French Leave (15 page)

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are the man who has been following me,” she said.

 “Help yourself and heaven will help you, ma’mselle.”

Barbary was growing cross. Heaven knew she was trying to help herself and several other people, with nary a sign of divine assistance to be had. “What you want, m’sieur?”

Inspecteur Ollivant wanted to sit down and catch his breath. He was not so young as once he had been, and he was unaccustomed to racing up several flights of stairs. “Must we stand here talking on the stair, ma’mselle? It would be a great deal more private, surely, in your studio.”

Barbary concluded that the concierge was listening, just out of sight round the bend of the stair. However, the studio was not half so private as one might have wished. She drew herself up and tried to sound indignant. “I do not invite strange men into my studio, m’sieur. I am a respectable female.”

“No one says that you are not.” Inspecteur Ollivant frowned. “Can it be that you have forgotten we met in the studio of M’sieur Maurice.”

“Ah.” This was Mab’s policeman. Barbary should have guessed. “Of course. It’s dark here on the stairs and that is why I did not immediately perceive who you were. Er, your name was—”

“Inspecteur Ollivant.” He grew even more curious to see the studio. “Now that you remember who I am, we therefore are not strangers, and you may invite me in.”

Regrettable, but Barbary had no choice, wish as she might that it were otherwise. She put the key in the lock and turned the knob. “Very well then, if you insist, I will invite you in, Inspecteur Ollivant. It really is the outside of enough that you follow me about like this!” Did she hear a scuffle of movement from within the studio? Had her warning been heard? Barbary could delay no longer or the inspector would grow even more suspicious. She opened the door.

Inspecteur Ollivant followed her into the studio, stared at all the clutter. “I have told you how it is, ma’mselle. The Duc’s friends grow very concerned. They have heard nothing more and fear the case is desperate.”

No one was in evidence. Barbary moved to the easel that stood in the middle of the room. “I am sorry to disoblige you, but I don’t know what this has to do with me. I’ve told you all I know. Now I wish you will go away.”

Inspecteur Ollivant had no intention of being so obliging. He followed Ma’mselle Foliot to her easel and squinted at the half-finished painting, which seemed to be of the Eskimo kayak that lay upon the divan. “You have had the Gendarmerie here,” he said.

“You are well informed.” Damnably so. The kayak had not been on the divan when she left. The Duc had been. Yes, and now that Barbary looked more closely, something about that kayak looked queer. Casually, she hoped, she abandoned the easel and went and sat on the divan. “The Gendarmerie searched the building. Something to do with an escaped Jacobin, I believe. They did not find him. You may be the best of good fellows, I’m not saying that you aren’t, but you have a bee in your bonnet about the Duc, m’sieur.”

Perhaps he did. His superiors thought so. Inspecteur Ollivant had already endured several uncomfortable interviews with the Inspecteur-Principal. Still, he trusted his instincts, and he thought that the arrival of the Gendarmerie had justified that trust. There were many different police departments in Paris, answerable to different branches of the government; and cooperation between the different departments was unenthusiastic at best. Inspecteur Ollivant could not imagine that the Gendarmerie would share with him their glory in the case of an arrest.
“Comment?”
he inquired.

Casually, Barbary picked upon an Oriental vase from the floor. “I don’t know how you think I may help you,” she said.

Neither did Inspecteur Ollivant, although he had been certain that she could. He was less so now. Ma’mselle Foliot had changed in some indefinable manner. “Come, come, ma’mselle! We are both citizens of the world. M’sieur Le Duc was a man not without charm. Fortunate indeed was the ma’mselle upon whom his approving glances fell. Few could resist his charm—or perhaps the charm of his pocketbook. Except”—his glance was meaningful— “for Ma’mselle Foliot.”

“Ah, but I am English. And it sounds to me like your M’sieur Le Duc was a shocking loose screw.” Barbary hoped the inspector had not noticed that the kayak quivered at the mention of loose screws.

Inspecteur Ollivant looked skeptical. “Where the goat is tied it must graze.”

Had he just likened her to a goat? “There is no Duc grazing here!” snapped Barbary.

“I did not mean to infer there was,” Inspecteur Ollivant moved about the studio, peered behind and under things, even inside the armor. “Merely, we have heard nothing more, which confirms our fears.”

