Bones of Paris (9780345531773) (43 page)

Could France guillotine a foreign citizen? Or would they give Harris Stuyvesant over to the Americans to be hanged?

S
HORTLY AFTER
1:00 a.m., the heroic patient’s eyelids flickered open.

“Don’t try to talk,” Fortier urged, his voice low and close to his boss’ ear. “I’m not sure if you can, with that mummy-wrapping, but just in case, the nurse said we weren’t to let you and she’s a ferocious little thing, I wouldn’t want her mad at me. So, you’re in la Charité, lost some blood but they got the bullet out and there’s no infection. Not much, anyway. Blink once if you understand.”

Doucet blinked.

“Good,” Fortier said. “Good. Well. The doctor said that if you woke, I should tell you to go back to sleep, though it seems to me that a man who’s been out for two days might—Hey, no, wait, don’t try to—okay, I’ll get the straps. Guess I shouldn’t have let it slip how long you’ve been out—don’t tell the nurse, eh? Hah! There: better? Now, before you go to sleep again, let me just say that we identified the fingerprints on the photos and arrested Moreau, then we found the gun in Stuyvesant’s hotel room and picked him up for this. Tomorrow morning I’ll go see the American ambassador and—Wait—don’t sit up! What? What was that?”

The bandages kept the patient’s jaw from opening, but the Sergeant leaned down, hoping to hell the terrifying little nurse did not come in and discover him permitting Doucet to speak.

T
HEY CAME FOR
Harris Stuyvesant in the dark of the night. The door’s crash hurled him off the bunk and upright, his back to the wall.

“Venez,” a guard said.

Stuyvesant stayed where he was, knowing there was no way to defend himself, knowing he would try …

Venez, his brain whispered. The vous form, rather than tu. Politeness? No, a command was a command. But a single prisoner: no reason not to wade in, yet the guards just waited. Stuyvesant peeled his back off the stones and edged out of the cell.

He started down the silent corridor, skull and shoulders tense with apprehension, but the only blow that came was a prod, not a slam that left a man pissing blood.
Go here
rather than,
Go here or I’ll beat you bloody
.

The corridor; the open door; Sergeant Fortier, again. If Doucet had died, wouldn’t his sergeant look more hostile? The man’s face gave nothing away.

The room’s table held what remained of Stuyvesant’s evening clothes. On top lay his shoulder holster, which he’d left under the hotel floorboards. No gun. Nor were the brass knuckles in the heap of things they’d taken from his pockets—notebook, cigarette case, Ronson, wallet—and from the hotel—folding knife and lock picks.

“Inspector Doucet is awake,” Fortier said. “He ordered me to let you go.”

Stuyvesant took a quick step to the side, as if the floor beneath him had shifted. “Well,” he said. “Yes. Good. You mind if I sit down?”

He didn’t wait, just dropped into a chair and reached out to disentangle the cigarette case and lighter from what had once been a bow tie. His hands were not very steady, he noticed, and scowled at them.

So: not Doucet, and not a setup.

“Who shot him?”

“The gunman had the light behind him. L’Inspecteur caught a glimpse of a man shorter than you before he was hit.”

“Hit where?”

“Here, and here.” Fortier drew his finger alongside his head above the ear, then jabbed the hollow of his shoulder, inches from his heart.

Stuyvesant’s brain tried to operate through the sludge.
Shorter than me leaves most of France
. “Was Grey with him?”

“Yes.”

“And he doesn’t know what happened to Grey.”

“No.”

“Or Sarah? His … fiancée?”

“He asked about the young woman. He is not aware that she is missing.”

“Am I free to go?”

“Until such time as we have evidence of your guilt.”

“Does that mean you don’t have any suspects? Other than me?”

“It means we will proceed with the case, Monsieur.”

“You arrested Moreau?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not giving me back my weapons?”

“You may apply in writing for the return of your possessions.”

Stuyvesant put out his cigarette and got to his feet, more slowly than he’d sat down. “Where do I change?”

“The guard will take you to the men’s room. And, Monsieur? I am ordered to apologize.”

Stuyvesant looked at Fortier’s outstretched hand. “What, for smacking me around? If I’d been in your place, I’d have done a lot worse.”

“Nonetheless.”

After a moment, the American shifted the bundle of clothing to his left arm and shook Fortier’s hand. “Can I ask you a question?” Fortier didn’t walk out, so Stuyvesant continued. “Saturday morning, I suggested that you take a look at unsolved murders. Did you have a—”

“I have been busy, Monsieur.”

“I know. Well, it was just a thought. Tell your boss I hope he’s feeling better.”

“What will you do now, Monsieur?”

“I’m going to have a shave.”

“And then?”

Stuyvesant fixed him with a bleak gaze. “I’m going out to look for my friends.”

“Monsieur,” the Sergeant said, “do not give me cause to arrest you again.”

N
ANCY
B
ERGER WAS
an early riser, by habit. Most mornings, she would spend an hour with coffee and a book before the day began.

Last night she’d finished the Agatha Christie (and dreamed about alarm clocks), so this morning, with her new coffeepot gurgling on the unfamiliar stove, she dug through the unpacked boxes in search of Stuyvesant’s gift. Just because he was proving to be a louse didn’t mean she should shun a writer recommended by Sylvia Beach.

She settled onto the settee, tugged at the ends of the endearingly amateurish ribbon, and lifted the book.

Something fell into her lap. A small booklet with a dark red cover, immediately recognizable. Nancy turned it over and saw the oval window in the front cover with the number: a US passport, but not hers.

She opened it, expecting Harris’s name—or perhaps one of the poets who hung around Sylvia’s shop. Dashiell Hammett’s, even.

But the name caused her bemused smile to lock, then fade.

Philippa Anne Crosby.

