Deadly Descent (17 page)

“Come, come, your honor.” Georges' voice dripped with mock sarcasm. “Do you suppose they were lovers once and he jilted her?”

The colonel glowered at his adjutant. A moment of icy silence passed before he continued, “Magistrates raise similar questions.” His voice lowered. “And we need more than Michou's report to answer them.”

Troubled by this discussion, Anne slouched in her chair. She knew Michou, the colonel didn't. While mulling over his remarks, she saw him reach into his desk, bring out a file, and hand it to Georges. “This is the manuscript you stole from the office of the Amateurs,” he said with a wry smile. “You can return it now. I've heard from my expert reader.”

Anne sat up, lips parted, staring at him expectantly.

“The way the play is put together suggests two different authors,” he explained. “Antoine Dubois might have assisted them, but only as a scribe correcting minor faults of grammar. The author of the Clown's confession had to be either Derennes or Pressigny.”

“Rogues both.” Anne shook her fists. The principal piece of evidence against Antoine was crumbling.

He glanced at her sideways. “You are leaping to a conclusion, a magistrate would say. Antoine Dubois may have adapted the confession in the script to serve as his own.”

“Oh, no!” she groaned. “You are
too
cautious, as if a magistrate is listening to your every word!” Angered, her hopes dashed, she spoke through clenched teeth. “I'm encouraged by your expert's report, if not by your opinion.” He looked sharply at her but said nothing. She rose abruptly and left by the back way.

Chapter 18

Death of an Actress

At the Tatar Puppet Theater the early July heat had driven the audience away. Victor and his assistant took afternoons off, and Michou tired of the marionettes. On the third of July, the air inside reached the temperature of hell. Anne locked up the building. She and Michou sought the shade of a large linden tree in the garden. Sweat trickling down her neck, Anne stared into the green foliage, mesmerized by the humming of bees above her. Michou sketched listlessly in her pad.

Anne stirred the gravel with the toe of her shoe, discouraged by the slow progress of her father's case. She hadn't seen Georges or Colonel Saint-Martin for a week, not since Baron Breteuil had sent them to inspect a royal highway post in Normandy. They had returned to Paris in the morning, but the colonel went immediately to the lieutenant-general's office. That he had not embraced her view of the reader's report still disappointed Anne. It took an effort of will to put herself in the colonel's place.
Each
piece of evidence, including the expert's report, had to be sound.
She
could leap to conclusions, the colonel could not.

“I see,” said a familiar voice, “you've found Michou.”

Startled, Anne sat up. Henriette Picard stood before her in an expensive, stylish robe, a poke bonnet on her head, a silk parasol in one hand and an oriental fan in the other. Her eyes shifted inquisitively between Anne and Michou.

Gathering gossip, Anne thought. A sordid way to make a living. She gasped with feigned astonishment. “What a beautiful parasol and fan! From an admirer?”

Henriette waved aside the question, flashing a large paste diamond in the thin beams of sunlight stealing through the leafy canopy. “Is she of much use?” she persisted, glancing at Anne's companion.

“She paints sets and sews costumes for me.” Anne pointed toward the distant Camp of the Tatars. “I've a share in the puppet theater.” She glanced at Michou, glad that she appeared stupefied by the heat. “It's hard to communicate with her, but she gets the work done. Thanks for the hint.”

Henriette waved to an attendant for a chair. “I suppose you know Simon Derennes mysteriously disappeared at the Amateurs' party.”

“So I've heard.”

“Didn't I see him with you in the picture galleries?”

Anne wrinkled her face in surprise. “Did you?”

Henriette insisted. “Yes, you were looking at the Lombard School in Dido's costume. I recall the tiara.”

“Derennes guided me through the Carracci and Reni paintings,” Anne conceded, “but I don't know what's become of him.” She sought Henriette's eye. “Do you?”

The woman pursed her lips. “They say he's fled the country, or been killed by relatives of women he's ravished.” Leaning toward Anne, she lowered her voice to share a secret. “Chevalier de Pressigny must know, but he's not saying.” She sat back, fanning her face emphatically. “Not to me at least.”

Anne shrugged. Henriette was fishing.

The woman gathered her skirts to leave. “Do you see him often?” A touch of envy seemed to creep into her voice. “I understand he's engaged you for the reception in two weeks.”

“Yes, I'll play a small part,” said Anne shortly. She didn't wish to elaborate for this woman.

Henriette sucked in a breath. “Well, I'll see you there.” She pushed open the parasol and set off toward Rue Montpensier.

Anne stood up and stretched, turning over in her mind what she had just heard. Henriette had spoken to Pressigny but had not learned much. Anne fretted. It was galling to be linked intimately with the dissolute young man. But it was more troubling that someone had paid Henriette to find out the woman who was seen with Derennes the night he disappeared.

