by Charles Todd
A man came storming into Reception, stopped short when he saw me, and said in a rage that was barely controlled, “What have you done with my son?”
I hardly recognized Monsieur Karadeg without his apron, and wearing a coat and hat.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” I stammered, staring at him. My first thought was that his mind had been turned by grief.
He reached for me, took my shoulders in both hands, and shook me violently. The orderly at the desk had leapt to his feet as soon as Monsieur Karadeg had come through the door, and he lunged now at the man, pulling him away from me.
“We’ll have none of that here,” the burly orderly told him. “State your business, calmly, like a gentleman, or I’ll have you out that door before you can blink your eyes. Now state your name and your business, if you please.”
“Karadeg,” he said, breathing hard. “I want to know what this woman has done with my son.”
“Sister? Do you wish to deal with him in this state?”
I said gently, “Monsieur, your son is dead. Can we summon a taxi for you? You would be better off at home, with your wife.”
“He’s not dead, the fool! He went to see the nun, and he hasn’t come back.”
I blinked. “What?” And all the while, my mind was running through the facts. The visitation. The suicide victim who had been murdered . . . “But you yourself identified his body,” I added, before he could answer me.
“Damn it, that wasn’t Jerome. We told the police it was, to stop them from searching for him. We took him to Brittany and left him there with his grandmother. But he’s quite mad—”
“He’s not mad, he’s shell-shocked,” I countered automatically, but he went on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“—and he came back to tell Marie-Luc that he hadn’t hurt her. And now he’s vanished.”
As he stopped to catch his breath, I repeated, “Jerome Karadeg isn’t dead? Is that what you’re telling me?” I leaned against the corner of the orderly’s desk, still feeling the shaking I’d just been given, my mind reeling as well. If this man was alive, and wandering about Paris, knife in hand—but why stab me? Or the Captain?
It seemed to turn everything I’d thought earlier upside down.
“I don’t know where he is,” I said. “I give you my word, Monsieur. I thought—it seemed to me that the visit to Marie-Luc was a manifestation of her own guilt. That she was finding a way to come to terms with her failure to convince the police in time to save your son. I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I have never met your son. He could come to that door and ask for me, and I would have no idea who he was. I give you my word.”
Fright was slowly replacing the anger that drove him. A heavy, unwilling fear that something had happened to Jerome after all, that he might, finally, have gone to the river in truth.
“I wish I knew. I wish I could offer you some comfort. Send a telegram to your mother. He may have done what he felt he must do, and gone back to Brittany.”
It was his only hope, and he could see that, and still he was afraid it would not find his son.
He glared at me and at the orderly, standing between us looking like a man who wished himself anywhere but here. “You won’t tell the police. Give me your word.”
“Gladly,” I said. “But how did you find me?”
“I followed you from the hospital today. I have been waiting in the street for my son to come out of this place. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
But he wasn’t satisfied that I was telling the truth. He reached under his coat and pulled on a chain, bringing out the crucifix he wore. “Put your hand on this and swear.”
The orderly stepped between us. “Now we’ll have none of that,” he began.
“No, it’s all right, I’ll swear if that’s what he wants.” And I did.
Monsieur Karadeg looked down at the crucifix, kissed it, then carefully restored it to wherever it had come from.
“I will be back,” he said. “If you are lying, I’ll come back, and that one won’t stop me.” He jerked his head toward the orderly. And then he was gone, leaving the door standing wide.
The orderly hurried after him, shutting it quickly. Then he turned to me and said, “Are you all right, Sister?”
“Yes.” I was still staring at the door, and I brought my gaze back to his worried face. “His son is suffering from shell shock. It’s been very difficult for his family.”
The orderly almost sneered. “That’s it, then?” And under his breath he added, “Bloody coward.”
“No,” I said firmly. “He did his duty. And he was wounded, just like the men in there, honorably and courageously.” I pointed angrily toward the wards.
But I heard him say as I turned and started up the stairs, “Not like that lot.”
Prejudice dies hard, and even soldiers who had fought beside the men who came back shell-shocked felt much the same way. I wasn’t going to change his mind.
But the question was, must I now change my evening arrangements?
Chapter Seventeen
I did a good bit of soul-searching over the next few hours. Had the news about Jerome changed anything? Not if I proved what I’d begun to suspect. But would the arrangements I’d made work as I’d planned? Or would the reaction I was hoping for never happen? It was always difficult to predict how another person would behave in a crisis, however carefully a trap was prepared and carried off. I realized then that I hadn’t prepared for the possibility that my suspicions were wrong. Above all, would Madame Ezay bear the brunt of trouble that wasn’t of her making? The last thing I wanted was for her to be dismissed from the clinic because of me.
In the end, I had no alternative but to go forward. I dressed with care, leaving my apron behind and wearing a pretty pin one of the other Sisters had loaned me in place of the little watch I usually wore on my left shoulder. Another had given me a silk scarf that would match my coat very nicely. They were Captain Barkley’s nurses, and very pleased that he’d be allowed to dine out for a change.
