Deadly Descent (27 page)

A shout broke the spell. Anne looked out. The gatekeeper opened for a cart entering the courtyard. In its wake tradesmen scurried in with their wares. The cook and a scullery maid returned from the market, bending under baskets of fruits and vegetables. A pair of urchins began to sweep the cobblestones in front of the stables. Falling in with the common beat of life, Anne raised her eyes to a clear blue sky and ran both hands back and forth through her hair.

She returned to the table and sat opposite Georges. He slouched in his chair, staring glumly into his coffee. She sensed the investigation wasn't going well. It was four days since Debussy's death and the theft of his jewels. No arrests yet.

The Paris police had searched in vain for suspects among the professional thieves and fences of the city. Mauvert and three other inspecteurs had checked everyone involved in the case but found no solid evidence, no sign of the jewels. Anne could imagine who was the most frustrated of all. Inspecteur Mauvert. With every passing day, it seemed more likely the jewels had either left the country or were securely hidden. And there would be no commission.

“Does the colonel have some news?” she asked, trying to break the heavy silence in the room.

Georges could not be drawn out. “I'd better let him speak for himself.” He shrugged, his eyes evading Anne's. “I hear him coming.”

The door opened and the colonel walked in, a scowl on his face. “I saw the lieutenant-general last night,” he said, handing his sword to a servant. He went to his desk and brooded over its smooth brown surface for a few moments.

Then he looked up at Georges and Anne. “DeCrosne called me to his home. Rebuked me for disobeying instructions.” He paused, struggling with his feelings. “Mauvert got to the lieutenant-general before me. He's still very much in charge of the Laplante case. DeCrosne has ordered him here this morning to evaluate the new evidence we've gathered.”

Anne and Georges looked at him aghast. He nodded grimly, then glanced at Anne. “If he thinks it's worthless or irrelevant to the Debussy case, your father's vindication will have to wait.” He mocked the lieutenant-general. “First things first. The police cannot do everything at once.”

Glancing out the window, he smiled ironically. “Speak of the devil! Mauvert's just crossed the courtyard. Talking to himself. Appears to be in a vile mood.”

Steps sounded in the hallway. The inspecteur entered the room. Pausing for a moment, he glared at Anne, then joined the colonel at the table. Visibly annoyed, he turned to Saint-Martin. “Why's the actress here? I came to find out what
you
have learned in the Laplante case.”

Paul bristled. “I've invited Miss Cartier.” When everyone was seated, he gestured for her to begin.

Before she could speak, the inspecteur pushed back his chair and began to rise from the table. “I don't have time to listen to this woman,” he spluttered in exasperation.

Anne stared at him, trying vainly to catch his eye. Her temper threatened to fly out of control. She cursed under her breath. Georges gave her a sharp kick under the table. She read a mixture of amusement and warning in his eyes and choked back her anger. He raised his hand, masking the wry twist of his mouth.

The colonel rose to his feet, back rigid, lips drawn tight. “Sit down, inspecteur.” The words had a sharp, icy edge. “Miss Cartier has discovered evidence concerning Pressigny that escaped you a year ago. You shall hear it from her now!”

A dead silence came over the room. Anne glanced at Georges. He stared at the wall, stone-faced. The inspecteur slid slowly into his chair, lips pinched, eyes mere slits.

“Tell us what you've found, Miss Cartier.” Paul gave Anne a quick, encouraging smile and sat down.

Her heart pounded, her voice quivered slightly as she started to speak, but she quickly got a grip on herself. She described how Michou had witnessed Pressigny murdering the actress Laplante and shifting the blame to Dubois. At least part of Michou's story, she continued, was confirmed by the stable-master's wife, who had treated the young man's wounded hand. She concluded with Michou's observation of Noir and Gros killing Dubois.

At the beginning of Anne's narration, the inspecteur had stared sullenly down at the table. When she mentioned Michou, he looked up, his eyes widening. As Anne related the discovery of Laplante's stiletto, he sat on the edge of his chair, fully attentive if skeptical. When she described her stepfather's death, he became visibly disturbed.

