by Kim Wright
“The Detective says he is grateful for your assistance in this matter,” Carle spoke up.
“Tell him that that the gratitude is entirely mine,” Trevor responded. “For if we can trap his Armand Delacroix I have no doubt we shall find our own Charles Hammond as well.”
Tom nodded. “You believe the two are working together?”
“Tom,” Trevor sighed. “Don’t be thick.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Paris
4:10 PM
“We have much to tell you,” Trevor said, bursting through the doors of the apartment where Emma and Geraldine were sitting in the peacock-blue drawing room.
“We have much to tell you as well,” said Gerry, tossing aside her book. “Emma and I have found Armand Delacroix and we shall all be dining with him tonight.”
It was perhaps the only sentence in the world that could have halted Trevor in mid-stride. Tom, who was a few steps behind him, nearly crashed into his back.
“We met him in a dress shop outfitting the girl who is his latest recruit,” Emma said, closing her own book and patting the empty spot on the settee beside her to indicate Trevor should sit. “She looked no more than thirteen.”
“And Emma most heroically engaged him in conversation,” Gerry added. “Only to learn that he and this child, whom he calls Marianne and claims to be his niece, have been invited to the same party we’ll be attending at nine. Madame Seaver evidently throws her social net admirably wide, for Delacroix suggested there would be any number of celebrities present as well, people come for the opening of the exhibition. That intriguing American cowgirl…what’s her name, Emma dear?”
“Annie Oakley,” Emma said.
“Bloody marvelous,” Tom said. “They say she can shoot a cigar from a man’s mouth at a hundred paces.”
“Mercy,” said Geraldine. “Do you think she’ll demonstrate at the soiree?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Tom. “But we too have had an eventful day. Do you wish to tell them, Trevor?”
“It was so eventful that I feel as if facts have fallen on me like an avalanche,” said Trevor. “I haven’t yet had the leisure to sort them all out, and here you have greeted me with even more startling news. No, you must be the one to bring the ladies up to date with our own adventures, Tom. I’m too overwhelmed to know how to begin.”
Tom nodded and very neatly summarized the events of the last eight hours, beginning with their gratifying welcome at the hands of Rubois, Rayley’s incomplete notes, their findings at the morgue, and ending with the arrival of Davy’s telegram. To Trevor’s relief, he glossed over the particulars of their examination of The Lady of the River, although at the suggestion that the unidentified boy had possibly died from asphyxiation, Geraldine had frowned, as if something about that singular piece of information distressed her.
“I don’t completely understand,” Emma said when he finished. “Will you tolerate a question which may strike the two of you men as ridiculous?”
“It won’t be the first ridiculous question of the day, I assure you,” Tom said. “And you’re looking rather stylish, by the way, if I can be forgiven for briefly changing the subject.”
“Her new day dress,” Gerry said smugly, as Emma’s gaze fell guiltily downward. Geraldine had insisted on purchasing not only the celadon green and pale pink gowns but a third as well, the slim-hipped dark navy dress Emma was now wearing, a more practical outfit for everyday use. “And if you think she looks smart in the navy, wait until you see her tonight. The shop girl suggested she try a pink gown that when she put it on proved to be quite-”
“My question?” Emma interrupted. She was grateful beyond words for Gerry’s generosity, but Tom’s close scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. Under pretense of examining her new dress he was actually examining her body and, judging from the faint smile playing around his mouth, was evidently enjoying the process. Trevor, she was both relieved and exasperated to note, appeared to be thinking of entirely different matters.
“Yes, your question,” Trevor said. “Feel free to ask anything, although I’m not at all sure I’ll be able to answer.”
“The men who procure these boy-girls are homosexual, are they not?”
The word did not come easily from her mouth. Although she had sometimes read it, this was the first time she had spoken it aloud.
Trevor was relieved when Tom answered first. “Certainly,” he said. “And eager to conceal the fact, which is why they are so vulnerable to blackmail.”
“All right then, if they wish congress with boys, if this is what pleases them, why would they request that the boys should dress as girls?”
“You’re speaking to the issue of motivation, which I always find quite murky,” Tom said with a shrug. “Perhaps they are ashamed of their impulses and if the boys take on the surface appearance of girls, this somehow masks that shame. Or perhaps, at the other end of the spectrum, a creature that has elements of both the male and female adds to their excitement.”
“A girl with a penis,” Geraldine said thoughtfully. “I suppose that if one is a sexual deviant, it truly is the best of both worlds.”
The Bainbridges will be the death of me someday, Trevor thought, trying hard to avoid looking Emma in the eye and instead brushing an imaginary fleck of dust from his pants. One day I shall simply keel over from mortification in the middle of a dinner party and that shall be the end of Trevor Welles.
But Geraldine wasn’t finished. “Was the person you examined a herma- what do you call them, dear?”
