Deadly Descent (14 page)

“You would be fitted for the role at the chateau in a rich, exotic costume. Bedecked with the jewels, you would accompany my stepfather to the dinner and, afterwards, sit with him in the theater.” He raised his hand in a reassuring gesture. “Don't worry, you won't be bored. The count is a diverting companion; he knows many anecdotes and tells them well. From the theater, you would return to the treasure room, the jewels would be put back in their case, and you would be free to do as you please. My stepfather is frail and retires early. He does not expect you to entertain him.”

“Would you trust a stranger with such a treasure?” she asked.

He insinuated a playful, mischievous tone into his reply. “When I first had this idea, I decided to get to know you better. I have learned you enjoy the patronage of the Comtesse de Beaumont, an estimable woman with whom I am acquainted, and have the confidence of Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin.” With a wink he added, “What finer credentials could I hope for?”

She started, then frowned. Was she surprised, perhaps annoyed that her link with Saint-Martin had been found out? Pressigny discreetly averted his eyes as the young woman struggled to regain her poise.

“I'll consider your offer and give you my reply tomorrow,” she replied finally, “together with measurements for the costume, if I accept.” To encourage her, he then mentioned the stipend, one hundred livres. She seemed surprised. As well she should, for it was as much as an experienced actress might earn in a month. With that they parted. When she was out of sight, he snapped his fingers, danced a few steps, and walked away with a jaunty air.

***

An evening hush came over the garden. Anne was alone in Georges' office, looking out the open window, watching a pair of twittering sparrows at play in the bushes. Rain had cooled the air. She allowed her mind to drift, wondering how the colonel would react to Pressigny's odd invitation. With suspicion, probably. What did the man
really
have in mind? Why didn't he enlist the services of Henriette or another woman at the variety theater? On the other hand, the colonel might welcome an opportunity to pursue an investigation at Chateau Debussy.

Anne continued this debate fruitlessly for a few more minutes, then shrugged. The colonel would soon arrive and could speak for himself. She picked up a crust of bread from the window sill, broke it into pieces, and fed them to the sparrows.

When the bread was gone, she turned from the window and surveyed the adjutant's domain. Georges had shown her into the room, then had gone to fetch his superior. As he left, he gestured to a row of sketches on a wall. If she recognized anyone there, he had said laughing, she should let him know. Dutifully, she studied the faces of several men wanted for murder and other horrendous acts. The evil of their deeds seemed imprinted in their eyes. She thanked God she hadn't met any of them.

She stepped to the left to view the pictures of stolen goods. Georges had said he sketched them himself. The lamps on the wall threw too little light to appreciate his rendering of detail in the jewelry, but certain curious designs caught her fancy—the Z-shaped pedestal of one of the bowls, the serpentine handle of another.

At the sound of steps approaching, she drew back from the sketches. Georges entered, followed by the colonel, who took a chair by the window. Unmindful of the fading light, he sat back, arms crossed, while Anne reported on Pressigny's proposal to her. The colonel's expression remained inscrutable. As dusk filled the room, Georges leaned forward at his desk and lighted the lamp in front of him. Saint-Martin rose and lighted several others. A golden glow spread through the room.

At the end of her report, the colonel raised the questions she had expected. In the discussion that followed, he welcomed the opportunity to carry the investigation into Chateau Debussy. The proposal to wear the necklace was highly unusual, but did not appear threatening. He glanced at Anne. “Comte Debussy's an invalid and has no reason to harm you.” He turned to Georges and continued, “I'm sure he'll have the jewels well guarded. She should be in no danger on their account.”

“Looks splendid for her,” Georges said, “all that money! The dressing up!” He simpered, eye lids fluttering. “I wish Jean had asked me.”

“Silly goose!” Anne frowned at him. “Pressigny's giving me an opportunity to pry into his affairs. That's the point!”

Saint-Martin nodded. “Since he has acknowledged that Comtesse de Beaumont and I stand behind you, he's not likely to force his attentions.”

Georges winked at Anne. “And I'm sure you can handle his tricks.”

She grimaced with mock pain, then turned to Saint-Martin. “I'll send Pressigny a note accepting his proposal.” Anticipating an objection, she hesitated. “Could Georges go with me?”

“Yes, incognito.” The colonel caught his adjutant's eye. “You have one month, Georges. Arrange to be at Chateau Debussy to work with Miss Cartier. I'll be nearby at my aunt's chateau.” Saint-Martin slapped his thigh, preparing to leave.

Anne spoke up. “I think it's safe now to move back to my own apartment. There's been no sign of Derennes. He's either out of the country or held captive by the Amateurs.”

