said he had to have me, the way he wanted.”

  “Why did you not tell me this, Inés?” I asked, trying to keep the reproach out of my tone, and only partially succeeding. In fact, my blood was boiling. No man had a right to threaten or mistreat any woman in my maison. This house was my domain, and no girl was to come to harm on my watch. I always explained it to the girls when I hired them—that they needed to report anyone who behaved badly, so that I could save the rest of my girls from similar treatment at the same hands.

  “I don’t know,” Inés said desperately. “I guess I felt guilty and embarrassed because I had ruined the night for a guest and made him unhappy, and so when I saw her, of course, it brought the memory back, and I didn’t want to tell the story—especially not in front of a… gentlemen.” She gestured toward Inspector Baudet, then lowered her gaze in embarrassment.

  He said, “Think of me not as a gentleman, but as the impartial personification of the law. We must see all and know all in order to get to the bottom of the crime at hand. And there is precious little that we have not heard before. You do understand.”

  She nodded, wiping her face again.

  I bit back the desire to chastise her further. In fact, poor Inés might be the indirect cause of Isabelle’s death. If she had spoken up, we could have interfered in the monster’s treatment of his girlfriend. But this was not the time to tell Inés so. She was trembling and as pale as if she were in some danger of her own.

  And that observation led me to a question: “Do you believe you might now be in danger yourself?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she wailed. “I don’t know what will happen.” Her hands shook as she wiped her face.

  The inspector looked up from his notebook. “Do you have any idea what the connection might be between Isabelle and Madame Safia?” he asked Inés.

  “No, because they didn’t speak to each other that night, so far as I know. Except, I know Isabelle was found in Safia’s room so they must have known each other. But I don’t know anything about it, Inspector, nothing, I promise. But Raoul strikes me as the most evil sort of person. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking of him.”

  “You think that he is the kind of person who might be capable of killing someone?” the inspector asked gently. “Especially if she fails to please him?”

  “Yes,” Inés said emphatically, and she burst again into hysterical tears.

  Perhaps she did understand her mistake after all.

  The inspector and I left Inés and had a brief tête-á-tête in the hallway, speaking quietly so as not to catch the attention of the clients who were passing through arm-in-arm with my ladies.

  “Do you suppose it could have been that man, Raoul, who killed Isabelle?” I asked.

  “It’s certainly possible,” the inspector answered, “and considering how it was set up here to bring suspicion and disrepute to your maison, his motive could have been revenge.”

  “You mean he could have been so offended by Inés’ refusals that he wanted to avenge himself on the entire house?”

  “I have seen stranger motives, and less rational ones,” he said. “And yet, do you have any feeling, as I do, that Mademoiselle Inés was keeping back some information?”

  “Oh,” I said, taken aback. I thought back over the conversation. She had been so genuinely distraught, it was difficult for me to perceive anything beyond that. “I really can’t say. Did you think so?”

  The inspector shrugged his slender shoulders. “It’s difficult to know for certain,” he said mildly. “Now, do you keep records of your customers, so that you can look up the names of those who were here during that time?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “Our girls are registered, as is required, but our customers would draw the line at a record of their presence here. We do not ask for surnames as a rule.”

  “I will ask at the commissariat whether anyone is familiar with a man with snake tattoos around his neck. That is an unusual mark, and a memorable one, but since it is easily hidden by a collar and a tie, it may not prove very useful. I will also need to send our artist to Inés to attempt a drawing of the man’s face.”

  “Have you spoken yet with Madame Safia?” I asked.

  “Yes, but you were right about her. Her mind is too muddled. She told me that it wasn’t murder, and also that Isabelle is fine and everything is all right, and that Isabelle was dead when she came in the door. Of course none of that holds up to reason, especially not taken altogether.”

  “That is very strange,” I said slowly. “Already dead, she said? How strange. That conflicts with Inés’s statement that she saw Isabelle alive and well in Safia’s room, and Inés is more likely to remember it correctly.”

  The inspector’s face had saddened. “She is… much as my mother was in her final years.”

  I felt for him. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” I said.

  He bowed slightly to me and departed.

  Once the inspector was gone, I saw to it that Madame Gagnon had a suitable replacement in Mireille for the next few days, to keep watch over Madame Safia. Then I went to speak with Madame Safia, but I learned nothing in addition to what the inspector had already told me.

  By then, a large number of customers and curious onlookers had showed up at my maison, everyone curious to see whether anything was out of the ordinary, or whether any good gossip was to be found, and the rest of my evening passed in a whirlwind of customer requests that had to be satisfied: for two girls and a copper bathtub, or for the ocean wave room be turned on, or that we locate the pair of stereoscope glasses which my customers could use to preview the ladies on offer. And of course sampling the work of Monsieur Gachet in the kitchen and keeping Monsieur Georges running to and fro with champagne and wine.

