Cécile—not surprisingly—spotted a café down the street. We could not risk taking a table outside. The object of our attention might spot us, either from his window or if he left his abode and walked past. We found a spot, just inside, that afforded us a reasonable view of the entrance to the building, while shielding us from prying eyes. With chocolat (for me) and coffee (for Cécile) to strengthen our resolve, we sat and waited.
“What exactly are we waiting for?” Cécile was on her third cup of coffee and beginning to show signs of agitation.
“We want him to leave the building. If he does, and if we can determine that his destination is one from which he does not intend to quickly return, we can speak to the concierge.”
“Monsieur Hargreaves was most adamant that we ought not—”
“We will be risking nothing if we are certain he will not return and find us in the building. This is an opportunity, Cécile, of which we must take full advantage.”
“Yes, but won’t the concierge tell him we—”
“I will not be dissuaded.” Cécile knew when my resolve was implacable. She said nothing else to stop me. An hour and half later, the man emerged from his home or place of work or whatever it was, a gaily wrapped parcel in his hand. I cautioned Cécile to remain where she was and followed him. He had not gone far before he boarded a double-decker impériale, one of the omnibuses that provided transport throughout the city.
Unable to conceal my excitement when I returned to Cécile at the café, I all but dragged her from her seat. “The way is clear!”
While she agreed that all signs suggested he was unlikely to return home with great expedience, she pointed out that this also suggested we could take the little time required to pay our bill. I did not display a great deal of patience while she handled the transaction, although it almost certainly had not taken so long as it felt it did. While I waited, I realized we needed a strategy, and I came up what I still believe to have been a reasonable one.
At the auburn-haired man’s building, we rang for the concierge. Cécile, speaking German, shouted at the tiny woman who appeared at the door, demanding that she be taken to her niece at once. The concierge let this torrent of words descend upon her with little, if any notice. When Cécile paused for breath, the concierge spoke.
“I have no idea who your niece is, madame.” Her words, though spoken in French, indicated that she understood German. I had chosen the language as a ruse so that if the concierge mentioned us to the auburn-haired man, she would describe us as residents of that land.
Cécile continued in German, explaining that the young woman had been spirited away from her, by a profligate fortune hunter, while they had been touring the cathedral of Notre-Dame. It was, she said, the third time they had encountered the auburn-haired gentleman, and her niece had grown unaccountably fond of him.
The concierge shrugged. “I still, Frau Hohensteinbauergrunewald”—Cécile, fond of the name, had adopted it as her nom de guerre—“have not the slightest idea as to the identity of your niece. As such, it is impossible for me to tell you whether or not she is here. Furthermore, I do not keep track of everyone who comes in and out of this building. I am a busy woman.”
This could be nothing other than a test. I realized it the moment I looked at Cécile’s face and recognized the considerable effort she was expending to keep her eyebrows from shooting up to the top of her forehead. There are few, if any, species more surly and less helpful than that of the Parisian concierge, but there was no Parisian better capable than Cécile of handling the moods and prejudices of even the most odious of the breed, and I knew every French bone in her body ached to arch her brows and bend over the little woman, shouting that she knew full well any decent concierge not only kept track of every person crossing the threshold of her building, but also every detail of every person, information that, once in a while, could lead to a great deal of—shall we say—little gifts, intended to offer as incentives for keeping that information private. Instead, she sniffed the air, a look of disgust on her face, and wrinkled her nose. “Was that a cat that just brushed past me?”
“Mon Dieu!” The little woman sprang to life, pushing past Cécile toward the street. “Did you see which way he went?”
“I have no interest in feline creatures.” Cécile’s voice dripped with contempt.
“I am excessively fond of them,” I said, my German not so good as Cécile’s—it had always proved the most difficult language for me—but passable enough in the circumstances. “He darted straight into the street, but I would not worry if I were you. Cats always find their way home.” I hoped these words of encouragement would make her unlikely to suspect this all was a ruse to get her out of the building.
“My niece!” Cécile thundered after the concierge. “Where is the wretched man’s apartment?”
“He is not home, so I don’t know why it matters. Quatrième étage. L’ascenseur ne marche pas.” Of course the lift was not working, and of course he was on the fourth floor. The delight on the concierge’s face as she communicated this to us was evident. The door slammed behind her as she went off in pursuit of the cat—a cat that I could plainly hear meowing from inside her owner’s loge.
We mounted the winding staircase. Its stone steps were well worn, the iron railing, though ornate and no doubt lovely in its prime, was now a bit rickety, and the black paint covering it was peeling off in large chunks. “How did you know she had a cat?” I asked as we passed the second floor. “I did not hear it until after she had set off in search of it.”
“Kallista, all concierges in Paris have cats. It is practically a requirement of the job, coming just after a bad disposition and a dedication to nosiness.”
As we reached the top of the fourth flight of stairs, breathless, I pulled out of my reticule a small set of tools Colin had purchased for me, and taught me how to use, some years earlier. “Do you think this is a good idea, Kallista?” Cécile looked nervously down the stairs as I began to work on the door’s lock.
