by Rhys Bowen
“Madame Sullivan,” he said. “What a pleasure to find you here. You enjoy visiting the dead, do you?”
“As much as you do, obviously, Monsieur Noah,” I said. “You find inspiration for your painting here, do you?”
“Sometimes. But today I have other reasons for being here.”
“Yes?”
He nodded. “Such as luring you to a place where nobody can see us. I have been keeping an eye on my sister, you see. Such a rickety old building, it’s easy to listen to what is being said. I realized that you have discovered the truth.”
“The truth that you are Jakob Klein and in no way related to my friend Elena Goldfarb. Why did you claim to be her cousin?”
He looked at me scornfully, as if I was particularly dense. “She’s a rich American. I overheard her talking about looking for her family in Paris and I decided she’d be helpful to a poor struggling cousin.” He shrugged. “It was easy to convince her. She herself had supplied all the details.”
“You deceived her,” I said angrily.
“One does what one must to survive. They burned our village. They killed our parents. We came here with nothing. I had my sister to protect.”
“And yet you let her model for Reynold Bryce? Was that protecting her?”
I saw anger flash in his eyes. “I had no idea that he would behave in that way. He saw her with me at a showing Chez Vollard. He said he’d like to paint her, and if I agreed he would include some of my work in his exhibition. The money was good, and the chance to be in his exhibition—well, it would mean everything. We could not turn it down. But I did not know that he would paint her in the nude. And when she came to me, sobbing hysterically and saying he tried to rape her, I was beside myself with rage.”
“So you went to see him.”
“And do you know what he said? He laughed and said, ‘Do you really think I was going to include a painting in my exhibition by a filthy Jew? I only wanted a way to your little sister.’ And I said, ‘But she’s a Jew too. You didn’t mind touching her.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Sometimes even Jews are enticing enough that one makes exceptions. There is no logic in the desires of the flesh.’”
“So you killed him.”
“The knife was lying there on the table. I was in a red rage. So angry I could not control myself. I grabbed it and plunged it into his chest.”
All the time we talked I was horribly aware that he stood between me and the gateway from the cemetery. I knew I had to play for time. Sooner or later someone would come past and I could escape.
“Your sister believes you have gone to England—or was she lying to me as well?”
“I told her I had gone. She is young and innocent. I do not want her implicated in this. And I do plan to go, as soon as I can get enough money together and find a way to ship my paintings.”
“Aren’t you worried about getting caught if you linger here too long? If I’ve worked it out, I am sure that others have too. And what about your sister if you get caught? Who will protect her if you face the guillotine?”
He shrugged again. “There will be no guillotine, madame. I was defending the honor of my sister. Any court in France will understand this. They make exceptions for the crime passionel. I shall be considered a hero.”
“Then I wish you good luck. Bonne chance,” I said. I had noticed a couple approaching the gateway to the cemetery. Soon they would be close enough to hear if I shouted for help. I gave him a curt bow and tried to move past him. He put an arm around my shoulder as the couple came closer. “But ma chérie, you did not think I’d let you go, did you?” he said and pulled me close to him.
“Don’t be foolish,” I replied. “I am not your chérie.” I tried to shrug him off and instead felt a sharp prick of pain at my side.
“I am efficient with a blade,” he whispered into my ear. “One wrong move and it will be your last. We will take a walk, you and I, among the graves.”
“Why should I walk with you?” I demanded, my voice sharp with fear. “You’ll only kill me anyway, and without the risk of anyone looking on.”
“You will walk because you have no choice,” he said, and I felt the pressure of that knife digging into me. “And maybe all I want is your money to help me get to England. We shall see how I feel.”
And he propelled me forward, one arm draped around my shoulder like a lover, while the other one held the knife firmly at my side. I tried to think how to struggle, to throw him off guard without allowing him to stab me first. He half pushed, half carried me between two mausoleums. Then I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Someone was coming. Someone really tall. I could see his head over the top of the roof of the mausoleum. And I recognized him.
“Monsieur Degas!” I called. “It’s Madame Sullivan.” And I jerked my head back into Maxim Noah’s face, hearing a grunt of pain as I connected with his nose. I followed this with my elbow into his stomach and took that brief moment of surprise to wrench myself free. I ran over to Degas. “What a pleasure to meet you again,” I said, going up to him and taking his arm.
“I have been visiting the family tomb,” he said. “It is the anniversary of the death of my mother. I always take flowers.”
“What a fine sentiment,” I said. “I have been examining the graves with Maxim Noah.”
I tried not to look back, to see if Maxim was still behind me. If Monsieur Degas thought it was odd that I was behaving in this familiar fashion, he was too much of a gentleman to say anything. We walked a few yards up the path when he said, “Madame, is something wrong? What is that I see? Mon dieu. Can it be that you are you bleeding?”
