Deadly Descent (15 page)

At a gesture from LeCourt, the other man rose from the table and walked toward the window. Anne pressed her back flat against the wall in the small space between the window and the railing. He pushed open both halves of the window, the right side scarcely a foot away from her. She trembled, certain that he would see her.

“That's too much,” she heard LeCourt say. The man muttered under his breath, then closed the window halfway. The half of the window opposite her now served as a mirror, offering a clear view into the room. LeCourt sat with one leg crossed over the other, a glass in his hand. The newspaper lay on the table in front of him. About fifty years old, he was one of the most distinguished-looking men she had ever seen. Dark eyebrows. Finely chiseled handsome face. Thick silver hair. In the room's subdued light, his deepset eyes were inscrutable.

The other man picked up a sheaf of papers, held them close, and squinted at them. Nearsighted, Anne thought. When he finished reading, he took a small notebook from a leather wallet in his pocket and made several entries. He put the notebook and wallet away and looked up at LeCourt. Anne strained to hear.

The financier set his glass on the table. “Remind me, Monsieur Noir, how you found Derennes. From the beginning.”

His companion reported that he had slipped into the basement of the palace unobserved, discovered Derennes in the pit below the old torture chamber.

“I had followed him there during the intermission when the English blonde was singing. Knew he was up to something. Afterwards, when he disappeared, I guessed he might have gone back. And there he was. Beaten and out of his mind. Crying that a pirate had attacked him. I also found a woman's skeleton and a mess of animal bones!”

LeCourt stiffened, his dark brow working into a frown. He motioned for the man to continue.

“I searched him. Found the keys to his apartment. Picked up a kerchief belonging to Chevalier de Pressigny.” He gave LeCourt a knowing glance. “Pressigny also left his signature on a wardrobe list for a pirate's costume.”

LeCourt pursed his lips at the mention of Pressigny. “Why didn't he kill Derennes outright? Why leave him alive to be discovered by you?”

“He probably acted in haste and thought the man was dead.” He hesitated a moment for his master to comment. The financier merely nodded. Noir went on to explain how he had moved Derennes and the corpse. Anne could not hear where he had put them.

He pulled a small, leather-bound, gilt-edged book out of his pocket. Anne recognized it immediately from the theater office. “Derennes' journal,” he said, handing it across the table to LeCourt. “He's recorded the name of his victim in the dungeon.”

LeCourt unfastened the clasp and scanned the pages. “Aha,
she
was the one, I half suspected, …'s daughter. A pity.” His voice had trailed off. Anne could not grasp the parent's name—it was foreign, not French.

Noir pointed to the little book in LeCourt's hand. “Pressigny was also involved in the woman's death.”

“The fool!” hissed LeCourt. “Give me the gist of the story.” He glanced down at the book and closed it. “Derennes' handwriting is as bad as his character.”

Noir explained that, shortly after leaving the king's prison, Pressigny had seduced the woman at a country estate near Paris and brought her to an Amateurs' party at the palace theater. Growing bored, he handed her over to Derennes, who raped her. She threatened to expose both of them to her father. Derennes strangled her and obliged Pressigny to help move her body to the dungeon and throw her into the pit. Derennes warned him to keep quiet, or they would lose their heads on the block. Afterwards, Derennes borrowed money from Pressigny and never paid it back.

“What a pair!” exclaimed LeCourt, breathing heavily, his face flushed. He soon regained his calm, then opened the book again, paused on a page, and scowled. “Here's last year's incident. The actress and the clown.”

Anne's heart leaped at the allusion to Antoine. The story of his death must be in there! She stared at the book, as if to seize it with her eyes.

There was a moment of heavy silence. “Pressigny!” the financier exclaimed again. “I should have left him to rot in prison!” He pressed both hands flat on the table, calming his temper. “I assume he tried to kill Derennes to put an end to extortion. Why didn't he come to me with the problem in the first place? Or, at least tell me, after he had disposed of Derennes?”

The other man waited respectfully silent until LeCourt invited his opinion. “In some ways, Sir, the chevalier is still a boy. He acts on foolish impulses and makes bad mistakes. But you are to him like a stern parent. He does not wish to admit he needs help.”

LeCourt shrugged. Then, leaning forward, hands clasped before his mouth, he began speaking in a low voice. Anne drew as close to the window as she dared but could not make sense of what he said. Sounded like Dutch. Finally he put Derennes' journal in his pocket and leaned back in the chair. “By the way, what was Derennes planning to do in the dungeon in the first place?”

Anne's heart skipped a beat.

“To question a young woman he called Dido. He claimed she spied for Pressigny.”

