The Parting of Pierre

by Annette Moncheri

  “I will,” he said. “Bonsoir.” He tucked the drawing into his portfolio and shook my hand, then leaned down to exchange cheek kisses with Hélène, making her eyes sparkle.

  We watched him go out of the front door, and I smiled at Hélène. “You’ve got a crush on him.”

  “Hmmm, perhaps!” Hélène beamed.

  9

  Just then, a pale hand flailed high in the air near the front door, catching my gaze. It was Mireille waving at me, her thin face looking pinched. When she saw that she’d caught my gaze, she darted outside. I made quick apologies to Hélène and made my way across the drawing room, wondering what Mireille was up to—and what there was to see outside.

  I stepped into the antechamber to see the thin woman at the front doors, peeking out. “Mireille?”

  She waved me over. “Zut! I think he’s gone. I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The one who was following Pierre, before. I saw him outside just a moment ago.”

  We both hurried outside and looked both ways along the street. A few automobiles and taxis puttered by, emitting acrid fumes, and a handful of people walked by, chatting. But I didn’t see a lanky, pale man with bushy black eyebrows and a prominent nose.

  Mireille made an impatient sound. “He must have seen me, and seen that I saw him.”

  “You’re sure it was him?” I asked, and she nodded. “But why would he still be lurking about?” I protested. “His target is dead already.”

  Mireille shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “I’ll have a note sent to Inspector Baudet,” I said.

  As I turned to go back in, I noticed a middle-aged lady standing at the corner holding a placard. Just then, she had her gaze fastened on me, with a nervous set to her shoulders, but when she saw me look her way, she spun around so quickly she nearly fell over.

  I walked over, with Mireille following me curiously, and read the sign: “No sin is anonymous or safe from discovery—You have been warned,” and then, in much smaller text, “Parisian Moral Society.”

  My eyebrows went up. “’You have been warned’?” I said to the older lady, who seemed to be trying to hide beneath the brim of her flat straw hat. “What kind of threat is this?”

  “It’s not a threat,” the woman said defensively. “Not exactly. It’s common sense more than anything.”

  One of my regular customers turned down our street with a jaunty stride and then paused to read the sign. As he took in the words, his face fell, and he began to turn away.

  “Oh, don’t you dare,” I called to him. “You can’t let these old women scare you off.”

  He shrugged apologetically and left the way he’d come, looking around nervously as he did so.

  “Shall I call the police?” Mireille asked.

  “You can’t stop us being here,” the sign-holder said. “We’ve a right to hold signs on the sidewalks.”

  “She’s right as far as that goes,” I conceded to Mireille. “But don’t worry—I’ll come up with a solution.” I fixed a glare on the other woman. “You can be sure of that.”

  Mireille and I went back inside, where I directed Mireille to return to her work and took myself to my own room in the back of the house. There I transformed into my bat shape and flitted out of the window.

  Did I take pleasure in battering the signholder about the head and shoulders while she shrieked? I will not deny it. And when she dropped the placard and fled, still screaming, I made a few victory laps around the street corner, exhilarated. Stretching my wings in the cool night air was pure joy, and I returned to the drawing room a few moments later with a flush on my cheeks and a smile hovering on my lips.

  I didn’t know if it would work as a long-term strategy, but I also didn’t mind finding out.

  I awoke the next evening with a sense of foreboding which accompanied me all through my washing and dressing.

  I’ve never known prescience to be one of my supernatural talents, but still, as soon as Monsieur Georges appeared with my coffee and newspaper, I accosted him with the worried question, “Has anything gone wrong over the day? Has Monsieur Herbert reported anything alarming?”

  He set out my coffee. “His report has only one point of any note, which is that Mademoiselle Hélène Bachelet has information she needs to give you as urgently as possible.”

  “Zut alors,” I said. “Do you ever begin your night with a sense of impending doom, Monsieur Georges?”

  “Should I, Madame?” he asked blandly.

  “I suppose not,” I said with a laugh. No, indeed, I took excellent care of my staff.

