“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“Do you mean the formula?” I asked. “Cecile has it. She told me.”
“I haven’t time to play games with you,” he said. “Please tell me, Amory. I like you very much, and I should hate for things to get unpleasant.”
“I don’t have it, André,” I said, trying to decide what I should do. The pistol was still in my purse, but I didn’t think that I could reach it before he had a chance to pull the trigger on his.
“I want that document,” he said. “Give it to me now, or I will wait until your husband comes in the door and I will shoot him.”
It seemed inconceivable to me that the formula for a perfume might have been worth a man’s life. Looking at André’s face, however, I could tell that he was completely in earnest. He had killed before, and there was no doubt in my mind that he would kill again. I had to get him away from here before Milo returned.
An idea began to take shape in my head. I wasn’t at all sure it would work, but right now it seemed to be my only option.
“I don’t have it,” I said. “But I know where it is.”
“Where?”
“I’m very nervous, André. Might I have a cigarette?” I asked, glancing at the box on the table near the paper and pen I had left out earlier in the day.
“Very well, but you’d better not be stalling.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “I’ll take you there, and you shall have the answers you need. Everything will end well.”
I very much hoped that this would prove true.
* * *
A FEW MINUTES later, we went down the lift and into the lobby, André’s gun in the pocket of his jacket. I considered the possibility of attempting an escape or raising the alarm, but there were several people milling about the lobby and outside the hotel. If André began shooting recklessly, many people might be hurt.
And even if I got away, there was still the chance that he might wait for Milo to return and harm him. No, the best thing I could do was lead him away and try to bide my time. I only hoped that Milo would receive and understand the subtle message I had managed to leave for him.
We went out of the hotel and into the cool night air. André had a tight grip on my arm, though there was no need. I didn’t intend to run. There was a car parked along the curb and he steered me toward it, opening the passenger-side door.
“Get in,” he said, grasping my arm even tighter and pushing me into the car.
Threats have always induced in me a strong feeling of noncompliance, but in this instance I felt that I should do as he said.
I got into the car, and he went around the driver’s side and got in, starting the engine. As we pulled onto the street I couldn’t help but wonder if I would make it through the end of the night alive.
I gave him the address and we drove along in silence. I wanted to talk to him, to try to make sense of what was happening, but I felt that I would be better served to do so once we had reached our destination. The more time I could buy, the better.
After what seemed like a very long time, the car came to a stop at the curb before the empty flat of the mysterious woman, the flat Michel Belanger had entered when we had followed him. I didn’t know what he had been doing here, but it was just possible that whatever André was looking for would be here.
The little café across the street where I had spoken to Lucille seemed almost empty, and I felt a bit disheartened knowing there was little chance of being spotted or assisted by a passerby. If Milo did receive my message and came after me, I was afraid that André would then dispose of us both.
“What are we doing here?” André asked.
“Michel came here last night,” I said. “I believe he brought the document here.”
“Michel?” he scoffed. “Why would he have it? Michel has never cared anything for his father’s enterprises.”
I was suddenly confused. “You must have known he had it,” I said. “You were following him.”
“No,” he said. “I was following you.”
Milo must have known that it had been André. That was why he had been surprised at whoever it was that followed Michel tonight. He had suspected André would try something, which was why he had wanted me to warn Madame Nanette.
I realized something else. “You followed me today, to the Belanger’s house, as well.”
“Yes. I wanted to know what you were doing. Luckily, I had unfinished business with Cecile that gave me a plausible excuse for following you inside. I made my conversation with Cecile brief and we went out into the garden. I saw that you had gone into Helios Belanger’s office, and I know that you took the document. I meant to get into your hotel tonight and take it before you returned.”
“Along with the tin of lavender pomade Cecile gave me today,” I said.
“Yes, Cecile made a mess of things when she gave that to you. I was very much afraid you would use it.”
“And poison myself,” I said.
He smiled.
“You killed him using the technique of enfleurage.” I thought of what Cecile Belanger had told me about the process. The essence of certain flowers was slowly absorbed into the fat. He had used a similar method to kill Helios Belanger, a poison that absorbed through the skin and was slowly released into his system.
He smiled. “You’re very clever, Amory. Yes, I had access to Cecile’s laboratory, and I added an ingredient of my own into his pomade. The idea was that he would use it and slowly absorb the poison. He would be dead when I was away and no one would be the wiser.”
“But how did his death benefit you?” I said.
“Because he had something I wanted, and no one was aware of it until you came along. Get out of the car.”
I got out and he came around to take my arm. We went inside and got into the lift. The lift operator who had been there the day I came to inquire about the mysterious woman was nowhere to be seen, and another chance at a rescue disappeared.
I knew the location of the flat, though I didn’t have any idea how we were going to get in. When we reached the door, however, André proved he had no such qualms. A quick kick to the door and it flew open. He pushed me inside.
