She crossed to the back of the church and headed south on Rue Dante au Double. The street was busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and Maggie was surprised to see so much gaiety and laugher as she walked.
Are all these people going to a party or something? she wondered as she rushed down the narrow sidewalk. Shops were closed on both sides. Banks and bakeries, sandwich shops and boutiques were tightly shuttered up. And still the people came in hordes, smiling, hugging, chewing on golden wands of bread, and walking.
Maggie turned abruptly as the Rue Dante jagged westward, and then she stopped. There, in front of her, was Elise's first apartment. The cheery little shuttered upstairs flat had a window box spilling over with geraniums and mums. The windows had yellow shutters against a light blue building front of shops and restaurants. The street at this juncture--not much more than an alleyway--was full of life and activity. A boulangerie faced the flat, with a small, academic bookstore situated next door. Students were everywhere. Clean, well-scrubbed, if disheveled, young people that scurried and playfully shoved each other on the sidewalks and looked like they had a place to go.
She looked up at the cheery little window. l5 Rue Dante au Double. Gerard had taken Elise from this sunny spot and spirited her away to Montmartre.
Maggie shifted her purse strap to her opposite shoulder and looked around for a place to sit. There were no cafés on this part of the street. She looked up once more at the window but couldn't imagine Elise's face in it.
Slowly, she turned and walked up the street to the intersection where she remembered seeing the sign for the Metro. She was surprised that she seemed to know exactly where to go next. It was, she thought sadly, as if a part of Elise were guiding her.
She took the subway--never more aware of the filth and despair in each station platform as she passed. At one point, while changing trains in the cavernous, urine-saturated halls of the Chatelet station heading toward L'Opera, a tiny Indian girl, half the age of Nicole, held out her hand and touched Maggie's soft chamois skirt. The child was making an appeal for money but, to Maggie, it felt like the curious, investigative nuzzle of a wild animal that doesn't know enough to be afraid. She saw the child's mother and father sitting in dirty, stained sari and pajamas, a cardboard cigar box in front of them, filled with francs. She gave the girl fifty American dollars and smiled largely at her as if to make her believe that it was the gift of a benevolent, spoiling auntie, and not pity money for food begged from a total stranger.
She surfaced on Boulevard des Capucines with the magnificent Opera House the first image that soared into view. Holding her breath at the sight of it, Maggie had the overwhelming sensation of a coma-victim awakening to a world that has been living and breathing and loving and hating furiously for centuries...while she slept.
To her left, was the Café de la Paix, her destination. Its bright, striped awning stretched the full length of the block and she hurried toward it. Perhaps now all her pain could finally come together in one seamless ache. Perhaps now, here, where it all started, where Elise met Gerard and began the whole series of events that would hurt so many people, Maggie would be able to get the perspective for which she'd so diligently searched.
She stood at the door of the café, peering in, amazed at the sheer number of people crammed into the overflowing outdoor seating area which eddied and bulged into the street, and at the enormous sea of bodies pressed together inside the café itself. This was madness to think she could just pop over to the famous Café de la Paix and expect to grab dinner. Her chances of getting a table seemed about as good as making partner at one of the larger law firms back in Atlanta--without a college degree.
The waiters, in starched white shirts and black bowties, scurried past each other, balancing huge silver trays in the air over the heads of the diners. It was like watching a Fellini movie, Maggie decided, as she followed the dizzying activity. And then she saw him. In the massive, confusing jumble of smoking, drinking, masticating humanity, she saw the one person she expected least to see and, had she thought of it, should have counted on seeing.
Roger Bentley sat alone at a small corner table, protected from the hubbub and cacophony by two barely visible earplugs. He was engrossed in a hardback book. He was drinking wine, his food had not yet arrived.
Maggie's feet were moving toward the center of the dining room before she had time to accurately register what she had seen. Within seconds, she stood in front of his table, staring down at him, her hands clenched at her side, her mouth open as if she would speak.
