Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  Two servants walked around the room offering hors d’oeuvres while Rosa’s butler, helping out for the evening along with two of her maids, carried trays of champagne flutes.

  “Don’t you dare, Totò,” Serafina said as he reached for a glass. Charlus looked up at his mother who shook her head. In a few minutes, he and Totò had become friends.

  Loffredo toasted his guests and Valois toasted the successful end to the Gaston case. Neither Serafina nor Busacca joined in. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid, Alphonse.” The conversation paused. Françoise elbowed Valois and Busacca arched a brow.

  Serafina introduced Charlus to Totò.

  “We’re already friends,” Totò said.

  “Charlus goes to Louis Le Grand. Show him the conservatory and the ballroom, and only take one canapé at a time, please, and no champagne for you. Ah, here are two flutes with mineral water. Perhaps he can point out his school for you while there’s still light. And take Teo and Maria with you.” She saw Teo’s face flush and Maria toss her curls.

  “The sun doesn’t set until 9:58 tonight.” Charlus uncovered his wrist, showing a gold watch with a large face. In the middle was a sun turning into the moon and stars. Serafina looked from Charlus to Totò, who looked from the wrist of his friend to his mother.

  “Such a nice watch, Charlus,” Serafina said.

  “A gift for my birthday last week.”

  “And we didn’t know.”

  “See?” he asked, showing the watch to Totò, “we have almost two hours.”

  “But how much time, precisely?” Alphonse asked. He and Loffredo had finished their corner conversation and were now looking at Charlu’s wrist.

  “One hour and fifty-seven minutes,” Totò said, taking a deviled egg, popping it into his mouth and helping himself to another. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “My mother says you play the piano,” Charlus said to Maria as they walked toward the door.

  She nodded.

  Teo followed.

  Arcangelo stood at the window talking to Giulia, Carmela, and Busacca.

  Taking advantage of Busacca’s absence, Valois walked up to Serafina, Françoise, and Loffredo. “One thing puzzles me,” Valois said. “Why was Dr. Tarnier treating Elena and not someone more familiar with her disease?”

  “As a courtesy, and because she was with child,” Loffredo said. “He was asked by a friend of Elena, but he told me he recommended that she see Dr. Alfred Fournier, a renowned specialist in the treatment of syphilis. He is professor at the Paris Faculty of Medicine and practices at the l’Hôpital de Lourcine on the Rue Pascal, but ... Elena had her own mind.” He shrugged.

  “Yes, I know his work.” Françoise set her champagne glass down on the tray offered to her by the maid.

  They were interrupted by the butler who opened the doors. “Dinner is served, mesdames et messieurs.”

  Serafina must admit it, the dining room looked lovely with the shimmering gas lights of the chandelier, the flames of the candelabra, and the lilies and lavender from Rosa’s garden as a centerpiece.

  They began with bouillabaisse served in hand-painted Limoges bowls Renata found in the china hutch. The butler poured the wine, a rich-tasting Chablis from Burgundy that Loffredo thought was the perfect temperature, and a maid brought out fresh baguettes and sticks of salted bread.

  “The rouille is delicious, and the bouillabaisse divine. I must have your recipe.”

  “Like ‘La Divine Sarah’?” Carmela asked.

  Serafina much preferred the single conversation produced at a round table, but after a few glasses of champagne and Chablis, she decided words and phrases had their place, too. She strained to listen to Carmela talking to Busacca about Sarah Bernhardt.

  “And I suppose you saw Phèdre and didn’t tell me,” Serafina said.

  “Not as exciting as this bouillabaisse, my compliments,” said Busacca, lifting his glass.

  “Reminds me of a bouillabaisse we had in Marseille once. Remember, Alphonse?”

  “Only this is better,” the inspector said.

  A maid came in offering extra napkins to those who wanted them. Totò, his face a mass of sauce, raised his hand for one.”

  “I met a chef in Marseille when we were waiting for our train,” Renata began.

  “You never told me,” Serafina said.

