Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Sophie straightened in her chair.

  “Have you been in contact with her husband?” Serafina asked.

  “Never. I have nothing to do with him.”

  They were silent, the three of them, for a moment.

  “If you will excuse me,” Sophie rang the bell.

  “I think we’ve heard enough for now, except for one more question. What convinced you that the body you saw was indeed that of your niece?”

  “Her purse of course with various papers of identity. There was a card with her husband’s photo and one of my brother. Not a good likeness, but, well, unmistakable. I knew, therefore, that the body I stared at could only be Elena’s. The shape of her body was roughly the same, although the dead do have such a foreignness about them.”

  “No other marks that would identify her? Rings? Necklaces? Family jewels?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I don’t recall seeing any. Now if you will excuse me ...” She rang again for the butler.

  They walked to the carriage in silence, Serafina breathing in the fresh air, glad to be done with Sophie. Paris was serene, this neighborhood leafy and silent, spared from Baron Haussmann’s harsh restorations, haunted in a way that only old neighborhoods can be. They watched a family in black walking on the other side of the street, a father and sons with curls and fur hats and prayer shawls, the mother and girls following behind. A grocer in his apron stood in the doorway of his shop, his arms crossed, his face pleasant. He nodded to them as they passed.

  “Sophie is such a arrogant creature. A beauty in her time but a shame she’s let herself go,” Rosa said. “I knew we’d get nothing from her.”

  “On the contrary,” Serafina said.

  * * *

  They stood on the Pont Neuf admiring the statue of Henry IV and the charm of the Place Dauphine. But the flying buttresses of Notre Dame reminded Serafina of the creep of despair. For a while they watched the barges glide up and down the Seine until she said something about her feet.

  “That’s all you can say of Paris is that your feet ache? Look around you. The style, the vigor, the glorious food, the pomp, the gilt, the spectacle.”

  “Will you stop?”

  “The parks and buildings, Haussmann’s magnificence, Paris glittering and transformed, the romance of it—so beautiful it wets my eyes.”

  Serafina was amazed. The madam waxed poetic. She wished she could stick her feet in a bowl of hot water.

  Rosa continued. “The buildings freshly whitewashed, the slate roofs gleaming with pale light, the doors covered in such luscious colors and such thick lacquer. Even the chimneys complement the scene. And look at the wide boulevards and how they’re paved. If I have to listen to you complaining about how cold you are one more time, I’ll scream, I swear it. We have an hour to spare before we meet with the prefect. Take Busacca at his word and have them design a hat for you. No wonder your feet are frozen.

  Rosa had a point. They hired a fiacre and made their way to Busacca et Fils, Milliners, a large store on the corner of Rue de la Paix and Rue St. Augustin. A beam of sun shone on the glass. Hats, hats, hats filled the window, and the shellacked wooden façade was painted a lovely shade of chromium oxide. As they opened the door, a brass bell sounded their arrival. They were met by a man in a waxed mustache and frock coat.

  “Ah, such a shame, you have just missed Madame.” He wrung his gloved hands. “She left not five minutes ago for an appointment.”

  “When do you expect her return? I’ve a question I forgot to put to her earlier today.”

  “Soon.” He smiled. “She went around the corner. She shouldn’t be long. If you care to wait, I will have my designer show you something to suit your extraordinary face.”

  After she presented Busacca’s card, the clerk begged her to be seated at one of many small tables and rushed to the back of the store. She saw elegantly attired women at other stations, clerks dressed in black showing them hats with feathers, small pill boxes with elaborate veils. He returned with a woman wearing a smock, a measuring tape draped around her neck. She carried several hats, most of them in wool, some in velvet, others in straw; some large with interesting brims to guard from the sun, but all were serviceable and stylish at the same time.

  “A woman is not dressed until she wears a hat, Madame.”

  “This is not her usual costume,” Rosa said. “She’s a sleuth. She’s been following seedy types in different parts of town and dressing down for the occasion. Imagine her in suitable attire, please, and do design for a more mysterious but serviceable look. She’s not used to the bite of Paris stones in the spring.”