He looked up questioningly and recognized her instantly. A smile escaped him and he stood up, placing the book on the chair beside him.
"Well, I say!" he blurted cheerfully, "Miss Newberry! In Paris! What a surprise!"
"The child isn't Nicole," Maggie said. She stared him directly in the eyes, eyes that danced and feinted, cajoled and convinced.
"Fine, just fine, and you?" Roger looked behind her. "You're dining with friends? Alone?" He gestured to an empty chair at his table. "Sit, sit! Well, I'll be switched! Maggie Newberry in Paris."
Maggie dropped her purse on the floor and placed her hands on his table.
"Roger, I..." She didn't know what to say. He looked at her with confidence, even pleasure. She felt baffled.
"Please, dear girl, sit, sit. Have some wine." He reseated himself and waited until she sat down across from him. "Such a nice surprise, I must say! Garçon!" He waved over one of the speeding waiters and asked for another wine glass and a menu. Then he turned back to Maggie. "So, old girl, what brings you to Paris?"
Maggie took a deep breath.
"The child isn't Nicole."
Roger sighed and removed his earplugs. He paused for just a moment and then looked at her again, sadly.
"Ah, no. I'm afraid not."
The waiter brought the glass and menu but Roger waved it away. "The Mademoiselle will have an omelet also." He turned to Maggie. "They're jolly good here. Like nothing you've ever tasted." The waiter departed and Roger proceeded to pour the wine. Just like old times, Maggie thought.
"Where is Nicole?" she asked bravely.
"That's hard to say, Maggie." Roger flapped his napkin out onto his lap.
"Is she alive?"
"I don't believe she is, no."
"I see." Maggie felt her hands begin to tremble and she pushed them into her lap under the table.
"You must see it from my position, Maggie, dear..."
"You flim-flammed me," she cried and then looked around her at the other diners. She really didn't feel like making a scene in one of the world's most famous restaurants. "You conned me," she said more softly. "It was all a set-up. Did you kill the child?"
"You must be joking! Are you serious? Maggie, really! I cannot imagine you would even--"
"Roger, I haven't got the energy for this bullshit of yours. I really don't. Maybe the gendarmes have more patience for it, but I'm not used to it."
"Jolly well put, yes, well. All right, from the top." He ran a thin hand through his dark blond hair and then massaged his jutting chin with the same hand. He looked at her as if he were about to drastically cut the selling price on a set of china they were haggling over. "We took advantage, shall we say, of an existing situation," he said. "I knew the child had died--"
"You knew the murderer?"
"I'm not sure there really was a murderer, my dear. I believe the child died...naturally."
"I didn't know someone could die 'naturally' at five years of age." Maggie felt warm. Her cheeks were flushed. "I thought 'natural causes' involved old age, Roger."
"I'm just telling you what I know, pet. The girl was dead, maybe an accident, I don't know. What I did know was that her mother's family had money and they had never laid eyes on the girl."
"How did you know Elise hadn't sent us a photograph of the child?"
"Honestly, Maggie, you must think I just took up the business or something. I'm not a total get, you know. It was known to me that Elise was
disinherited or at least--"
"That's not true!"
"In any event, the child was not bandied about in snapshots to doting grandparents. Am I wrong?"
Maggie didn't answer him.
"It was quite the ready-made scam, if I may say so. Something an artist dreams of. Rich family, dead main players...nothing but for a chap like me to step in and make it all happy and right."
"Is that what you think you did?"
"You were happy. Your parents, I take it, were happy?"
"And the little girl? Is she happy?"
"My dear woman! The child was virtually rescued from a swarm of male relatives who'd had the rather perverse pleasure of her sex from the time she was two years old! Am I to believe that my taking her from a ghetto of incest and poverty and dropping her into the lap of one of the wealthiest families in Atlanta, Georgia was doing a disservice to the little mite?"
"My God." The tight feeling returned to the pit of her stomach. "She's been molested?"