Anne felt a touch on her arm and glanced sideways. Michou held up a sketch. A caricature of Henriette as a long-nosed hunting dog wearing a fancy bonnet, sniffing at a languid, half-recumbent Anne. A familiar-looking gentleman, his face dark with menace, led the dog on a leash.

Pointing at the man, Anne mouthed the name LeCourt and mimicked his dignified stance. Michou nodded. She must have seen Henriette working for him. “You read people even better than I thought,” said Anne to Michou, ignoring her deafness. “We had better talk to Georges.”

***

Robert LeCourt beckoned to his companion, a few deferential steps behind him. “Monsieur Noir, a word with you please.” The two men were walking in the garden of the Palais-Royal. It was early afternoon, rain threatened, and the crowds were thin. “So Henriette Picard spoke with the young English woman yesterday. What's her name again?”

“Cartier. Anne Cartier. The Dido whom Derennes was going to question in the palace dungeon.” Noir drew abreast of LeCourt. “Henriette thinks Cartier is gaining the confidence of Chevalier Jean de Pressigny.”

“Winning his heart?” asked LeCourt.

The man shrugged. “She doesn't seem to like him. Treats him coolly. But that fascinates him, draws him to her.”

“A clever tactic.” LeCourt allowed himself a sardonic smile. “Pressigny's a fool. Unfortunately, he's my fool.” The financier slowed his pace, absorbed in thought. “Miss Cartier's no ordinary tart. She's become a problem.”

The men halted midway through the garden and looked around.

“The inspecteur should arrive at any minute.” LeCourt glanced at his watch, then at his companion. “You
did
say two o'clock at the fountain?”

The financier didn't wait for a reply. He scanned the sky, arms akimbo. Dark clouds lowered over Paris. Rain had fallen off and on during the day. He was wearing a plain buff suit without ornament. He wanted to be overlooked. His companion wore an even less noticeable gray. They sought the shade of a chestnut tree where they could observe persons approaching the fountain.

“What else did Henriette tell you?”

“Miss Cartier spends afternoons at the puppet theater in the Camp of the Tatars. Stops for a drink at the Odéon on the way. Evenings, she plays small parts in the variety theater.”

“Are you sure she will go to the puppet theater this afternoon?” LeCourt disliked wasting time, but this was a risk he had to take now. He should study this woman for himself and not depend on reports from others.

“She closed it down yesterday. Too hot, I suppose. Today's rain has broken the heat, so she should return. It'll be easy to find her.”

“Any friends?”

“She's seen with a small deaf woman who does odd jobs in the theaters. Used to work occasionally for Lélia Laplante.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No. The deaf woman is stupid. But what's going on between Cartier and Jean de Pressigny is another matter. He's invited her to the Amateurs' reception next month. She's to wear the Chanavas jewels from Comte Debussy's collection.”

“I've heard that.” LeCourt smiled thinly. “I also know she's been seen with Comtesse Marie de Beaumont and her nephew, a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol.” His eyes lighted upon a thin figure in black hastening toward the fountain. “Ah, there's Inspecteur Mauvert.”

Together the three men walked to Café Odéon and sat inside at a secluded table with a view of the main room. Due to the threat of rain, the outdoor tables were not being served.

Noir pointed to an empty table near the door. “She'll sit there, where we can see her.”

They ordered cold lemonade, then sat back to wait. LeCourt turned to the inspecteur. “My companion here, Monsieur Noir, has indicated to you some of my concerns. I'm grateful you could take the time to discuss them privately. I want you to see the woman, Anne Cartier, who is showing an unhealthy interest in last year's unfortunate incident involving the actress.”

Mauvert dabbed perspiration from his brow. He had hurried to the meeting. “I can't know every police agent in Paris, but I doubt Anne Cartier's one of them. I'd remember the name.”

Noir looked up. “Here she comes.”

The tall blond woman took the table he had predicted and ordered a lemonade. She glanced over her shoulder into the room without appearing to recognize anyone. The three men remained hidden from view behind a wall of tall potted plants. Noir sat back, fingering his chin. Mauvert frowned, then whispered, he'd seen her before—the face looked familiar. But he couldn't say where.

LeCourt leaned forward, hands tightly clasped, and stared at the woman. She drank slowly, eyes shadowed, ignoring the bustle of patrons coming and going. Her face was striking rather than pretty. Strong chin, high cheekbones, clear skin. The blond hair took on a brownish tint in the café's subdued light. Her chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of her breathing. Otherwise, she hardly moved, except to play with the lid of a snuff box.

