The Paris Secret (16 page)

The key fob beeped to help locate lost keys! Was Monsieur Marcel trying to get my attention? I stood to see if I could see him anywhere—and there, walking toward the main entrance was a short man with the collar of his blazer flipped up around his ears. A beret pulled down over his ears covered most of that distinctive white hair. Something silver glinted in his hand.

“Monsieur Marcel!” I called out. He stopped at the doorway and turned.

His deathly pale face and dark feverish eyes stopped me in my tracks. He paused and put an index finger to his lips, indicating with a slight jerk of his head that he wanted me to follow him. Then he stepped through the doorway.

“Wait!” And just like Alice following the white rabbit, I hurried after him. I ran to catch up, but he didn’t stop to acknowledge me until I grabbed his arm.

“Monsieur? Are you alright? I’ve been worried. Where the hell have you been?”

Instead of answering, he pulled me inside the building and ducked behind a large pillar.

“We cannot talk here, Madame Sinclair. We must not be seen,” he whispered. There was a thin red cut just under his right ear. It looked as if someone had pressed a knife to his throat.

“Did Garland do that to you?” I demanded, pointing to his neck. His only answer was to pull the collar of his blazer up higher and steer me toward a nearby stairwell.

“I barely got away with my life. I’ve been hiding out down here in my old office since last night. I was too afraid to go back to my apartment for fear of leading my attacker to you and Monsieur Girard. You two are in grave danger.”

“Did you tell the police where we were?”

“Please forgive me.” He stopped abruptly at the bottom of the steps and gave me a remorseful look. “It was the only way I could think to keep you safe from that lunatic. Better in jail than dead.”

“You could have just called to warn us,” I pointed out.

He didn’t reply. We’d arrived at an age-scarred office door and he fumbled with the lock. Once it was unlocked, he held the door open.

“I didn’t realize you taught here,
monsieur.
”

“For nearly forty years. I retired just this past June,” he said, unable to mask his pride.

He flipped a switch and the room was bathed in dim yellow light. The small office was filled with mismatched furniture. It smelled like a moldy basement. A blanket was balled up in a leather recliner behind his desk. He must have slept there the night before.

“They let you hold on to your office?”

“My replacement has a nice new office upstairs. Soon this office will be used for storage.” He pulled out a handkerchief and took off his glasses, cleaning them with trembling fingers.

“What happened last night?” I sat on a hard wooden chair in front of the desk.

“I’d just left work and was heading home when I was grabbed from behind and pulled into an alley. Something sharp at my neck pressed into my skin. I knew I was about to die. Then I remembered the penknife in my pocket and plunged it into my attacker’s thigh and ran. This was the safest place I could think to come.”

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“No phone.” He pointed toward an empty phone jack in the wall. I was in such a hurry to get home last night I forgot my cell phone at work. I was so worried that something terrible might happen to you, I called the police first thing this morning. I was too scared to look for a phone last night. Forgive me.”

His red-rimmed eyes filled with tears and I reached out and grabbed his hand.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “Did you get a good look at Garland? Could you identify him in a police lineup?”

Monsieur Marcel looked confused and shook his head vigorously. “I have no idea who you are talking about, Madame Sinclair,” he said stiffly. His face colored slightly. “I know who attacked me. It was
la petite nonne.
”

I didn’t like the wild look in the old man’s eyes one bit. He was about to board the train to Crazy Town. I needed to pull him back before the train left the station.

“
La petite nonne?
Who the hell is that?”

“Why the little nun, of course,” he replied.

“A nun attacked you?” The train left the station.

“She’s very angry about what was taken from her,” replied Monsieur Marcel, leaning close to me. He was so close I could smell coffee on his stale breath and see the large pores in his nose.

“You mean the Moret Crucifix?” I assumed he was talking about the Black Nun of Moret.

He nodded. His eyes were as big as saucers.