  After that, I made my way downstairs, hoping to see Hélène in the drawing room, but she wasn’t there. I cursed my luck and sent a servant to tell her that I was awake and awaited her urgently.

  I called the operator on the hallway telephone and asked for the address of Pansy Fabron’s aunt—whose name I also requested, and discovered it was Ignace Queneau—which, to be petty, I thought suited her perfectly. But, to my frustration, I learned that Auntie Ignace didn’t live on the Île. There was little reason to think she would return anytime soon, as the Île is primarily residential. I would have to entice her over. But how?

  With only a little thought, I had it, and a moment later, I was on the line with Auntie Ignace.

  “Bonsoir,” I said. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I’ve come into the possession of an important clue as to the identity of Pierre’s murderer.”

  That fact was true, and I knew it would entice her over whether or not she was innocent. If she were guilty of hiring the murderer—which at that moment I didn’t doubt—then she’d be eager to discover exactly how much I knew.

  I listened intently. She took in a quick breath, but I couldn’t tell what feeling lurked behind it.

  “Do tell me everything,” she begged. “Pansy has been beside herself ever since we learned it wasn’t an accident.”

  “I’ve got a drawing of the culprit,” I said. “You’ll want to come see it in person, I’ve no doubt.” It was fortunate that Monsieur Ruff had returned the drawing to me earlier.

  “I have a meeting tonight,” she said, “but I’ll just let the ladies know that I’ll be a bit delayed. They can begin without me, I’m sure. I’ll be right over.”

  That settled, I made my usual rounds of the building to ensure that everything was going well—I sampled all of Monsieur Gachet’s delicacies, checked that Mademoiselle Marchand had everything clean and tidy, gave my ladies a cheerful salut and bonsoir, and wiped the tears of Anaelle, whose regular gentleman had just announced he was moving away from Paris.

  Soon after, Auntie Ignace arrived. I had Monsieur Georges send her to my office, and I told him that we were not to be disturbed.

  Despite my invitation to sit, Auntie Ignace cast a fearful look at the upholstery and declined. She stood in the very center of the room, clutching her oversized purse—which I was sure held Caramel, and I hoped he would stay there—so I remained standing as well.

  “What is this information you have?” Aunt Ignace asked impatiently. “I don’t like setting foot in this building for an instant longer than I must.”

  I wanted to slap some civility into her, but I contented myself with knowing I was about to unbalance her entirely.

  “It was Pierre’s colleague at the bank who exposed the whole thing,” I said while I watched her face and listened to her heartbeat and breathing. Ah, that heartbeat. I hoped I was about to have a very good justification for having a little nip.

  “Exposed what ‘whole thing’?” Ignace demanded.

  “The man you hired,” I said. I was bluffing, of course. “He wasn’t careful enough. Pierre noticed him. And one of my ladies saw him here at my maison, and she provided a most accurate description. Don’t you think?”

  And with that, I flipped open the portfolio to reveal the drawing.

  Ignace had gone pale and serious, and now her face took on a bright pink blush.
She scarcely moved or breathed… and I licked my lips.

  But then she rallied. “So what of it? It’s not a crime to hire a private investigator. I have a right. And what does it matter if I had Pierre followed? Everything I’d feared and suspected—all of it was true. I only wish I had put a stop to it before he died.”

  Worn out, she sagged onto a divan and pulled a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “My poor Pansy…”

  Dear Reader, I don’t mind admitting that I was wrong about Auntie Ignace. I did mind missing out on my much-anticipated snack. And I minded that I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say next. “So you didn’t hire this man to kill your nephew-in-law for the life insurance money?” seemed so gauche at this point.

  But one item did stand out to me. “If you hired him to watch Pierre, why did we find him here watching Le Chat Rose only yesterday—long after Pierre met his end?”

  “Oh, that,” Aunt Ignace said. Self-satisfaction settled over her like a hen coming in to roost. “You’ll see. We’re setting things to right, we are.”

  “Oh?” I inquired, my eyebrows ascending toward the ceiling. “Who is ‘we,’ and what, pray tell, are you setting to right?”

