The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  He was talking about the mirror as if it were alive, and that made me nervous. “What would you do with the mirror if you had it?”

  “Do with it?” He looked at me incredulously. “What did Nostradamus do with it? I would look into it and see the future. Do you know all the things he predicted? The French Revolution, the first and second world wars, the coming of nuclear weapons.…”

  I wondered if it had made Nostradamus happy to know how many disasters were on the way. “Are you sure it would work for you?”

  He looked stronger, more confident. “I know it would, for two reasons. First, because I am naturally gifted in the art of scrying, which is divination by gazing into a reflecting surface. Second, because I have devoted my life to improving my gift through study and practice.”

  I probably looked skeptical because he said, “I can demonstrate, if you like.”

  That was the last thing I wanted. “Oh, no. I mean, I’m sure you could, but you probably have to have the right conditions, and—”

  “The right conditions have nothing to do with external matters. They are inside me. Now. Do you have a cup or a bowl?”

  I could’ve said no, and I would’ve, but Kitty’s teacup, a wide-mouthed piece of delicate white bone china with roses around the rim, was sitting on her desk next to the bottle of Sphinx perfume, and he spied it. He picked it up, held it cradled in his hands a moment, and handed it to me. “Rinse it, please, and fill it with water.”

  I took it to the ladies’ room, feeling two conflicting emotions: abject fear and utter scorn. I rinsed out the dregs of Kitty’s tea and filled the cup almost to the brim. I looked into it. On the surface of the water I saw a quivery image of my face. No flames, no birds.

  When I got back to the office, Bruno had turned off the overhead light and was sitting in my chair with his hands resting loosely on the desk. The cold illumination from the window emphasized his ravaged look. Without turning his head he said, “Please put the cup between my hands.”

  I put the cup down, glancing at his face as I did so. His eyes were shadowed, but there was no particular intensity in his expression. I went and stood next to the half-open door, so I could get away if anything unexpected started to happen.

  He sat silently, gazing ahead of him, hands on the desk. My scalp prickled. I wished Kitty would come back and break this up, but obviously she’d had enough of Bruno already.

  Bruno gave a faint sigh, sat up straighter, and inclined his head over the cup. In a few moments he said, in a conversational tone, “I feel the ocean.”

  I wondered if I was supposed to say anything. He hadn’t given me instructions. I thought I’d better keep quiet.

  “I feel the ocean, strong surges, strong currents,” he said.

  Of course I thought about Luna Beach. I grew up beside the Gulf of Mexico, saw it every day.

  “Exile,” he said suddenly, in a tone of pained shock. “Exile, exile.”

  It sounded like the saddest word in the language. I pressed my hand to my mouth. I was an exile. I had exiled myself.

  His pace picked up, his voice breathless. “You are standing in a dark place, holding a light. You refuse to look where the light falls but persist in searching the shadows.”

  I refuse to look where the light falls. I’d have to remember…

  “What have you done, that you should be so hounded, so pursued?”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. I also wondered if Bruno was trying to scare the socks off me.

  “Go back!” Bruno sounded really alarmed. “Go back! You must go back!”

  Enough was enough. I snapped on the light and said, “O.K., O.K. I believe you.”

  Bruno sat quietly for a moment. Then he blinked a couple of times and stood up. “You must be careful, Madame.”

  “Right,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.” I was ashamed to notice that I was breathing hard.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, moving to touch my arm.

  I shied away. The ocean. Exile. Standing in a dark place, holding a light, but looking in the shadows. I’d always known I didn’t want to have my fortune told.

  We stood there without speaking. Then, in an abashed way, he said, “Jane told me something. She said a reward is being offered for the return of the mirror.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell me… how much? By whom?”

  I was in no mood to discuss it. “I can’t say unless we have reason to believe we can get the mirror back.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t stay around much longer. After he left, I sat down at my desk. I hadn’t even asked him about the Speculatori. I bent over Kitty’s teacup. I saw a quivery image of my face.

  Disappearance

  “I wish I’d stayed. Maybe he would’ve given me a reading, too,” Kitty said.

  Kitty was drinking tea out of Bruno Blanc’s erstwhile magic mirror. I was drinking tea out of a mug with the legend, “Bay City— Sand, Surf ‘n’ Sun.” “I think you’ve missed the point,” I said. “Didn’t you hear the part about how I was fiercely pursued and should go back because I was in danger?”

  She waved it off. “He wanted to scare you. He was ticked off that you came to his place and pumped Jane. But the ocean and exile business was perceptive, wasn’t it?”

  “He also said I was in the dark holding a light, but looking in the shadows.”

  She thought for a minute. “You are in a dark place holding a light. By doing this story you’re trying to illuminate events that were dark before.”

  “According to him I’m not doing a very good job of it, since I’m looking in the shadows instead of where the light falls.”

  “Hm.” She sipped, then said, “Maybe he means you’re ignoring the obvious.” She looked triumphant. “Hey! Not a bad interpretation.”

  “Lovely.” I was in a foul mood. I agreed with Kitty that Bruno had probably used his reading to scare me. The problem was, he had succeeded. There had been those pertinent allusions in what he’d said, and the episode had left me feeling exposed.

