Seen and Not Heard (22 page)

Malgreave only smiled faintly. “Shut the door when you leave, Rocco.” And he headed out toward Harriette Langlois’s apartment.

They could see the flashing lights from the parked police cars from several blocks away. The street itself was cordoned off, and Claire could do nothing but follow Tom,
listening to his fluent explanations to the obstructive police as a growing sense of horror filled her. The official vehicles cluttering up the street were centered at Harriette’s building, and she didn’t need Tom’s shuttered expression to tell her something was terribly wrong.

He pulled her to one side, huddled against the building, and his face was grim. “It’s Harriette,” he said. “She’s been murdered.”

Claire shut her eyes for a moment, letting the cold, icy rain stream over her eyelids. “Where’s Nicole?”

“They haven’t found her yet.”

Claire’s eyes shot open. “Oh, my God.” Pulling away, she headed for Harriette’s apartment, ignoring the protests of the policemen around her, ignoring Tom’s restraining hand.

Claire’s first thought was that Harriette wouldn’t like all these wet, large men tramping through her apartment, putting muddy footprints on her beautiful carpets, dripping on her furniture. And then she saw her, stretched out on the chintz sofa, withered hands crossed over her chest like a medieval martyr, and she knew Harriette wouldn’t mind anything at all.

She felt suddenly faint. Tom was beside her, his hand on her elbow, and she swayed against him for a moment. She had never seen death before, and the polite formality of this one was somehow worse than bloody carnage.

A man detached himself from the group standing over the body, one who looked vaguely familiar, though Claire couldn’t place him. He spoke to her, and she looked up, blinking rapidly, as Tom intervened.

“I speak English, Mademoiselle MacIntyre,” he said. “I am Chief Inspector Louis Malgreave, in charge of the investigation. You knew Madame Langlois?”

“She was my … fiance’s mother-in-law.” God, it sounded like one of those French exercises that had always defeated her.

But Malgreave had apparently mastered the English equivalent. “I see. Who is your fiance, and where is he now?”

“His name is Marc Bonnard. He’s on tour in the south of France with the Théâtre du Mime. His daughter …”

“Do you know where he can be reached?”

“No. He usually calls in. Nicole …”

“Do you know why anyone would want to kill Madame Langlois? Had anyone threatened her, did anyone wish her harm?”

For a moment Harriette’s fears came back to her. Claire looked over at the still, shrunken body, shivering. The doors were open, letting in the damp, chilly air, and it seemed as if she’d never get warm again.

“No one,” she said.

Tom’s hand tightened on her elbow for a moment, and she waited for him to say something, to contradict her. He didn’t know Marc, he still thought it was a possibility that Marc could have done such a thing. Looking at the eerie stillness of Mme. Langlois’s body, Claire knew it was impossible. She couldn’t have lived with a man capable of murder. Her instincts couldn’t be that awry. As if by magic her doubts had vanished. A small part of her brain had shut down in protest against what was unacceptable. It couldn’t be Marc.

Malgreave nodded. “We’re assuming it is part of the string of murders plaguing Paris.”

“Where is her granddaughter? We were coming to fetch her …”

“There was no one else in the apartment.”

“But she would have waited for me.”

“No one else was here, and there was no sign of a struggle. My men are searching most diligently, and of course we shall want to talk with her when she’s found. But I suspect she left long before anything happened. Fortunate for her sake, unfortunate for ours.”

“But …”

“Go back home, mademoiselle. We will be in touch as soon as we find out anything. And you will call us if the child is waiting for you at home, yes?”

“But …”

“I will send you in a squad car. We will need to talk to you, but tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“But …”

“
Bon soir
, mademoiselle, monsieur.”

They were being dismissed, like obnoxious children. For one moment Claire considered behaving like one, throwing herself on the floor and refusing to move, and then thought better of it. The French equivalent of a coroner was examining Harriette’s body, moving the stiffening hands to expose a red, gaping wound, and Claire felt her stomach turn.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said quietly. “He is right—if we’re lucky Nicole is already at home, waiting for us. She probably doesn’t have any idea what happened.”