Why would Harris give her Phil’s passport? And do so by sticking it in a book?

More than that—where had he found it?

Her hand gave an involuntary jerk, sending Phil’s passport flying.

What the
hell
kind of game was the man playing?

Stuyvesant stood beneath the streetlamps on the Pont Neuf, swaying with tiredness. He heard a voice: from a taxi, there at his toes. Gratefully, he fell inside, but before he could say “rue Colle,” the driver rattled off a name: Les Halles. An American in battered evening wear could only be headed one place at five in the morning, right?

Bed? Or food?

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

Minutes later, the smell of onion soup tugged him forward. The market was a reassuring bedlam of horse-drawn carts and blaring truck horns, and Stuyvesant lined up with the last of the night’s drunks, the first of the day’s market loaders, and the tiredest of the prostitutes for that most traditional of restoratives.

Afterwards, he set out through the maze of streets where only cats were awake, heading for the dingy little hotel that was his Paris home.

A conversation:

“Personnes Disparues.”

“Oh good, there’s someone there.”

“Yes, Madame?”

“My name is Nancy Berger. Philippa Crosby’s roommate? One of you left your card, the other day.”

“That was I, Mademoiselle. How may I help you?”

“Well, it’s about Phil—Miss Crosby.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I just opened a package and found her passport in it.”

“Pardon?”

“I know—strange, right? It was in with a book that a … friend sent me, and I sort of wondered if it had got stuck in by accident. Or something.”

“That is indeed remarkable. And the name of this friend?”

“Well … You see, he does have a reason to be looking for her. I mean, he was hired by her mother, after Phil disappeared, so he might well have found it somewhere, and then … It’s just, I don’t want to get him into—”

“Are we talking about M. Stuyvesant, Mademoiselle?”

“You know him?”

“That I do.”

“Good, then you know what a good and responsible person he is. I just thought, well, it was odd.”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle. I will send someone over immediately to take possession of the package. And I shall have a word with M. Stuyvesant. Please do not contact him yourself.”

Nancy gave the man her new address and set the receiver onto its hook. She looked at the card Harris had left, with a phone number for the Hotel Benoit.

Do not contact him yourself
could only mean one thing.

Should she warn him?

The florist’s light was the only sign of life on rue Colle. Mme. Benoit’s door was shut tight. A dozen snores followed Stuyvesant up the stairs.

He had to work at getting the key to turn. Inside, he left the lamp off: light from the hall told him that the place had been ransacked. He didn’t need to see it.

He dropped his hat and overcoat on the table. His jacket followed and—with groans—the empty shoulder holster. He scratched his ribs and overgrown chin, then plodded down the hallway to the toilet. The minuterie had switched itself off when he came out; he didn’t bother turning it back on.

Without sleep, he’d be useless. And anyway, Sarah’s friends would slam the door on someone who looked as bad as he did. How many
hours could he afford? He clicked on the desk light to scribble a note for the door:

Five and a half hours of blissful oblivion before Mme. Benoit woke him.

He opened the door and tacked the note down. Stepping back inside, a slow, delicious wave of tiredness washed him. The bed whispered rumors of simple pleasures: crisp sheets to rub away the jail; a fluffed pillow to cradle his aching head; a blanket to bake away the stiffness in shoulders, arms, back …

He switched off the desk lamp:
click
.

And heard:
click
.

The echo stuck his shoes to the floor. Slowly, his spine straightened. He studied the light around the door, and waited for his brain to interpret.

The minuterie.

He turned the knob and put his head outside, expecting the careless feet and half-stifled giggles of drunken homecoming, but there was nothing, only Anouk’s perpetual snore. He waited, shoulders leaning into the frame. His eyelids drooped. Must have been someone on the first floor, someone unusually thoughtful about noise … His head was pulling back when it came: the tell-tale creak of old wood. Once, twice—more than one man, surreptitiously climbing the stairs.

His body didn’t wait for his brain to give the orders: step back, close the door, jam the chair under the knob; coat and hat, passport and wallet; ease up the window, throw out exhausted legs. The last time he’d tried this it had been broad daylight and the roof-tiles had been dry. He hadn’t been stiff with a beating.

But he made it, across the rooftops to an external stairway. In two minutes he was on the boulevard Raspail with his hat brim pulled down.

The taxi pulled away from Sarah’s address, leaving Stuyvesant half-stunned by the fresh dawn air. He forced leaden feet up the steps and gave a brief jab to the bell as he walked down to the third flower pot. The key was still there. Returning to the door, he tipped back his hat to see—

The door came open.

His hat flew off as he jerked upright. With a sharp cry, he stepped forward to fling his arms around an astounded Sarah Grey.

A
CONVERSATION:

“Sarah? Is that you?”

Yes, Bennett
.

“I can’t see you very well.”

The candle’s burning down, my dear
.

“I’m going to be in the dark soon.”

But not yet. And I’m here now
.

“You should be with Doucet.”

…

“Why aren’t you? Is he dead?”

You said he wouldn’t
.

“I thought he had a chance. Can’t you come closer?”

I will, soon
.

“Can’t you sit in the chair?”

That’s not for me
.

“Are you dead, sweetheart? Sarah? Has he killed you?”

I … do you think he did?

“No! I don’t. I think if he’d killed you, I’d know. He’d have given it away, there in the alleyway. I think when I asked, he’d have gone tense, and he didn’t.”

Then I’m not dead
.

“Oh, God, I hope not. Sarah, can’t you come and talk over here?”

I’m dancing, Bennett. I love to dance, you know I do
.

“So does Harris.”

Yes
.

“Does your policeman love to dance?”

Not like Harris
.

“He’s a good man.”

Very
.

“I meant Harris.”

I know
.

“He didn’t mean to kill you.”