“If we see the concierge again, we can tell her we slid a note under the door. No one will ever know we were inside. Unless—” The door flew open and I saw no point in completing my thought. The apartment was modestly furnished, with objects that spoke to bourgeois tastes without a matching budget. Everything was a little shabbier than one would want. The carpet in the sitting room was almost threadbare in the center, and in the dining room only three chairs were placed around a table that would easily have seated twelve. There was a small kitchen and a single bedroom as well, and Cécile took to searching those while I perused the bookcase in the sitting room. Not surprisingly, it contained a set of the works of Mr. Dickens, in English. Only one novel was missing: David Copperfield. I had no doubt the copy we had found in Mr. Magwitch’s room at the George would be a perfect match for the rest of the set.
Many people cannot resist the urge to write their names in their books. David Copperfield had not been so marred, but I checked the volumes here, to no avail. Alongside the Dickens was a bible—the King James translation—two issues of Mercure de France, a literary magazine, and a well-worn English translation of a thick book about the exploration of Egypt written by Giovanni Battista Belzoni, the former circus strongman turned archaeologist whose techniques could be generously described as barbarous. I recognized the walking stick balanced in the corner near the door as the one I had seen hanging on the back of the auburn-haired man’s chair in Café de Flore, and a chill went down my spine at the thought of having invaded the notorious criminal’s private space.
Perhaps it was an exaggeration to consider him a notorious criminal, but to my mind, it was a fitting description. A cursory search of the rest of the apartment provided little illumination of its owner. He had three suits (counting the one he was wearing when he left the building), only one spare pair of boots, and nothing of any value other than his small collection of books. His kitchen, not surprisingly, showed no signs of ever having been used. He would not know h
ow to cook, and did not appear to have the money to hire even a single servant. He would have made a habit of dining out in those sad little haunts frequented by bachelors of limited means. I could not muster any sympathy for him.
Cécile, who had finished with what she considered to be her part of the task, was now following close behind me. “I think we ought to go now, Kallista. We cannot risk him returning to find us here. Or, for that matter, the concierge.”
“The concierge is not going to go up all those steps, but what would it matter if she did? She knew this was our destination. She sent us here.” I looked around the apartment one more time, and then went back to the wardrobe in the bedroom, checking the contents of the pockets in the overcoat that hung inside. In one, I found a ticket for the boat train from London to Paris—when he had returned after leaving the George, no doubt. When I let the coat fall back into place, I saw that the bottom hem had got caught on something. I knelt down. I had already noticed the spare blankets folded and stored in the back of the wardrobe, but they did not come up high enough to impede the coat. I reached behind them, and felt something cold and hard.
“Cécile, I am most alarmed.” I pulled out a doll, her face, hands, and boots made from fine porcelain. Her eyes, that opened and closed, were emerald green, as was her silk dress, trimmed with lace. My friend, who had been looking out the window, watching, I suppose, for the auburn-haired man, turned and blanched when she saw what I held.
“Mon Dieu!” She clutched at her throat and collapsed. I rushed to her side, and found that she had not fainted—I would not have expected her to—but the shock had, she explained, made jelly of her knees. “He has killed Estella, has he not?”
“I have the gravest concerns,” I said. Cécile’s upset was evident. She blinked away tears and lifted her chin, virtuously doing her best to banish all outward signs of emotion. For a moment, I could have believed her to be English. I, on the other hand, had grown angry on her behalf, and the feeling emboldened me. “I have had enough of this man.” I ripped a blank sheet from my notebook and scrawled on it a single sentence before leaving it in the center of the dining room table:
I KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU, TOO.
Estella
xvi
Estella was ready for her captor when he arrived. She was sitting, fully dressed, on the stone slab, A Tale of Two Cities on her lap. He smiled when he saw her, and she could read the relief evident on his face. “It is all taken care of now. My debt is paid, and I wish there were some way, my dear Mademoiselle Lamar, that I might be able to express the deep, deep thanks I owe you. I have brought what I hope is a rather spectacular picnic by way of celebrating. I will be leaving Paris tonight, but before I depart, I will deliver to your house the letter explaining how you may be rescued. I thought that in order to reassure you, I would leave the trapdoor open when I go. Obviously, I will have to pull up the ladder—”
“You do owe me thanks, that is true, and there is something I require from you in return,” Estella said, wringing her hands. “I find myself, after so many days in captivity, quite terrified at the prospect of returning to my ordinary life. I realize this sounds peculiar, but to repay me for what you have done, I want you to let me stay here, just for a few more days, so that I might be able to reenter the world better prepared.”
“You want to stay here?”
“Just for a few days—a week at the most. Surely this will not prove inconvenient to you.”
“I have already booked passage—”
“That can be canceled. Picking a different ship is much less inconvenient than having been kidnapped, is it not?” Estella asked.