“But I told her to stay until I came!”

“Does she always do what you tell her?”

“What nine-year-old would?” Claire countered miserably. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

If she’d hoped the apartment would be a blaze of lights she was disappointed. Everything was dark and empty when she let herself in the front door. Tom followed, looking about him with a curious air, and his hands were gentle and impersonal as they stripped her of her sodden sweater and took her purse out of numb hands.

“I suppose I’d better call the police and tell them she’s not here,” Claire said woodenly.

“I’ll do it. Why don’t you go and make us both drinks? Something very strong.”

She nodded, not moving. She wanted to sink back against Tom, lean against his strong, comforting body, but she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury. “If he’s hurt her I’ll kill him,” she said, her voice low and fierce.

“Who? Marc?”

“No. It couldn’t have been Marc. If there was even the faintest possibility I would have said something to the police.”

“Do you think,” Tom said gently, “that you have the right to make that determination? Don’t you think you should have told Malgreave about the old lady’s fears?”

She shook her head fiercely, fighting the doubts. “Impossible,” she said. “It was a coincidence, a random murder.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tom said.

She looked up at him. “Neither do I,” she said finally. “You make the drinks. I’m going to check Nicole’s room.”

The faint glow of the street lights cast a tiny pool of light into the spotless confines of the room. Claire reached for the light, then stopped. She could see the small figure lying in bed and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, make out the sodden shape of a raincoat lying on the floor.

She moved into the room and sat down carefully on the bed. “Nicole?”

The small, familiar shape shifted. “I don’t feel well, Claire,” she said in a tiny voice. “I just wish to sleep.”

“When did you leave your grandmother’s?”

There was such a slight hesitation Claire thought she might have imagined it. “Early. I’m sorry, I know you told me to wait, but I had a stomachache. So she sent me home in a taxi quite early. I don’t remember when.”

For a long moment Claire said nothing. Nicole had an unfortunate habit of making up tales, and this sounded like one of them, but there was no earthly reason for her to lie. “How are you now?”

“I threw up and I’m feeling much better,” her muffled little voice replied. “I just want to sleep now.”

Claire knew a dismissal when she heard it. She also thought she knew a lie when she heard one, but she had no proof. “All right. You sleep, and I’ll check on you during the night and make certain you’re okay.”

“That would be nice,” she said in a woebegone little voice. “I thought I heard voices. Is … is Marc back?”

“Not for a few more days. It’s just a friend of mine. He’ll be leaving soon.”

“If he spends the night I won’t tell anyone.”

Claire stared down at her, astounded. “Well, he’s not going to spend the night. I can’t imagine …”

“If he doesn’t, can I come in and sleep with you again?”

“Certainly. If you want I’ll send him home now.”

“No. He should stay. I just want to sleep. Good night, Claire.”

Claire shut the door behind her, her face creased in worry. Now was not the time to tell her about her grandmother—tomorrow would be soon enough. But she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that Nicole already knew.

Nicole burrowed deeper into her bed, scarcely daring to breathe. Beneath the crisp white sheets she was still fully dressed, and her clothes were damp from her walk home through the pouring rain.

She’d run more than walked, looking over her shoulder, terrified Marc would reappear. But she’d made it back safely, back to the dark, empty apartment, moments before Claire returned.

She’d had enough time to think it through, to realize how hopeless the truth was. Claire wouldn’t believe her. Women always believed Marc—the same thing had happened with her mother. When she’d tried to tell
Maman
about Marc her mother would get very angry and accuse her of lying.

So why should Claire believe her? If she was able to convince everyone she had seen nothing, maybe she’d be safe. Marc hadn’t found her—he couldn’t be sure she’d been there. Maybe if she lied and said she came home early people would believe her, Marc would go away and leave her alone, and no one would hurt her.

She hunched down deeper in the bed, her teeth chattering. When she’d first heard the man’s voice she’d been terrified that Marc had come. But she knew even before she asked Claire that it was someone else, someone with a slow, deep, American voice.

As long as the person with that voice was here, she’d be safe. And if he left, she would go and sleep in Claire’s big bed. Either way, no one could harm her for now. She could close her eyes and sleep.

