“What will you do now, Monsieur?”
“I’m going to have a shave.”
“And then?”
Stuyvesant fixed him with a bleak gaze. “I’m going out to look for my friends.”
“Monsieur,” the Sergeant said, “do not give me cause to arrest you again.”
SEVENTY-TWO
NANCY BERGER WAS an early riser, by habit. Most mornings, she would spend an hour with coffee and a book before the day began.
Last night she’d finished the Agatha Christie (and dreamed about alarm clocks), so this morning, with her new coffeepot gurgling on the unfamiliar stove, she dug through the unpacked boxes in search of Stuyvesant’s gift. Just because he was proving to be a louse didn’t mean she should shun a writer recommended by Sylvia Beach.
She settled onto the settee, tugged at the ends of the endearingly amateurish ribbon, and lifted the book.
Something fell into her lap. A small booklet with a dark red cover, immediately recognizable. Nancy turned it over and saw the oval window in the front cover with the number: a US passport, but not hers.
She opened it, expecting Harris’s name—or perhaps one of the poets who hung around Sylvia’s shop. Dashiell Hammett’s, even.
But the name caused her bemused smile to lock, then fade.
Philippa Anne Crosby.
Why would Harris give her Phil’s passport? And do so by sticking it in a book?
More than that—where had he found it?
Her hand gave an involuntary jerk, sending Phil’s passport flying.
What the hell kind of game was the man playing?
Stuyvesant stood beneath the streetlamps on the Pont Neuf, swaying with tiredness. He heard a voice: from a taxi, there at his toes. Gratefully, he fell inside, but before he could say “rue Colle,” the driver rattled off a name: Les Halles. An American in battered evening wear could only be headed one place at five in the morning, right?
Bed? Or food?
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
Minutes later, the smell of onion soup tugged him forward. The market was a reassuring bedlam of horse-drawn carts and blaring truck horns, and Stuyvesant lined up with the last of the night’s drunks, the first of the day’s market loaders, and the tiredest of the prostitutes for that most traditional of restoratives.
Afterwards, he set out through the maze of streets where only cats were awake, heading for the dingy little hotel that was his Paris home.
A conversation:
“Personnes Disparues.”
“Oh good, there’s someone there.”
“Yes, Madame?”
“My name is Nancy Berger. Philippa Crosby’s roommate? One of you left your card, the other day.”
“That was I, Mademoiselle. How may I help you?”
“Well, it’s about Phil—Miss Crosby.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. I just opened a package and found her passport in it.”
“Pardon?”
“I know—strange, right? It was in with a book that a … friend sent me, and I sort of wondered if it had got stuck in by accident. Or something.”
“That is indeed remarkable. And the name of this friend?”
“Well … You see, he does have a reason to be looking for her. I mean, he was hired by her mother, after Phil disappeared, so he might well have found it somewhere, and then … It’s just, I don’t want to get him into—”
“Are we talking about M. Stuyvesant, Mademoiselle?”
“You know him?”
“That I do.”
“Good, then you know what a good and responsible person he is. I just thought, well, it was odd.”
“Indeed, Mademoiselle. I will send someone over immediately to take possession of the package. And I shall have a word with M. Stuyvesant. Please do not contact him yourself.”
Nancy gave the man her new address and set the receiver onto its hook. She looked at the card Harris had left, with a phone number for the Hotel Benoit.
Do not contact him yourself could only mean one thing.
Should she warn him?
The florist’s light was the only sign of life on rue Colle. Mme. Benoit’s door was shut tight. A dozen snores followed Stuyvesant up the stairs.
He had to work at getting the key to turn. Inside, he left the lamp off: light from the hall told him that the place had been ransacked. He didn’t need to see it.
He dropped his hat and overcoat on the table. His jacket followed and—with groans—the empty shoulder holster. He scratched his ribs and overgrown chin, then plodded down the hallway to the toilet. The minuterie had switched itself off when he came out; he didn’t bother turning it back on.
Without sleep, he’d be useless. And anyway, Sarah’s friends would slam the door on someone who looked as bad as he did. How many hours could he afford? He clicked on the desk light to scribble a note for the door:
Me réveiller à 11:00, SVP.
Five and a half hours of blissful oblivion before Mme. Benoit woke him.
He opened the door and tacked the note down. Stepping back inside, a slow, delicious wave of tiredness washed him. The bed whispered rumors of simple pleasures: crisp sheets to rub away the jail; a fluffed pillow to cradle his aching head; a blanket to bake away the stiffness in shoulders, arms, back …
He switched off the desk lamp: click.
And heard: click.
The echo stuck his shoes to the floor. Slowly, his spine straightened. He studied the light around the door, and waited for his brain to interpret.
The minuterie.
He turned the knob and put his head outside, expecting the careless feet and half-stifled giggles of drunken homecoming, but there was nothing, only Anouk’s perpetual snore. He waited, shoulders leaning into the frame. His eyelids drooped. Must have been someone on the first floor, someone unusually thoughtful about noise … His head was pulling back when it came: the tell-tale creak of old wood. Once, twice—more than one man, surreptitiously climbing the stairs.