Poor man. The death of his friends Drs. Hewitt and Renard must have pushed him right over the edge. If that were the case, he’d be no help at all to Simon and me when it came to reporting Garland’s attack on him. And speaking of Simon, he was probably wondering where I was. I jumped up and checked my watch. It was 4:30.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave now! She’s out there…waiting! She’ll kill us both!” The old man grabbed my arm. His face turned bright crimson and he started to gasp for breath.

“
Monsieur,
calm down! Take a breath. It’s okay. There’s no nun out there. I promise. You’re coming with me. You’ll be safe with us, with Simon and me.”

“Where is Monsieur Girard?”

“Waiting for me in the Place de la Sorbonne. Come on. Let’s go.”

I guided him toward the office door, but he wheezed loudly and sank to his knees. He clutched at this throat like he couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” I knelt down next to him.

He pointed frantically to something behind me. A blue and white plastic asthma inhaler sat on top of a filing cabinet. I ran to retrieve it. Monsieur Marcel jammed the mouthpiece into his mouth and pressed down on the canister. After a minute, his breathing slowed down and his color returned to normal. I helped him to his feet.

“I’ve had asthma since I was a boy working in my family’s
boulangerie.
It went away when I stopped working there, but it came back a few years ago.”

“Is there anything else I can get you,
monsieur,
because we really need to get out of here?” A sense of urgency tugged at me. Simon must be panicked by now. He probably thought Garland had me.

“My briefcase is in the closet over there. Could you get it for me,
si vous plait?
”

Anxious to get back to Simon, I rushed over to the small closet in the corner of the room and opened the door. The feel of hands on the small of my back made me realize my mistake. Monsieur Marcel pushed me into the closet and slammed the door shut. A key turned in the lock. The crazy old bastard had locked me in. I jiggled the handle and pounded on the door.

“What are you doing? Open this door! Monsieur Marcel! Are you out there? Let me out!”

I stopped pounding and pressed my ear to the door. I could hear the old man’s breathing. It was pitch black in the closet but a strip of light shone from a gap at the bottom of the door. I got on the floor and looked through the gap. Marcel stood right outside the door.

“I know you’re still there! Let me out right now!” I gave the door a savage kick and it rattled in its frame but didn’t open.

“This is for your own good, Evalyn. I assure you
la petite nonne
is out there. Somebody has to stop her. Too many people have died already. But I can keep you safe.”

Evalyn? He thought I was Dr. Hewitt. He’d truly lost his mind. “Monsieur Marcel,” I said in a calmer voice that I hoped would appeal to what sense he may have left. “Please let me out. I’m not Evalyn. I’m Maya, remember? Maya Sinclair? I promise not to leave this office but I need you to let me out. Let me out now!” I screamed.

“Please don’t strain your vocal cords by yelling, Evalyn. No one will hear you. As I’ve already told you, all the new faculty offices are upstairs now. No one comes down here anymore.”

“Monsieur Marcel!”

The only answer was the sound of the office door slamming shut. I checked under the door. The light was out. The office was dark and empty. I was alone. To make matters worse, my cell phone was ringing in my bag, which was—of course, on the other side of the door. It couldn’t be anyone but Simon calling. Had he and Francoise found the locker and the crucifix? I had to get out.

I felt around on the wall for a light switch and came up empty. Feeling above my head, my fingers encountered a string hanging from the ceiling. After pulling it, the small closet was illuminated with light from a single, naked bulb. The closet walls were lined with shelves of boxes and old books. An ancient manual typewriter sat on the top shelf alongside an old Hewlett Packer computer. I rifled through boxes filled with paper, notebooks and manila folders. There was nothing to use to pick the lock or to remove the hinges on the door. I spotted a grate big enough for me to climb through over the closet door.

I pulled off the boxes on the shelf and tentatively climbed up on the lowest shelf. It creaked ominously but held my weight. I climbed until I was eye level with the grate. There were no screws or nails holding it in place. But the tight latticework design left no opening for me to pull it out of the wall. I’d need something to wedge under it. I jumped down.