“A hermorphodite?” Tom shook his head. “The genitalia was normal. Eleven centimeters flaccid, which is quite within the range. The circumference of the testicles was nothing to brag about, but then again the poor lad had spent significant time in the water. No, I doubt that these boy-girls, as Davy calls them, are born as genetic freaks of nature. If so, they would be too rare to sustain the business of a thriving brothel. Evidently Hammond is taking quite normal boys and masquerading them as girls.”
“But again, I must ask why?” Emma said. “At least some of these men are well-placed in society. They have homes and professions and wives and families, all the accoutrements we associate with a normal life. Assuming that we go with the theory that a boy dressed as a girl served some deeply buried psychological need, why on earth would they risk parading the child about in public? Even accepting your assurance that the illusion was remarkable, it still seems there are a hundred ways their game could have been found out. It’s almost as if they want to be caught.”
“The risk of exposure was undoubtedly part of the thrill,” Gerry said. Her heavy-lidded eyes moved slowly around the circle of far younger people, who looked at her with expectation. If anyone would be able to explain this sort of muddle, it would be her. “The desire to thumb your nose at the upper class can be very strong,” Geraldine continued. “Especially if one is a member of the upper class. If the men who patronize these brothels are homosexuals, then they are extraordinarily aware of the social and legal penalties they would pay for exposure and have most likely struggled to conceal their true natures all their lives. They’re angry. Resentful of the limitations their very privilege has enforced upon them, and perhaps guilty about the innumerable small lies they themselves have told to keep that privilege intact. In light of this, they may have taken a certain rebellious pleasure in dancing or going to the theater with a young girl who wasn’t actually a young girl. I understand this impulse and have indulged it myself on occasion, albeit in a different arena. Pretending to conform while secretly mocking conformity. Propriety on the surface, and scandal underneath.”
“The dress he bought for her was white,” Emma said thoughtfully.
“Who?” Trevor asked. It was the first time he had spoken in several minutes and Emma looked at him with surprise.
“Marianne,” Emma said. “In the shop on the Rue de Monge, Armand purchased a virginal white dress for her, exactly what an upper class young lady would wear for he
r first foray into society. But Marianne is almost certainly a boy-girl, wouldn’t you say?”
“Good heavens,” Geraldine said. “You’re right, of course, but back in the dress shop when Delacroix told her-”
“Stay away from him,” Trevor said sharply. “Both of you. He may play the part of a respectable businessman, but he’s dangerous. If he and Marianne will be at the party, then so will Isabel Blout, and your assignment is to talk to her. Befriend her as a fellow countrywoman, whatever it takes. Because you were quite astute in your observations back in Manchester, Emma, and I was wrong to brush your instincts aside so quickly. Isabel is no doubt the key to both Armand Delacroix and Charles Hammond.”
“Because they’re the same person,” Emma said.
“Obviously,” said Geraldine.
“Why the devil was I the only one who couldn’t figure that out?” Tom asked irritably.
The sound of the doorbell suddenly ripped through the apartment, a shrill, high cry of a sound that made everyone jump.
“And who could that be?” Tom asked, still frowning. “I don’t think any of us are in the mood for callers. This has already been the longest day in the history of mankind and we still must change into our evening clothes and go to a soiree with Annie Oakley.”
“I’m sorry,” said Geraldine, pausing for a moment until the sounds from the foyer confirmed that the maid had indeed answered the door. “But I believe this particular interruption is my fault. While Emma was napping after our shopping trip, I took it upon myself to pursue an impulse of my own. It occurred to me that we were all quite preoccupied with finding out in whom, if anyone, dear Rayley might have confided. But we had not considered that Patrick Graham must have known something incriminating too, something significant enough that someone declared him too dangerous to live.” She flicked her eyes toward Trevor. “So I went to the foreign press office.”
“The foreign press office? Geraldine, on the boat over I thought I made it quite clear that you were not to –“
“You did make it clear, Trevor, and I promise you I won’t do anything dangerous. We’re talking about a stroll across town in the middle of the day to visit a public place,” Geraldine said. “Do you recall how in Rayley’s letter about climbing the tower he very specifically mentioned that Graham had been distracted the whole time by an American reporter?”
“Aunt Gerry, I don’t think I’ve ever been so impressed with you as I have been in the past twenty-four hours,” Tom said. “Yes, of course, the girl from the New York Times. Graham was trying desperately to charm the young lady, so if he told anyone about his big story, it was most likely her.”
“Indeed, Gerry, good job,” Emma said with equal enthusiasm. “I’m upstairs taking a silly nap and all the while you’re across town being very clever indeed. I can’t recall - Did Rayley name the girl in the letter or are female reporters enough of an anomaly that she was easy to find?”
“She stood by the railing, if you’ll recall,” Geraldine said, “and thus her picture was in all the papers, including the London Star, and she was mentioned in the caption below. She actually has the most marvelous name – Marjorie Mallory - and when I asked the young man at the desk if she was there, he most promptly fetched her.”
“And what did she tell you?” Tom demanded. “You have us all on tetherhooks.”
