Tender the Storm (62 page)

Her eyes shifted to the threatening figure of her friend. It struck her, then, that Francoise was enjoying herself immensely. It was as though she was an actress, giving the performance of her life before an audience. All that was lacking was the applause.

The performance appeared to be coming to an end. Zoë made haste to keep it going.

"What about that note from Claire?" she asked.

"A forgery, my dear.
But you must know that now."

"Claire never corresponded with you! How could you copy her handwriting?"

"Zoë, I had the run of your house. Think about it. It was no great feat to steal one of your sister's letters."

"That was not very nice," snapped Zoë. "I trusted you. I thought you were my friend. And now you tell me that you are going to murder me?"

The glitter in the
overbright
eyes became muted. "It was never part of my plan to hurt you." Her voice held a suggestion of regret. "You were always kind
to
me, Zoë. Against my will, I found myself liking you. I had hoped
to
keep you
Out
of it. I locked you in that upstairs chamber. Sooner or later you would have been discovered. But now you are a witness, you see."

A thought struck Zoë. Rather indignantly, she demanded, "Was it you who hit me on the back of the head?" and she instantly cringed to think that out of everything that had happened or might soon occur, she had taken offense over something so trifling.

"It was necessary," said Francoise, "so that you would not hear the report of the shot when I dealt with Varlet. At that time, I was trying to protect you."

Francoise straightened. The performance was about over. Zoë could not think of a single thing to say to prolong it. The final act was beginning.

Very softly, Rolfe said, "This isn't going to work, you know."

The ensuing laugh chilled Zoë to the bone. "It will work," said Francoise. "Admit it. I've outwitted you."

"I'm afraid not," said Rolfe in a mock-sorrowful tone.

He was the picture of indolence, thought Zoë. And as though to emphasize that he had nothing to fear, he lazily crossed one booted foot over the other as he lounged against the desk.

"You see, Francoise," he said gently, "I was onto you before we left the house."

"I take leave to doubt that."

"You made a fatal blunder, my dear."

Her laugh sounded forced. "All right, I'll humor you. What blunder?"

"When you mentioned my limp.
There is only one person in the whole of Paris who knows about
that attack on me in London. You gave yourself away with that careless slip."

"What attack?" asked Zoë. "That's the second time you've mentioned it."

Francoise inclined her head in acknowledgment of the hit. "Even so," she said, "I might have heard of it from Charles. He still corresponds with friends in England."

"There were other things."

'You're playing for time," she said, "and it won't do you a bit of good. Still, you have piqued my interest. Don't stop now."

"Thank you. Nothing glaring, you understand, just trifles that confirmed my suspicions. The address of this house for one thing. To execute your plan, it was necessary for you to come with me. What better way to ensure that I would not leave you behind than by pleading ignorance of the address but knowledge of the whereabouts of the house itself? And then there was your insistence that the authorities must be informed. That had me puzzled for a time."

"And what conclusion did you reach?" asked Francoise dryly.

"That your insistence was at best only halfhearted and a ploy to discover whether I really meant to come alone or whether I would bring reinforcements."

"And knowing all that, you still walked into my trap?" A muscle clenched in Rolfe's cheek, and Francoise laughed softly. "I think I understand. You said it yourself. You would not take the chance on anything happening to Zoë. You must have suffered agonies on the way here, not knowing whether she
was alive or dead!"

"I could barely keep my hands from strangling you," agreed Rolfe amiably.

"Rolfe," cut in Zoë in a very subdued voice. "I don't think I've ever told you that I love you. I should like to say it once before I die. I love you, Rolfe."

In an amused tone, Rolfe said, "I'll remind you of those words, kitten, when this is all over."

"Rolfe!" shrilled Zoë. "I want the words!"

"Oh, very well, then," said Rolfe, not very graciously. "I love you, but you know that already."

The pistol was raised. Though Rolfe's expression remained unchanged, in that moment, Zoë knew the end had come. She edged forward in her chair.

"Easy, Zoë," said Rolfe. "I'm not Paul Varlet. Your friend won't get rid of me as easily as she got rid of him." His next words were addressed to Francoise. "I can scarcely credit that he just sat at this desk and allowed you to pull a gun on him. How did you do it?"