His body didn’t wait for his brain to give the orders: step back, close the door, jam the chair under the knob; coat and hat, passport and wallet; ease up the window, throw out exhausted legs. The last time he’d tried this it had been broad daylight and the roof-tiles had been dry. He hadn’t been stiff with a beating.
But he made it, across the rooftops to an external stairway. In two minutes he was on the boulevard Raspail with his hat brim pulled down.
The taxi pulled away from Sarah’s address, leaving Stuyvesant half-stunned by the fresh dawn air. He forced leaden feet up the steps and gave a brief jab to the bell as he walked down to the third flower pot. The key was still there. Returning to the door, he tipped back his hat to see—
The door came open.
His hat flew off as he jerked upright. With a sharp cry, he stepped forward to fling his arms around an astounded Sarah Grey.
SEVENTY-THREE
A CONVERSATION:
“Sarah? Is that you?”
Yes, Bennett.
“I can’t see you very well.”
The candle’s burning down, my dear.
“I’m going to be in the dark soon.”
But not yet. And I’m here now.
“You should be with Doucet.”
…
“Why aren’t you? Is he dead?”
You said he wouldn’t.
“I thought he had a chance. Can’t you come closer?”
I will, soon.
“Can’t you sit in the chair?”
That’s not for me.
“Are you dead, sweetheart? Sarah? Has he killed you?”
I … do you think he did?
“No! I don’t. I think if he’d killed you, I’d know. He’d have given it away, there in the alleyway. I think when I asked, he’d have gone tense, and he didn’t.”
Then I’m not dead.
“Oh, God, I hope not. Sarah, can’t you come and talk over here?”
I’m dancing, Bennett. I love t
o dance, you know I do.
“So does Harris.”
Yes.
“Does your policeman love to dance?”
Not like Harris.
“He’s a good man.”
Very.
“I meant Harris.”
I know.
“He didn’t mean to kill you.”
He didn’t kill me.
“Of course not. I meant, he didn’t know … he tried, that morning. I stopped him, from going to help you.”
Yes, I know.
“Do you forgive me?”
Dear heart, there is nothing to forgive.
“Stop dancing, please, Sarah. Those skeletons, they shouldn’t be able to dance like that.”
Bennett Grey took his eyes from the dancing, and saw the flame move.
SEVENTY-FOUR
“HARRIS! WHAT ON earth—?” Sarah pushed herself away from Stuyvesant’s chest.
“Where the hell have you been?” he shouted.
“Visiting friends. Harris, what’s happened to your face?”
“Jesus. We all thought—Oh my God, what a relief!”
“Come in—bring the paper. And your hat.”
He picked up the newspaper from the mat and his fedora from a bush. Only when he turned again did he notice that she was wearing a dressing-gown and her boyish hair-cut was all on end. She looked so gorgeous he wanted to sink into her arms and stay there for a week.
Instead, he stepped inside. Followed her to the kitchen. Placed his coat over the newspaper. And watched, as Sarah walked and filled the kettle and lit the hob, talking the whole time. “What on earth are you doing out so early? Here, let me move those things. Do you know where Bennett is? He’s been here, there’s dishes in the sink and his valise in the guest-room, but …” She froze, then jerked around. “Harris, has something happened to Bennett? Is that why you’re here?”
Bennett. Doucet.
He couldn’t.
If he told her, she would fling herself out the door. And he desperately needed information—information only she could give.
He stuck a smile on his face. “Bennett? No, he’s fine. Not sure where he is, though. Why didn’t you phone me? I left you a note.”
“I did phone you, about five minutes ago. I think I woke up your concierge. Harris, you really look terrible. Were you in a fight?”
He glanced at the wreck of his evening clothes. “That’s where it started.”
“Are the police after you?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, sit down. You look like you could use some coffee.”
She reached for the coffeepot, giving Stuyvesant his first glimpse of the stub on her left arm. He looked away. “Where were you?”
“Oh, I was so angry with the two of you at the party, squabbling over me like adolescent boys! Cole Porter told me that he and Linda were going to a friend’s place in the country for a few days, and I said it sounded like a dream. He invited me along.” She reached for cups, sugar. “And I thought, He’s right, Dominic’s given me a few days off, why not go away? I was going to come home to pick up some things, but they were leaving immediately the party was finished, and Cole swore there was no need, there’d be everything a last-minute guest could possibly require, from tooth-brush to rubber boots. I never do anything like that, so … I did.”
“Thank God. You just disappeared.”
Her green eyes blazed across the room at him. “Émile did watch, didn’t he? I knew he would—so I went out through a little gate in the neighbor’s garden. Oh, he treats me like a child!”
“We were worried. Both of us were.”
“Good,” she said tartly. “I hoped all this silliness would be over when I got back. If you and Émile are still at each other’s throats, I shall be truly cross.”
The clash between Sarah’s half-flirtatious concerns and the grim realities of the past seventy-two hours felt like being drawn through the gears of a steam locomotive. Stuyvesant dry-washed his face, hearing three days of bristles: Think! Ignore how furious she’ll be, and think!
“Harris, what is it? You weren’t really worried?”
“Of course not. Did you have a good time? You look like you had some sun.”
