Mystery Writers of America Presents the Rich and the Dead

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  What had he said…? What the hell had he said?

  After four or five days had passed and nothing had happened, he felt secure enough to venture out into the streets again.

  He didn’t admit it to himself, but he knew where he was going.

  HE TOSSED HIS cigarette into the gutter, pressed the buzzer of 11 rue St.-Sulpice, and waited.

  The door opened onto heaven. That was Graves’s first thought: heaven.

  Barefoot, tall, and willowy, with long dark hair that set off the most remarkable sea blue eyes, a young woman dressed in a matelot’s blouse and charcoal slacks blessed him with a perfect and perfectly heart-melting smile.

  “Oui?”

  “Je—Je voudrais…,” he began haltingly. “… Je voudrais—parler—avec Monsieur Durand… s’il vous plait.”

  “We can speak in English,” she said. “If you would prefer it.”

  “God, yes. Thank you.” He held out the calling card. “Monsieur Durand gave me this, and I…”

  When she saw the handwriting on the back, she smiled again, and sunlight poured out of the heavens. “You are Monsieur Graves! He told me about you.”

  “Is he home? May I see him?”

  Clouds drifted into her sea blue eyes. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She bit her lip and looked at the parquet flooring of the foyer. “My father is not well.”

  “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were stormy and pain racked. “What the doctors say is not good.”

  “What is the—the problem?”

  “His heart. Comme toujours, his heart.”

  “I see.”

  She started to say something, then stopped. Graves waited.

  “—Alors,” she said, stirring. “I’ll tell him that you called. Papa will be pleased. Thank you.”

  She turned to go into the house.

  “Would it be all right—,” Graves blurted, and she turned back to him. “Would it be all right if I called in a couple of days to see how your father’s doing?”

  She thought it over. “Yes. That would be all right.” She started in again. The door began to close.

  “Who should I ask for?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Pauline,” she said and closed the door.

  Pauline Durand. P. D. Oh, my God, he thought as he walked toward the Métro, Pauline Durand…. Miracles do occur, he decided. Angels do appear on earth.

  SHE HAD GOOD news for him when he called.

  “He is much better, and he wants you to dine with us this Friday evening. Is that all right for you?”

  He thought he could manage it.

  PAULINE CROSSED TO the library door and took his hands in hers. She was lovelier than ever, if such a thing was conceivable. Her dark hair was up, exposing the line of her long white neck, bare but for a thin chain of silver. “I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “Papa, look who’s here.”

  Pale and massive, Monsieur Durand shifted his gaze from the French windows and the garden beyond and nodded. He’d aged considerably since Graves had seen him last. His face was pinched, diminished; his breathing labored.

  “Papa’s doing much better,” Pauline said brightly. “Aren’t you, Papa?”

  Durand lifted a shoulder, let it drop.

  Pauline turned to Graves. “Doctor Branchet is dining with us. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  She knelt beside the old man’s chair. “Papa, I’ll leave you with Monsieur Graves. You’ll call if you need anything?”

  He waved a tremulous hand in the direction of the door.

  As she passed Graves, she whispered, “Don’t give him anything to drink.”

  Graves watched her exit, then fixed himself a scotch and soda.

  The old man’s eyes glittered greedily. “… How is it?”

  “You have very good taste, Monsieur Durand. It’s marvelous.”

  The old man sighed. “Someone should enjoy it.”

  Graves crossed to the French windows and looked out into the garden. The red and yellow and orange flowers glowed in the dying light of day.

  “I was quite worried about you, Monsieur Durand. How have you been since last we met? Better, I hope?”

  “I’ve been making my will,” Durand said. “I am preparing to die.”

  “Monsieur Durand, don’t say that. You’ll outlive us all.”

  Durand laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I doubt that…. All this talk about my heart. My heart is what it has always been. A problem. Nothing more than that.” He pointed at a photograph of Pauline on the desk. “She is what will kill me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “She is her mother’s daughter, Monsieur Graves. Very smart and very cold. I managed to outwit and outlive Ariane, but I will not have such luck with Pauline.”

  “Monsieur Durand, you don’t mean that.”

  The old man brought a meaty fist down on the desk with surprising force. “Please do not contradict me! Ariane tried to destroy my soul, but she couldn’t do it. I was young then—strong. But Pauline… Pauline is smarter than her mother ever was. She knows her greatest friend is my greatest foe—time. All she has to do is wait, and in time she will have won the battle. She will have won—and I will have lost.”

  “Monsieur Durand, please—”

  He slammed his fist down again and continued with mounting anger: “I—will—have—lost!”

  The old man gasped. He pointed at one of the desk drawers. A key was in the lock, but the drawer opened easily. Graves took out the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets and placed one, then another of the tablets under Durand’s tongue.

  Durand sat back in his chair. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and temples with a silk handkerchief.

  “… Once again you have saved my life, Monsieur Graves,” he said weakly. “Now—if you’ll be so kind—please ignore my daughter’s advice, and for the love of our immortal Savior, give me a scotch and water.”

