Seen and Not Heard (21 page)

“Why not?” She sounded icy calm, as, indeed, she was. She wasn’t afraid of dying, and there was a certain savage satisfaction at doing so by his hands. He would be caught. He had killed her daughter, now he would kill her, and with any luck at all he would make a mistake, enough of a mistake to get caught. Claire had been warned—she wouldn’t just sit by and ignore the possibilities.

“Because they will not catch me.”

“You may have been able to cover up Isabelle’s murder,” she said, “but a second one will prove harder.”

“Harriette, my dear, the police will simply consider you to be one more in a string of senseless murders, with nothing whatsoever to tie you to me. I’m in the south of France right now, visiting friends. I will be saddened and distressed to hear about your unfortunate end, and I will rush back to Paris to comfort my grieving, much wealthier stepdaughter.”

“Pig.”

Marc’s smile broadened. “And you’re mistaken about something, dear Harriette. You won’t be my second murder. You’ll be my fourteenth. You get your wish, darling. You will be killed by one of Paris’s serial killers, one who’s had a great deal of practice getting away with it.”

She didn’t move. She looked into Marc’s flat black eyes and saw calm, implacable madness lurking there. Madness and death. Slowly she nodded, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. “Very well,” she said with calm, icy contempt. “I’ll have to hope your luck won’t hold out. At
least I know that sooner or later you’ll be caught. You’ll pay for killing Isabelle.”

“I doubt it,
Belle-mère
. I expect to … what was that?”

Harriette didn’t even blink. She’d heard it too, the quiet, almost imperceptible thump from the kitchen, and she realized with dawning horror that Nicole was still there, in the apartment, listening to every word.

“I heard nothing,” she said in a flat voice. If only there was some way she could draw him out of the apartment, away from Nicole. It would be impossible. He was only inches away from her—if she tried to run he would catch her before she even left the couch. And she couldn’t bear the thought of an undignified struggle. She could scarcely stand the thought of his hands on her at all.

“Of course you heard nothing,” Marc said. “You’re old.”

Distract him, she thought desperately. Make him forget that noise. “Tell me, Marc,” she said in a voice suited to infuriate him. “Your slovenly friend who was here yesterday. The one who must have told you about our little arrangement. Does he kill the old ladies too?”

“Very astute, Harriette. Fortunately I have a certain power over him. Otherwise he might have insisted on taking care of you himself. You’re a popular woman. If the others were still alive I have no doubt they would have wanted to have a go at you. I would have loved to have left you to Gilles’s tender mercies, but alas …”

“The others?” Some of her icy calm slipped. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”

“I told you, murdering grandmothers,” he said. “And we haven’t been doing it in God’s name at all.”

He moved closer to her, so close she could smell the very expensive aftershave he favored. She had bought it for him herself one Christmas, back when Isabelle had first married him and everything had seemed to be fine. She wanted to vomit.

She pulled together the last remnants of calm. She had lived with dignity, she would die with it. She was tempted to ask Marc why, but she controlled her curiosity. In a few
more moments it wouldn’t matter anyway, and she could tell he longed to brag. She wouldn’t ask, she wouldn’t fight, she’d keep her contempt intact. “What are you waiting for?” she demanded.

“In a hurry?” he purred. “I don’t like to be rushed.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t linger too long. People come and go around here.”

“I won’t linger. I have to be gone by six o’clock, and I have only a few minutes left. Long enough to take care of you,” he said gently, “and then go out to the kitchen and find who’s hiding there.”

“There’s no one in the kitchen.”

“Really? I’m afraid I’ll have to check for myself.” He leaned closer, so that his scent filled her nostrils, and she felt as if she were choking. She shut her eyes, trying to still the uncontrollable shudders that were wracking her body. Her ancestors had died on the guillotine, died with grace and dignity in the face of a howling mob. She could die just as well.

She felt the shock of his wet lips on her withered, dry ones. His tongue entered her mouth at the same moment the knife entered her heart, and she sighed. So very easy after all.