  Renata ignored her. “I tripped on the stairs going up to the station and he helped me. He was on his way to Paris to cook for the chief of state and we started talking about food. I told him I’d read about bouillabaisse and wanted to try it some day. The following week we met at Les Halles and he showed me which vendors he knew and gave me his recipe.”

  “How did I miss this?” Serafina asked.

  Renata blushed. “I’m not sure.”

  “I am,” Rosa said. “So is this a romance de cuisine?”

  “Don’t be silly. For all she knows, the man is married,” Serafina said.

  “We agreed to write and exchange recipes, that’s all.”

  Totò was busy slurping up sauce from his bowl with a piece of baguette and stuffing it into his mouth, leaning a little too far into his bowl as far as Serafina was concerned.

  “I have a lobster in a net at the bottom of my soup,” Totò said, holding his empty bowl up for Charlus to see.

  Serafina shot him a look. She could see she’d made a mistake not seating Valois closer to Loffredo and asked him if he’d had the chance to visit with Ricci and retrieve the photographs and plates.

  “Yes, a rather complicated and mean twist to this unfortunate affair. A story for another time,” he said, nodding toward Busacca.

  “Later perhaps.” She told him of Busacca’s plans to leave after the meal. “He’s an old man now who tires easily.”

  “Yes, we saw her last month, or was it two months ago,” Carmela said.

  “Who, dear?”

  “Sarah Bernhardt, of course. Quite bizarre, her acting, but mesmerizing,” Carmela said.

  “If you’re not used to the French stage, you can find it quite an experience the first time, outré, perhaps,” Françoise said. “The actors declaim. They tell me it is an acquired taste, but I’ve seen it all my life.”

  “We must go,” Rosa said. “Have you seen Bernhardt?” she asked Françoise.

  “No. We meant to go, but Alphonse has been so busy, especially with the Elena case and of course crime does not wait until one case has been resolved.”

  Valois nodded, but his heart wasn’t in the conversation.

  While two maids cleared the soup bowls, Renata herself brought out the chicken, three Poulets de Bresse fried in olive oil and butter, glazed with crème fraiche and placed on a bed of vegetables. A maid followed with potatoes in a cream sauce and shallots.

  Françoise turned to Serafina. “I think Alphonse means to ask you if you’d be interested in doing some work for him.”

  “And I meant to tell you, a woman on the third floor needs you to find her daughter,” Rosa said, watching them serve the meal. “Where is Jacques with the wine?” she asked, but just then he appeared, poured some liquid into Loffredo’s glass and when he nodded, served everyone else.

  “A Châteauneuf du Pape,” I believe, Valois said.

  “Bravo, you know your wines.”

  He smiled. “I saw the label.”

  As the meal continued, the conversation became more animated, especially at the other end of the table with Carmela and Giulia arguing the acting ability of Sarah Bernhardt.

  “Are we still on her?” Serafina asked.

  “She is quite something, you should see her,” Françoise said. “Her morals, well, we all know about them, but what can you expect from an actress? You must visit the studio of Nadar, a photographer who is taken with her. He exhibits some of his portraits of her that are truly beautiful. We saw them at the Palais de L’Industrie—when was it, Alphonse?”

  He shrugged.

  “She has a certain charm. She’s taken our hearts, you know.”


  “I’m still not convinced,” Serafina said, watching them clear the plates.

  “You remind me of her,” Françoise said.

  Giulia and Carmela began to clap. “You do, Mama! Same nose, same hair, same gestures, especially when you’re in a mood.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Serafina felt hot color swim up from her neck to her cheeks.

  “Loffredo, tell them.”

  There was silence while he focused on the question. “I never thought to make the comparison.” Serafina saw him narrowing his gaze. “No, I cannot agree. Fina is a unique star and for me no one compares.”

  “Two things that do not lie,” Busacca said. “The blanch and the blush.”

  “Coffee and dessert will be served upstairs in a few minutes,” Serafina said, dabbing her mouth with a linen and laughing with Françoise.