  Graves had no difficulty disobeying Pauline’s request.

  DURAND SAID NOTHING about his attack, and neither did Graves. He did his best to concentrate on the twists and turns of the dinner conversation—a good portion of which was conducted in French, as Doctor Branchet spoke little English. Pauline served as translator, doing her best to keep Graves au courant. He appreciated the effort, and when he recalled the old man’s outburst in the library, Pauline’s charm and vivacity and sheer beauty almost always cleared away his doubts. Almost always…

  Monsieur Durand watched them but seemed to be listening to someone—or something—else. He joined in the conversation only when the subject turned to painting. Branchet insisted that a certain Braque had been painted in a certain year; Durand just as vehemently denied it.

  “Why don’t we look in one of your books, Papa?” Pauline said. “Wouldn’t that be better than guessing and fighting over it? You must be careful not to get excited.”

  “I know when it was painted, ma petite—1910.”

  “Nineteen fourteen,” Branchet corrected.

  “There’s one way to settle this.” Pauline strode off to the library and returned several minutes later with an oversized art book. She placed the volume in front of her father, who slowly flipped through its pages.

  “Here it is: Nineteen ten!” the old man crowed at Graves. “You see, young man, I was right.”

  Doctor Branchet graciously conceded the point.

  That was the old man’s last victory.

  TOWARD THE END of the meal, Durand’s limited energy was visibly flagging. He thanked the men for coming and kissed Pauline on the cheek. Refusing all assistance, he shuffled away to the library to replace the book. They watched him leave the room and, a few moments later, heard the library door open.

  “… Do you think he’ll be all right?” Pauline asked. “Should I go see if
he is all right?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Graves said. “He just needs to rest.”

  “Un autre café, Pauline?” the doctor asked.

  “Merci, non.”

  “Monsieur Graves?”

  “Yes, thank you. Oui.”

  The doctor poured Graves a fresh cup of coffee, then one for himself. He lit a cigar and unbuttoned his jacket. “Tell me, Monsieur Graves. Have you ever been to ’Ollywood, California?”

  “No, I haven’t. Someday, though—”

  “He hasn’t come out yet,” Pauline said. “I’m going to check on him. Excuse me.” She rose and hurried away, heels tapping on the parquet flooring.

  “… A lovely woman,” the doctor said.

  “Very.”

  Branchet leaned forward earnestly. “Monsieur Graves, I must ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you been, perhaps, to Denver, Colorado?”

  The doctor would never know. Pauline’s scream cut off any answer Graves might have given.

  GRAVES SAT WITH Pauline in the library. Grief lacerated her—if only she’d accompanied her father to the library, if only she’d kept an eye on him…

  Graves listened, he soothed, but his mind was churning over something else. Something he’d rather not think about. She was so beautiful, after all. So kind. And in the not-too-distant future, so very, very rich. She’d make someone a lovely wife. Maybe him if he played his cards right. They could lead a golden life together. A life of love and wealth and happiness… No, the old man deserved better. There was no way to avoid it. It had to be said.

  “He knew this was going to happen, Pauline.”

  “We all knew it. But who thought it would happen so soon?”

  “He did.” Graves took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “You killed him, Pauline.”

  She looked at him, stricken. “How can you say that? How can you possibly say that?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “You saw me stick a knife in his heart, is that what you saw?”

  “Practically.” He stood up and crossed to the old man’s desk. “Your father had an attack earlier this evening. After you’d left the room.”

  “I—I didn’t know that.”

  “He didn’t want you to. I got his pills out of the desk drawer for him. This drawer,” he said, pointing.

  Ice entered the blue of her eyes. “Did you?”

  “And I noticed something then. The drawer wasn’t locked. The key was in the lock, but the drawer could be opened. Now the key is missing. And I’ll bet the drawer is locked.”

  He reached out, grasped the drawer handle, and pulled.

  The drawer didn’t open.

  Pauline’s tears had stopped. She watched him intently.

  “In a situation like this,” Graves went on, “I have to ask myself, who locked the drawer so he couldn’t reach his pills? And the answer to that is another question: who was in the library between the time your father and I left it and the time he went back to replace the book?… I didn’t go in. Neither did Doctor Branchet. Neither did your father. But you did, Pauline. You’re the only one who did. So it’s only logical that you’re the one who locked the drawer…. You killed him. It’s as simple as that.”

  He poured himself a stiff shot of scotch at the bar, then turned to the silent Pauline.

  “… Well?”

  “You’re very smart,” she said quietly. “But not quite smart enough.” Her eyes shone with hatred and triumph. “I know about you. Father told me everything you said to him that day. I know what you did in America. I know why you’re here in Paris and why you can’t go home. And I also know the last thing you want is to have the police brought into this.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Very sure.”

  Graves reached for the phone on the desk. “Let’s see just how sure you are.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The police.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  Graves waited for the connection to be made.

  “Allô?” Madame Isabelle said.

  “… Bonsoir,” Graves said into the receiver. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  “Oui—un peu,” Madame Isabelle said. “A leetle beet, yes. You are for a room?”