  “Yes, Madame. We have women come to us from all over the world and in all manner of dress who are not used to wearing hats, especially if their climate is warm. But the right hat brings out the unique mystery of a face. And both of you have such interesting faces, I welcome the chance to design for you.”

  The designer stuck a wool hat on Serafina. Ridiculous, too much red, it clashed with the rose color of her dress and made her hair look like an orange spider’s nest. But the designer fussed with it, shaping the brim, experimenting with different angles, with feathers, ribbons, veils. “No, no, won’t do,” the woman muttered. “But wait,” she said, through the pins in her mouth while her fingers flew. From her pocket she pulled out a small flower in various shades of rose and dark red, held it to one side, wedged in a large curving feather and a few light green velvet leaves and pinned the arrangement to the silk moiré ribbon with a turquoise clasp.

  “Now, Madame, regard,” the designer said, stepping back, one hand on her creation.

  Serafina looked at her reflection in the glass. The hat had something, she had to admit. She smiled into the mirror. “A transformation. You are an artist.”

  Rosa agreed and asked the woman for her card.

  “Let me do something for you, Madame. Sit, please.”

  As the designer worked to fashion a hat for Rosa, Serafina looked at her watch pin.

  “I was hoping to speak with Madame de Masson, but the gentleman at the desk told me she had an appointment. Do you expect her back soon?”

  The woman seemed not to have heard the question. Serafina asked it again.

  “Yes, Madame, she should be back soon. Her doctor’s office is around the corner, on a small street in back of the store, the Rue St. Arnaud. We expect her very soon, to be sure.”

  “Dear me, I hope nothing’s wrong,” Rosa said.

  The designer was silent.

  “So there is something wrong,” Rosa said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  “Nothing any of us can mend, I’m afraid. She’s losing her eyesight, poor woman.”

  Church bells chimed the hour.

  “No more time. Best be going,” Rosa said and tugged at Serafina’s sleeve.

  Chapter 9: The Prefect of Paris

  On the way to their appointment with the prefect, Serafina thought about what she’d heard from the designer at Busacca et Fils.

  “If Sophie’s going blind, how could she have identified Elena?” Rosa asked.

  “I’m increasingly uneasy about her ability to identify anything, let alone the body of a niece whom, by admission, she seldom saw.”

  “You mean Elena’s alive?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “Past who?”

  “Elena, of course.”

  “That’s interesting,” the madam said. “Why are we here?”

  “To sort out the mystery, of course.”

  “But that’s not why Busacca commissioned you, is it?”

  “Don’t split hairs. Perhaps, just perhaps, I can bring her back to life.”

  Rosa waved a hand back and forth in front of her face while Serafina wrote in her notebook.

  “Anyway, this investigation is becoming interesting. Do you remember if Elena was right- or left-handed?”

  “Why would I know a thing like that?” Rosa asked.

  Serafina was silent as thei
r carriage turned onto the Rue de Rivoli and was stopped by heavy traffic ahead.

  “Plenty of time,” Rosa said. “How the French love to parade. But you’ve got to admit, they know how to dress.”

  They watched as guards with their plumy hats trotted their horses two by two, trumpets blaring while their coach waited for them to pass.

  “Perhaps Elena is ambidextrous. Given her temperament, it figures.”

  Serafina made no reply.

  “There you are, dreaming again. Loffredo would know, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You haven’t heard from him?”

  Serafina bit her lip. “I sent a message to his hotel, his usual accommodation in the sixth arrondissement, but there was no reply.” She took deep breaths.

  Rosa patted Serafina’s hand. “There must be a reason why he’s not shown up. Something simple, I’ll wager, like your forgetting he told you he’d be out of town, traveling in the south or some such explanation, so simple it slipped your mind.”