Tomorrow she would think about
Grand-mère
. Tomorrow she would mourn properly, would decide how much to tell Claire. For now all she wanted to do was sleep. And blot out the memory of Marc walking into the kitchen, a bloody knife in his hand.

Claire walked slowly back to the living room, trying to rationalize her fears. It was no wonder she was troubled, she told herself. She’d seen violent death, murder. It should come as no surprise that she was filled with a nameless, overwhelming dread.

At least Nicole was safe. That, for the moment, was the most important thing.

“She’s here?” Tom was standing by the door. Ready to leave, Claire realized with numb panic.

“She says she came back early. She doesn’t know what happened to her grandmother.”

“Thank God for that.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you believe her? Why would she lie?” He still hadn’t moved away from the door, and Claire resigned herself to the fact that he was leaving, knowing it was best for both of them.

“Nicole lies sometimes. She makes up fantastic stories with no connection to reality.”

“Surely this time she’d tell the truth? If she’d seen her grandmother murdered, seen the murderer, she’d say something.”

Claire gave herself a tiny mental shake. “Of course she would. I’m just being neurotic.” She moved over to the doorway, to him. “You’re leaving?”

He hesitated. “It seems wisest. I imagine the police will be keeping an eye on you. You’ll be safe here.”

“I imagine,” she echoed.

“Unless you want me to stay?”

Yes, she thought. “No,” she said. “Would you call Inspector Malgreave for me and tell him Nicole is here and safe? I don’t want to have to hassle with trying to get through to him.”

“Of course.” He still didn’t move. The apartment was brightly lit, the rain had stopped, and Claire could smell the faint scent of the cognac he’d poured for her. “I’ll call you later.”

“I don’t think I’ll be answering the phone. I don’t really like to, and I’ve had some crank calls recently.”

Tom’s hand had been on the brass doorknob, but he let it fall. “What kind of crank phone calls?”

“Just silence. No heavy breathing, no obscenities. Just absolute silence. I suppose it could be someone who simply doesn’t understand English and doesn’t know what to say. I could be jumping to conclusions.”

“I’ll ring twice, hang up, and then call again.”

“All right.”

“If you don’t answer I’ll come back.”

“I’ll answer.”

“I don’t want to go,” he said flatly.

“I know,” she said.

He stood there, indecisive, frustrated, angry. “Be careful,” he said finally. And without touching her he left, slamming the heavy door behind him.

She moved to the window, staring out into the wet streets, waiting for him to emerge from the building. He appeared moments later, pausing in the lamplight, staring up at her. And then his gaze drifted sideways, across the length of the building, then back to hers, and he nodded, satisfied.

Suddenly she was desperate to call him back. She tugged at the window, but it had been painted shut years ago. She rapped at it sharply, but he’d already turned away, heading down the busy Paris streets.

For a moment she was tempted to slam her fist through the pane of thick glass. But common sense prevailed. She was safe, locked in the apartment. And spending the night with Tom Parkhurst was probably more dangerous than any imaginary threat from the serial killer or Marc Bonnard.

She moved away from the window, reaching for the glass of cognac Tom had poured before he left. Sinking down on the sofa, she curled her bare feet up under her and leaned back, sighing. At least Nicole was safe.

The small house in the Paris suburbs was dark and silent when Malgreave let himself in that night. He called Marie’s name, but there was no answer.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He was home earlier than usual. The killers usually struck late at night, rousing Malgreave from a troubled sleep. Tonight he or they had been thoughtful enough to do it while Malgreave was still on duty. He’d had time to take care of the formalities, view the initial evidence, and make it home before nine.

He needn’t have hurried. Not with Marie gone. He could have stayed late, called Rocco Guillère back in, and pounded at him until he made the little weasel confess to prior knowledge. Malgreave wasn’t a man who believed in coincidence. Rocco never came near the police if he could help it. For him to have chosen to appear at a time the killer struck was just a bit too fortuitous. A few minutes alone with him, after hours, with no one to interfere, and Malgreave could work off some of his anger …