Bones of Paris (9780345531773) (25 page)

“Not in a while. I thought you said you hadn’t seen him?”

Stuyvesant made a mental note to slap Bennett Grey around a little, next time he was in arm’s reach. “I haven’t, but I send him a lot of picture postcards.”

“If they’re color pictures, the neighbor lad probably steals them.”

“Robbie? You may be right. But I’ve been around. A job here, a job there. Driver for an American movie director looking for a castle. Bodyguard. Three or four missing persons.
Plongeur
—dishwasher—in a
high-class restaurant. Doorman in a house of ill repute. That one was … different.”

“I’ll bet! Were the girls all beautiful and pampered? Or, ill-treated and searching for a patron?”

“Sarah Grey, you are reading all the wrong sorts of novels. The girls were perfectly nice and well behaved.”

She didn’t believe him. It took some doing to convince her that the girls had been surprisingly conservative, even prim, outside of their bedrooms. (He, personally, having had no experience of the interior of those bedrooms. Of course not.) Talk and drinks brought color to her face. It was all very amiable.

And if there was a grinding sound deep in the breast of Harris Stuyvesant, a noise that came from suppressing the impulse to pull her head forward and kiss her hard, he took care to keep it well concealed.

She gave her wrist-watch a glance, and exclaimed at the passage of time. “I need to go pretty soon. I have a thousand things to do before next week.”

“What’s next week?”

“The full moon event in the catacombs. Dominic’s calling it a Danse Macabré, although there may not be enough room for dancing. Have you already forgotten the invitation you forced him to make?”

“I doubt I could force that man to do anything, and yes, I do remember. Although I don’t remember anyone mentioning catacombs. Why there?”

“Because it’s Dominic.”

“Okay. But if it’s a full moon event, why hold it underground?”

“I know, and with the equinox only five days later.”

“And Christmas just around the corner.”

That lovely chortle, twisting his heart. “Not entirely a non-sequitur, in fact. But it’s what he wanted, so it’s what I’ll do. I should warn you, it’s formal.”

“Not the usual collection of Montparnasse bums, then?”

“A few. Those who can be trusted not to wear corduroy and sandals.”

“Are there any?”

“Absolutely. Haven’t you ever seen Djuna Barnes in full plumage? And Man Ray’s new girl, she’s something.”

“Lee Miller.”

“You’ve met her?”

“
Something
’s the word.”

“The sort of girl who makes me feel short and dumpy.”

“Never that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stuyvesant.”

“What about Didi Moreau? Is he coming?”

“Lord, no. Not even Dominic can make him a reasonable party guest.”

“You know, it’s funny, I’d never heard of Moreau before I got here, but this week I’ve seen those Displays of his all over. Even Pip had a couple.”

“That’s what happens when you have a patron like Le Comte.”

“They’ve known each other long?”

“No, in fact I put the two of them together, a year and a half ago.”

“Quick work.”

“Didi’s a disturbing personality, but his work is solid. Profound, even.”

“I’ll take your word for it. What about your brother—what does he make of your new crew?”

“Bennett’s visit was before I started working for Le Comte. Are you asking if my big brother has vetted my boss?”

“Nah, I’m just curious what he made of them all. He’s a clever man, your brother.”

“When it comes to weeding out the disreputable, you mean.”

“Not too sure about that—he seems to like me okay, which doesn’t say much for his judgment.”

She laughed, then glanced at his suit. “Harris, perhaps I shouldn’t say anything, not knowing your financial situation, but if you have a smidge extra cash, you might see that your dinner jacket is up to snuff.”

“I may not be grand enough for your crowd, eh?”

“They’re not my crowd, and it only matters if you want to blend in. And, maybe your shoes …”

He stood up before he could say something asinine. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for taking me to see that very odd egg.”

She assembled her handbag, adjusted her hat, got to her feet. “You will remember, Dominic feels protective about him?”

“When I rob his house,” Stuyvesant vowed, “your boss will never find out.”

“Harris! You’re not going to rob the poor fellow!”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said, adding silently:
Not today, anyway
.