  Serafina gave her a look and was silent, their carriage stopping for more congestion. She looked at her watch pin. “I hope the time on this thing is wrong. We have twenty minutes before our meeting with the commissioner or whatever it is they call him.” She felt her stomach doing somersaults and borrowed Rosa’s fan to wick away the moisture on her face. “How do I look?”

  “Like a fairy princess. And they call him prefect. He’s a handsome one, and popular. Stern, but we’ll get around that. They say his salary is fifty-thousand francs.”

  They were silent as they passed the gutted hulk of Hôtel de Ville, a reminder of the disaster that was the Commune. In her mind Serafina heard the shouts, smelled the blood, the powder and the fury, reminding her of uprisings at home. But as their carriage turned into the quai and crossed the Pont Notre-Dame, she was entranced by the scenery and the dash of midmorning Paris, the clop of horses hooves, the city workers in their striking blue overalls and jackets, the sun glinting off the windows of their carriage. Presently they stopped in front of the prefecture of police and the driver helped them out of the carriage. He pulled out his watch and rubbed a dirty thumb over the crystal. “Plenty of time. Up those stairs and through that door. Tell the secretary you’re to meet with the prefect in ten minutes. My Belle Hélène and I will be waiting over there.”

  “Belle Hélène?”

  “The horse,” Rosa said.

  He gestured to a spot underneath a row of chestnuts. “Can’t miss us. Just look for the most beautiful woman in all of Paris, that’s my Hélène.”

  Inside, they climbed the marble staircase, following an agent of police who led them up to the first floor of an ornate building, the new home of the prefecture of police. The honorable Léon Renault himself stood at the top of the stairs to greet them, accompanied by his assistant.

  Serafina found herself staring at the man, struck by his bearing, the clarity of his voice, a certain humor about the eyes, and the transparency of his demeanor. Although he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his mutton chops were already flecked with gray. He wore striped pants, a gray waistcoat and starched shirt, silk cravat, and a frock coat. They fitted his large frame to perfection. She’d read of his bravery during the Franco-Prussian War culminating in the Siege of Paris and afterward his role in quelling the Paris Commune.

  “Your mayor, Notabartolo, telegraphed our office, Madame. Welcome. You have many admirers in your country.”

  “And this is my friend, Madame Rosa Spicuzza, my assistant.”

  Renault took Rosa’s hand and kissed it. The madam responded with a regal smile.

  “You investigate the death of Elena Loffredo, countess of Oltramari. What may we do for you in that regard?” he asked. “And this is the inspector assigned to the case, Alphonse Valois.”

  A slight man in frock coat and cravat, Valois inclined his head.

  “First, on behalf of my country and the family of Elena Loffredo, thank you for your warm reception and for your handling of the case thus far,” Serafina began.

  “You have my full cooperation. When it comes to the particulars, Inspector Valois is better able to assist.”

  The inspector smiled.

  Renault turned to him. “We have someone in custody you told me? But not charged as yet?”

  Valois cleared his throat. “Not a French citizen, your honor. We were afraid he’d flee.”

  Serafina found it difficult to breathe. “Excuse me? His name?”

  Valois said nothing.

  Renault frowned. “Madame Florio and her assistant are to be given every courtesy, as if she were one of our own detectives.” He looked at Serafina. “If you need anything, please call on me.”

  She nodded slowly, her heart racing, convinced their suspect was Loffredo. She must free him. “I’ve just begun, of course, but I have some questions.” She felt rather than saw Valois stiffen, but she persisted. “A woman losing her eyesight identified the body.”

  “The nearest living relative,” Valois said.

  “Except for the woman’s husband who happened to be in Paris at the time of her death.”

  Valois opened his mouth to speak but the prefect interrupted.

  “You were saying, Madame?”

  “Why wasn’t her husband shown her body and asked to identify it? And I’ve other questions about the case, such as—”

  Rosa intruded herself, smiling. “Sometimes haste is our greatest enemy, but our country appreciates your adept handling of this gruesome murder. We believe we’ll learn a lot from mutual understanding and commitment.”