  Valois made his way to Loffredo and Busacca asked the butler for his hat and cane. “Forgive an old man,” he said to Serafina. “This is the last I’ll see of you in Paris for a while. Despite what you must think, I am happy with your work. My daughter was a deep disappointment, and I cry every night for her. My wife is inconsolable, I know, but for me, Elena died a long time ago.”

  Serafina looked at Rosa. Both were at loss for words. Serafina kissed him on both cheeks and asked him what he did about paying money for his store’s protection.

  “Busacca Millinery is a rare exception. We’ve complied with odious laws, hidden, been clever, created unrivaled goods and survived since 1282. Next to the Inquisition, what is the mafia? They wouldn’t dare mess with us. But don’t second guess your decision to leave. It was the right one for you. Your son stayed behind?”

  “School.”

  The expression on his face was inscrutable. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  After she helped him with his cape, she walked with him to the street where his carriage waited. “I cannot thank you enough for your help,” she said. He cocked his head but made no reply and stood there a moment, a stooped soul, wrapped in his grief.

  * * *

  After Serafina returned to the apartment, she walked over to Loffredo and Valois and asked him again about the photographs.

  “You were right. The photographer was the link,” Valois said.

  They stood in the foyer and continued their conversation, reluctant to climb the stairs and join the others.

  “It’s a complicated story, mean and somewhat daring, but our police photographer—the one who took the photos of the dead woman shortly after we discovered the body—was a friend of Beniamino de Masson long before they colluded in the Elena affair.”

  “No doubt they’ve always been up to no good,” Loffredo said.

  “A bad seed from the time he was two, Sophie, his mother said of her oldest son.”

  Serafina stared at Valois, then lost herself for a moment while she considered something.

  “More about Sophie in a moment,” Valois said.

  “Back to their involvement with Elena,” Serafina said, glancing up, glad to see that Rosa and Françoise were in the middle of a conversation about something or other, doubtless having to do with Tessa’s painting ability—Rosa, the campaigner.

  “Elena approached Beniamino and asked him to help her disappear. She chose well. She and Beniamino were first cousins and kindred souls. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. He’s been involved in thievery, extortion, fraud, minor crimes.”

  “Perhaps to you, but not to me,” Loffredo said, wrapping his arm around Serafina’s waist.

  Valois smiled and continued. “Together the photographer and Beniamino helped Elena fake her own death.

  “How?”

  “Seems the photographer knew a guard at Prison Saint-Lazare. Are you familiar with it?”

  Serafina shook her head.

  “You will be, I fear. Confiscated from the Lazarists during the Reign of Terror in 1793, it was turned into a keep for women by Napoleon. It’s a large prison with an all-female population on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. For the most part, the women are well-treated. The prisoners don’t think so, of course—they call it ‘Saint-Lago’. But the first offenders and those awaiting trial are allowed to rent large cells. They have maid service and special food.”

  Loffredo closed his eyes.

  “In one wing, prostitutes are medically treated for crimes against the city’s sanitary laws, namely for having a venereal disease. In this city, street women must pass a physical exam every month. If they fail, they’re rounded up and taken to Prison Saint-Lazare.”

  “And how does this guard fit into the ...” Serafina stopped herself, suddenly understanding. “That’s where they found the woman to take Elena’s place.”

  “Exactly.”

  Serafina’s feet grew cold. “But I thought she was an acquaintance of Gaston.”

  “Perhaps she was at one time. Or she became a symbol to him, I’m not sure. A ready scapegoat, someone he could blame for his disease. Don’t forget, we are dealing with diseased minds, desperate souls,” Valois said.

  “Prostitutes are always made the scapegoats, no?” Serafina asked.

  Loffredo and Valois looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Syphilis is a terrible disease, and because of it, the European populations are thinning out,” Loffredo said. “Especially German and French males.”

  “Venereal disease and war,” Valois said.

  “So to continue,” Serafina said.