Definitely they should have written a letter to the Duc’s friends. Barbary reminded herself not to forget the matter again. The inspector looked into the bedroom. Barbary was relieved to see that it was empty. “This manservant, where is he?” Inspecteur Ollivant asked.

The police even knew about Tibble? Barbary thought she might fall into hysterics. But she could not because Mab would not, and cursed inconvenient it was. “Who knows? Poor Tibble cannot approve of the way things are done here in France.”

Ma’mselle Foliot sounded as if she shared her servant’s disapproval. Inspecteur Ollivant’s pride was pricked. He would not be told his business by any female who brazenly exposed herself to all the world in antique draperies. Not that he could fault the propriety of her costume on this occasion, but the principle remained the same.

He flung open the closet door. Within the closet was a cot. On the cot was a pale and wide-eyed individual clutching a gun in each hand. Inspecteur Ollivant froze.

“It’s all right.” Barbary fought against an untimely urge to laugh aloud. “You must not shoot the policeman, Tibble, or he will think his suspicions are correct. He is looking for a missing Duc.”

This was the English servant? Inspecteur Ollivant was relieved to see the man point the guns at other than his chest.

“I disremember when I was so fit to leap out of my own skin,” said Tibble disapprovingly. “First Jacobins, and now Ducs. It seems to me that half Paris must be lost. Isn’t a body to be allowed any rest?”

Tibble definitely must be given a raise  if ever the occasion came about when his salary could be paid. “Apparently not,” said Barbary. “Come out and let the policeman ask you questions, because I am within an ace of losing my temper. These constant inquisitions are more than flesh and blood can stand.”

Tibble emerged from the closet and set down his pistols on a table near the divan. “Tell you what it is, Miss Mab; you need a nice lie-down yourself! You just stretch out right there, on the divan. That’s the ticket! Now, sir, you just tell me what it is you’re wanting and then be on your way, or else we’ll have Miss Mab in one of her tantrums, and you wouldn’t want that!”

What Inspecteur Ollivant wanted was to have found something considerably more incriminating than costumes and canvases and dust as result of his search. “What do
you
know about the Duc de Gascoigne?” he asked.

Tibble looked very innocent. “Who might that be?”

Perhaps this ignorance was genuine, perhaps not. Inspecteur Ollivant knew recalcitrance when he saw it, however. He turned toward the divan.

The moment had come. Barbary clutched the Oriental vase. If necessary, she would take a leaf out of Mab’s book and knock Inspecteur Ollivant unconscious herself. Tibble had taken a similar notion. Barbary saw him move toward the stove.

The inspector made no effort to investigate the divan, which in his defense did appear to be entirely taken up by the lady and the kayak. “Have you ever seen Madame Guillotine in operation, Ma’mselle Foliot? The blade falls over two meters. It does not miss its mark.”

Vividly, Barbary imagined the scene. The head she saw severed from its neck had golden hair and sapphire eyes.  Whether the head belonged to May or Barbary herself seemed a moot point. “I shan’t,” she said somewhat faintly, “allow you to frighten me, m’sieur!”

“I did not seek to frighten, merely to warn you,” Inspecteur Ollivant replied with considerably less truthfulness than one might wish for in an officer of the law. “We will talk again,” he promised the room at large, and flung open the door.

A black-browed, impatient-looking gentleman stood in the hallway, his hand raised to knock. Hovering at his elbow was Madame Gabbot. “Ma’mselle Foliot has agreed to paint M’sieur’s portrait—or so he says. I told him that if he can recognize himself in it, it would be
miraculeux!”
she explained.

This investigation proceeded at the pace of a snail; but it did proceed. Inspecteur Ollivant was encouraged.
“Alors!”
he remarked.

“Alors
yourself!” retorted the gentleman. “What the deuce is going on here? Where’s Mab?”

“Oh, the devil!” said Ma’mselle Foliot, and sat up. At the same time, the English manservant cried, “Master Conor!” and turned white.

“And so!” observed Inspecteur Ollivant. “You, m’sieur, are Conor Dennison?”

“Yes, I’m Conor Dennison!” the gentleman retorted irritably. “Who the devil are you?”

Politely, Inspecteur Ollivant introduced himself. The gentleman’s eyes narrowed. “Was it you asking questions at my hôtel?”