  She stood up and put away her handkerchief. “All will become very clear in due time, Madame. You can be sure of that.”

  I dislike being toyed with, dear Reader.

  I closed in on her and invoked my charme. “You will tell me everything you know.”

  Just as her face was turning white again, a commotion occurred outside the closed door, and then it flew open. It was Monsieur Guillot, red-faced and fists clenched, and behind him hurried Monsieur Georges. “I’m sorry, Madame,” my butler called. “He got ahead of me.”

  “Now it’s your dealers who are crooked!” Guillot raged at me. “What kind of an establishment is this? It’s criminal. It’s absurd.”

  Aunt Ignace’s eyes lit up, and she interjected, stabbing a finger toward me, “This is what comes of harboring sin, Madame. Gambling on top of whoring? Do you think God takes no notice at all?”

  I raised my hands. “Enough!” I spoke forcefully, with just enough pouvoir to make them listen. “I won’t have this chaos in my home. Monsieur Guillot—”

  But I was interrupted by a streak of dark brown fur flying through the air. Caramel’s ears were back and his tiny teeth showed as he leapt from the purse of the startled Auntie at Monsieur Guillot, barking and growling like a menace. He caught Guillot’s bowtie in his teeth and shook his head back and forth while he dangled off his feet.

  The rest of us froze in horror, except Auntie, who shrieked and grabbed her little dog, which continued to snap and snarl at Guillot. The man’s expression shifted into a snarl of his own and his face turned red.

  “Get that little beast under control!” he raged.

  “Whatever has possessed you, Caramel?” Ignace asked in dismay. She turned to the rest of us. “I’ve never known him to attack anyone. Never! He’s a perfect gentleman, always.”

  “Madame, I must ask you to take the dog off the premises,” Monsieur Georges said, holding the door wide for her.

  “Of course, of course,” she mumbled dejectedly as she went out.

  “And you, sir, are you at all injured?” Georges asked Guillot solicitously.

  “Only scratched a bit,” Guillot answered impatiently, rubbing his chin. “I hate those little yapping animals. They should be eaten, like they are in China. I’ve a mind to kill and eat it myself.”

  “Well, I’ve a mind to kill and eat you,” I said sweetly, drawing a double take from Guillot. I began to straighten his collar and bow tie for him as if I hadn’t uttered such an abhorrent sentiment. “But there shall be none of that today. We love all living things here at Le Chat Rose—even those that seem utterly unlovable.” I said this last bit perhaps a bit too pointedly as I tugged at his tie. “Now please be assured that the dealers are not out to cheat you or anyone else—and at any rate, how can it possibly hurt when the stakes are so small?”

  He said nothing for an instant, and then coldly said, “It’s the principle of it, Madame.” He pushed my hands away. “I don’t care for being cheated, no matter if it’s only over a sou. And I trust you will deal with the matter.”

  “There is nothing to deal with,” I replied tartly. “Our dealers are paid a flat fee, and no portion of profit returns to the house. It is a diversion we offer to our guests, and nothing more. If you aren’t enjoying yourself, don’t play.”

  “You may come this way, Monsieur,” Georges said, still holding the door open. Bless him—he knows me well enough to see when I want a conversation to end.

  Guillot straightened his jacket and clenched his jaw, but went out, wordless.

  “Perhaps it’s time to bar him from the premises?” Monsieur Georges asked mildly.

  “You may be right, my friend,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s see how he does after this little chat we’ve had.”

  10

  I was delighted and relieved to see Hélène smoking on a barstool in my drawing room immediately after. But then I saw how concerned her expression was. Hélène was rarely affected by anything, so my worries grew.

  She met me at the foot of the stairs and took my hand affectionately in hers as she kissed me and gave me a look of concern which caused me a new spike of alarm.

  “The Parisian Moral Society has a plot,” she declared, “and you’re not going to like it.”

  A few minutes later, she perched regally on the edge of my desk, smoking again, while I leaned against the closed door, preparing myself for whatever revelation she had for me.

