by Andre Norton
“But it couldn't have been!” Then a sudden thought came to me. “Victorine in Amélie's clothes?”
That suggested a plot well planned in advance. Would Victorine drug her own maid, with whom she appeared to be on such good terms, put on the girl's clothing, leave in disguise? While they were of a height, there was the matter of Victorine's fair skin. No—it was impossible.
“Those who saw her said it was Amélie,” Fenton repeated. “She went out the service entrance and got into a hired hack waiting there.”
“When?”
“At a little after nine o'clock is the nearest I could make out.”
Then she had been gone for several hours before I found Amélie. And now it was the next day. Victorine could have left the city, by ferry, carriage, even a ship!
“They were sure it was Amélie?” I repeated. “But I don't see how they could mistake Victorine for her—even if she wore Amélie's clothes.”
Fenton coughed.
“You know something more?”
“Miss Tamaris, there are ways of darkening the skin. If a person had a mind to change her appearance she could do that easily enough.”
“But that would mean Victorine has been acting a part for days!” I felt dizzy enough to catch at the back of the nearest chair for support. Now I faced the idea of two Victorines—one the lighthearted girl of quickly changing moods, the other a devious stranger. Which was the true one?
On that point much depended. If Victorine had been coaxed into this by another, she might be already regretting her rash actions. By now she could be frightened.
However, if she had planned this herself, then none of us had understood her character. Even Alain had been deceived. Victorine could be anywhere, yet we did not want to hunt her as if she were a criminal in flight.
“You might look around her room, Miss Tamaris—”
Fenton's suggestion was good. I could not just sit and wait. Wait for what? Only the arrival of Alain, when I would be forced to admit I had failed the trust he had placed in me.
Though I had a strong distaste for prying into drawers, searching the private belongings of others, this I must do. I went with Fenton, to discover that Submit had disappeared. Amélie was alone, which was directly against the orders the maid had been given.
But I was glad I would not have to search with her watching me. Fenton went into the bathroom, I turned first to the small desk.
Victorine, as I well knew, was no letter writer. I had never, during our weeks together, seen her at such employment. Now I found no address book. The drawer was empty of paper and envelopes. But in a small wastebasket close by was a crumpled wad of paper, beside it a scrap torn roughly into four pieces. I placed both finds on the desk, smoothing out first the crumpled sheet.
From it came a distinctive perfume, Victorine's. This had been carried in close contact with her person for some time. It bore a crude drawing.
That was a heart depicted with thick black strokes. From a point between the lobes sprang a bar resembling a sword, the hilt of which down-curled at both ends. While from the meeting point of sword and heart were upward shooting lines of red, unpleasantly suggesting blood spurting from a fatal wound. Last of all, from the pointed tip of the black heart, weaving upward to rest against the sword hilt, its forked tongue extended in threat or defiance, was a serpent of gold.
For all its crude delineation there was ugly power in the drawing, as if it had been done for a dark purpose. Beneath the design was a single short sentence in French:
“Tonight at nine.”
I laid the drawing temporarily to one side and set about fitting together the torn bits. There was something so distinctive about the writing that I had a feeling I had seen it before, where and when I could not remember. This, too, had a single curt sentence, but in English:
“Be satisfied, for there will be no more.”
“Miss Tamaris.” Fenton came from the bathroom with a bottle in her hand. “I was right,” she told me triumphantly. “This is a stain for the skin—”
Then Victorine had planned this. That drawing which had been so crumpled—
A mind picture came from my memory, the waiter at The Poodle Dog bringing her the handkerchief. How quickly she had balled that up and put it in her sleeve. In the restaurant—the young man I had seen beside the pillar—had he drawn that disturbing picture, sent it to her under the very eyes of her brother? Had he indeed been that dabbler in voodoo, Christophe D'Lys? And was this some compelling symbol of that wicked belief? Now matters seemed to fit together—yet it was all guesswork on my part.
When Amélie aroused she must be carefully questioned. Until then she should be guarded. If she had purposefully been given an overdose of the drug she could still be in peril. But that was all too melodramatic. I could not believe Victorine would commit murder! She must have mistaken the power of whatever potion Amélie had, willingly or unwillingly, swallowed. I must not imagine horrors.
As Fenton set the bottle down before me, the wide oversleeve of her dress caught the edge of a small pile of notes, sweeping them to the floor. These had been sent to Victorine wishing her a quick recovery. They had been brought in yesterday by Mrs. Deaves who had insisted Victorine reply to each.
There was among them a cream-white half-sheet which caught my attention. I put that beside the torn one from the wastebasket, comparing one with the other. To my mind there was no question that both had been written by the same hand.
The sentiments were couched in very formal language and the name signed at the bottom—
Mrs. Beall!
“What is it, miss?” Fenton was scooping up the rest of the notes. “Did you find something?”
“Nothing I can understand,” I admitted. I had Fenton get a larger envelope from my own desk. Into that I put the note from Mrs. Beall, the torn sheet from the waste-basket. I was about to seal this when I saw that other half-burned bit from the hearth which I had totally forgotten. The powder in it should have been given to Dr. Beech, but it was too late now. Instead it went into the envelope with the rest, and I wrote Alain's name across the outside.