Francoise lowered the pistol fractionally
When
she laughed, Zoë winced.

"My dear Rivard, you may believe that it was child's play. I promised to deliver Zoë for a rather substantial sum of money. Varlet sat down at the desk to write out the draft on his bank. Zoë was all he could thing about. The rest you may surmise."

The pistol jerked up. Zoë started to her feet. "No!" Zoë screamed as Francoise pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Nor had Rolfe moved from his negligent pose.

"I disabled it," he drawled, "when the curricle went into the ditch. And you may take my word for it, my pistol is useless. I never thought to reload it after the duel with Tresier, you see."

A look of awful comprehension crossed the woman's face. She flung both pistols at Rolfe's head. He ducked,
then
went to retrieve them. Francoise backed toward the locked door. A movement at the open window caught her eye. The bloodied figure of a young man climbed over the sill. Zoë recognized him as Andre
Valaze
. In his good hand he held a pistol.

"Andre. Thank God you are here!" Francoise cried out. "He murdered Paul. I couldn't stop him. They were quarreling over the girl. Kill him, Andre, kill him, and I'll take care of the girl."

There was a deafening roar as a pistol went off. Smoke filled the room. A blessed paralysis seized Zoë's brain as she waited for the end to come. The smoke cleared. She heard someone sobbing. It was the boy, Andre. He was bent over the crumpled body of Paul Varlet. Rolfe was crouched over Francoise's inert form.

The room was tilting crazily, but there was a question hammering inside Zoë's head that must be asked. "Rolfe!" Was that her voice, so thin and distant? She must concentrate. "Rolfe," she said again, "was your pistol loaded or was it empty?" She knew that her life depended on his answer.

"It was loaded, of course," he answered absently.

"Oh God, she's dead! Francoise is dead!"

He looked over at Zoë. "What the deuce . . . ?"

For the first time in her life, Zoë fainted.

Zoë was to remember very little of the hours which followed. She was in shock. Her mind was numb. The horror of those last minutes with Francoise seemed unreal. She expected to wake and find that the whole thing had been nothing more than a bad dream.

By degrees, she began to get a grip on herself. Even so, again and again, she found herself reliving that awful scene in the bookroom. Snatches of conversation came back to
her,
There was so much to assimilate, so many unpalatable truths which must be faced. The girl whom she had regarded as her very best friend was a cold-blooded killer and the brain behind a fanatical secret society. Rolfe's presence in France was more devious than he had let on. He was an agent of some sort with the avowed purpose of destroying
La Compagnie.

That truth was borne in on her when they returned to the house in St. Germain. The gentleman who met them in the foyer was vaguely familiar. Housard, Rolfe called him. The name jogged Zoë's memory. And then it all came back to her. Housard had posed as their coachman on the ride from Rouen to Coutances. She had not set eyes on him since the
night of the
Devonshires
' party.

She could sense his jubilation. Rolfe was jubilant also, though he was more restrained with it, and it came to Zoë that he wished to spare her feelings. But though the gentlemen spoke in low tones, they failed to disguise their sentiments — against every expectation,
Le Patron
had been unmasked and dealt with.

They moved to the yellow
salle.
Zoë tried to concentrate on the conversation which buzzed around her head, but she could not prevent her thoughts straying.

At one point, she struck in, "What about the boy, Andre
Valaze
? What is going to happen to him?"

"Samson is taking him to a safe house," answered Rolfe, addressing Housard rather than Zoë.

Zoë's head was reeling. "Is . . . is Samson in this too?" Her gaze flitted from Rolfe to Housard.

"Samson is my man," answered Housard shortly before asking Rolfe, "How much does
Valaze
know?"

"Very little, I should say, otherwise he would have stopped Francoise sooner than he did. No. It's my surmise that he arranged this rendezvous with Varlet to report on the duel. He must have come upon us in the bookroom in time to overhear Francoise boast that she had shot Varlet. The poor devil was crazy with grief."

Housard's next words electrified Zoë. "It makes no difference. By tomorrow, he will be a wanted man." He heard her sharp intake of breath and hastened to add, "Because of the duel, is all I meant. He was recognized. But you may believe that no one's interests will be served if the boy should be questioned by the authorities. We shall see that he gets safely away."