  I fell into sleep exhausted as the new day dawned, but still desperately curious as to what might be happening with Madame Gagnon’s cousin, the inspector’s search for the tattooed man, and everything else.

  6

  In the morning, there was one note from the day butler that caught my attention: “Strange encounter with Madame Gagnon leaving your office in midafternoon. She appeared flustered and had no good reason to be there. You may wish to follow up.”

  That surprised me—especial
ly when she had said she would be gone for several days. I prefer to think the best of people, and for the most part my trust had always been well placed. I had never had any reason to doubt Madame Gagnon, and I didn’t want to start now.

  I had not yet decided whether to confront her about this sudden and strange appearance in my office when greater matters took my attention. I was just heading downstairs when Monsieur Georges gestured to me from the front door. And when I saw the fellow who stood next to him, I let out a sigh.

  As someone who runs a very public establishment, of course I am obligated to be as accepting of others’ tendencies as one can possibly be. I have developed a thick skin, a well moderated tongue, and an ability to appear unfailingly kind and respectful.

  Well, perhaps not unfailingly. I may have had some moments.

  At any rate, this Monsieur Alberto Garcia was a thorn in my side. He is a large fellow with thick black hair well greased, swarthy skin well-shaved, a penchant for the brightest colors of suits available in men’s fashions, and a swagger in his step. He is flirtatious, charming—and incurably grasping and greedy. Which is a poor quality in someone responsible for business records for these arrondissements of Paris.

  “Madame!” he cried, as if delighted to see me—a fact which I doubted. He bowed low over my hand and deposited numerous kisses. “Bonsoir. Comment t’allez vous?”

  “Oh, well enough,” I replied drily. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Monsieur Garcia?”

  He sobered as quickly as if I had insulted him. “I’m terribly afraid that there is a matter of some concern with your paperwork, Madame.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “There is no concern whatsoever with my paperwork. I am always complete and timely with it, a fact you know well after all these years.”

  “Well, I received a call earlier in the day today from someone who did not care to identify himself, but he alerted me to the possibility that you had not filed for your license this year. And—”

  “Non, Monsieur!” I said briskly. “I certainly took care of it.”

  “…and I checked my files,” he continued unperturbed, “and discovered that in fact the license is not there.”

  “Then you’ve misplaced it!” I said testily.

  My tone caught the attention of a few nearby customers, and I pulled myself together. “No matter,” I said more quietly. “I shall give you my copy which I have on file in my office. I always keep a copy, you see, and—”

  I suddenly found myself speechless in midsentence, not an experience I frequently have.

  No doubt, dear Reader, you have come to the same conclusion that I did in that moment. But I told myself not to leap to conclusions, and I steadfastly finished my sentence. “And of course I have the receipt for the filing fees also in my office.”

  “I will be pleased to see it,” Monsieur Garcia replied.

  So will I, I thought to myself.

  We walked toward my office on the first floor while I fretted. What if my paperwork was, in fact, missing? And, much worse, what if Madame Gagnon had something to do with it?

  And I fumed, because Monsieur Garcia should have known better. “Really, Monsieur Garcia. Do you not recall my visit to your office at the beginning of the year? You wore a bright yellow suit. With a mint green tie.”

  “Oh, I love that suit!” he exclaimed, beaming widely.

  “Then you recall the visit?” I said.

  His face fell again just as quickly. “Non, Madame, I fear that I do not. But may I say that you look marvelous in that sky-blue dress?” He gave me a thoroughly appreciative look while I rolled my eyes. I was in no mood.

  Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the center of my office with my hands on my hips, with both Monsieur Georges and the night maid, Mademoiselle Marchand, toeing the line in front of me. “And you are both telling me that you have no recollection of accessing my files?”

  “Mais oui, Madame,” they assured me in unison.

  “And you’ve given your keys to this room to no one else?”

  “No, Madame.”

  I had no choice but to turn in my mind to Madame Gagnon. I shook my head, despairing. “Monsieur Georges, when we are through here, please call Madame Gagnon and ask her to come at once.”

  “Of course, Madame.”

  Even if it was her, why would she have done it? Did this have anything to do with the cousin who was in trouble? And if so, what did this cousin have to do with me and my maison? Was it he who had made to the anonymous tip to Monsieur Garcia?

  I had too many questions, and not enough answers.