I had retained the drawing, for I wished to confront Amélie with that when she awakened. My head was aching cruelly and I was desperately tired. Yet there was also a kind of feverish energy in me.
Now I must appeal to Mrs. Deaves, learn if she had had any answer to the telegram. How long after receiving it might we expect Alain? I had no idea of distances. And by the time he arrived, where would Victorine then be? We must do something!
“Miss Tamaris.” Fenton pulled my attention from my own dark thoughts. “Please, can you not rest now? There's no way to follow Miss Victorine—”
I shook my head, feeling stupid and dazed.
“There has to be, Fenton, there has to be! Or I don't know what will happen. She”—I nodded to Amélie—“may hold the key to the whole thing. She must not be left alone. Please, Fenton, will you watch with her and call me the minute she rouses?”
She was, I could see, unwilling. But when I added that she was the only one I could trust to do this, Fenton appeared reconciled. Why she had so wholeheartedly embraced my cause I did not know, but that she had done so left me deeply grateful.
Back in my room I laid the envelope for Alain in plain sight on my desk. As I did so a slight noise startled me. Submit had slipped in without knocking. Her drab uniform was partly covered by a shawl, and she wore an old-fashioned bonnet pulled forward to hide much of her face.
“What are you doing here?” Since the scene in Victorine's room I was wary of this girl, sure that she knew something she would not share. Now, to my amazement and deepened uneasiness, she raised one finger to her lips, signaling silence, and brought out her other hand from beneath her shawl, holding an envelope for my acceptance.
Victorine! She must be using this method of getting in touch with me. That was my only thought as I eagerly snatched at the missive and tore it open. But the message was not from the girl I
knew.
If you wish aid in your search for the missing, it may be that the undersigned can supply that. Come with Submit, since our meeting must be private, and she will be your guide.
The stilted writing was odd enough. However, it was the signature which surprised me the most.
“Mary Ellen Smith.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The strange “Mammy Pleasant” whom Mrs. Deaves had labeled a wicked woman, whom Mr. Cantrell had warned me against, but whom my father had treated with respect. This was the second time she had offered me aid and now I weighed my own memories against Mrs. Deaves’ outburst, and Mr. Cantrell's ambiguous words. Of the three I chose to believe memory.
“Where do we go?” I asked the maid.
“To her house—on Washington Street.” Submit tucked her hands under her shawl.
So I made my choice, perhaps foolishly and hastily. But it seemed to be such a chance as I had prayed for since I had found Victorine gone. I dropped the note on my desk beside the envelope marked with Alain's name, took up my hat and cape.
While there was no clinging fog, a light drizzle of rain made me pull the waterproof closer. We had gone out of the service entrance of the hotel, using back corridors. A hired hack waited and I climbed into its musty interior, which smelled of horse and stale cigar smoke. Though Submit had given no directions to the driver, the carriage moved on as soon as we were seated.
I shrank back as far out of sight as I could. The bad weather was a good cover; there were few on the street or sidewalks. Still I had a strange feeling of being spied upon.
Submit seemed to share my desire for invisibility, huddled into her own corner. I longed to ask questions, about our destination, about the woman who had sent me the note, but some instinct told me the girl would not answer.
Since I did not know the city I had no idea of direction. The pull up hills, the sharp descent down again, was manifestly difficult for the bony horse between the shafts of the hack. To my relief the driver did not use his whip. Instead he favored the patient plodder so we did not go very fast.
It was hard to curb my impatience. I was sure I could outstrip this rattletrap conveyance on my own two feet if only I knew the way. I made myself think not of wasted time but what I might ask in way of help.
How “Mammy” Pleasant might aid I could not guess. I began to believe I had been very rash in coming and was about to demand to be returned to the hotel, when we stopped before a three-story building, one a little more pretentious than either of its neighbors. I caught sight of the sign on the lamp post—Washington Street.
I fumbled for the handkerchief in which I had knotted my money, wondering how much to pay our driver, when Submit shook her head.
“Her man brought us—you do not pay.”
Traffic in this street was light. The pavement was deserted as Submit put her hand lightly on my arm to urge me to a door which opened at once, as if we had been watched for. Warmth, the smell of tobacco, an opulently furnished parlor off the entrance hall to my right, greeted me. But I had only a glimpse of those rich furnishings, of the fire on the hearth, before the girl who had opened the door beckoned me on. Submit remained behind.
The doorkeeper was white, and wore a wrapper as frilled and belaced as any Victorine indulged in. Her light brown hair was dressed to allow long curls to lie on her shoulders. Had I met her elsewhere I might have thought her the pampered daughter of a respectable house.
She did not speak, only gestured me to follow her up the stairs, to walk along a carpeted hallway above, moving swiftly as if we must get out of sight. At the final doorway along that corridor she knocked twice and stood aside for me to enter alone.
The door had been opened by that woman I had last seen in the ribbon shop.
“Mrs. Smith?” I ventured.
She smiled and her smile was warm.