The cell phone started to ring again. I scrambled around the paper and books littering the floor, looking for anything I could use to pry open the grate. Finally, I found a wooden ruler. I shoved it in the back pocket of my pants and started to climb. But this time when I stepped on the lowest shelf, it buckled under my weight and broke in half.

“Shit!” I wiped sweat from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater and jumped up to grab a higher shelf.

This shelf was sturdier and I was able to put my right knee on the shelf above the broken one and pull myself up. I pulled out the ruler and started digging around the edges of the grate to loosen the paint. The paint was like cement. I took me ten minutes of scraping and digging just to loosen a half-inch section. The shelf I was standing on started to groan in protest. The cell phone started ringing again. I wedged the ruler under the edge of the grate and pressed down. It budged ever so slightly before the ruler snapped in half. I used the jagged half of what was still in my hand to pry the grate another millimeter.

My shoulders ached, but I kept at it for what seemed like an eternity, until I could get a couple of fingers behind the grate. I pulled with all my might, breaking my fingernails to the quick in the process. There was a loud scraping noise as I gave the grate one last pull. It crashed to the floor in a shower of dust, plaster and paint flakes just as the shelf I was standing on broke. There was just enough time to leap and grab hold of the ledge. My feet scrabbled at the closet door until one foot found the doorknob. I used it to boost myself up and used what little upper body strength I had left to pull myself through the opening.

At that point, I didn’t care if I broke every bone in my body. I wanted out of that closet. I pushed forward and landed hard on my back. Everything hurt, especially my head. I don’t know how long I lay there unmoving, trying to assess if anything was broken. Tentatively, I moved my legs and then my arms.

I pulled myself into a sitting position against the desk and then used the handle of one of the top drawers to pull myself to my feet, and it slid open the in process. Among the debris inside the drawer was a black velvet drawstring pouch. A glint of gold showed through the opening. Curious, I picked up the pouch. Whatever was inside wasn’t very big but it was heavy. I pulled out a gold crucifix with a stained-glass scene inlaid in the handle.

The Moret Crucifix was in my hands. It was beautiful. Remembering what Monsieur Marcel had said about the date, I flipped it over. Nothing. This was the forged crucifix Simon’s brother, Luc, had made. It was smeared with dried blood, probably Oliver Renard’s blood. Sebastian Marcel was either there when Dr. Renard was murdered or sometime afterward. Was Simon right? Did Marcel kill his old friend for Garland?

The cell phone rang again. “Where the hell did you go? I’ve been calling you for an hour!” Simon was highly aggravated.

I quickly explained, surprised to find myself near tears. Simon swore and his voice softened…but not much.

“I told you we should never have trusted that old man. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, and you can shove the I-told-you-so’s,” I snapped. “Did you find the locker?”

“No. And to make matters worse, Claire is home early from London. She finally pulled her head out of her ass long enough to turn on the TV. She saw me on the news and rushed home. When she realized I’d been in her apartment and Francoise was gone, she freaked out and called the police. Francoise is back home with her
maman
being grilled by the cops.”

“Now whose turn is it to say I told you so? We shouldn’t have involved her.”

“I know,” he said, sounding tired and utterly defeated. Did he feel bad about his girlfriend calling the police on him? I told him about finding the fake crucifix, which lifted his spirits considerably.

“I don’t think Garland would know how to tell the fake crucifix from the real one,” I pointed out. “We can just give him the fake one.”

“Do you really think he’s going to live up to his end of the bargain?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. It’s not like we have a choice.”

“You need to get out of there before the old man comes back. Meet me at the big fountain at Luxembourg Palace in an hour.”

To kill time, I wandered around the Latin Quarter and scraped enough change together to buy a crème cafe but felt too nauseous to drink it. I arrived at Luxembourg Palace and slowly walked around the large central fountain where people were lounging in chairs and kids were floating toy sailboats. We were supposed to meet Garland at the Medici Fountain. Where exactly was it? Was the psycho already there? Feeling antsy, I kept my hand in my bag, fingering the velvet pouch with the fake crucifix in it.