  I turned to Monsieur Garcia, who was sitting on the edge of my desk and kicking happily at it like a schoolboy. “I assure you that I handled the paperwork, as I always do.”

  “Well, Madame, there is of course a very simple remedy for this. We can refile the paperwork this very night, although of course…” He shrugged and spread his hands to show his apparent helplessness in all of this. “Because I would be making a special exception for you, there would be some significant refiling fees, as well as the surcharges for expediting your request in order to keep your doors open.”

  You could practically see the francs tumbling through his mind.

  “These fees would not be insubstantial, but of course they are significantly less than losing days of business, n’est-ce-pas?” He leered as if offering something far more ribald.

  I saw red. I advanced on the man aggressively, and perhaps a bit of my true self made its way to my tone and expression, judging by how he flinched. “You received an anonymous tip about this. Clearly whoever gave it also set up this whole situation and stole the licenses from our offices. And you will strive to profit from this situation?”

  He blanched. “It is… business, Madame. One must abide by the… ah… regulations and…”

  “I very much suspect that there are no surcharges for expediting licenses. You are trying to steal from me. And this is hardly the first time you have tried. Do you imagine that I will ever give in to your schemes, Monsieur? For if I gave in, even once, you would bleed me dry for the rest of your days. No, Monsieur, I will not pay you, and I will never pay you, and you will cease to ask me. Monsieur Georges, Mademoiselle Marchand, you may depart the room.”

  The two servants quickly made for the door, but Monsieur Garcia leaped up from my desk and bolted, making it out before they did. At the threshold, he turned back and shouted, “I’m very sorry to say that Le Chat Rose is closed due to lack of a license.” He then turned and ran.

  I would have followed him—and I certainly would have caught him—but we were not alone, which meant my hands were tied.

  But oh—I would find him later.

  Fifteen minutes after that, I was shutting and locking the doors to Le Chat Rose, our customers forlornly putting on their shoes and jackets and hats (and in two cases, still zipping up their pants) in the large cobblestone courtyard outside.

  My mesdames stood at the doors, shivering without their furs and waving forlornly at their lost custom.

  I had posted a sign on the outside of the doors: “Temporarily closed for business. Will reopen momentarily. Do return tomorrow.”

  I went back inside, shooing in my ladies. They peppered me with questions and desperate pleas, which I answered with the single comment, “Don’t you worry, I will eat my own dress if I can’t get this straightened out by sunrise.”

  Halfway up the staircase, I faced the vast drawing room. Everything was in disarray below, the ladies standing around in confusion and dismay and the maids and servants uncertain what to do with no guests in a business that normally ran twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.

  I didn’t like to see them confused and insecure, and I didn’t want them to spend a moment worrying about our future.

  “Mesdames!” I called. “Your attention please.” I let them settle and draw nearer, and then I threw back my shoulders and declared with conviction, “Tonight, ladies, we shall have a party.
We may be closed for business, but we are not closed for fun!”

  My ladies cheered and clapped.

  “Mademoiselle Marchand, tell Monsieur Gachet to prepare his best spread for us tonight. Mireille, I give you leave to school us all on cards. But first, we shall dance! Monsieur Georges, send for musicians. Have the tables pushed back and bring out the dance floor! Melodie, until the musicians arrive, you must play your most rousing tunes. Girls, come upstairs and put on your finest things. Tonight, we drink, we dance, and we celebrate having a night all to ourselves.”

  Everyone clapped and cheered, and a new sense of purpose and joy infused the room. The women pulled off their shoes and raced each other up the double staircase to their rooms to dress. Melodie, already nicely attired, went straight to the piano and began to play a jaunty tune. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Marchand must have given my instructions to the deaf Monsieur Gachet, for he signaled me from by the kitchen doors that he would get right to work. I knew he would produce a feast fit for a castle full of princesses.

  And then I set my jaw, for while they played, I had a great deal of work to do.

  7

  I turned down the quiet hallway on the ground floor that led to my office, and found myself arrested by the sight of a man with black hair and swarthy skin standing silently in the middle of my hallway, his feet wide apart and solidly planted, his hands resting lightly at his sides, his chin cocked just slightly back and his dark eyes burning into mine. He seemed possessed with utter confidence and the poised threat of a snake who might strike.

  With my superhuman eyesight, I looked more closely around his neck, and indeed I saw the very edges of tattoos peeking out above his collar. This was him—Raoul, our murderer.

  I took a few steps closer. Perhaps another woman would have put her hand to her heaving bosom and cried out, “How did you get in here?” or something else equally senseless. But not I. No, I was no swooning female. He had not yet caught up to that fact, but he soon would.