He laid her out very carefully on the chintz sofa, folding her hands across the neat wound. How many times had he seen her, sitting on that sofa, staring at him with stony contempt? Her early attempts at graciousness had been even worse, burning an implacable hatred into his soul.

How fitting to lay her out on the chintz, with her blood staining the soft pink upholstery. He’d harbored a small wish that she would fight him, but deep down he’d known better than to hope for that. She knew him too well, knew what he wanted from her and refused to give it. He looked down at her, into the milky, staring blue eyes, and smiled.

Five minutes to six. He didn’t have much time. If she wasn’t found within ten minutes his careful planning would help no one. He couldn’t afford to dawdle.

On silent feet he moved to the kitchen door. Pushing it open, he looked into the empty, brightly lit interior, and whispered, “Nicole.”

There was no sign of her, but he knew she was there. The back door was bolted on this side, she couldn’t have made her escape, and the only other exit would have brought her past him. Granted, he’d been preoccupied for the last few minutes, but even at the point of orgasm he would have noticed his precious little stepdaughter tiptoeing past.

He tried it again, his voice a soft croon. “Nicole,” he cajoled. She wasn’t under the table, he could see that much, or hiding behind the door. With seeming unconcern he walked over to the sink and began washing the blood from the knife.

Still no sound. If she could see, she would have betrayed herself. A child of nine doesn’t view her grandmother’s blood lightly. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

But no, his hearing was more acute than others’, honed by years of working in silence. He’d heard that tiny, scuffling noise, and seen Harriette’s reaction. He finished cleaning the knife, washing his hands carefully before turning to survey the blank wall of cupboards in front of him.

“I know you’re there, Nicole,” he said gently. “Come out.”

Still nothing. He crossed the room and began opening cabinets, methodically, peering into the neatly arranged interiors. China, casseroles, copper cookware, but no nine-year-old. He slammed the doors shut in fury. There was no need to make it painless with Nicole. She wasn’t part of the covenant—he could do whatever he wanted with her, and he would take great pleasure in doing so. He would cram a lifetime of emotion and sensation into her last few hours on earth. Indeed, it would be a kindness.

She wasn’t in the cupboards. Maybe he was wrong, maybe in his heightened state he’d only imagined the sound. Or maybe not. If she’d been in the kitchen she was gone now, how he wasn’t quite certain.

She usually left quite promptly at five. Chances were
she’d done so today, was safely back with Claire, never realizing her beloved
grand-mère
was breathing her last in the arms of her stepfather.

He needn’t worry. He could make his plans carefully. Tomorrow he would return to the bosom of his makeshift family, and the first chance he got he would take care of Nicole. And he would take his time doing so, savoring every moment.

The kitchen door shut behind him. The sound of footsteps died away, but still Nicole didn’t move. He was clever, he was hideous and mean and clever, and he knew how to make the right moves, the right noises to make it appear one thing when it was the other. He could be right outside the door, waiting for her to move. She wouldn’t.

When she’d seen the knife she’d hidden in the first place she could find. She crawled under the sink, pulling back against the pipes, wrapping herself up in a tight bundle, and waited, silent tears streaming down her face.

There had been no outcry from the front room, not as there was on TV. No screams, nothing but the quiet murmur of voices and then silence. She’d pulled back out of the way when he’d walked in the door, not even breathing as he called her name. All he had to do was squat down and he would have seen her. But he didn’t. His legs were only inches away from her nose as he ran the water in the sink. One of the pipes grew very hot, burning her arm, but she still didn’t make a sound.

When he began opening the cupboards she knew she was lost. She knew he was going to find her, going to drag her out from under the sink and kill her with the knife he still held. She’d shut her eyes, bit down hard on her lip, and waited.

And then he was gone. Nicole’s tears dried on her face, and she felt her heart grow small and hard within her. She waited, unable and unwilling to move, waited for someone to find her, hoping against hope that Claire hadn’t abandoned her after all.

* * *

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” Claire said, striving for calm. She reached out and fiddled with her coffee, refusing to meet his eyes.