Inspecteur Ollivant admitted it. “Ma’mselle Foliot will explain.”

“I will, will I?” Ma’mselle looked very pretty with her cheeks so pink. “I can’t explain what I don’t know.”

Inspecteur Ollivant shrugged. “It is simple. I followed you there.”

“You admit it!” Ma’mselle’s cheeks grew pinker still. The manservant hastily shoved a vinaigrette under her nose. She inhaled and coughed.

She acted as though he were the criminal
.
Inspecteur Ollivant drew himself up in offense. “Must I remind you that the Duc de Gascoigne is missing, ma’mselle?”

“I don’t know how I may forget it!” she replied with considerable feeling. “Missing ducs and Jacobins--how may I convince you that you are rainbow-chasing, m’sieur?”

“I think that you may not, Ma’mselle.” Inspecteur Ollivant made a polite little bow and stepped out into the hall.

Conor Denison stared from the manservant to the lady on the divan. “What the devil is going on here?” he inquired. Neither Inspecteur Ollivant nor Madame Gabbot was privileged to hear Ma’mselle Foliot’s explanation. Tibble closed the door.

“Voyons!”
said Madame Gabbot, and many other comments of a similar nature as they descended the stairs. Inspecteur Ollivant made no reply. He was deep in thought.

Ma’mselle Foliot had not deceived him, try as she might. She was guilty of mayhem enacted on a duc, or association with Jacobin traitors, or both. Inspecteur Ollivant would not hasten to the Gendarmerie with his suspicions, or even to his Inspecteur-Principal
.
In the country of the blind, the one-eyed men were kings.

Chapter Eighteen

Conor glanced from the recently discovered object of his affections to the manservant who stood nearby. Both looked damnably guilty. At least he thought that Mab was the object of his affections. He was not entirely sure. Such was Conor’s state of mind that he had, on his way here, paused outside the shop of a colorman and picture restorer in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. All manner of artist’s supplies might be purchased there. He had thought to present a token of his regard.

Mab would not like expensive trifles or flowers, he thought. However, Conor didn’t care to walk through the narrow streets of the Faubourg Saint-Germain carrying a gold picture frame, and so he had turned away from the shop, aware that he was acting like a green boy, and annoyed with himself because of it.

Conor was hardly a stranger to the art of dalliance. He was acquainted with all the great beauties of both London and the Continent. Juliette de Récamier admired him, as did Pauline Borghese. Even La Grassini—the contralto who had followed Napoleon’s eagles from the Milan Opera House, and now was frequently to be seen on the arm of the British Ambassador—had cast her fine eyes in his direction.

Not that Conor meant to count his conquests. He would not do such a thing. He sought only to assure himself that he was not altogether without attraction for the opposite sex. Not that he had reason to do so. Did he?

Conor could not remember when he had been so confused. Were he a prudent man, he would withdraw to Vienna, as so many of his compatriots had done, promenade in the Prater, and watch the Danube flow gently by.

Damned boring it sounded. At any rate, Conor was not a prudent man. He looked at the lady sitting on the divan. “What the devil are you mixed up in?” he inquired.

Her expression was sulky. “I don’t know what business that is of yours!” she snapped. “I do not recall that I invited you here.”

Conor frowned at this abrupt about-face on the part of the lady by whom he had been so recently favored. He had not expected Mab to be all rapture at sight of him, perhaps, but he had not thought she might be so cool. “It’s every business of mine, my girl!” he said, and approached the divan. “The police were making inquiries at my hôtel.”

She looked even more stubborn. “It is a fuss about trifles. You need not concern yourself. Indeed, there is no need for you to be here, so you may go away.”

Conor was not accustomed to such offhand treatment. It went against the grain. “I’ll go nowhere until you answer my questions. Tibble, what the devil are you doing here?”

Tibble had been following the conversation closely, had been wondering if Miss Barbary could get herself out of the pickle she was now in. Applied to, he jumped and hastily recalled the whopper he had already told. “The family sent me, sir. To keep an eye on Miss Mab. Being as she was alone.”

Conor raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that. I know a clanker when I hear one, having had considerable experience along those lines.”

He referred to Barbary, of course. She was condemned not only as a flirt, but also as a liar. “What clanker?” she inquired spitefully. “Tibble was out of a place. You do remember that my cousin eloped? I’m sure I told you so.”