"That's delicate, my dear. She'd been overhauled by every man within spitting distance to her. Do you think I didn't enjoy the idea that her life--in one miraculous stroke--was going to change for the better? You think that didn't appeal to me?"
"She needs psychiatric help, Roger. She's in bad shape."
"No, my darling, she's in very good shape now. She's in your hands, isn't she? I assume she'll not be dumped into some social worker's jurisdiction now that you know you're not blood-related?"
"Don't be obscene. You think you played God, you think you actually did a good turn?"
"I do. I must say, I do. Your parents needed someone to help assuage their guilt over their daughter--"
"What do you know about what my parents need?"
"You'd be surprised the things I have to know in my business. And little 'Nicole' needed people to love and care for her. And not just anybody. As you pointed out, she needs special care now."
Maggie shook her head.
"And Laurent? Where does he fit in to all this?"
Roger shrugged and took a sip of his wine.
"He was my partner, that's all. A good chap, Laurent. He knew Elise and Gerard--"
"Don't lie to me, Roger! I know Laurent is Gerard's brother.”
"You're not going to let me finish a full sentence, are you?" He smiled at her briefly. Maggie glared at him. "All right, all right, so of course he knew him. Anyway, that's the connection. Laurent knew about the little girl and Elise's family having money--"
“Laurent knew so much,” Maggie said bitterly.
"Hmmm? Well, he's quite a capable chap, if you know what I mean. Likable, I must say. Yes, quite likable."
"For a criminal."
She watched the sea of faces at the surrounding tables, faces laughing, smoking, pouting, shoving huge amounts of rich food into moving, chewing mouths.
"Great fun to work with too,” Roger continued. “Good sense of humor. Haven't you found that? Aren't you two--as the French so politely put it--à folie à deux? Involved? I thought you were. Laurent gave me the impression that you were."
"He did?"
"He most certainly did. It's not true?"
"I don't know what's true. Nicole's dead, Elise is dead. And Laurent is a very mysterious equation to me all of a sudden. He lied to me."
"Dear girl. That's the nature of his business. Doesn't mean he doesn't care for you, or love you, come to that."
"How very strange you people are."
"'You people.' By that, I take it you mean 'non-Americans?'"
"He could lie to me, cheat me, intend to continue lying and cheating me--and still love me?"
"Sounds jolly rude when you put it like that. But I dare say he's not interested in cheating you again. As for the lying, well, once you start, it's bloody difficult to pack it up if you see what I mean. He can't very well come clean on Nicole, now can he? I'm sure he doesn't relish living a lie the rest of his life in regards to her--"
"But he could do it."
"Maggie, life isn't perfect, or haven't you come to that yet?"
"I could have you arrested."
"Well, that's very nice, I must say."
"You cheated my family out of fifteen thousand dollars."
"I'm not going to give it back, if that's where this is leading."
"I don't know what to make of you, Roger. I sort of like you but you're a definite felon."
"You Americans and your backward charm. Look, Maggie, I've been honest with you, haven't I? Why not go back to Atlanta, go back to Laurent and pick up the reins again? Let Nicole go on being Nicole and enjoy the fact that you and your family are doing your best for one of the world's downtrodden." He shrugged again. "I really don't see what else is to be done."
Maggie opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. She turned away and looked once more at the frenetic crowd. This is where Elise sat, she thought. This is where Elise felt at home and happy. This is where Elise met Gerard.
Maggie took a sip of her wine, aware that Roger was watching her closely. Still holding her glass, she looked at him with resignation.
"A good year, I suppose?" she asked wearily.
"Of course, my dear," he said, reaching for his own wine glass. "Wouldn't expect anything less from ol' Roger, would you?"
She noticed that his eyes seemed to twinkle with real pleasure.