“Or dead and buried,” interjected Georges.

The colonel rose from his chair. “Keep the key, Mademoiselle. It's still useful.”

She jiggled her purse, feeling the key's weight, reassuring herself. “Thank you. I'll be leaving tomorrow.”

“The garden apartment will remain free,” he said, walking her to the door. “You might need it again.”

***

Alone in the sitting room, Colonel Saint-Martin poured a glass of brandy. He eased himself into a chair and took a sip. The calculating part of his mind liked the idea of prying into affairs at Chateau Debussy. He had smelled something rotten there. It wasn't farfetched to think the Amateurs or their directeur might have hidden Derennes in one of the many caves that must riddle the chalk ridge. Or in the cellars of the chateau. Georges and Anne would find out.

The prospect of her venturing into Pressigny's lair, however, disturbed him. Her role in the Amateurs' reception appeared genuine, but their directeur surely had ulterior motives. That thought agitated Saint-Martin so violently he had to ask himself why.

He discovered he feared for Anne, that she might be violated, stripped of her innocence—as if she were a helpless, naive girl who needed his protection. He scolded himself. She was a mature woman, alert to the sexual games Pressigny played and able to exploit his sensuality. At Chateau Debussy she would need a partner like Georges, not a protector. He gazed into the brandy, aware of a feeling akin to jealousy creeping into his soul.

Chapter 16

Spying

Late the next afternoon, Anne sat sipping a lemonade in the small café by the Théatre des Petits Comédiens. Michou, the deaf seamstress, should soon appear. Over the past several days, Anne had learned the woman's daily routine. She always left her garret on Rue Richelieu a little after dawn and walked the short distance to work. At midday she visited the Palais-Royal, sometimes alone, now and then with two other women from the theater. From their gestures Anne realized they were also deaf. Probably seamstresses like Michou.

After work Michou often wandered in the garden with the same two women until darkness attracted young toughs, prostitutes, and thieves. Then she hurried home like a frightened rabbit. In rare moments of leisure, her favorite pastime was sketching people, animals, and anything else that caught her fancy. Anne occasionally greeted her in passing with a fleeting smile, hoping to gradually appear familiar to her eyes.

Today the women's routine changed. Michou's two friends came from the service door to the table next to Anne's. The café was otherwise empty, except for a waiter. At a signal from Anne, he brought her another lemonade. She paid him and he disappeared into the kitchen. Anne turned her back to the deaf women, then drew a plain snuff box from her bag. The box was empty. She grimaced. The very thought of snuff was repulsive. But inside the lid was a mirror.

Placing the box on the table at her left hand, she adjusted the lid to an angle where she could observe her neighbors. Much of what they were signing to one another meant little to her, but she understood they had just been paid and were through for the day. They were soon joined by two men. Young apprentices, judging from their work clothes. Deaf as well. Wine arrived. The signing grew more animated.

Anne surmised that Michou had also been paid. Within minutes she joined the circle, greeted with smiles and hugs and a glass of wine. The silent conversation continued until the apprentices rose from the table. The circle broke up in a flurry of signing and gestures, and the two men walked out into the garden. Michou's companions from the theater glanced at Anne, who pretended to read a menu.

The older of the two women sat up straight. Her eyes narrowed, searching the room. She signed to the younger one, who reached into a sack at her feet and swiftly moved the contents into Michou's bag.

Anne stared into the tiny mirror. What was going on? She clutched the menu. Her shoulders tensed. Had the women taken something valuable from the theater and passed it to Michou? Hardly surprising. The manager paid them a pittance. Anne recalled his pinched, unsmiling face. He could be ruthless. The women risked being dismissed, then whipped and sent to the workhouse.

Michou closed her bag, a brown cloth sack Anne had not seen before, and waved as her friends went after the men toward the Camp of the Tatars. Clutching the bag, Michou left the Palais-Royal through the Beaujolais portal. Anne followed her to Rue Richelieu, where she turned northward. It appeared she was going to her room.

As she walked on the narrow crowded sidewalk, she glanced left and right like an anxious sparrow. Near the entrance to the Bibliothèque Royale, a barrel fell off a wagon and frightened a horse pulling a cart a few feet from Anne. The animal reared, then charged out of control on to the sidewalk. People leaped out of its way, screaming. With a clatter of hooves, it bore down on the deaf woman. Anne shouted in vain. At the last moment, Michou appeared to detect alarm in the face of an on-coming coachman. She jumped to her right. The cart hurtled past, missing her by inches. But she lost her balance, tripped and fell, knocking her head on the pavement.