“Well, I—”
“That is all we need say on the subject.” She looked through the contents of the new picnic basket. “You have done very well, but there are a few more things I require. You do have a writing instrument, I hope?” Incapable of coherent response, he gave her a pencil. She tore a blank page out from the back of A Tale of Two Cities. “I shall make you a list. First, I must have macarons from Ladurée. Rose and strawberry are my favorites, but I would like a nice assortment, and a new box each day. Second, apples, but I will need cutlery to be able to eat them as a civilized person does. Now that you are doing me a favor, and allowing me to stay rather than keeping me here against my will, you can let me have a knife and fork. I promise not to stab you. And books I am in desperate need of more.” She continued on in this manner, giving him specific instructions explaining everything she was writing.
“Mademoiselle, this isn’t right. How can I keep you—”
“Only for a few days. Come see me tomorrow with everything on my list. What time is convenient? I want to know when to expect you.”
“Six-thirty generally works well.” His voice was hesitant, confused, and his eyes clouded. Estella found she enjoyed this. It was, after all, his turn.
“I shall be nearly ready for dinner by then.” She took the list back from him and scrawled a few more items on it. “You do have enough money left for all this?”
“Yes, that is not a problem, mademoiselle.”
“I suspected the buffer you included for yourself in the cheque you had me write was on the generous side. Still, I do not want to put you out. You might decide to leave me down here if I do. Why don’t you return to my house and fetch my entire supply of cheques? That will make things much simpler.”
“Mademoiselle Lamar, it would be an honor to pay for whatever you need out of my own funds—”
“They are more my funds than yours, so let’s follow my directions now, shall we? Run along and leave me to my picnic. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” She pointed to the list. “Do not forget the books.”
17
Colin and Jeremy had not yet arrived back at Cécile’s when we returned from our adventures at Mr. Swiveller’s residence. This gave me time to consider the best approach to explaining to my husband why I had decided to go to the apartment despite his insistence that I keep away—and then I remembered, he had not said to avoid the apartment altogether. He had merely balked at my idea of applying to the concierge for information about the availability of lodging in the building. Cécile and I could not be accused of having done that.
Colin did not much appreciate this technical detail, but he admitted that as we had done an admirable job avoiding danger, he had no cause to be angry. “You made sound decisions, Emily, and have given us reasonable confirmation that the auburn-haired man, Magwitch, and Swiveller are one and the same. That is an important advance in our case.”
“Not to mention that besides being useful, you had a far better time than we did.” Jeremy dropped his head against the back of his chair and sighed. “I am going mad with boredom in that post office.”
“Is there any merit in continuing to wait for Swiveller there?” I asked. “Surely the train ticket and the doll, along with the supplier having identified the building as Swiveller’s place of business, is enough for us to abandon the mail and grab him the next time we can catch him at the apartment?”
“I do not believe he will return there. Your note will have alarmed him, Emily—”
“I had to do something—”
“I understand your anger, and I do not mean to suggest that you have set us back by having written it. You have, however, put him on notice, and he is likely afraid of being caught. This may serve to our benefit, in the manner of flushing him out. We must take extreme caution to ensure neither you nor Cécile is vulnerable to him. Monsieur Pinard’s cheque is going to lure him, eventually, to the post office. Do remember that we have no evidence that anything has happened to Estella—”
“But the doll!” Cécile exclaimed. “No bachelor would have such a thing.”
“He may have a niece of whom he is extremely fond,” Colin said.
“It is possible,” I agreed. “But is it likely? I have the deepest suspicions concerning Mr. Swiveller. We know someone has been lying as to Estella’s whereabouts, but we do not know
what would have motivated the action. When I look at the route she supposedly took from Siam to London, it is as if a person with no knowledge of travel whatsoever had a quick look at a world map and plotted what he—or she—thought seemed to be a reasonable path.”
“Estella had almost no experience traveling before her parents died,” Cécile said.
“So it could be she who is behind all this. We believe she is currently in Paris—”
“I am certain she was at Père-Lachaise either today or yesterday,” Cécile said.
“Anyone could have put that wreath in the tomb,” Colin said.
“No.” I thought back carefully over our visit to the cemetery. “The Lamar tomb was locked, was it not? Your husband’s wasn’t, Cécile—is it usual to lock them?”
“Some people do, others feel the precaution unnecessary.”
“Perhaps Estella’s steward has a key to the tomb,” Jeremy said. “Then she wouldn’t have to bother with it at all. Or the florist—why wouldn’t she send her man there directly?”
“Estella was devoted to her parents,” I said. “She would not have considered taking a wreath to their grave an inconvenience.”
“Be that as it may, Bainbridge raises an interesting point. The only piece of firm evidence we have to suggest Mademoiselle Lamar is in Paris is the letter she sent Cécile. We know the handwriting is correct—at least so far as we can tell—and we know it was mailed from Paris. What we do not know is when it was written.”
I nodded. “An interesting point. Estella—or someone else—has likely staged any number of communications, in the form of letters, telegrams, and photographs in the newspaper. Swiveller-Magwitch could have arranged every one of these things, but he could not write the letters.”
“He might have forced Estella to write a stack of them before killing her.” Cécile’s voice was flat.
“Estella Lamar has been away from Paris for many, many years,” Colin said. “It stretches credulity to suggest that this man—or someone else—has been embezzling money by using, for all that time, letters written under duress.”
The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 19