After she sat down, he remained silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. His thin lips curled with disdain. “The testimony of an illiterate deaf female has as much weight as the paper I've just scrawled on.” He let fall a sheet he had picked up from the table. “The story of the stiletto, however, places Pressigny at the scene of the crime, a coincidence he would find difficult to explain.” Mauvert leaned forward, looked directly at Saint-Martin, and spoke each word distinctly, “Nonetheless, Colonel, that case is closed. You
dare
not poke into it.” He straightened up, smiling sardonically. “And, what is more to the point, the evidence you have just presented is irrelevant to the murder and theft at Chateau Debussy.”

He sat back, appearing to relish a checkmate. Then, to Anne's surprise, Paul calmly rose. “A carriage is outside. We shall adjourn to the Camp of the Tatars.”

***

From behind the stage of the Tatar Puppet Theater, Anne observed Mauvert's irritation with keen satisfaction. Paul had seated him in the front row. “This is incredible,” the inspecteur muttered, loudly enough for everyone to hear, as he looked about the dark shabby interior. On a bench behind him sat a pair of strangers. Anne soon recognized the elderly priest in a plain, black soutane, engaged in lively, wordless conversation with a young man.

Paul walked up the aisle, stopped in front of Mauvert, and nodded toward the visitors. “Monsieur l'Inspecteur, may I present Abbé de l'Épée, Director of the Institute for the Deaf and Mute, and André, one of his assistants.”

Taking a seat to the left of the inspecteur, the colonel remarked, “You've surely heard of the abbé.”

Mauvert gave the priest a surly glance. “Why should I?”

Paul appeared surprised, then looked over his shoulder at the cleric and bowed with respect. “He's a well-known authority on sign language. Emperor Joseph, the Queen's brother, admires the Institute and has created a similar one in Vienna.”

The inspecteur shrugged his disinterest.

At a word from the colonel, Georges lit the stage lights. A few minutes later, Anne, Michou, and their companions at the puppet theater presented a dramatic version of the tragic fate of Lélia Laplante and Antoine Dubois. Through a peephole in the backdrop Anne could see Mauvert's interest growing. He leaned forward. His mouth opened slightly. Their puppetry had indeed improved with practice.

When the performance had ended and the cast had taken their bows, Abbé de l'Épée sat at Mauvert's right side and spoke softly. “For two months Mademoiselle Cartier, my assistant, and I have been working with Michou. We needed to gain her confidence, for she had been mistreated in the past and had become very shy. She had also suffered severe shock at the death of the actress. I'm not surprised she appeared incapable of testifying a year ago. She is well now, making rapid progress in reading and signing.” The priest's voice grew firm and clear. “I can assure you, and if need be, Lieutenant-General DeCrosne, she is a fully competent witness.”

Mauvert appeared stunned, his face frozen.

Paul thanked the priest, who then left the theater with his assistant. “Inspecteur, that was the first step—learning the truth about the Laplante case.” He gestured to the troupe on the stage, who returned to their marionettes and acted out Michou's observing Pressigny and Laplante with the stolen jasper bowl.

“Do you now see the connection between the bowl and the Chanavas jewels?”

From the stage, Anne looked down at the inspecteur. He appeared to be groping for an answer. Injured pride and rankling resentment struggled plainly on his face. Paul replied for him. “Pressigny's killing of Lélia Laplante, together with his illegal possession of the jasper bowl, strongly suggest he was party to a series of crimes in the Paris region that may include the theft of the Chanavas jewels.”

He paced slowly before the stage, hands clasped behind his back. “In these thefts, I see a similar mode of operation. Typically, while visiting a country estate, Pressigny and Laplante, or Pressigny alone, scouted the premises on behalf of a team of professional thieves.” He stopped in front of the inspecteur and looked down at him.

Mauvert's mouth worked nervously. “Granted, there's probably enough evidence to charge Pressigny with homicide, but I doubt the lieutenant-general would give permission yet to arrest him.” As he spoke, he regained his self-assurance and turned obstinate. “None of this proves he killed Comte Debussy or stole the jewels.”

“We don't need proof at this point,” countered the colonel, “only reasonable grounds to believe the murders of Laplante and Debussy are connected. I want to proceed with this investigation without having one arm tied behind my back.” He locked eyes with Mauvert. “You have found no clues in Paris. The culprits have to come from Chateau Debussy and somehow include the Chevalier de Pressigny.”