He offered her his right arm. She hesitated. He looked down—and remembered. “Oh, Jesus. Sorry, other side.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, and threaded her left arm through his right elbow.

He couldn’t help glancing at the hollow metal fingers resting on his sleeve. The paint was worn at the tips, the thumb dented and bent a fraction outward with an impending crack at its base. He impulsively reached his hand over to cover it, although whether to warm it or to conceal it, he couldn’t have said. He squeezed her arm into his side, feeling the straps that covered her flesh-and-blood forearm.

“It really is all right,” she said. “It was hard at first, of course, but now it’s mostly frustration, when I can’t figure out how to do something with it. I may actually go back to a hook and just ignore the stares. At least I’d be free of Didi.”

He stopped moving, but she tightened her arm to keep him from facing her.

“Harris, I need you to be my friend about this. Please,
please
don’t act like Bennett. Every time he looks at my hand he goes all tragic, as if he’d set the bomb. I was not a child, remember.
I
made a choice;
I
watched a friend die;
I
live with the consequences. Not you. Not Bennett. Don’t try to take that away.”

His left arm gathered her in, until she was leaning against his chest with his chin on her cloche.

He understood. To believe she’d caused a friend’s death was hard enough; to think she’d done so through a well-intentioned accident—that would be intolerable.

But he also knew the truth. Sarah Grey was guilty of nothing but
loyalty and friendship and the passionate commitment to a cause she believed in. That it was the men in her life who bore the blame: her would-be lover, Harris Stuyvesant, who had failed at his job; her brother, Bennett, who had made a choice that threw her to the fire.

Pedestrians flowed around them, and he felt her small body breathing against him. Eventually, she stirred. Reluctantly, he let her go.

A
N INTERNAL CONVERSATION
, translated from the French: Where did I put those charming little vertebrae the boy brought me? So neat and tiny—ah, here, in the box labeled
hypodermic needles
. Who knew a man who cleans the floors in hospitals could be so useful?

Yes, these are sweet, but they’re little more than cartilage. They lack the beauty of bone
.

True. What if I paint them? Or—dye them? Yes, for a tightly-packed rainbow Display. I shall have to find out how to dye cartilage. Make a note.

What about the skull that odd American brought you?

Pity he cracked it so, removing it.

Clumsy fool
.

Aren’t most of them? But in any event, it’s too large for a Display. I wonder how old it is? Such a lovely feel. Like silk.

What if you built a Display without glass, to permit touch as well? Would there be enough to fill all thirteen squares?

Perhaps if I use the fine saw, and mark it with care …

On the other hand, what if you turn to another form?

Such as what?

Dream something up! Something larger, grander. Your mind has been dwelling on taxidermy, lately. Begin there
.

It is true, that the tight limitations of the Displays frames can be as satisfying as bondage, but they can also be simply restricting.

Also, one is forced to wonder about any art form as critically and commercially successful as the Displays
.

Taxidermy, you say?

You have been longing to try human skin. Decent-sized pieces of it, that is
.

True. Even those scraps—talk about silk!

Imagine an entire person—no: imagine a tableau of people. Cured by you, arranged by you, set in place by you, for all eternity. Museums would kill for them
.

Museums would never show them.

Collectors. There are always private collectors to appreciate you
.

I don’t know. Still … human skin is the ultimate technical challenge. The stretch of the stuff. The subtleties of position, and limb, and facial structure.

A lot more intriguing than rabbits!

I like rabbits. And where would I find a … subject? The hospital might notice if its cleaner walked out with an entire body.

And what kind of a body could you expect? Old, battered, abandoned
.

Hideous. I’d as well work with Mme. Jory.

But there are others
.

Are there?

I can think of one or two
.

The hair …

Yes!

Magnificent. But is it permitted?

You are an artist. You are Didi Moreau. All things are permitted
.

T
O COMPENSATE FOR
having been granted an entire morning in the company of Sarah Grey, the afternoon would require two confrontations of him.

One of them he’d set an appointment with, at four o’clock in the Préfecture office on the Île de la Cité. The other had avoided him since the fiasco at Bricktop’s two days ago, responding neither to his flowers nor his petit bleus, hanging up when she heard his voice on the telephone.