It was against regulations, but I thought no one would mind. What’s more, I had my reasons for wanting this dinner to appear to be a special occasion and allay any misgivings our arrival at the restaurant might arouse.
Jerome Karadeg was still very much on my mind. I truly hoped he’d been sensible and returned to Brittany, but there was nothing I could do tonight to help his father find him.
At exactly seven o’clock I went down the stairs to find Captain Barkley, leaning on a cane, waiting for me.
“I don’t need this,” he assured me straightaway, “but Matron wasn’t having it if I didn’t take it.”
“No one argues with Matron,” I agreed, and took his uninjured arm. “Let’s find a taxi, shall we?”
“You look different tonight,” he said, noticing me for the first time.
“Well. I’m convalescing too, not on duty. I didn’t wear my apron or cap.”
“Your hair is very pretty,” he said, and I smiled at the compliment.
We were fortunate enough to find a cab in a very short distance, and I gave the driver the direction of The Golden Door.
We drove to the Champs-Élysées and found the restaurant easily enough, not many streets over from Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe. With all the buildings dark, I could hardly see it in the distance, a darker shadow among shadows.
La Porte d’Or was quite a fashionable restaurant. In fact, it took its name from a door that would have done justice to Kublai Khan’s great palace. In the low flickering light of the oriental lamp hanging beside it, it appeared to be gold, not just painted, and there were swirls of clouds carved in the wood that seemed to be moving as the flame danced. I suddenly wondered if they would allow a nurse inside.
But I was admitted by the smiling doorman, and we were passed on to an elegantly dressed young woman with an intelligent and attractive face, who greeted us with pleasure but not
effusiveness, and in turn passed us on to the maître d’hôtel. We were taken to be seated right away. I thought perhaps the Captain had slipped a few francs into the man’s palm. On our way we passed a staircase and left our coats at a little door. Our table had a full sweeping view of the room.
I readjusted the number of francs that must have changed hands. Captain Barkley was the son of an American who had made his fortune in railroads, and he knew what was required of a guest wanting the best.
We settled ourselves, and I looked around the room. It was quite a spectacle, with the war still on, and women wearing lovely gowns and glittering jewelry, however military the cut might be. No feathers—they would have had to be imported through the gantlet of U-boats, and there was no room on the ships that did get through for anything but direst necessities. But lots of braid took their place, and there was color everywhere, as well as elegant fabrics. I felt decidedly drab. Most of the younger men were in uniform. The older ones who were not in the Army or Navy wore evening dress. The waiters moved with quiet precision, and there was no loud conversation, only the sounds of fine cutlery and crystal, like bells.
It was worth the price of the dinner, I thought, to see the gold brocade drapes at the windows, and the Louis Quinze chairs upholstered in a dark green. The war seemed very distant, and one could pretend nothing had changed since 1914.
But as I looked about, I saw no one who looked like my quarry—in fact no one with his arm pinned to his sleeve except for a Colonel three tables from us and a young Lieutenant just coming into the dining room. What if tonight, of all nights, Captain Broussard had had a previous engagement that had taken him elsewhere?
My stomach was suddenly full of butterflies.
We were given a menu, and I looked at it in amazement. It was printed on heavy paper, written in an elegant script, a gold ribbon holding the pages together, the tassel swinging free. But the dishes were wartime meals, in spite of the outward appearance of normality.
I was about to order when the maître d’ ushered another pair into the room and seated them not far from us.
Captain Broussard and a Lieutenant I didn’t know. A moment later, the woman who had greeted us came to their table and presented the Captain with a bottle of wine for his dinner. He rose politely, flushing a little, to accept the gift. It obviously pleased him.
“I think it’s his birthday,” Captain Barkley was saying. “I was here once before when someone received a bottle, and that’s what I was told.”
“Very nice. He seems to like her much more than a little bit.”
“So it’s rumored.”
The waiter politely said, “Mademoiselle?” and I chose a soup, a main course of fish, and a gâteau for dessert, without giving the menu more than a glance, wondering if I would be able to eat any of it, much less finish it.
Our waiter had gone away, and the wine steward was filling our glasses with something that the Captain had chosen when out of the corner of my eye I saw Madame Ezay come into the room.
Even if the Captain had met her at the clinic, I was sure he wouldn’t have known her. She was wearing a gown that was prewar but quite elegant, a dark blue with silver half-moons set in the bodice and a long sweeping skirt of the same shade. Her hair was done up and a band around her forehead boasted three ostrich feathers in a gold clip at the side. I wondered where on earth Madame had found them. So must have a dozen other female diners, who followed her entrance with interest.
Her makeup was impeccable. She could have passed for a duchess.
She went to the table chosen for her and sat down with a flourish. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d produced a feathered fan at that moment. She seemed to look around the room as if hoping to find friends dining there as well.
She spotted Captain Broussard, and after a moment, with the slightest movement, turned toward me. I inclined my head, and she looked away.
“Who is she?” the Captain asked.
“I met her on the train coming to Paris. Her husband’s in something hush-hush. I expect he’s busy this evening.” It was the first thing I could think of.
“She looks vaguely familiar,” he went on, frowning as he tried to remember.