  “Most of the women are cared for by an order of nuns and are given good care. As you can imagine, the female prison population can be a rough lot, foul-mouthed and ungrateful. The nuns put up with insults, salty language. Their lives are not easy. But this guard watched les cachots, the cells housing those in solitary confinement, and according to their plan, he promised one of these women, a desperate prostitute, freedom in exchange for a small favor. All she had to do was deliver a package to a woman in the Rue Cassette. Thrilled by the prospect of being free, she agreed. And so in the early morning hours of April 16, the guard led her out through the prison courtyard, threw her into a wagon used for transporting the women, and drove her to the Rue Cassette, releasing her steps from where Elena and Gaston waited.”

  “Terrible,” Loffredo said.

  Valois nodded.

  “How much did Elena pay?” Serafina asked.

  “In return for finding the woman, Elena paid Beniamino a sum of two million francs, but asked for IOUs to explain the withdrawal, should her father ever question it.”

  “And that’s where the IOUs come in,” Serafina said.

  “Right. Since Beniamino wanted to hurt his youngest brother, he created IOUs totaling two million francs, but signed them with his brother’s name.”

  “Nice brother.”

  “How is it that children from one family can be so different?” Serafina asked.

  “You don’t want to hear my answer,” Valois said.

  “I’ve heard your answer, and I don’t believe it. I believe we can all grow, make amends, and change.”

  Loffredo nodded.

  “Some of the rest of the story you know. When we discovered the body, I asked our photographer to record the event. Later he stole the prints and the plates. What you don’t know is that he presented them to Beniamino and was paid his fee. And bad seed that he was, Beniamino pleaded with Ricci to hide the plates and photos in the store he managed on Rue du Mont-Parnasse.”

  “The beast. And Sophie knew of this plan?”

  “She denies having any knowledge of the plan to obtain the woman, but there are discrepancies in her story. In the end, we know she agreed to the fraud and was happy to take her share of the two million francs. But along with her son, the photographer, and the prison guard, she will be tried for conspiracy and murder. As of now. She’s an old woman, going blind. I doubt she’ll be made to live out her days in prison. The jury will have mercy.”

  “How could she not know about the plan to procure a woman of the streets?”
Serafina asked.

  “Blinded by greed?”

  “What about Gaston?”

  He shook his head. “The four men—Beniamino, the photographer, the guard, and Gaston—are held without bail in Prison de Mazas, accused of conspiring to murder. For now Sophie’s in Prison Saint-Lazare.”

  “And Busacca knows all this?”

  “Perhaps not everything. He knows his sister awaits trial for her part in the murder and attempted fraud. But our case is weak. We are certain she knew about the murder of the woman, but she hasn’t admitted it. She has a large cell separated from the rest of the inmates for which she pays seven or eight francs a month. The nuns take good care of her and listen to her sobbing tale, but there she is.”

  “I must visit her,” Serafina said.

  “I hoped you’d say that. Permission has been granted.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ll be interested to hear what you find out.”

  She heard Maria’s piano wafting down from above and wrinkled her brow. “It’s not Scarlatti.”

  “Saint-Saëns, perhaps,” Loffredo said. “A French composer, anyway.”

  They were interrupted by the butler carrying a silver tray followed by Renata and two maids carrying the café, profiteroles, and cannoli.

  “Upstairs all of you, or you’ll miss the glace au four!” Renata said.

  Chapter 44: Prison Saint-Lazare

  Serafina paid the driver and looked up at Prison Saint-Lazare, a mammoth gothic structure converted to a women’s prison in the beginning of the century. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell, feeling her stomach do somersaults, coming to rest on her bones. After presenting her papers to the porter, Serafina was ushered into a small waiting room. She looked at the drab walls and the plain furniture, the shutters on the window, the crucifix on the wall, and decided Sophie was in a warm place in the prison, well cared for by the sisters of Marie-Joseph.

  “Why are you here?” Sophie asked after she was guided into the room and helped to her seat by a nun. The old lady’s sight had diminished in the few short weeks since Serafina first met her.

  “Because I have questions and you’re the only one who has the courage to answer them.”