Time to risk the wrath of the guardian dragon.

He went armed—not with his revolver, although he was sorely tempted to take that reinforcement, but with flowers, wine, and a large box of expensive chocolates.

Madame Hachette scowled when he handed her the flowers, and her eyes lingered only briefly on the wine he set on her table, but when he finally brought out the chocolates—all the while having plied her with running conversation and a string of humorous apologies that was less self-deprecation than outright self-abnegation—her fingers twitched. She did not reach for them, not yet, but she was definitely softening.

Before she could crack, their complex negotiations were interrupted by a voice drifting down the stairway. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harris, stop groveling and come up!”

Mme. Hachette caused the offerings to vanish from her table, and he bolted for the stairs in relief.

Up on the fourth floor, Nancy stood in the doorway and watched him come up the stairs. “I don’t see any chocolates for me.”

“I’ll buy you a chocolate store. Along with the flower stall next door.”

“Which will turn my nose red and my backside wide. Never mind, come in. Anything on Phil?”

“A lot on her, but no clear signs yet. I’m sorry.”

“Her mother must be frantic. But, you’re doing your best.”

Stuyvesant hoped that was true.

Despite Nancy’s protestations, the flowers he had sent her stood in the sitting room, dwarfing the low table in front of the sofa and making it impossible to see the fireplace, or anyone in the chairs opposite.

“Hmm,” he said. “The florist was a bit more … emphatic than I’d intended.”

“I did wonder where they found a bowl big enough.”

He bent to peer under the laden branches. “I think it may be a horse trough.”

“The neighbor across the way has already asked for it. Her baby needs a bathtub.”

“The rest of the family could fit in there as well.”

“In any event, it was a very clear message.”

“Is my apology accepted?”

“Apology? For what?”

He straightened in surprise, then saw the mockery in her dark eyes. “I shall try not to make a habit out of fisticuffs in a bar.”

“You do know that a person can be arrested for fistfights here?”

“I am indeed aware of that fact.”

“And the woman?”

He nearly said,
Which woman?
That would have been a bad mistake. “She’s an old friend I haven’t seen for years.”

“A good friend?”

“Used to be pretty good. Now I’m closer to her brother.”

She studied his face, searching for the lie she could feel in him. “Are you going to see her again?”

“I saw her this morning. She knows some people that Pip was involved with. She could be helpful.”

“Do you mean Man Ray?”

“Not specifically,” he lied. “It’s a kind of tangled knot of connections, both social and professional. It may take me a while to sort it out.”

“And she’ll need to help you?”

“Her name is Sarah. Sarah Grey. You’d like her. But yes, I expect I’ll see her again, for one reason or another.”

“If one of the other reasons turns into—”

“It won’t,” he interrupted. “If it does. You’ll tell me?”

“Nancy, she’s engaged. To a cop.”

“Oh. Well, fine. But I won’t do with two-timing.”

“I wouldn’t ask you. Now, is there any chance of coffee?”

“Not wine?”

He nearly blurted out that he’d had about six glasses already with Sarah. “I need to prove my sobriety to you.”

“Dull, but noble,” she muttered, turning towards the kitchen.

“Would you rather have it outside? Now the heat’s broken, coffee in the sun isn’t a repulsive idea.”

“What a romantic offer: something not actively repulsive.”

Stuyvesant walked across the Pont Neuf later that afternoon with a lift in his step. Not that he was all that sure what he felt about Nancy Berger, and not that he’d budged her from her conviction that something awful had happened to Pip, but at least she’d forgiven him for his behavior at Bricktop’s. She’d even agreed to go out with him again—although not until Sunday.

In the meantime, the sun was bright and the air was no longer stifling. There were boats on the Seine and rows of fishermen along the bank, a fringe of long cane poles.

In a minute, the buildings closed around him. As he came closer to the police offices, his mood closed in as well. Doucet was fine for a cop, but the memory of that possessive kiss planted on Sarah’s cheek would take some getting past.