“All right, it was a stupid, romantic gesture. I wanted to experience life as it really was, without the cushion of credit cards,” Tom said somewhat desperately, running a hand through his thick, curly hair. “Listen, I didn’t turn them in, I just left them back in the States. I could get a replacement for my American Express card in less than twenty-four hours.”

“So can I. Don’t worry about it, Tom. We’ll be fine. One more night in that apartment won’t kill us.”

“But what about Bonnard?”

“I’m sure Marc is touring somewhere in the south and that Solange was wrong.”

“Then what happened to your passport and credit cards?”

“A sneak thief.”

“A sneak thief who specializes in passports and credit cards? Surely there was something of value in that place besides the contents of your wallet?”

“Maybe the thief was part of a band of terrorists, looking for new identification papers to get people out of the country. Under normal circumstances it would have been weeks, months before I looked for my passport. It may have already been missing that long.”

“You’ve been reading too much Ludlum.” Tom was clearly disapproving. “Even if a female terrorist wanted to get out of France posing as you, why would she want a passport for a nine-year-old?”

“Maybe terrorists have children too.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“What else can I do?” She could hear the note of desperation in her voice, and quickly she tamped it down. She wasn’t going to lose it, not at this stage of the game. Tomorrow she would get her credit card—after that she had all of France to hide in until she figured out how to get Nicole’s passport.

“You can let me help you. For starters you and Nicole could spend the night in my apartment.”

She raised her eyes from her rapt contemplation of her coffee cup and looked up into his face, seeing what she was afraid to see. “No, we can’t do that. Don’t worry about us. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not.”

Claire turned her head to stare out into the streets. The café window was streaked with rain, the tables and chairs outside in the downpour looking oddly forlorn. Quite suddenly she hated Paris, hated the incessant rains of winter and spring, hated the beautiful streets where it was so easy to lose her way, hated the people and their liquid, incomprehensible language.

“God,” she whispered, “I want to go home.” And it was a cry of desperation.

“Are you certain you can’t leave Nicole with her grandmother?”

She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, she’s been there too long already. What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

“I’d better go.”

He rose, towering over her, his rangy height protective, not threatening, Claire thought wearily, still fighting. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You’re so guilty, Claire, and unfortunately there’s nothing to be guilty about. I’m simply a fellow expatriate you ran into, who’s helping you deal with the vagaries of Paris. Why shouldn’t you take me to meet the old lady?”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t.” She rose also, pulling her heavy sweater over her head once more. “But I will. Do you think there’s any chance of finding a taxi?”

“Where does the old lady live?”

Claire stared at him in mute frustration. “In a red building. Twelve blocks east, two blocks north past the church with the bronze roof.”

“This is from your apartment?”

She nodded, anger and misery at her own inability clouding her already furious mind.

“We’ll find it,” he said, his voice soothing. “Come on. We don’t want to be any later than we already are, do we?”

“No,” said Claire. “We don’t.” And she followed him out the door.

Malgreave was staring at Rocco in mute frustration when the call came in. He picked up the phone, barking into it, and then grew very still as he listened to the report.

He replaced the receiver back in the cradle and looked up, smiling for the first time. “Everything become’s clear.”

Rocco’s weaselly little lawyer looked affronted. “Pardon?”

Malgreave rose, shrugging into his jacket with efficient movements, signaling for Josef to follow him. “I wondered what the hell you were doing, wasting my time here. Now I know.”

“What’s up, boss?” Josef knew when to respond to a cue, and he did so perfectly.

“Another old woman, this time on the Left Bank. And our friend here with such a convenient alibi. Notice how he grins, Josef? We will wipe that grin off his ugly face,
hein?
He’s just proven beyond all doubt that he’s involved. How else would he know to show up exactly at this point? You’ve gone too far, Rocco, and I’m going to nail your balls to the wall for it.”

“I must protest,” the lawyer began, but Rocco shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it, Lefèvre. Malgreave’s got to think he’s a big man. He’s pigshit.”