Anne rushed up. Michou lay still for a few seconds, then struggled to her knees, a dazed look on her face. A dense, mindless stream of people jostled the two women. Anne lifted Michou and carried her, light as a child, into a corner café and laid her on a wall bench. The proprietor hurried toward them, his arms gesticulating, a protest on his lips.

“We won't be long,” Anne said, calming him with a coin. “Some water and a clean cloth, please.” Caressing Michou, she wiped dirt from a bruise on her forehead. There were no other injuries she could see. As Michou's daze wore off, panic set in. She touched her chest and seemed momentarily relieved. She'd found her purse. But then she reached frantically for her handbag. Her eyes widened in despair.

Anne leaped to her feet and ran back to the scene of the accident, her hope sinking with every step. Paris was a city of thieves.

But the bag was there, leaning against the library wall. She opened it quickly and saw paints, used brushes, irregular sheets of paper and canvas, and other artist's supplies. Gathered furtively, it appeared, out of fear the manager would object.

Anne closed the sack and hurried back to the café. Michou was anxiously watching the door, sitting upright on the bench. At the sight of her bag, she burst into tears. Anne laid it in her lap, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and hugged her gently. Looking up, Michou gave her a grateful smile.

***

The following day Anne was resting on a bench against a plane tree, sheltered from the afternoon sun. The air was warm and still along the Boulevard. Behind her was a depot of the French Guards, where Georges said they should meet. She had been anxious at first about her disguise, a young man's simple brown suit and a short wig. A powder dulled and darkened her complexion.

She relaxed, however, when the uniformed men going in and out of the building took no notice of her. On the Boulevard, coaches clattered by, filling her nostrils with dust. Her eyes darted through the traffic, searching for Georges.

Early that morning he had called at her apartment, saying he needed her later in the day to spy on Robert LeCourt. “He runs the Amateurs from behind the scenes. Puts up most of the money. I've been wondering why.”

“Can't one of your agents help?” she had protested. She had planned to spend the day at Épée's institute.

“I try to keep them away from Antoine's case, especially when LeCourt's involved. They might tell the Paris police what we're doing.” He had handed her the suit of clothes. “Your costume!” When she had agreed reluctantly, he grinned encouragement. “An actress needs practice. This is like being on stage.”

Anne felt relieved when Georges emerged from the crowd, waving his hand.

“You're perfect!” he whispered as she rose to meet him.

“Come here.” She led him to a furniture shop next door to the depot. Pointing to their reflection in a display window, she asked, “Who are we supposed to be?”

“A furniture dealer and his son from Rouen.” Georges puffed out his chest, every inch the businessman. “We'll use the Norman accent you learned from Antoine.”

They did indeed look like a pair of provincial visitors, Anne agreed. Their brown suits were out of style, the coats longer than the present fashion, the buttons larger. Georges' wig added years to his appearance, reminding her that he was old enough to be her father.

They walked to the next corner, where Georges pointed up Rue d'Artois, north of the Boulevard. Financiers, bankers, and other newly rich businessmen had recently built luxurious town houses on its large noble estates. “They're LeCourt's kind of people. He lives nearby on Rue Thaitbout.”

“What's happened to the old families who lived there?” Anne had earlier noticed Georges' aversion to the aristocracy.

“They've done very well on profits from dividing their estates and selling off the pieces. Some of them moved across the river into the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Others stayed where they were and renovated their mansions or built new ones.” Georges warmed to the topic. “Greedy bastards, crooked as fishhooks! Lieutenant-General Sartine had me investigate one of them. I found an illegal distillery in the basement!”

Turning around, Georges pointed southward at a large, pillared stone building across the Boulevard. “The Italian Comedy Theater, built just a few years ago. The café that LeCourt frequents is a short distance to the east. Gets a lot of late evening business after the shows.” They crossed the Boulevard through a moving maze of carriages and pedestrians. A few minutes later they entered a simple two-story building. Over the door hung a weathered sign, Café Marcel.

They found a small marble-topped table for themselves in the main room near the entrance. Anne glanced about, counting a dozen similar tables along the walls and four larger ones in the center. Fewer than half the chairs were occupied in the late afternoon, mostly by merchants and tradesmen reading newspapers or chatting. A few waiters were scuttling about. One of them came by. “Tea and biscuits,” Georges said soberly. Anne ordered the same.