The inspecteur's face convulsed, as if from inner torment. He slowly exhaled. “Yes, we will need to investigate the affairs of Chevalier de Pressigny.”

“And Monsieur LeCourt!” added the colonel, quick as a tiger pouncing on its prey. “François Noir and Jacques Gros, who killed Antoine Dubois, are LeCourt's men. They also work at Chateau Debussy. We must look very closely at LeCourt.”

With growing fascination, Anne observed this duel between Paul and the inspecteur. She was expecting Mauvert to deny LeCourt was involved. But the force of his reaction surprised her.

Livid with anger, he sputtered incoherently for a few moments, glaring at Saint-Martin. “You are out of your mind,” he managed to say. “LeCourt is a distinguished gentleman with nothing to gain from crime and little reason to know what his servants do on their own.” He stood up to leave. His voice grew menacing. “Furthermore, he has powerful friends in the government. You should approach him with great care.”

A sign from the colonel indicated the meeting was over. “Inspecteur, remember this, I intend to see justice done, regardless how high I must go to find the guilty ones.”

Mauvert stalked out, grim-faced, without saying a word.

Anne climbed down from the stage, relieved that the two men had not come to blows. But the inspecteur had left in such an ugly temper, she feared he might block any further investigation into her father's case. Paul walked up and down the aisle, breathing heavily, his eyes dark with barely contained fury. He beckoned his adjutant, and they joined her in front of the stage.

“Georges, put a close watch on LeCourt,” he said harshly, his arms akimbo. “I know he can afford to buy a shop full of jewels, but he can't buy the Chanavas. Maybe that's what he wants! That he's rich may even be reason to suspect him. Can a financier be an honest man?”

He fell into a heavy silence. Then, as if exorcising his anger, he breathed deeply in and out, then let his arms fall. Anne smiled at him sideways. The tension broke. He exchanged glances with her and Georges, and all three leaned back against the stage.

She turned to Paul, a question forming piecemeal in her mind. “Do you suppose the inspecteur expects LeCourt to pay him for protection?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. Money's never far from Mauvert's mind,” he replied. “And, Robert LeCourt neglects no one, ever so low, who can serve his purpose. But he counts mainly on Calonne, the comptroller-general of finance, and on rich investors with a personal interest in the royal debt. They need him to refinance loans Dutch bankers gave the king for the war in America. Otherwise, the government will go bankrupt.”

Anne shook her head in disbelief. “How can one man become so important?”

“In a crisis, even reasonable men like Calonne will grasp at straws,” Paul insisted. “For good measure, through Masonic connections, LeCourt has won favor with the Duc d'Orléans.”

“I grant he's mighty,” Anne remarked. “But he walks on a slippery slope.” She signed to Michou waiting patiently on the stage. It was time to go. Paul and Georges started for the door.

At that moment a trooper burst into the theater, almost running into the colonel. “They're gone!”

“Who?” demanded Saint-Martin.

“Claire de Pressigny and her friend, the gardener.” When an early morning fog had lifted, Monsieur Soucie had noticed Cavour's absence from the garden. In the cottage he and Claire had arranged sacks of straw under the blankets on their bed.

While Saint-Martin wrote instructions for the trooper, Georges and Anne walked to the door, followed by Michou. “The two fugitives have as good as confessed,” said Georges. “I'll bet they are trying to escape with the treasure.”

“They may have found a hiding place in Paris,” Anne suggested.

“The inspecteur's agents will watch every person they're likely to contact,” Georges replied. “If they're in the city, they'll get caught.”

Anne looked askance. Paris was like a gigantic rabbit warren, offering a safe haven to the fugitives. She also felt uneasy with the idea that their flight proved they had committed the crimes. Rather, they might have feared they would be tortured to confess what they hadn't committed. If they had stolen the treasure, why hadn't they fled immediately? Perhaps they were mere accomplices who thought, at first, they could escape suspicion, then fled in panic.

Finished with the trooper, the colonel rejoined Georges and Anne at the door.

“They must have known Mauvert was going to bring them in for questioning,” Georges said. “A pity they slipped through our fingers.”