  “Here it is, in a nutshell,” she said. “And brace yourself: it’s evil.” She took another drag from her cigarette. “They’re using private investigators to watch all the brothels in central Paris and to compile the names of their customers. And then they’re going to send letters to the homes of every customer, to report their actions to their families.”

  My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious. Mon Dieu!”

  She nodded soberly, but I could also see the spark of excitement in her eyes. There was a part of Hélène just wicked enough to enjoy the drama. Then again, that was one of my favorite things about her.

  I began to pace. These poor men—unmasked, stripped bare, exposed to the very women who would be most appalled, and who could deliver the most vicious of reprisals. “We can’t allow it. There will be divorces, children taken from their fathers—” I stopped and stared at Hélène as a new realization struck me. “The wives will forbid their husbands to ever return. Our custom will slow to a crawl. But of course—that’s the whole purpose. They seek to drive us out of business.” I shook a fist in the air. “Oh, those smug, self-righteous, sanctimonious—”

  “Self-satisfied and unctuous,” Hélène filled in. “And hypocritical, of course. ‘First cast the beam out of thine own eye,’ after all.”

  “They don’t think they have beams in their eyes. They think they’re perfect.” I remembered then the sign that the woman had held outside Le Chat Rose the previous night. “No sin is anonymous or safe from discovery—You have been warned.” Now I knew what the sign was about. I quickly filled in Hélène on that.

  She shook her head. “I suppose they think they’re being righteous by warning the men first.”

  “They’re only exposing how evil it is,” I argued. “You don’t need to warn people before you do something civil. This is an unforgiveable intrusion into people’s lives. How is it even French to do such a thing?”

  “Ah, that’s exactly it,” Hélène said as she tapped her cigarette into an ashtray. “The founder of the Moral Society—Alodie Sirois—grew up in England.”

  “Oh, that explains it,” I said bitterly. “The motherland of Puritanism.”

  “Even more than you think,” Hélène said. “Alodie can trace her lineage right back to Calvin. And her dear departed mother never let her forget it, and now she thinks it’s a duty impart
ed from beyond the grave to meddle in the private lives of all of Paris.”

  “It sounds like you know her,” I said incredulously.

  Hélène rolled her eyes. “My mother does.” She put out her cigarette with angry emphasis. “She’s been in our house more times than I would like. That’s certain. And, by the way, she has a mustache—and I mention that only to prove how petty I am.” She smiled wickedly.

  “Well, now I know the name and face of mine enemy,” I said grimly. “Thank you, Hélène. I will put a stop to it. You can wager your last sou on it.”

  I threw open the door, and just then, I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

  11

  At once, my acute senses registered the acrid smell of gunpowder and the shouts and scuffling sounds of a fight coming from the back room—the gambling room. Even as I hiked up my skirt and hurried as fast as I could in my heels, I thought to myself, Already? Didn’t I think only a few hours ago that surely the gambling room could keep for a few days? I hated being wrong almost as much as I hated the idea that someone might be bleeding to death.

  I flung open the door to the gambling room.

  Two men struggled with a third in the corner nearest me, while Monsieur Talbot tried to prise the gun from his hand without it going off again. Everyone else stood, red-faced or pale and shouting in agitation, with several chairs knocked to the ground. Mireille stood among them, her hand covering her mouth and her eyes wide with horror. A quick glance assured me that no one was bleeding.

  “Be still!” I said forcefully, with as much of my charme as I dared display to a room full of people. Everyone fell silent, and the scuffle stopped. All I heard was the panting of the men who’d been fighting.

  The one with the gun—the heavy-set, baby-faced man—had settled down, and Monsieur Talbot wrenched the weapon from his hand in one smooth movement and gave it to me.

  “No one’s hurt?” I asked.

  I still saw no one bleeding, and everyone looked around and drew the same conclusion. Monsieur Talbot touched a spot on the floral wallpaper next to him. “Bullet went in here.” He shook his head and muttered, “Too close to me.”