  “Inspector, I’d like to report a murder.”

  “Comment?” said a puzzled Madame Isabelle.

  “No.” Pauline tore the phone from his grasp, slammed it into its cradle. “We don’t want the police here.”

  “And why is that, Pauline?”

  He could hardly hear her answer. “You know why.”

  Graves sat in the old man’s chair. “Things aren’t as bad as you think.” He gestured to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down, Pauline. Let’s talk.”

  After a long moment, Pauline sat down.

  “I DIDN’T PRESS my luck,” Graves said. We sat in the lobby of the Palace Hotel with cigars and an almost empty bottle of very good scotch. “I didn’t bleed her dry, and I never asked for more. I could have—I held all the aces. But I didn’t. I bought this hotel, settled in, and that was that. In fact, I haven’t seen her since that night. I have no desire to. No desire at all… Another—yes?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not a greedy man. I just wanted enough money to enjoy some of the finer things this life has to offer. Give me a good cup of coffee, a beautiful woman, and I’m content.” He dusted cigar ash off his blazer, glanced at his wristwatch. “My God. I had no idea it was so late.” He hoisted himself to his feet.

  I rose unsteadily. “Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine.”

  He accompanied me upstairs, “Just to make sure you get there all right.” We shook hands outside my door. My key was in the lock when a question struck me. “Graves?”

  He stopped at the head of the stairs. Swaying slightly, he steadied himself with a hand on the banister. “Yes?”

  “… What was it you did in the States? Did you kill somebody?”

  “I did nothing that hasn’t been done before,” he said, and began his descent.

  I followed after him groggily. “But you’ve got to tell me. I want to know. Did you kill someone?”

  Before I knew what had happened, I was dangling backward over the banister. His grasp on my shirtfront was all that kept me from tumbling to the lobby below.

  “Careful, mon ami.” His eyes locked on mine. “We’ve had a lot to drink, and a fall down these stairs could be fatal. One slip and—”

  “I was only asking… for God’s sake….”

  His features slackened. The ice melted in his eyes. He pulled me back to safety and grinned. “You see what I mean about these stairs?”

  “… I see.”

  “Sleep well. I’ll make sure Madame Isabelle brings you breakfast in the morning.”

  Smoothing my rumpled shirt, I started up the stairs.

  “You’re in thirty-seven, isn’t that right?” he called out after me. “I’ll leave a note for her at the desk.”

  I’d reached the third-floor landing and could only hear his voice by then.

  “That’s my old room,” I heard him say. “Number thirty-seven. You’re going to have a very good time in Paris, I can tell you. It’s the luckiest room in the hotel.”

  THE DAY THAT Madame Isabelle found Graves’s body at the foot of the stairs, I switched hotels. I took a cab to the Ritz and was glad of the change. I feel best at a place like the Ritz. I always have.

  Gazing out at the Place Vendôme, I drank a toast to Graves’s memory. Then I put the bottle of scotch away. Too much whiskey will kill you.

  As will a sudden, unexpected jab between the shoulder blades at the top of a steep and rickety old staircase.

  Graves had covered his tracks well—changing his name, altering his appearance, burrowing into an obscure hotel on an anonymous side street in an unfashionable quartier. It had
taken me four years to find him.

  But I’d found him.

  Because Pauline had asked me to. And I love Pauline.

  Besides, I’d never much cared for our dear papa, either.

  THE PRECIPICE

  BY DANIEL J. HALE

  I woke up on a wooden floor in front of a rough-hewn limestone fireplace. The flames made me squint. I felt drunk and hungover at the same time. My platinum Rolex—the last remnant of a life taken for granted—read three fifteen. I still wore my tuxedo.

  It took a few moments to realize where I was and a few moments more to remember I was under court order not to be there. The trip from the mansion to the cabin would have taken over an hour. I’d been in no shape to get behind the wheel when I left my cousin’s wedding reception. The brunette in the metallic green dress must have driven. Her name was Chloe or Zoe or something like that. Chloe sounded right. I needed to find her. We needed to leave before someone found us.

  I tried to stand. My head was an anvil. I caught myself on the lip of the hearth and sat with my back to the fire. A shapely blonde in a black cocktail dress lay on the white fleece rug in the middle of the room. Her long golden tresses covered her face. Unless she’d changed clothes and put on a wig, it wasn’t Chloe. As I crawled across the flokati, I saw a Mustique-shaped birthmark below the blonde’s left knee. Then I noticed her comically large feet and chartreuse-painted toenails. “Dizzy?”

  She didn’t answer, but she was warm, and she had a pulse. I brushed back her hair—translucent complexion, patrician features, determined chin. Karen Altenbaumer was the paragon she’d been two decades ago, when we graduated from high school and she dumped me for Keith Fallon. I hadn’t fared as well; I’d turned doughy, my skin was sun damaged, and worry had salted my black hair with gray. The days of girls like Karen going for me were long gone. I shook her awake.

  She looked at me for a moment, then she let out a piercing scream.