“It was glorious. There’s a tennis court and a swimming pool and Cole played music half the day—he wrote a song for a stage revue in New York this November. And you’ll think me shallow for having such a lighthearted holiday.”
“Sweetheart, you deserve every minute of pleasure life can give you.”
She went pink. “What about you? What have you been up to, other than fisticuffs?”
“Looking for Pip Crosby.” Looking for you.
Her hand, in the act of setting out spoons, drifted to a halt. “How terrible. I’d forgotten. It seems a long time ago.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Are you any nearer to finding her?”
“I think so.”
“That sounds like, ‘I’m afraid so.’ Oh, Harris. I am sorry.”
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“I never met her, I told you.”
“Sure, but you know a lot of people in Montparnasse. Finish making the coffee, your water’s boiling.”
She made the coffee and opened a cupboard. “Ah, the last of the biscuits. I wish Bennett had let me know he was coming, I’d have asked him to bring some. I know—he’s gone somewhere with Émile! Émile was here, he found his birthday present. I had a picture done by Man Ray,” she explained with a gesture at the wrapping paper. “For some reason he took the picture and not the frame. I guess for his wallet.”
“What did you think of Ray?”
“Brilliant photographer, provocative film-maker. Not much of a painter, to my mind, although that’s what he considers himself.”
“He’s popular with the ladies.” Lee Miller; Pip Crosby.
“Some of them. It’s those dark eyes. Makes him seem so intense.”
“Isn’t he?”
“Pablo Picasso is intense. Man Ray … looks intense. Don’t tell him I said that—he has a short fuse. I saw him in a rage one time after some casual tourist sat down on the Dôme terrace and beat him at chess.”
“Like Hemingway and his boxing.”
“Of course, everyone had been drinking.”
“That goes without saying. So, he’s big on chess? I saw a really modernistic set in his studio, all circles and triangles.”
“He and Marcel Duchamp play a lot.”
“Funny he doesn’t use more chess in his art—Man Ray, I mean. There was a film I saw the other day, started out with, um …”
“With what?”
“Dice. Played by a, er, wooden model hand.”
She pointedly overlooked his embarrassment. “Yes, Man Ray has a bit of a ‘thing’ for hands. That’s what he and Le Comte were talking about at Bricktop’s the other night, a film project based on hands. He wanted an opening scene of … well, my hands playing chess. Ray had heard of that Terror game I told you about, the one in Le Comte’s garden, and he wanted to re-enact it. Complete with decapitations and shots of Didi’s hand collection.”
“You didn’t agree to it?”
“ ’Course not. However, there are plenty of amputees in Paris.”
“And Le Comte liked the idea?”
“He loved it. Think how many people a Grand-Guignol film could reach, compared to that tiny theater.”
“I’m trying to picture Le Comte and Man Ray working together.”
“Wild, right? But you know, they do have a similar style. Meticulous preparation mixed with a dose of chaos. The Grand-Guignol’s as tightly choreographed as a ballet, but Le Comte’s favorite productions are when something goes wrong and the actors are forced to improvise. Like when he deliberately removed a key prop and no one noticed until halfway through.”
“Hard on the actors.”
“Or that party in the ballroom. I spent weeks planning every detail—the music, the food, the script for La
Lune’s interruption, all of it having to turn around his timing demands—but when it came to the guests, he wouldn’t let me send RSVPs! I had absolutely no idea who was going to show up until they walked in.”
“And six days later, he does it to you again. No wonder you took some time off.”
“Life as theater, complete with disasters. He cherishes surprises, calls them ‘the gift of the machine.’ The curse of the machine, is more like it.”
“What were his ‘timing demands’?”
“For the party? He’s a devoté of astrology, you know.”
“Is he?”
“Sure—you’ve seen that clock. He adores making things coincide—like a danse that culminates at the moment the moon goes full. That’s his ‘machine.’ The other side is the ‘gift’—the random and uncontrolled element. So you have a precision timing of the clock linked to an arbitrary act of kissing whomever you happen to be standing beside.”
“Or not so arbitrary, for those in the know.”
This blush was not as heavy. “Yes, it’s convenient to have a man like Cole around.”
“So why isn’t …”
Sarah didn’t notice how Stuyvesant’s voice trailed off, merely chattered about the modern marriage of Cole and Linda Porter, its freedoms and affections.
But to Stuyvesant, it was a distant buzz of words, farther away than the ticking of the great Charmentier clock.
Precise timing.
The four-faced clock at the center of the mansion. A drowned clockmaker. Dark and light; sun and moon; black-and-white tiles and a human chessboard in the garden. The stones and bones of Paris. A clock that struck the full moon.
No. That was—
A conversation: a full moon event … underground … and with the equinox only five days later …
Oh, sweet Jesus above: dark, and light, and the gifts of a machine.
“Harris!”
“Sorry?”
“I said, I’m going to get dressed. I decided to put Émile out of his misery by showing up for lunch.”
He forced himself to stay in his chair until her feet hit the stairs. Then he leapt up to pat wildly through his pockets. If that damned Sergeant had done anything to his notes—
The Bones of Paris Page 34
