Deadly Descent (30 page)

She strode out into the courtyard, through the Camp of the Tatars, to the large fountain in the center of the garden, a cool, quiet place to plan her next move. Four or five hours ago, she calculated, Krishna had left Pressigny in the pit where Nalini had lain. What would he have done next? Return unsuspecting to LeCourt, the false patron who had prompted him to take revenge upon Pressigny? She nodded, probably.

She gazed up at the hazy moonless sky, allowing her imagination free range. Suppose Krishna had somehow come to suspect LeCourt's plot against him. He would then confront his patron. By either theory, she reasoned, one or the other man might already be dead.

Seated on the basin's rim, she listened to the splashing of water behind her, relentless like the coming dawn. A church bell struck four. She should return to her rooms in the garden pavilion to await word from Paul. He might want her to come to Montsouris. But the rhythm of the water worked hypnotically on her. She felt powerfully drawn to follow Krishna's trail. It could only lead to LeCourt's residence.

***

Hidden in the shadow of a wall, Anne crept close to a coach parked in a circle of light at the outer gate. She could barely read the sign over the portal,
Hôtel Goncourt
. Behind her the narrow street stretched like a dark, empty tunnel to a pair of faint lights on the Boulevard. She felt relieved having avoided the city watchmen. They might have picked her up as a suspicious person.

The coach driver, a loud thickset man, appeared to know the gatekeeper. Anne inched closer, straining to hear. The name LeCourt was mentioned: he had given only two hours' notice for the coach to depart shortly after dawn. The gatekeeper spoke a few words in sympathy, saluted the driver, and returned to his room. She dashed to the coach. Seconds later, it lurched forward into the courtyard with Anne curled up in a pile of pads and clothes on the rear luggage rack.

Outside the hotel, wearing a porter's apron from the rack, she mingled easily with grooms, servants, and tradesmen going about their early morning business. A talkative clerk told her that the
Goncourt
rented large suites to wealthy foreign businessmen, some of whom were dealing with the nearby firm of Arthur & Grenard, a major manufacturer of fine wallpaper. LeCourt rented the hotel's entire first floor.

“Ministers of State come to visit Monsieur LeCourt,” the clerk boasted. “He's good for the hotel's reputation.”

“Will he be travelling alone?” Anne glanced at the waiting coach.

“A dark man was with him when he returned to the hotel last night. The man hasn't left yet. They may be travelling together.” The clerk paused, as if aware he had said more than he should to a stranger. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. Anne feared he might challenge her, but a groom leading a horse came between them. She slipped away to a quiet corner near the gate.

By the light of a flickering torch she scribbled an urgent message to Paul, then looked about anxiously, not knowing whom she could trust. Her eyes came to rest on a stableboy, thin but agile, and surely unable to read. He seemed as dependable a courier as she could hope to find. With mounting trepidation, she handed him the message and pressed a coin in his hand, promising him another at his destination. Then she waved him off, shivering as he disappeared in the darkness.

As the sky lightened Anne woke from a brief nap in the stable. The clouds in the east had turned a reddish hue. In the courtyard, servants were extinguishing the night lamps. She heard the coachman muttering to all who would listen that he could have slept another hour. Shrugging his shoulders, the gatekeeper said Monsieur LeCourt was usually punctual. Finally the night manager appeared at the hotel's main entrance on the ground floor and beckoned. Anne joined a small motley crew of porters and climbed upstairs to LeCourt's suite.

A double door opened into a spacious hall. A half-dozen candles offered a faint, flickering light. Others were spluttering out. Inside the door stood a small mountain of luggage. While her comrades carried trunks downstairs, Anne hung back, looking busy, edging close to LeCourt near the door. Wearing a brown suit for travelling, he stood in the light of one of the candles. “Two of my men are missing,” he complained to the night manager. “I can't wait any longer. They will have to catch up.” LeCourt shifted his weight from leg to leg. Lines of fatigue creased the corners of his mouth. His eyes ticked nervously. Krishna was nowhere in sight.