Her meal, which Roger paid for, was a plain egg omelet with a healthy serving of the ever-present pommes frites. The omelet--fluffy, light, with barely a hint of the cheese, green pepper or ham that had gone into it--was, without doubt, the most exquisite thing Maggie had ever tasted. Later, when she happened to see the bill the waiter planted in front of Roger, she began to understand where her father's money went during Elise's first year in Paris. Her omelet, heavenly though it was, cost Roger nearly $US65.
She walked slowly down the Boulevard de la Madeleine and watched the evening people scurry about their evening activities. Sunday night might not be one of the more bustling times in Paris, but it was not sleepy either. Plenty of people were running to the opera, to the nightclubs, to late-night restaurants, to sit in the always-teeming cafés to smoke and drink and watch the pedestrians.
Remorse had not been Roger's tendency, Maggie thought as she walked. He made no apologies for his behavior or his profession. And he seemed to genuinely like her. She wondered if that was truly compatible with the kind of person he was. She wondered the same of Laurent. Incredibly, Roger seemed to think that lies were little, annoying things--necessary to do from time to time and imminently forgivable if you got done to. Of course, she thought, the man lies for a living. He admitted to her, in a conspiratorial moment that should have flattered her, that he was in town posing as a near relative to the Princess Michael and serving as an aristocratic Parisian guide for a group of wealthy East European tourists.
And so this had been Laurent's work too, she thought. She had been afraid to ask Roger--in case he decided to tell her the truth--exactly how far he and Laurent would be willing to go in their chosen profession. Where did murder fit in? Blackmail? Kidnapping?
She waved down a taxi and gave him the address of her hotel. Tonight was not a night for negotiating grimy Metro stations with their late night clientele graduating from mild panhandling to a more forceful rendition of acquiring a stranger's money. The night lights of Paris never ceased to thrill, she thought, as she watched the golden, carnival glow of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, illuminated like some wonderful Ferris wheel. She eased back into her seat and wished she could feel the thrill without experiencing it through the veil of gloom and listlessness she felt wrapped around her.
In spite of the wine at dinner, she was sober and dispirited as she paid the taxi driver and ascended the entry steps to Hotel de L'Etoile Verte. The snotty young woman wasn't on duty tonight. At least Maggie could be grateful for that, she thought as she asked for her room key. The middle-aged man who had taken the girl's spot for the evening seemed weary and world-soured, ye
t not so aggressively peevish as the mademoiselle before him.
"You have messages," he said with no curiosity. He pulled out two small pieces of paper with her room key and handed them to her.
She felt a sharp pang. Laurent had called. She thanked the night concierge and trudged to the hall elevator, shoving Laurent's message into her purse. The second communication was from Michele, suggesting lunch tomorrow at a café called L'homme. Maggie could get directions from the front desk.
Not much of an investigative trip, really, Maggie thought as she punched the up arrow button for the elevator. She had decided, in the taxi ride back to the hotel, that she would leave Paris the day after tomorrow. First, she would say good-bye and thank you to Michele, maybe take a quick walk down the Champs Elysee for sentimentality's sake and then put some closure to this Elise-in-Paris thing. She knew her parents must be wondering why she hadn't called them yet. In a rare, self-indulgent moment, her load began to feel very heavy and she could feel the message in her pocket from Laurent start to leave scalding marks on her jacket lining. The last thing she felt like doing right now was talk to Laurent.
She raised her hand to give the elevator button another impatient jab, a mild curse forming in her mind, when the doors finally jerked open. She stepped aside to let the sole occupant out and then dropped her purse when she realized that that occupant, now staring menacingly at her from the elevator interior, was Gerard Dubois.
Chapter Twenty
1
He stood, wavering, in the elevator, then stepped clumsily over her purse and positioned himself in front of her. Maggie could smell the alcohol wafting from his rumpled clothes like steam. He looked at her through rheumy eyes as though he didn't know who she was.
He knew.
"So, you're back," he slurred, blasting her with a vaporized mixture of cheap wine and garlic.
The Complete Maggie Newberry Provençal Mysteries 1-4 Page 26