I looked down at the ground and saw bright splashes of red on the yellow gravel. I put my hand to my side. It came away warm and sticky. “Maxim Noah. He…” And I realized I didn’t know the French word for “stab.” “He wished to kill me,” I said and everything started to go black.
I must have sunk onto a tombstone. From a vast distance I could hear Degas’s voice booming out, “Help! Murder! Police!” Then a whistle blowing, then strong arms lifting me. The next moments were a haze. I was being carried, seated. Given cognac to sip. Then hands were examining me.
“You are fortunate, madame,” a voice said. “It is merely a flesh wound.”
A woman hovered over me. Warm water sponged my side. Then a policeman arrived, asked questions. I tried to answer when all I wanted was to be safe at home. Finally I said, “Find Inspector Henri. Maxim Noah must not escape to England. And I want to go home now.”
The policeman ran off to find a telephone.
The woman stood beside me, looking worried. “You do not think you should be taken to the hospital, madame?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Just call a cab for me.”
A cab was summoned. The initial wound had not hurt at all, but now the bumping along the street made every breath painful. I was still bleeding and held whatever I had been given as a pad pressed to my side. It seemed like an eternity until we pulled up outside Miss Cassatt’s house. Celeste appeared at the door, took one look at me, and started wailing as she helped me upstairs. “Mademoiselle, come immediately. Madame Sullivan is dying!” she called. They were in the salon together, Sid and Gus on the floor with my son, building him a tower of blocks. Mary had been watching from the sofa. Now they all jumped up. My one thought was that I shouldn’t frighten Liam.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just get me up to my room and help me out of this dress.”
I could see their expressions as they looked at the blood-soaked pad on my side.
“Celeste, summon a doctor immediately,” Mary said. She came over and took my arm, helping me up the stairs.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I met Reynold Bryce’s killer. He tried to stab me.”
“It looks as if he succeeded,” she said. “Now no more talking. Let’s get this dress off you and we’ll see how bad it is.”
She worked efficiently and her calmness calmed
me too. Although I must admit I got a shock when I saw the slash along the side of the dress and the great red stain spoiling the light silk. At that moment I believe I was more upset by the loss of the expensive dress than the size of my wound. When Mary had me undressed and washed the wound we could see that it was a gash, about three inches long, but mercifully not too deep. The doctor arrived, examined the wound, and pronounced me fortunate. “A little deeper and the knife would have struck your kidney,” he said. He produced a salve then applied sticking plaster liberally. “You are not to move until this is healed. No stairs. No walking,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “Bandages to be changed every twelve hours and the wound to be kept clean or it may turn septic. It should heal well but you’ll probably be left with a scar. That can’t be helped. I shall return to examine you tomorrow.”
I lay back on my bed, feeling suddenly exhausted and close to tears. The memory of that knife in my side was suddenly all too vivid. He had been planning to kill me. That was clear to me now. And what would Daniel say when he saw my scar? I had tried to do the right thing and taken foolish risks again. I looked up as there was a light tap at the door. Sid and Gus stood in the doorway, not daring to come in. Gus was holding Liam.
“See, there is mama. She is taking a rest right now,” she said. “She’ll be ready to play with you soon. But let’s go and build another castle, shall we?”
Sid tiptoed in and sat beside me. “Molly, I’m so sorry,” she said. “You took all these risks for me, and it nearly cost you your life.”
“At least we now know who killed Reynold Bryce,” I said. “It was Maxim Noah.”
“My cousin?” She looked shocked.
“Not your cousin, I’m afraid. Not in any way related to you. He tricked you, Sid. He overheard you telling someone about your quest to locate your family and decided that a rich American relative was just what he needed.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? So naïve of me. Now that I think about it, he played me beautifully. He got me to say the name of my relatives, to give their history. I fed him all the information he needed to make his claim. How stupid of me.” She shook her head angrily.
“He was a very appealing young man,” I said. “And Gus had a handsome cousin here. Perhaps you wanted one too.”
This made her laugh. But then she said, “So he was the young Jewish man they saw running away from Reynold Bryce’s house, and all this time I thought it was me.”
I nodded.
“Why did he kill Mr. Bryce? Because he insulted Jews?”
“That was only part of the reason. The young refugee girl I told you about is his sister. Reynold Bryce had a predilection for young girls. He was painting her and then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. When Maxim went to confront him Bryce was most insulting—not only about Jews but also about his painting. In fact he told Maxim that he’d only promised to include his paintings in the exhibition because he wanted Maxim’s sister. The knife was lying there on the table. Maxim was in a blind rage.”
“So he didn’t mean to kill Reynold Bryce,” Sid said. “He wasn’t a natural killer.”