“Once I was Mrs. Smith, Mrs. James Smith. For some years now I have been Mrs. Pleasant. But since you knew me by my earlier name, I used it to introduce myself. Come in, Miss Penfold.”
The room into which she ushered me was elegant. I looked about me curiously, since I had not the least idea of the nature of this establishment.
Striped wallpaper in tones of oyster and pink covered the walls. There was a black marble fireplace before which stood two chairs, their frames of carved rosewood, their upholstering a pinkish-purple velvet. Between those was a table holding a tray of covered silver dishes. Velvet drapes of oyster gray were pulled completely across the windows, and what light there was came from a low-turned gas jet and two lamps.
My hostess was a woman of presence, just as I had remembered her, the magnetism she exuded easy to feel. She wore a full-skirted dress, old-fashioned in cut, but of a rich plum silk, with delicate white lace collar and cuffs. These were matched by a mourning cap, a heart-shaped piece of lawn. Jet earrings and a jet pendant contributed to her general somber clothing, yet the effect was one of elegance, perhaps more tasteful than the highest fashion could now display.
She slipped the waterproof from my shoulders, took my hand to draw me closer to the fire. A scent of roses clung to her rustling skirts.
“You do remember me.” That was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, you came to the India Queen to talk with my father.”
“Captain Penfold risked much to help my people. I owe him a debt I had then no way of repaying. Perhaps I can discharge that now in service to his daughter.”
“Your note—you said you could give me news of the missing—” I settled only on the edge of the chair to which she had guided me, trying to read some answer in her pleasant, placid face.
She was removing the covers of the dishes on the tray. Then she poured into a small liquor glass something from a bottle fretted with silver.
“Drink this, my dear. It is wild clover cordial, of my own brewing. You need sustenance of body as well as peace of mind.” Her voice soothed, invited trust.
Yet what did I know of this woman? That long-ago meeting, the outburst of Mrs. Deaves, Mr. Cantrell's caution. Still, when I looked at her, I could not doubt she meant me well.
I sipped the drink. The taste was odd but not unpleasant. The warmth of the fire drove out that chill which had been within me since I first found Amélie hours ago.
Now my hostess poured me a cup of coffee, uncovered a plate with crisp bits of bacon and eggs scrambled together. I began to eat, first because she urged me, and then because the food was very good and I was near famished. All the while she said little, smiled that relaxing smile.
I have met many women who have some claim to authority and position, but never before one who possessed such an assurance of certainty that what she desired would be, that there was nothing which could stand against her will.
“You are seeking Victorine Sauvage,” she said when I refused more food and had relaxed a little. “That is what we shall now discuss.”
My caution had not been entirely banished by this restful room, the personality of my hostess. Now I asked boldly, “How did you know Victorine had gone?”
Mrs. Pleasant's smile did not alter; if anything it deepened.
“Child, there are eyes and ears everywhere. And tongues to repeat any news out of the common. Also—but of that we shall speak later. It remains I can learn what you wish to know. If Miss Sauvage is still within the city, it will be reported to me. If she has left, the manner and direction of her leaving will also be discovered. However, such a search requires time. This is a large city, it has many places where people who do not wish to be discovered can remain bidden.
“Under this roof I have guests of standing, members of the city government. Captain Lees of the detective force, for example—”
“No!” I interrupted. “Not the police, unless Mr. Sauvage so decides. The scandal of an open search—”
She inclined her head as a queen might nod. “That is understood. When Mr. Sauvage returns he will be at liberty to do as he thinks best. But it may be some time
before he does return.”
All my anxiety flooded back. “I know! If we can only find her soon—I have a feeling that we must—for her own sake!”
“Time may be of major importance,” she agreed with me. “I shall alert my people. Since those under obligation to me work in many places around the city, they see and hear much. When the word goes out that we seek a certain girl, they will watch for her.”
“She—her appearance may be changed. My maid found a bottle of skin dye. Victorine had made herself look like her maid Amélie—who is a quadroon.”
“And she has gone with a man.”
“How do you know that? Have your people already found her?” I half started out of my chair.
“No. But in such cases there is always a man at the bottom of the mystery. Perhaps you had some warning that this might happen—is there a man against whom Miss Sauvage had been warned? Perhaps forbidden to see? Let me know all you can.”
Would I be betraying Alain's confidence if I told her? But what did that matter if a few words would lead to finding Victorine? So I repeated what I had heard about Christophe D'Lys.
“Voodoo,” Mrs. Pleasant repeated. “And from those islands where it remains very strong.”
“There is this—I found it in Victorine's room this morning.” I brought out that much creased bit of paper with its strange design. She took it from me and her expression changed. Her benign smile was gone. Instead her lips tightened, her eyelids drooped. When she looked up from the paper to me again there was a cold scrutiny in those mismatched eyes.
“Ezili Coeur-Noir,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
The intent gaze was once more on the paper. “Better you never know, child. But if this is what—no!” She arose.
“This shall not happen, not in my city!” That accent on the possessive in that sentence might be unconscious, but it was quite revealing. Her queenliness came from a sense of power, I knew with a sudden flash of insight. And whatever that power was based on, she was confident in her control.
“It is part of the voodoo belief?” I persisted.