Anne noticed LeCourt paid scant attention to most of the luggage, but he glanced repeatedly at a large wooden packing box and a valise set apart from the rest. As Anne had calculated, it fell to her and three other porters to carry the wooden box. It was heavy, hurriedly hammered together, and lacked metal reinforcing bands. LeCourt followed them through the corridor, the valise gripped tightly under his arm. At the first floor landing, Anne glanced down through the balustrade. No one stood below.

A desperate plan formed instantly in her mind. She felt a surge of energy. This was the moment. Feigning to stumble, she wrenched the box out of the hands of her astonished partners and tipped it over the balustrade. The box hit the floor with a resounding crack of wood splintering on marble.

Startled, confused, LeCourt rushed to the balustrade. Anne spun round, seized the valise from under his arm and tossed it in the air. It too crashed on the floor below.

Shaking with rage, LeCourt threw a wild glancing blow to Anne's head, knocking her cap off. She shook her thick blond hair, then met his eye.

“You!” he hissed.

“Dubois' daughter,” she growled.

“You'll pay for this.” He pulled a small pistol from his coat.

***

Clutching Anne's message, Colonel Saint-Martin paced back and forth in his office, still in his riding boots. Georges had remained at Montsouris with the troopers, searching for stolen goods and looking after Jacques Gros—alive but unconscious. Saint-Martin had hurried back to Paris, intending to inform the lieutenant-general. But now Anne claimed his attention.

The stable boy stood waiting outside the open door, cap in hand. The boy cleared his throat. Saint-Martin looked up distractedly, handed him a coin, and sent him away. He sat on the desk to read the message again. It was cryptic and alarming:

Come! Dutchman leaves Hôtel Goncourt at dawn. Must see what's going with him. Urgent! A.C.

LeCourt departing suddenly from Paris? Suspicious but not illegal. Did Anne suspect he was carrying away the stolen jewels?

Saint-Martin laid the paper on his desk and mulled over his alternatives. Should he call the Paris police? He didn't have authority to search or detain LeCourt. But the word “urgent” worried him. Reckless, impassioned, Anne might actually try to confront LeCourt. He rang for a servant, ordered a fresh horse, and checked the powder in his pistol.

***

The colonel and two troopers galloped through the awakening city. The hooves of their mounts struck sparks on the black paving stones. Their clatter echoed in the streets, driving pedestrians into doorways and up against walls. North of Place Vendôme, an odorous caravan of wagons hauling night soil blocked their path. For several precious moments, Saint-Martin shouted and cursed at the drivers. Finally, exasperated, he led his men through narrow side streets, crossed the Boulevard, and found Rue Thaitbout.

In the courtyard of the hotel he leaped from his horse near a coach loaded with luggage. He was striding up the entrance steps, followed by the troopers, when he heard a sound like the snapping of a tree branch. Pistol drawn and cocked, he dashed into the foyer, a large room with a grand staircase at the far end.

The night manager, two assistants, and the coachman cowered against the walls, mouths open in horror at the atrocity before them. Krishna sprawled grotesquely out of a large splintered box, eyes bulging, a tight cord biting into his neck. On the floor near a shattered valise lay glittering diamonds and precious stones, gold bracelets and pendants, an enormous necklace, and a priceless tiara. The Chanavas jewels! Tumbling down the stairs came Robert LeCourt. He hit the bottom with a heavy thud and lay doubled-up, clutching his groin.

Stunned by the sight, Saint-Martin lowered his pistol. Then, looking up, he saw Anne, leaning over the balustrade. Her face was grimy, creased with pain. Smiling thinly, she gripped her side with a bloodied hand and waved to him with the other, as if at the end of a bravura performance.

Chapter 30

Out of Hiding

Triggered by the sun, the little cannon in the garden of the Palais-Royal blasted away, announcing noon on a warm August Saturday. Anne was at work in the puppet theater, arranging for next week's performances. The heat was stifling. She was alone and felt faint. “Time to quit,” she muttered to herself. She bent to pick up her purse. A short stab of pain made her gasp.

LeCourt's shot had hit her on the left side. She recalled the look of horror on Paul's face as she waved to him, then collapsed still conscious on the balustrade. He had bounded up the stairs, carried her into a servant's room nearby, then cut the bloodied shirt away from the wound and probed it gently.