It was a comfortable flat, neat and somewhat sparsely furnished. Nothing about it spoke of anything sinister or extraordinary.
“Now,” he said. “Where is it?”
“I … I’m not entire sure. I only know that I saw Michel take it from the safe last night. He brought it here.”
He sighed.
“Sit down.” I took a seat on the white sofa, while André walked around the room. There was a small writing desk along one wall, and he went to it and began opening the drawers.
Something about this did not make the least bit of sense. In fact, I couldn’t believe that it was the perfume formula that he was after. Even if he believed I was lying about Michel having discovered it among his father’s things, how could André possibly hope to use the formula to create a new perfume without it being connected to Helios Belanger?
“It’s not here,” he said, closing the drawer and turning to face me.
“It must be,” I said.
“I do hope you’re not trying to lie to me, Amory,” he said. “I don’t know who you work for, but I don’t suppose it matters. In the end, I will get what I want.”
Who I worked for? Did he believe that I was part of some rival perfume company?
“I’ll admit, I didn’t have any idea when I first met you in Como,” he went on. “Your husband’s reputation had preceded him. A rather clever disguise, I suppose. But when you came to Paris, asking questions, I knew at once that you were not what you seem. A custom perfume was rather a poor excuse.”
He turned to a shelf lined with books and began pulling them off, one at a time, flipping through them and then tossing them aside.
“What is this really about?” I asked suddenly.
He looked up at me but said nothing.
“
What is that formula, really?” I asked. “It’s something more than perfume, isn’t it?”
“It won’t do any good to pretend as though you don’t know,” he said. “It is a shame that things have come to this. I wish that you and your husband would have stayed in Como. It would have been much better for all of us.”
I said nothing. I was quickly beginning to realize that there was more happening here than I had first believed.
He turned to me, then, the darkness in his eyes belying his pleasant tone. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more time for this, Amory. I need you to tell me. Now.”
I tried desperately to think of something to say that might put him off. Now that I was here, I realized the error of bringing him to this remote location. There would be no one to help me.
I still had the gun in my handbag, which I was clutching on my lap. If I slipped my hand inside of it, perhaps I might have a chance to defend myself. I would have to move quickly, and I was not at all sure that I had the time to act. I carefully undid the clasp and slid my fingers into the opening. As if in response to this small movement, I saw André’s finger began to tighten on the trigger.
Before I could react, a shot sounded, the noise deafening.
For a split second, I wondered if André had shot at me. And then I saw the perfectly round hole appear in his forehead before he slumped to the ground.
I whirled around to the door to see Cecile Belanger standing there, gun in hand.
“Cecile. You … you’ve shot him,” I said stupidly.
“Yes, well, he was about to shoot you, so something had to be done.”
She came farther into the room, and I stared at her, unable to believe that this sangfroid could be genuine. She had just killed a man.
I couldn’t bring myself to look back at André’s body on the floor. Despite everything, I had not wanted to see him dead. It had all happened so fast. I was glad that I was still sitting down, for my legs had gone completely numb. I was not at all sure they would have held me up.
I looked at Cecile, trying to determine if she might be in shock. It took me a moment to realize that she was doing the same to me.
“Are you all right, Madame Ames?”
“Yes,” I said, clenching my hands to stop their shaking. “Yes, I’m fine, but what … how did you…”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s happening,” she said calmly.
I tried to collect my thoughts, to make sense of everything that had transpired. I supposed I needed to start at the beginning. I drew in a deep breath and then began. “It has to do with the death of your father,” I said.
“Oh?” she asked. She did not seem at all surprised. “Go on.”
The words spilled out in a torrent. I told her about Madame Nanette’s connection with Milo and the letter she had sent us. I told her about our suspicions about Helios Belanger’s death, how we had been trying to determine who might have had the motive to kill him.
“It was André,” I said. “I thought from the beginning that he had the best motive, but he had been at Lake Como with us at the time and I didn’t see how he might have done it. Then tonight I figured it out. He poisoned your father with the lavender pomade. That must have been what made him crash his aeroplane that night. You said your father was never without it. It made him ill, but he recovered. He must have used it again the night he died. When you gave me some of it today, André decided that he needed to stop me from using it, so he came to my hotel room.”
She said nothing and I continued. “He kept demanding the documents—the perfume formula, I assumed—but he didn’t seem to believe me when I told him you had discovered it. He wasn’t making sense.”
She studied me, as though trying to determine if my confusion was genuine.
“We need to ring for the police,” I said. “We need to tell them what André has done. Once they understand, I’m sure that they will see…”
“No,” said gently. “We’re not going to call the police.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
She seemed to consider something for a long moment and at last appeared to have made up her mind. “Madame Ames, I am going to take you into my confidence. I trust that you will be discreet with what I am about to tell you.”