A tigress in repose, lithe and tawny. A hunter. For a moment, the middle-aged financier was once again a young man in a hot steaming Indian jungle. The tigress had stalked him when he ventured too close to her den. He had escaped, then returned and shot her while she rested unawares.

His mind came back to Anne Cartier. Previously, he had imagined she was a common spy. Her low cunning and sly feminine charms had won a place for herself in Pressigny's fickle heart. Now, LeCourt felt his opinion changing. Miss Cartier was an intelligent, resourceful, and determined woman. A dangerous adversary.

She drained her glass and rose from the table, scanned the room again and left. LeCourt signaled to his man, Noir, who was now sitting up, alert. He waited a few moments, then followed her.

LeCourt pushed away from the table and turned toward Mauvert. “Inspecteur. We must take care. Philippe d'Orléans resents the scandalous deaths of the actress Laplante and her companion in the palace theater. The Amateurs do not want him to be troubled again. By
anyone
. We need to know if this woman Cartier is acting on her own. Or, on behalf of someone in high position who intends, for whatever reason, to embarrass the duke.”

The inspecteur pursed his lips, then remarked in a low voice, “Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin called up the records of the case, though it's outside his jurisdiction.”

LeCourt sipped from his glass, looking over the rim thoughtfully. “Miss Cartier has apparently tried to draw information from him. No matter. The police records betray no secrets.”

“Nonetheless, the colonel
has
cooperated with her.”

With growing unease, the financier shifted in his seat. “Indeed! I don't know why. Neither he nor Comtesse Marie de Beaumont appear to have any reason to pry into the incident. And Miss Cartier has no social standing that might influence them.”

“A newcomer, I've heard. English. Speaks perfect French.” Mauvert paused, weighing an idea. “If you wish, I'll write to an acquaintance of mine in London.”

“That sounds like a good first step.” LeCourt drew a small purse from his pocket and pressed it into Mauvert's palm. “This is for you.”

The inspecteur protested with a wave of the hand but held on to the money. “I'd be happy to serve free of charge.”

LeCourt insisted, “Five
louis d'or
to cover expenses. There will be more later.”

Mauvert placed the purse in his pocket. “In a month, or sooner, we should know what kind of trick she's up to.”

***

As she sipped lemonade in Café Odéon, Anne felt she was being watched again. For the past few days, she had had that feeling. Today, Georges had agreed to observe the patrons when she entered. She casually looked around for him. From the back of the room, he caught her eye, then pointed surreptitiously to a table near her veiled by greenery.

Figures had stirred there when she walked in. One of them now bent forward, head craned toward her, face indistinguishable. While she viewed him in the mirror of her snuff box cover, the person never conversed or took a drink. He was still in that posture when she got up to leave. A figment of her imagination? Hardly.

Walking south in the Montpensier arcade, the odd feeling still nagging her, she glanced at the scene reflected in a window and caught a glimpse of a vaguely familiar man's face near a pillar. Was she being followed? Should she keep her appointment with Michou at the Tatar Puppet Theater? She had intended to invite her home that evening for supper. But suppose a trap was being set for her.

To allay her suspicion, Anne stopped at the entrance to a milliner's shop and glanced to the left. The face appeared again in the crowd bustling through the arcade.

She entered the shop, brushed past the clerks, and left by the rear door on Rue Montpensier, then rushed down the street to the café and through the back door, just as Monsieur LeCourt walked out the front, together with a small thin man in a black suit. She looked around the room.

“LeCourt hung on you like a cat watching a canary,” said Georges, coming up to her side. “He gave some money to the man in black, Inspecteur Mauvert. I don't like the looks of that. And there was a third man.…”

Anne broke in, “The one who followed me in the arcade.…I remember his face now. Monsieur Noir. He was with LeCourt upstairs in Café Marcel.” Suddenly, a frisson of fear struck her. She imagined snarling dogs circling her, baring their teeth, waiting for an unguarded moment to attack.

***

By evening a rain shower had cooled the city and a fresh breeze blew through the windows of Anne's apartment. Some of her anxiety from the incident in the Café Odeon had dissipated. Georges had followed her to the puppet theater, where she found Michou touching up the face of a marionette. Yes, she would be delighted to have supper with Anne on Rue Traversine.

An hour later she arrived with a handful of daisies. On this, her first visit, Michou was apprehensive, casting quick, side-long glances about the parlor. Gradually relaxing with a glass of wine, she began to examine the room's spare furnishings. In the kitchen preparing an herb omelette, Anne observed her out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly, the little figure grew tense, still. Her gaze had fixed on the three miniature portraits of Anne, her mother, and Antoine which hung side by side on the wall.