“He meant to kill me,” I said. “He had a knife pressed into my side and was trying to drag me into the middle of the cemetery, but Monsieur Degas came by. I shouted out to him and managed to escape. I got a little cut as I wrenched myself away.”
“A little cut? It looks awful.” Sid took my hand. “Molly, you’re so brave. And you’ve saved my life. I thought I was headed for the guillotine. I’m not allowed to hug you, I suppose.”
“Probably not.” I looked down at the strapping at my waist then squeezed her hand.
“What can I do to make it up to you?” Sid asked.
I looked at her fondly. “You and Gus have done plenty for me over the years. You don’t need to make it up to me. But just don’t disappear and scare me again!”
Postscript
Maxim Noah, or rather Jakob Klein, was apprehended by police as he attempted to board a train from Paris. Inspector Henri came later that afternoon to give me the news.
“You should have heeded my warning, madame, and left police work to the police,” he said, looking at my white face. “You nearly paid for your curiosity with your life. This Jakob Klein, he fought like a tiger. A dangerous man.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wanted justice. And I did not think I was putting myself in danger. My husband tells me I am too reckless.”
“He is right. But it is a pity you are a married woman, Madame Sullivan. You are a good detective. You took the pieces of the puzzle and put them together.”
“Only with luck,” I said, diplomatically.
“Do not count on luck to aid you every time,” he wagged a finger at me, but he managed the ghost of a smile as he left me.
I spent a week in bed, being horribly spoiled by my friends, and then finally I was able to enjoy doing all the things a tourist does in Paris. I went to visit Madeleine and we spent some pleasant afternoons together. After I recovered Sid and Gus found a new apartment, this time on the Left Bank near Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Gus went back to her painting, but it seemed her heart was no longer in it. She confided that she realized she wasn’t as talented as she had thought and she missed New York. I wrote regularly to Daniel and received regular, if brief, replies. Rebuilding on our house had begun. In the meantime he had taken an apartment in Chelsea, but was waiting for me to choose most of the furnishings. He regretted not being there to see Liam take his first steps or say his first words.
Then a week or so after all this excitement I was wheeling Liam through the Jardin du Luxembourg when I heard my name being called. I looked up to see Miss Pinkerton and the other ladies bearing down on me.
“What a lovely coincidence meeting you here, Mrs. Sullivan,” Miss Pinkerton said, beaming at me. “Miss Hetherington and I wondered whether you were still in Paris. We’ve just arrived from Vienna. Isn’t it magnificent? By far the most beautiful city we’ve seen although I did develop a fondness for Venice. How have you been enjoying your stay here and have you had a good relaxing time? You looked rather peaky when we last saw you.”
“A good relaxing time”? I managed a smile. “It’s been most interesting,” I replied and watched them scurry on their way to Les Invalides.
Days passed. We settled into a routine while Sid and Gus discussed going home or going on to Vienna to meet Professor Freud whose work Gus much admired. Then, one hot day in July, a letter came from Daniel saying that the commissioner had been forced to release the leader of the Cosa Nostra, since nobody could be found to testify against him. He believed that this relieved the threat against us and the most sensible course was to come to terms with the Italian gang. He was booking our passage home and suggested we spend the rest of the summer with his mother, who had returned from her adventure out West saying she’d had a taste of travel, and there was no place like Westchester County.
I smiled as I read the letter. I was going home, back to my husband. Back to my life.
As to whether I’d even tell him about the murder of Reynold Bryce and my role in the investigation—well, I’d have five long days at sea to decide how much I wanted him to know.
Also by Rhys Bowen
The Molly Murphy Mysteries
The Family Way
Hush Now, Don’t You Cry
Bless the Bride
The Last Illusion
In a Gilded Cage
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden
In Dublin’s Fair City
Oh Danny Boy
In Like Flynn
For the Love of Mike
Death of Riley
Murphy’s Law
The Constable Evans Mysteries
Evanly Bodies
Evan Blessed
Evan’s Gate
Evan Only Knows
Evans to Betsy
Evan Can Wait
Evan and Elle
Evanly Choirs
Evan Help Us
Evans Above
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rhys Bowen is the author of the Anthony and Agatha Award–winning Molly Murphy mysteries, the Edgar Award–nominated Evan Evans series, and the Royal Spyness series. Born in England, she lives in San Rafael, California.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CITY OF DARKNESS AND LIGHT. Copyright © 2014 by Rhys Bowen. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Jacket design by Danielle Fiorella
Jacket photograph of woman by Shirley Green
Jacket photograph of Eiffel Tower © SAMOT/SHUTTERSTOCK
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Bowen, Rhys.
City of darkness and light / Rhys Bowen.—First edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-01166-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01165-7 (e-book)
1. Murphy, Molly (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.O848C58 2014
823'.914—dc23
2013032874
e-ISBN 9781250011657
First Edition: March 2014