Trevor nodded too, although he was both surprised and a little distressed that Geraldine, when left to her own devices, had not only managed to locate Armand Delacroix but had also thought of an avenue of pursuit that he had not.
“She didn’t tell me anything, because I didn’t ask,” Geraldine said. “When I had explained who I was and ascertained that yes, Marjorie was in confidence with Patrick Graham, I invited her here to tea. I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, Trevor, especially on a day when you’re already overwhelmed with information.”
“No need to apologize, for your instincts were spot on the money,” said Trevor. “The maid has undoubtedly shown Miss Mallory to the sitting room, so shall we proceed?”
“She’s only expecting to talk to you, Trevor,” Geraldine said. “You’re the one from Scotland Yard, after all, while the rest of us are mere amateurs.”
“Geraldine,” Trevor said with mock sternness. “It’s bad enough that both you and Emma have outsmarted me. Don’t compound my humiliation with such uncharacteristic false flattery. All right, so I shall interview the young lady on my own. In the meantime, Tom, I need you to find a wire office and send Davy a telegram. We were so absorbed in conversation walking home that we forget to stop and do so.”
Tom nodded. “Precisely what do you want me to ask him?”
“Tell him that the French police have the body of a dead boy-girl in the Paris morgue,” said Trevor. “And that we need him to help gather evidence that Charles Hammond and Armand Delacroix are the same person.”
“What sort of evidence?” Emma asked.
“Each investigation starts with the construction of a timeline,” Trevor said, “telling us where and when, with the hope this will lead us to whom. All of which matter a great deal more at this point than why. More specifically, we need to determine when Hammond was seen in London and Delacroix was seen in Paris. Then we can deduce the specific dates on which he must have traveled and check the channel dockmaster records for either name. Make sure Davy is quite clear on all this, Tom, no matter how many words it takes you to explain. We’ve made such a religion out of holding ourselves to the telegraph standard of twenty words per message that I suspect we’ve risked confusing each other in the interest of economy. Tell him to travel straight to Dover and pick up the dockmaster records himself.”
“But how can we learn the dates Armand was in Paris?” Geraldine asked.
“Your soon-to-be best friend Isabel might be some help with that,” Tom said.
“And there are really only three dates which are absolutely pivotal,” Emma added. “April 11, the date the boy-girl must have been murdered, and April 21, when Graham was murdered, and… What date was the raid on Cleveland Street? Hammond was definitely in London then, if the boy you interviewed from the jailhouse was telling the truth.”
“April 7,” Trevor said. “And I believe Charlie Swincow’s statements were fully accurate. We might also add to the timeline that we know for certain Delacroix was in Paris on April 23, because the Paris police brought him in for questioning in the death of Graham. But he provided an alibi in the form of Isabel.”
“Now she could most certainly have been lying,” Emma said, although she had begun to obligingly scribble the dates on the blank flysheet of the book she was reading. “Unlike Charlie Swincow, Isabel Blout has every motivation to dissemble.”
“Perhaps we should check the dockmaster records in Calais as well,” Tom said. “It seems the key is determining if a passenger named either Charles Hammond or Armand Delacroix traveled from London to Paris sometime between April 7 and April 11.”
“Will the French port authorities give us that information?” Emma asked. “Even if Trevor says he’s from Scotland Yard?”
“Probably not, but they’ll certainly turn the ledgers over to Rubois,” Trevor said. “With Davy checking documentation from Dover and us from Calais, we should be able to procure proof that the man crossed the channel between those two pivotal dates by tomorrow night. It’s not enough evidence to convict, but that’s a French problem. All we have to do is come up with enough evidence to bring him in. If we can arrest him and interrogate him, I have no doubt this will lead us to Rayley.” Trevor looked reassuringly around the circle and then pushed to his feet. “And as for now, wish me luck,” he said. “I’m off to interview the marvelous Marjorie Mallory.”
4: 40 PM
Miss Mallory had been shown, as predicted, to the smaller parlor where she sat slumped dispiritedly on a blue silk divan. When Trevor entered and introduced himself, she gave a small nod, but did not speak.
The girl was attractive, but in a most specific
way, a style and manner Trevor had come to associate with young women who held extreme political views. Her hair was cropped short, but it was also wavy and blonde. Freed from the natural burden of its weight, it twined around her ears in ringlets, a veritable halo of curls. She was wearing what appeared to be a feminine version of a man’s business suit: A crisp white shirt, trim gray vest, and a narrow skirt made out of tweed. The overall effect was not displeasing.
But the most notable thing about her was that she was very pale.
Trevor extended a hand and they touched palms as he thanked her for coming. He considered sitting down in the chair opposite hers. He didn’t wish for their meeting to seem like an interrogation, but he wanted to be situated where he could observe everything about the girl. Their brief handshake had confirmed that Miss Mallory was not only pale but trembling, so perhaps it would be best to provide her with some sort of refreshment before they began. He had the impression that she was on the verge of a faint, but that if she gave into such frailty, she would never forgive herself.