  “Exactly.” Renault smiled. He brought out his watch and slapped his forehead. “Please excuse me. I have a meeting with the president in less than five minutes. Remember, you have an open door to my office. Take care of them, Valois. Don’t forget—extend every courtesy and share our knowledge.”

  * * *

  Serafina turned to Rosa. With her eyes, she begged the madam to make conversation.

  “We must seem like foreigners bent on taking over the case, but I assure you that’s not our intent. What a lovely suit. English, no?”

  Valois ran his hand down one lapel. Beads of water formed on his forehead. “Yes, from London. My wife does the shopping.”

  “Then my compliments to her taste,” Rosa said.

  “There’s a lift to my office,” Valois said. “This way.”

  They walked on either side of the inspector, Serafina listening to their footsteps on the granite floor. He was moving faster than he needed to, forcing them to keep up with his pace.

  “Until the Communards burned it down, we were all located in the Hôtel de Ville.”

  “I remember,” Serafina said, smiling. “Although the last time I was in Paris, I was a student and had no reason to visit you, but I daresay, you were a student then, too.”

  The wretched man stared at her as if she were talking nonsense. She looked at Rosa.

  As they waited for the lift, Serafina swallowed. Acid burned in her stomach, and she felt a lump forming in the back of her throat. Her nostrils flared but she held her tongue while Rosa stumbled on as best she could with pleasantries. The madam talked of Marseille, the administrative genius of France, the weather.

  The three of them squeezed into the lift. Serafina could smell Valois’ cologne, vetiver, she thought. As the machine shuddered and began to move, she closed her eyes, sure that it could not hold their combined weight, but the ride was short and as they came to the floor, she dabbed her eyes and forehead with a linen. She looked at Rosa who shook her head. Both women were silent.

  Valois’ office was impressive if small, and it fronted the building. Serafina walked to the window and looked out. She could see the Seine, hear the horses’ hooves on the cobbles, the bustle of traffic in the square below. Breathing in the energy of the city, she vowed she and the inspector would come to terms with each other.

  When she and Rosa were seated, Serafina said, “You must forgive me,” she began, breathing hard. “I’ve heard bits and
pieces, a disjointed tale of the events surrounding Elena’s death. Believe me, her father told me of his daughter’s death and asked me early Friday morning to find her killer and bring him to justice. After I accepted, he told me I must travel to Paris that very evening. We arrived last night. We’ve had a long journey, well over seventy-six hours, dropping everything to travel here, so I would appreciate hearing the details from you.” She drew out a notebook from her bag.

  Valois looked at his watch. “Understand, Madame, I was unaware of your arrival until this morning when a messenger from an important Parisian milliner gave us the news of your arrival.”

  Serafina doubted that, but said nothing.

  The inspector continued. “Unfortunately I have but thirty minutes before I have a meeting which I am obligated to attend, so I will be thorough, but brief.” He sighed. “A patrolman on duty discovered a body on the Rue Cassette shortly before dawn on Thursday, April 16.” He consulted a large folder on his desk, flipped through the pages, and looked again at his watch.

  “You’re uncomfortable, I can see,” Serafina said. “Would you rather I returned later this afternoon?”

  “Impossible.” He slammed a palm on top of his desk. “You and I must come to an understanding, and the sooner we do, the better for all.”

  “I’d like nothing more.”

  “Then I’ll get to the point. Your presence here is a formality. Although he treated you with the deference due a foreign dignitary, the prefect knows it. I know it. The Busacca family knows it. Only you seem to be unaware of the perfunctory nature of your visit. You deal with La Sûreté Nationale, founded by the great Eugène François Vidocq, the father of modern detection. Our organization is the forerunner of all such agencies, so make no mistake as to my meaning, Madame, when I say, we have completed the case on the death of Elena Loffredo. We have done all your work for you. I cannot state it more plainly than that.”

  Serafina bit her tongue to stop her lips from trembling and concentrated on breathing slowly. “Please carry on with the specifics.” The pitch of her voice was higher than normal.