Through a wide archway into the next room she could see a bar, more half-occupied tables, and a rack of newspapers on a far wall. Both rooms had once been elegantly decorated. Large crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings that needed fresh paint. Several of the wall mirrors were discolored. The floors were worn near the bar and at the entrance. A steady stream of customers approached the bar and bought wine to take out.

Anne felt at ease. The café's clientele appeared diverse enough to ensure anonymity, her decent bourgeois clothing helped her blend in. Thanks to the mirrored walls she could observe what went on without appearing curious.

“There are rooms upstairs.” Georges pointed with his eyes towards a stairway opposite the entrance. “I'll take a quick look. They must be empty now.”

When their tea had arrived and the barkeeper was preoccupied by a customer, Georges slipped away, leaving Anne alone at the table.

In the mirror next to her table she checked her posture. She had to remember to sit like a man, spreading her legs and slouching slightly. When ordering, she dropped her voice to a lower register. A harmless deception, she thought, the concealing of one's sex, not to be compared with the evil tricks of a charlatan. People often wore disguises of word, gesture, and dress, pretending to be honest when they were false; wealthy, when they were poor; beautiful, when they were ugly.

She gazed at the men around her, wondering whimsically whether any of them were women in disguise. She half-seriously thought she could pick out one or two. And perhaps a few other imposters.

Georges' return jarred her out of this line of reflection. He sketched a plan of the upper floor. A T-shaped corridor ran from the top of the stairs to the back of the building. The next thing to check, he said, was the newspaper rack. He walked into the barroom, studied the selection of papers, and returned to the table with two of them.

“What's this?” asked Anne, scanning a front page.

“Dutch. Probably the reason LeCourt comes to this café. He reads French, of course, but he gets news from Holland from these two papers and meets a few of his countrymen here.” After skimming the papers, Georges returned them to the rack.

Near six in the evening, Anne noticed the tables begin to fill up with wealthier, more stylish customers. As a clock chimed the hour, Georges whispered, “LeCourt just arrived, he's the man in the dark green suit.” Anne watched him in a mirror, struck by the simple elegance of his movements. And of his attire. The collar, lapels, and cuffs of his coat were embroidered with delicate silver patterns.

He walked through the barroom, greeting men at tables as he passed by. At the newspaper rack he picked up the two Dutch papers and approached the bar. After a few words with the barkeeper, he received a drink and a key. He tucked one of the papers under his arm, returned the other to the rack, and went upstairs.

“So, this evening he engages a private room,” said Georges. “We'll wait and see who comes to visit him.”

A question had been forming in the back of Anne's mind. “What's going on, Georges?” she asked doubtfully. “How do you know he's going to meet someone to discuss something we'd want to hear?”

“A professional secret, my dear,” he replied grinning. “But I can trust you.” He leaned forward—his grin vanishing, and lowered his voice. “LeCourt's barber spies on him for Comptroller-General Calonne. For a little extra money, he also works for me. Yesterday, while peeking in LeCourt's appointment book, he noticed a strange entry for early this evening. Here's a copy.” Georges pressed a scrap of paper into her hand.

fncmsd166pm

She studied it, then looked up. “What does it mean?”

“A simple code for Café Marcel, Simon Derennes, 16th of this month, in the evening.
fn
should soon appear.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, drinking their tea. Suddenly, Georges gestured with his eyes toward the barroom. “Watch,” he whispered.

A sullen sharp-faced man in a plain brown suit picked up the remaining Dutch paper, read it for a few seconds, then returned it to the rack. When a customer distracted the barkeeper, the sharp-faced man walked quickly upstairs.

“LeCourt surely left a message in that paper,” Georges said. “He's covering his tracks.”

A few moments later, Georges and Anne also approached the barkeeper. They could have any room except number one; it had been taken. For a couple of
sous
, Georges got the key for number two and put it in his pocket. Anne followed him up the stairs. The two rooms were side by side in the rear of the building. Their windows opened to narrow balconies over a courtyard, enclosed by the blank walls of neighboring buildings.

Georges placed a funnel-shaped device against the wall of number one, trying to hear the conversation between LeCourt and his visitor. The trick failed. Either the wall was too thick or the voices too soft.

While he was preoccupied, Anne stepped out onto the balcony. A narrow ledge jutted out from the café's outside wall, connecting her balcony with the one next door. The ledge was smooth and level but barely visible. The sun had sunk low in the sky. The courtyard was becoming dark.

Anne took a deep breath, climbed over the railing, and shuffled slowly along the ledge to the neighboring balcony. She peered cautiously into the room. The two men sat at a table in quiet, earnest conversation. Only meaningless bits of it came through the closed window.