  “You know what’s weird?” I said.

  “Yes. The way Bruno Blanc wears his hair.”

  “I mean really.”

  “What?”

  “The way Bruno Blanc talks about the mirror as if it’s alive and running the show. He said it chooses whether to be quiescent or free, it isn’t possessed it possesses, stuff like that. Which reminds me of that letter I got. It said, ‘The mirror of Nostradamus destroyed Pierre Legrand.’ Like the mirror could act on its own.”

  “So maybe Bruno wrote it? First the note, to get you scared; then the fortune-telling, to get you terrified.”

  “Could be.” I wasn’t convinced.

  While Bruno was telling my fortune, Kitty had gone to an English-language bookstore on the Rue de Rivoli and found an abridged paperback edition of the prophecies of Nostradamus. She’d been perusing it since her return, and now she picked it up again. A wild-eyed picture of Nostradamus glared at me from the cover. She said, “Here’s the part that tells how he prophesies. Get this: ‘Sitting alone at night in secret study, it is placed on the brass tripod. A slight flame comes out of the emptiness and makes successful that which should not be believed in vain’.”

  “That clears everything up, all right.”

  She was silent a minute, reading. Then she said, “It goes on about the tripod, and water, and trembling when the god approaches. According to the explanation—”

  “I’m glad to know there is one.”

  “The commentary says there are lots of interpretations of this passage, but one is that he’s sitting in his study gazing into a bowl of water that was placed on the brass tripod. I mean, it’s close, isn’t it? What was it Bruno called fortune-telling by looking into a reflecting surface?”

  “Scrying.”

  “Yeah. So here, maybe Nostradamus is scrying, right? And a bowl of water on a tripod isn’t too different from a mirror.”

  “And believing any o
f this crap isn’t too different from being completely nuts.” I was irritated with Nostradamus. If he saw visions when he looked into a bowl of water, why didn’t he just say so?

  Kitty put the book down. “You’re starting to sound cranky. You must need food.”

  Food was Kitty’s panacea for every discomfort. In her book broken hearts, career setbacks, and mid-life crises could be alleviated, or even banished, by ample nourishment. Although I sometimes scoffed at this approach, the truth was that it nearly always helped. She had a big green apple and a hunk of Gruyère in her desk, and we split them and ate them with the rest of our tea. As I threw my half of the core in the trash can I said, “At least the next move is clear.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. I’ve got to see if Clive Overton, the art restorer, is able to talk. I found his name on a list in Bruno’s desk, and I want to know what the connection is between them. I haven’t heard a word about Overton since he keeled over at the museum.”

  “Better check him out,” said Kitty absently. She’d picked up the Nostradamus book again.

  I didn’t know if Overton was in a hospital or not. The obvious place to begin looking was his hotel, the Relais Christine. But when I called and asked for him, a sweet-voiced woman informed me, sounding genuinely regretful, that he had checked out and left yesterday.

  “You mean, checked out personally? I have to reach him. I’m a friend of his.” (Well, I could have been his friend, if we’d had time to get better acquainted.)

  “Oh, yes, Madame. He returned to pick up his things.”

  “But this is terrible.”

  “He didn’t tell us where he could be reached. He only apologized for leaving sooner than he had planned.”

  Continued energetic probing produced nothing more. Overton had made no further reservations at the Christine, and she had no idea when or whether he might be returning. She was sorry that regulations prevented her from giving out his home address or telephone number.

  I hung up and grumbled to Kitty. “What the hell do the police think they’re doing? He may have left town.”

  “They haven’t told you not to leave town, have they?”

  “No.”

  “So you and Overton are in the same boat, right? Witnesses. Besides, why do you think he’s left town? He just checked out of the hotel.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And maybe they know there’s a connection between Overton and Bruno and they don’t think it’s important.”

  “Are you kidding? Of course it’s important.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t think it was important. I said maybe the police…”

  And so on. We wrangled until we both got tired of it, and then I called London information and, easy as pie, got Clive Overton’s home number. Which did me no good at all, because when I called and let the phone ring twenty-five times, and then redialed and let it ring twenty-five more, nobody answered. “Wouldn’t you think one of the world’s greatest art conservators would have an answering machine, or a service?” I said.

  “Not necessarily. It could be that—”

  “Kitty, if you don’t stop arguing with everything I say I’m going to scream.”

  “I just wanted to—”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Georgia Lee—”

  “Shh.”

  She bit her lip and looked down at her desk. On it, in addition to the bottle of Sphinx and the prophecies of Nostradamus, were scattered swatches of material for a story she was doing on the slipcover craftsman who slipcovered the furniture of all the French movie stars. On each swatch she had pinned a piece of paper with the name of the star whose furniture was covered in that pattern.

  In silence, I got out my notebook. Since I couldn’t reach Overton right now, maybe I’d type up some notes.

  Suddenly, Kitty pushed her chair back, jumped up, and ran to the door. She said, all in a rush, “He might not have a machine at home if he had an office somewhere else.” She disappeared, and I heard her rapid footsteps going down the hall.