She hesitated, and when she spoke, her words shocked me.
“André Duveau didn’t kill my father,” she said. “I did.”
28
I STARED AT her, wondering if she had really said what I thought she said.
“You killed him?” I repeated. I was suddenly very aware that she still held the gun in her hand. Though she had it at her side, I couldn’t help but wonder what she meant to do with it.
Her eyes must have followed mine, for she gave a wry smile. “You need not worry, Madame Ames,” she said. “You had it right. André was the villain of this story.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, marveling at how calm I sounded. I wondered now if I was in more danger than I had been with André.
“André wormed his way into my father’s affections and made love to me. He wanted to steal from him the secrets my father had long worked to keep.”
Did she mean, then, that she had killed André tonight out of revenge? But why had she killed her father? None of this was making sense. I felt as though it ought to, as though the answer was staring me in the face, but I was still shaking and I couldn’t seem to clear my thoughts.
“Did you love him?” I asked. It was, perhaps, the least significant question I could have asked, but somehow I wanted to know.
Again, she smiled, and it was a hard smile. “I could not love a man such as he.”
Somehow I felt that I had realized this all along. Cecile Belanger was a brilliant woman; she was focused, dedicated. Her interest in someone like André could only have been fleeting.
“It was not only who he was, but what he was,” she went on. “He did indeed try to kill my father with the poisoned pomade, but it was clumsily done. André was not a very good parfumier. I disposed of the poisoned batch. It didn’t have time to harm my father. I gave you the tin today to draw him out, to let him know that I was onto his game.”
I had so many questions, but I didn’t know where to begin.
“So, in the end, André had nothing to do with my father’s death,” she said. “I wish he had lived long enough to know that he had failed.”
“But why did you…” I began and then faltered.
“Why did I kill my father?” she asked. “Because he was already a dead man.”
And suddenly I understood. The private nurse who had been hired then dispatched, the change in his temperament, the mood in the house.
“He was ill,” I said. “More ill than anyone realized.”
She nodded. “And it was worse because of how it affected him. His mind was deteriorating, a little at a time. It started first with his sense of smell. Horribly ironic. The thing he valued most was the thing that began to fail him. He thought at first that it was perhaps a cold, an infection of some sort. But it soon became clear to us that it was something more than that.”
I felt, amid the myriad emotions assaulting me, the pang of pity. I could not imagine how dreadful it must have been for a man who valued scent above all else to lose the ability to smell.
“He might have gone on making perfumes, even after that,” she said. “Scent was a part of him. Nothing could take that away. As Beethoven continued to play when he’d lost his hearing, my father might have gone on making perfumes from his memories of the smell. Alas, his memory soon began to fade.
“He could not remember where he left things, confused ingredients when in the laboratory. It was when he began to forget the names of the flowers that I knew that we were truly losing him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“He became obsessed with his past. He began to call Beryl by my mother’s name. He remembered Madame Nanette and insisted that I contact her. I resisted that for as long as I could, but t
here came a time when he would no longer heed me. I helped him write to her, and, for the sake of Beryl, I did not mention their past connection.”
So that was it. I had wondered why he had contacted the woman he had loved so many years ago. Perhaps it was because his mind had become lost in the past and he’d desired to bring resolution to things left undone.
“As the wretched disease progressed, he began to become increasingly accusatory, paranoid. He didn’t know who to trust … or who not to. And that was when it became dangerous.”
I thought of Madame Nanette’s description of his change in temperament. Had that been a part of it? Had Cecile felt she had no choice but to kill her father to protect the others?
“He became violent?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, Madame Ames. He became a danger, not because of what he didn’t know but because of what he did. You see, my father was a man of deep passion. Perfume appeared to be chief among them, but it was followed closely by a love for his country. He was trained in the art of secrets, as he was trained in perfumery, by the apothecary who mentored him.”
“The art of secrets?” I repeated.
“Yes. He collected information as he collected scents. Vital information to be used by our government.”
“Your father was a spy?” I said. The dizzying realizations were coming so quickly that I didn’t have time to process them. I felt I was being pulled along in a swiftly moving tide and could do nothing but ride it out.
She nodded. “Long before the war, my father was traveling the world, gathering intelligence to bring back to France. Those early days were dangerous for him. Many times he was very near death. It was, I think, why he must have broken off his connection with the nanny. He would have wanted to protect her.”
It was nice to think so, that he had put his need to protect her ahead of his desire to be with her.
“So you see,” she went on, “that was why he became dangerous. In his paranoia, he began to believe that someone in the house was turning against him. It started first with Herr Muller, a German, and then he moved on to the members of his family. He suspected us all, in turn. When Michel and I wouldn’t give in to his whims, he even went so far as to attempt to write us out of his will.”
The Essence of Malice Page 26