“Possibly at one of your evening soirees?”
“Yes, that’s likely.”
I tried to think of some way to shift the subject. “What were you really doing, going to these salons? Hardly the place for deserters to congregate, I should think.”
“You’d be surprised.”
At that moment, Madame Ezay got to her feet and walked calmly across the room toward the table where Captain Broussard was deep in conversation with his companion.
I swallowed wrong and nearly choked, then got myself under control in time to see him rise politely, napkin in hand, when she paused at his table. She extended her hand with the air of a princess of the blood and said something to him.
And as I watched, he turned pale, and then almost at once a deep red. It was a parody of the flush of pleasure I’d seen earlier. I began to rise out of my chair, fearing he was about to strike her. I could see his hand on the napkin clench into a fist so tight his knuckles were white, the nails digging into his palm. Apparently oblivious, she was still smiling, still talking to him.
And then he must have remembered where he was. He said something to her, something that left the young Lieutenant staring, and threw his napkin at the table. It knocked over his wineglass. The wine spilled like dark red blood across the white linen of the tablecloth, and the Lieutenant got to his feet in a hurry, as it looked to be running across to his side of the table.
In the same instant, Captain Broussard shoved Madame aside with such force that she staggered, keeping her balance only by a miracle, one hand clutching at the back of a chair behind her. The man occupying the chair next to it rose as well.
And Captain Broussard was striding angrily toward the door, pushing past the woman greeting a man and a woman just coming into the restaurant. He flung the outer door wide and disappeared.
Waiters were rushing to the table he’d vacated, one with something in his hand to soak up the wine, another coming to the aid of Madame Ezay, who put her hand to her forehead, as if about to faint, just as he reached her.
Everything was happening at once. Captain Barkley was standing now, preparing to cross to the other table, and I was grateful when the waiter, with Madame Ezay leaning heavily against him, led her toward the rear of the restaurant.
Following the Captain, I heard him say to the Lieutenant, “What happened?”
“I don’t know, sir,” he said, standing too. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that other waiters and the woman from the front door were busy trying to settle the rest of the diners once more. “A case of mistaken identity—I wasn’t very sure—but she called him Victor. Victor Laveau or Lavaud, something like that, and asked after his aunt. She appeared to know him.”
But Captain Barkley was no longer listening. He grasped my hand, saying over his shoulder, “This is your doing. I should have guessed,” as he led me toward the outer door.
We were in time to find the French officer outside, waiting for his motorcar to be brought around. He wheeled when Captain Barkley spoke to him, then his gaze fell on me.
He reached out with his good arm, grasping at my shoulder, then fumbling for my throat. The pin I had borrowed went into the palm of his hand, and he leapt back, swearing, as if I’d stung him.
“Stop,” Captain Barkley said sharply, shoving him away.
“She put that woman up to it. I told her—I told her to let it go, to leave Philippe alone. It was none of her affair. If it hadn’t been for that damned nun, none of this would have happened,” Captain Broussard shouted, reaching for me again. “I would gladly strangle you if I had two good hands.”
Captain Barkley hit him then, knocking him to the ground just as someone brought up his motorcar.
People on the street were stopping to stare, but Captain Broussard scrambled
to his feet and swung at the American. I heard a whistle, and then a policeman was running toward us.
I stepped back, giving a fleeting thought to Madame Ezay as Captain Barkley slammed his assailant against the restaurant wall.
The policeman was there by that time, threatening to take both men into custody and throw away the key, or words to that effect.
I stepped forward. “This man,” I said quickly, pointing to the still-furious Frenchman, “is a wanted man. Inspector Duplessis will want to know that you’ve found him. He just attacked a woman inside the restaurant and then threatened to kill me. His name is Victor Lavaud. He’s wanted for other murders.”
At that moment, the woman from the restaurant appeared, bringing my coat and scarf and the Captain’s greatcoat. She took in the confrontation literally on her doorstep, and her face was cold with disapproval. Not even Captain Broussard would have found her attractive then.
I realized all at once that I was shivering with the cold, and took my belongings from her gratefully.
I also realized that she was effectively asking us not to return to our table.
I held out his coat to the Captain while the policeman was asking Captain Broussard questions about what I’d said. Broussard was denying it all vehemently, and shoved the policeman, who had put a hand on the officer’s empty sleeve. It had been a conciliatory gesture, but Broussard was having none of it. He swung at the policeman, and at that point it was all over.
I was grateful that Madame Ezay was not included as we were marched to the closest police station.
By the time Inspector Duplessis had been found and summoned, I was longing for the dinner that I hadn’t had.
He came striding into the small room where Captain Barkley and I had been put, looking as if his own dinner had been interrupted.
“Mademoiselle,” he said. “Captain. What is this all about?”
The Captain and I had had more than an hour together, shut in that little room, and I don’t think he quite forgave me for what I had done. And yet it was he who had brought Broussard into the picture. I hadn’t guessed, in that meeting with the French officer at the café, that he had known at once who Philippe Moreau was. No wonder he was so willing to let Captain Barkley borrow his precious motorcar and do his hunting for him.