Simon found me and pulled me into an embrace. Needing a hug, I allowed myself to be pulled. Why were the things that felt so damned good so damned bad for you? A hard bulge in the front of his pants made me push away. Something stuck out of the waistband of his jeans, partially hidden by his leather bomber jacket.

“What’s that?” I already knew what it was. I was just hoping I was wrong.

“Insurance,” he replied, zipping up his jacket to hide the handle of the gun. “If you think we’re going to this meeting without some back-up, you’re crazy. I don’t trust Garland as far as the end of my face.”

“Face? It’s…Never mind,” I said, gesturing to the gun instead. “Where’d you get that thing?”

“It’s Max’s. He gave it to me for protection before we left his place.” Thinking back on Max’s reluctance at going to jail, I highly doubted it.

“He gave it to you or you took it?”

“Same difference,” he replied nonchalantly. “And don’t get uptight on me. We don’t have time for it.”

“Just promise me you won’t get us into any more trouble than we’re already in. Don’t let Garland turn you into someone you’re not.”

“You’ve known me for three days, Maya. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Touché. “Fine. You’re right.” I threw up my hands in defeat. “Just make sure you don’t shoot your balls off, Dirty Harry.”

Simon winced. “Are you ready for this?” I pulled out the pouch with the crucifix in it and handed it to him. He gave me a hard kiss in return.

“What was that for?”

“For luck,” he said, coloring slightly. We needed a hell of a lot more than kisses.

“Let’s go.”

The Medici Fountain was in a secluded corner of the Luxembourg Gardens. Surrounded by trees, the large baroque fountain showcased a pair of sleeping lovers. A menacing figure loomed over them. It seemed a fitting backdrop to our meeting with Garland. Under normal circumstances I’d have loved to have spent time reading a book in one of the chairs by the pond or eating lunch in the grass.

“So where is the bastard?” asked Simon once we’d arrived. Save for a lone tourist in sunglasses and a straw hat snapping pictures of the fountain, we were alone.

“I’ve got a weird feeling about this. It’s after seven. Where is he? I thought he was so hot to get his damned hands on this crucifix.”

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Something was wrong. I leaned against one of the large stone urns that lined the top of the fence while Simon paced. A loud, terrified scream shattered the quiet. The tourist stood pointing at the pond. Her face contorted in horror.

I followed her gaze to something—or rather someone—floating facedown in the pond. There was a small black hole in the man’s left temple and his arms were outstretched. A small tattoo of a coiled snake was plainly visible on one arm. My hands flew to my mouth as the woman continued to scream. Several other people who’d been in the vicinity had run over to see what the trouble was.

“It’s Garland,” I whispered to Simon as I swayed on my feet.

“Come on.” Simon grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

Simon pulled me stumbling behind him as he pushed through the throng of people that had begun to gather at the pond. We’d only gotten a few feet when our path was suddenly blocked by two police officers with assault rifles aimed right at us. Simon stopped and put his hands in the air. Officers with guns drawn seemed to come out of nowhere. A familiar voice spoke loudly, first in French then heavily accented English.

“Police! Show us your hands and lie facedown on the ground!” Thierry Bernier screeched. He aimed a rifle at us.

Simon sank to his knees, laid down on the ground and put his hands behind his head like he knew the drill while I stood there with my mouth hanging open, catching flies.

“Now!” Bernier was aiming his rifle at my forehead. I fainted dead away.

I was aware of the steady tap of rain against a windowpane. Were there windows in jail cells? I opened my eyes expecting to see concrete and iron bars. Instead, there was a white ceiling and fluorescent light fixtures. Straight ahead was a closed door. There was a rolling hospital tray with a plastic cup and pitcher on my right. I obviously wasn’t in jail. When I tried to reach for the pitcher, I discovered my right wrist was handcuffed to the bed rail, meaning I obviously wasn’t free, either. A glance through the narrow window of the door to my room revealed a uniformed police officer guarding it. I tugged uselessly at the handcuff as the sound of a flushing toilet made me sit up in bed. Captain Claude Bellange emerged, zipping his pants.