“The ball grazed a rib,” he had said, wiping grime from her face. “Thank God it missed your heart.” Eyes glistening, he had leaned over and kissed her.

At the theater's door, she paused, touching her lips, cherishing the mark of his affection. A week had gone by. The wound in her side, like the hairline scrape on her forehead, had nearly healed. She stepped outside and fumbled in her purse for the key.

A bent old woman in rags approached, hand outstretched like a beggar. In a high, cackling voice she asked, “Could you tell me, Mademoiselle, where I might find Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist?”

Anne fell back a step, staring with astonishment into clear, steady, green eyes. “Claire!” she gasped.

The woman raised a finger to her lips, glancing apprehensively left and right. “I need to talk to you,” she whispered.

“You might be followed. Move on.”

The woman nodded, then shuffled to the far end of the Camp of the Tatars, and returned by a parallel hallway. Concealed in the theater's entrance, Anne worried that Mauvert would catch her aiding a fugitive. She carefully scanned the crowd for anyone coming after Claire. Seeing no one, she beckoned her in.

The women sat on benches, facing one another in the dim light of a small window. Claire pulled the shawl off her head and worked her hand through her hair. In a natural, cultivated voice she said, “I'm grateful. I know you're running a risk with me.”

Anne shrugged, unsmiling. “Have you heard? The jewels have been recovered. Your brother and LeCourt have been arrested. Krishna and François Noir are dead.”

“I know. Everyone's talking about what you've done.”

“They exaggerate, I'm sure.” Anne concealed her concern that Paris had its eye on her. LeCourt's powerful friends might be tempted to retaliate. “Let's talk about something else. The Debussy case isn't closed. The Paris police think you and René may have helped the thieves.” She sought Claire's eye. “Why did you go into hiding?”

She replied without flinching. “We feared Inspecteur Mauvert was about to arrest us as prime suspects.” Resentment filtered through her voice. “We didn't have influential patrons or the money to defend ourselves. The magistrates would have convicted us of stealing the jewels and killing the comte. We'd have been tortured and burned alive on Place de Grève.”

Anne shook her head. “I doubt Colonel Saint-Martin would have allowed patrons or money, or the lack of them, to influence the investigation.” But to herself she admitted Claire had a point. Once the case had moved into a courtroom, Paul could not have prevented the prosecutor and the judges from making scapegoats of Claire and her friend.

“That may be true,” Claire said, “But, the police are still hunting for us and we must hide, even though you have recovered the jewels and the thieves are dead or in prison.” She fell silent and glanced restlessly about the little theater, as if unsure what her next step should be.

“What do you want from me?” Anne finally asked, her voice betraying a hint of skepticism.

“Persuade Colonel Saint-Martin to help us.” She hesitated, a sly look in her eye. “I can tell him about the theft of jewels in his district and the crimes at Chateau Debussy.”

Claire's desire to bargain troubled Anne. “Would you mind telling me? I don't care to run to the colonel on a fool's errand.”

Claire hesitated for a few seconds, then began to explain how her brother had used Lélia Laplante to scout wealthy landowners he intended to rob. She had overheard them a year ago, planning a theft and quarreling about shares.

Anne remained silent for a minute, leaning forward, hands clasped. Paul already knew most of Claire's story, but he might think her testimony would strengthen the case against her brother. Nonetheless, before acting on Claire's behalf, Anne felt she needed to voice a suspicion growing in her mind.

She looked Claire in the eye. “Would you swear before a magistrate that you are innocent of the death of Comte Debussy?”

She nodded. “The police think Noir killed him when he stole the jewels.”

Anne smiled guardedly. “But you also had motive and opportunity. You went to and from the chateau in the tunnel. What were you doing there?”

Claire looked aside for several seconds, chewing on her lower lip. She sighed. “The thieves left the tunnel and the comte's private stairway unlocked. René and I were curious to find out what they had done. We entered the apartment and found Krishna unconscious on the floor and the comte dead in bed.”

Anne gazed coolly at her.

“But we didn't kill him,” Claire insisted.