  Well, hell. I opened my desk drawer and took out Overton’s bio. On it was the name of his business: Art Services, Ltd., and a telephone number that wasn’t the one I’d just called. I made excuses for this bush-league performance by telling myself I’d been upset, but I was blushing as I dialed.

  Kitty peered hesitantly around the door as I was finishing a brief conversation with Clive Overton’s secretary at Art Services, Ltd. “Wait till I tell you,” I said as I hung up.

  She had the grace not to gloat, but simply said, “What? Did you find him?”

  “I did not. He isn’t expected back in London until next week. His secretary says he’s in Paris, staying at the Relais Christine.”

  Negotiations

  I kept trying Clive Overton’s number throughout the evening, just in case he’d gone home and neglected to notify his office, but there was no answer. “Do you think the man has taken the mirror and skedaddled?” I asked Twinkie at ten o’clock that night, after the fifteenth call.

  Twinkie was crouched in a corner, staring at a dust bunny. Dust bunnies were her Paris discovery. In Florida, I’d had a cleaning lady. “His name was on a list in Bruno Blanc’s Speculatori file,” I went on. “Maybe they’re in this together, and Bruno’s anxiety about the mirror is an act.”

  A draft rocked the dust bunny. Twinkie’s ears went forward and her body tensed.

  “Or say Overton was on the scene to divert suspicion from himself while his confederates took the mirror, and then he faked a collapse. Or maybe the collapse was genuine, because he hadn’t known they would shoot Pierre Legrand.”

  She wisely decided not to pounce. Stalking a dust bunny was probably more fun than catching one.

  “And now he’s slipped clean away, leaving not even a dust bunny behind.”

  In that case, Twinkie wasn’t interested. She jumped on the bed and began attending to her toilette. I lay back and tried to figure out a way I might track Overton down. Nothing occurred to me, and eventually I fell asleep.

  I drifted through nightmares. I was on the beach in Bay City. A cadaverous, frizzy-haired figure in black approached me. When he got close enough I saw it was Ray, with Bruno Blanc’s hair blowing around his face. I gasped, awoke, and lay there trembling until I dozed off for the next round.

  After a night of that, I overslept the next morning and got up with a headache. I had a hard time getting started and was still pottering around my place, drinking coffee and trying to decide what to wear, when the phone rang about noon.

  It was Lucien Claude. He sounded breathless, much less in control than he’d been yesterday. “Madame Maxwell? Madame Maxwell, I’ve been approached about the mirror.”

  “You what?”

  “The mirror. The ransom. Someone has approached me.”

  I gripped the phone. Could the word have spread that rapidly? I supposed antiques dealers had the sort of jungle-drum method of getting news out that most professions have. “How? What happened?”

  “After we talked yesterday, I discussed the ransom possibility with several of my friends who are also dealers here. You didn’t say to keep it a secret, so…”

  “No, it wasn’t a secret.”

  “I didn’t mention your name but said only that this was the report I’d heard. My friends must have told others. And this morning, just a few minutes ago, I received a telephone call. It was a man. He asked if I was the person who was willing to pay for the mirror. I said… I didn’t know what to say, so I said no, but I could contact those who would pay.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I have it. I will call you back in one hour.’ And he hung up.”

  Now I realized how little I’d expected any response to Madeleine Bellefroide’s offer, and how ill-prepared I was to handle it. How did I know Lucien Claude’s caller was telling the truth? Or that Lucien himself was telling the truth? I had to have time to assimilate this. “Listen. I’d better call
the person who’s offering the money and get right back to you.”

  He gave me his number again and got off the phone. I sat and tried to order my thoughts, but it was useless. I turned back to the phone and dialed Madeleine Bellefroide.

  When I told her we might have a taker, I heard a sound like a hiss. In a moment she said, “So it has happened.”

  “Yes. Or…it seems so. If the caller is genuine.”

  She was silent again. Then she said, “I will pay one hundred fifty thousand francs. But I must have proof.”

  Allowing for fluctuations in the exchange rate, a hundred and fifty thousand francs was in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars. It seemed a decent sum for an artifact Bernard Mallet considered worthless. “I’ll tell him,” I said.

  “My name can’t be mentioned. The entire matter will be in your hands.”

  I had a thought. “What about Lucien Claude?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, he’s the one who got the call. He may want to be involved, somehow.”

  She gave an impatient-sounding snort. “He’ll want to be paid for his trouble, I believe you mean.”

  “Yes.” I was pretty sure Lucien wasn’t in this for humanitarian purposes.

  “Make whatever arrangement seems fair. I said I’m willing to pay. But I will not pay without proof.” Madeleine Bellefroide’s privileged upbringing was evident in the ease with which she gave orders. It was hard to remember that she was sick, dying, desperate, but I did remember. I’d promised to help, and I would.

  “One more thing,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I am inexpressibly grateful to you.”

  When I hung up the phone I was sweating. I pushed the hair off my slick forehead and called Lucien, wondering how he’d react to Madeleine’s conditions.

  Somewhat to my surprise, he was agreeable about turning the negotiations over to me. He said, “Of course. When he calls back, I will refer him to you.” I didn’t mention a cut for him, and neither did he. We said good-bye, and I settled down to wait for the call.