“You should have raised the alarm and helped Krishna. The police wouldn't be hunting you now.” Anne was sure she had not heard the whole truth. And, even if she had, she didn't know how she could speak on behalf of the two fugitives to Paul or Georges or, heaven forbid, to Inspecteur Mauvert.

“We were going to seek help. Then I saw my mother's cabinet in the treasury.” Claire rose from the bench and walked a few steps to the puppet stage, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. “Her heirlooms were there.” She leaned on the stage, her back to Anne. “The comte had claimed them at her death. These should be mine, I thought, I'll lose them forever if I don't take them now.” She turned around, her face stained with tears. “I was sure his collection of jewels had been stolen. The police would assume my mother's things were taken along with the rest. We brought them back to the cottage and hid them.”

Claire's admission stunned Anne. A swell of sadness and disappointment almost overwhelmed her. She had come to like the young woman and hoped for her improvement. Now she appeared doomed. Anne got up from the bench, deciding what she should say, then sought Claire's eye. “But, I wonder….”

Claire looked at Anne expectantly.

“How did you get into the cabinet?”

“I found the key on Krishna's belt.”

“Did you take a snuff box, three miniature portraits, an embroidered damask cushion, and some paste jewelry? The items missing from the cabinet's inventory.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have them?”

“They are in safekeeping.”

“Including the creamy damask cushion?”

Claire's eyes narrowed, grew wary. “Why do you ask?”

“Yesterday, my maid Michou brought me a picture she's working on, a detail from your mother's portrait hanging in the gallery. Her pet cat, Princesse, is lying on a damask cushion with tassels and gold fringe. Michou could not recall exactly the shape and color of the tassels. Suddenly, I thought of the one taken from the comte's hand, which the police have kept a secret.”

Claire's lips parted in confusion. “What?”

Anne slowly approached Claire at the stage. “Later that afternoon Michou and I took the tassel to Chateau Debussy and compared it to those in the portrait. Identical. Beyond doubt.” She paused, then uttered each word distinctly. “According to the inventory, that cushion was the one in your mother's cabinet.”

Rigid, speechless, Claire stared at Anne incredulously.

“Like the police, I assumed the thieves had taken your mother's collection along with the comte's and had used the cushion to kill him. Now I realize that only
you
and René had access to it.”

A look of horror spread over Claire's face. By admitting she had entered the treasury and removed her mother's heirlooms, she had confessed to murder. Her hands clenched tightly. Her eyes turned bright and hard.

A shiver of apprehension ran through Anne's body. Was the woman armed?

Claire took a step forward, as if about to spring.

Anne experienced a sense of power, a clearing of her mind, as when she used to step out on the high wire at Sadler's Wells.

Claire stopped, stood still for a few moments, then broke into a thin, self-mocking smile. “I should have known better than try to mislead you,” she said, her throat taut, her voice raspy.

Anne folded her arms and waited silently.

“I was leaving the treasury with the pillow. René had gone ahead with the rest of the things. I heard the comte moan for Krishna.” Her voice grew thick and slurred. “I feared he would call the guard. Then revenge took hold of me.” Her hands rose, gripping an invisible object. “I put the cushion over his face and pressed down until he went limp.” She paused, a look of surprise came over her. “I never noticed the missing tassel.”

Anne stared at the woman before her. No bent old beggar. Having vented her passion, Claire stood erect, defiant, with the inbred pride of her class.

A seizure of imagination took Anne back to Place de Grève, with Claire instead of the peasant woman in the tumbrel. The crowd roaring. Claire's body lashed to the post, her face straining against fear. The fire, then the screams.

Anne's head throbbed. Her chest tightened. For a moment she could scarcely breathe. Sympathy for a woman who had punished her abuser vied with horror at the killing of a helpless, if evil, old man.

Minutes passed silently.

“What are you going to do?” asked Claire finally, reaching for her shawl. The two women walked side by side toward the exit.

“Nothing for now.” Anne unlocked the door. “But I'll not permit an innocent person to be punished for what you did.”

Claire gazed at Anne for a moment, then slipped out and disappeared into the crowd.