“Dido? Sounds odd. Find out who she is. And whether I should be concerned.”

“Henriette claims to know. She's holding out for 50 livres.”

“Pay her.” LeCourt retrieved his glass, took a sip. “Is Derennes safely hidden? I may need to see him.”

“Nobody'll find him, and he can't run away. Unconscious most of the time. Spits blood. Has trouble breathing.”

“Then we're done,” said LeCourt and finished his drink. “Let's stretch.” The two men rose from the table and walked toward the window.

Panic gripped Anne. There wasn't time to return to the other balcony. She slid over the railing and crouched on the iron supports beneath the balcony. The two men continued to talk but too softly for much to be overheard. Finally, they left. The window clicked shut. Anne crouched for a few more minutes, then scrambled up onto the balcony.

Her partner appeared at the window and opened it. “What possessed you!” he exclaimed, as he led her into the room the men had vacated. “That was too dangerous. You're lucky LeCourt didn't catch you.”

“It was worth the risk,” she retorted exuberantly. “You won't believe what I heard!”

When she repeated LeCourt's comments about the corpse in the pit, Georges nodded. “Nalini, daughter of Krishna, steward at Chateau Debussy. That's where Pressigny lives. Her sketch is hanging on my office wall.” His eyes moistened, his voice fell. “Lovely girl.” He remained silent for a long moment, sorrow working the corners of his mouth. Finally, he glanced at Anne. “We can't tell her father yet, or we'd give ourselves away.”

Anne shuddered. In a month she would play her role at the same chateau and most likely meet the young woman's father. She sighed, then moved on to the strange story of Derennes' rescue.

“Pressigny, the pirate!” exclaimed Georges. “The head of the Amateurs assaults his assistant! What's LeCourt going to do about that?” Georges stared at Anne. “And, will he go after you?”

***

Georges stood nervously behind her at the door, while she searched for her key. This was the first time she had invited him home. Though he had never married, he had lived off and on with several different women. But he had never known a woman quite so headstrong as this one. Once inside the apartment, his anxiety grew as she took off her coat, shed the wig, pulled the pins out of her hair, and wiped the powder from her face.

“There!” she said, smiling at him. “I'm myself again.”

Georges grew more at ease opening a bottle of fine wine, a gift from the Comtesse de Beaumont's cellar. He rarely drank except at meals, so he sipped a glass while they shared cheese and bread at the table. His partner's adventure appeared to have drained her and left her tired and thirsty. After a couple of glasses, she complained it was hot in the room and removed her vest. Her face was flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright. Georges asked if she was all right.

“I'm delighted, Georges,” she replied laughing. “We've made headway tonight. If we could only lay hands on Derennes' journal, we'd prove Antoine's innocence.” She held out her empty glass. “Let's celebrate!”

He poured a second glass of wine for himself and a third for her. His nerves calmed, and he felt relaxed. She grew livelier as she drank, singing and sharing jokes with him. They finished the bottle and moved toward the chairs by the window. She laid a hand on his shoulder; he tentatively put an arm around her waist. She leaned toward him, parted her lips, closed her eyes and…passed out.

For a moment Georges didn't know what to do. He stood there, wet with sweat, holding her limp in his arms. Then he lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom, laid her down, and covered her. She began to perspire and to shiver. He bent anxiously over her, patting her forehead with a towel.

A few minutes later, she opened her eyes. Disbelief spread over her face. “What happened, Georges?”

“You fainted,” he said lamely.

“I guess I spoiled the party.” She sat up, eyes heavy-lidded, and leaned against the headboard. “The room's moving. Are we crossing the Channel?” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “Tell the captain I'll walk to France!”

Wondering if she was going to be sick, Georges looked around for a pail. “I'll tell him right away. This evening at the café, I learned you can fly, so I suppose you can also walk on water.”

She started to laugh, then stopped, squinting with pain. “Georges, take my head with you. I don't want it tonight.” She raised a hand and caressed his cheek. “Gentle Georges,” she said. “Best partner.”

He kissed her hand and was about to leave when she called out. “It just flashed in my mind the last thing LeCourt said on the balcony: ‘Keep a sharp eye on Pressigny, we still need him.'”

Chapter 17

A Precious Bowl

Short of breath, her head aching, Anne hesitated at the rear entrance to the provost's residence. The sun had not yet climbed above the rooftops of Paris. The air was warm and moist. A brief thunder storm had wakened her at dawn. Feeling queasy from too much wine, and a little ashamed, she had skipped breakfast. While she was dressing, a note from Colonel Saint-Martin had slipped under her door, asking her to see him today. She had hurried her toilette and hastened through nearly empty streets to his door.

Was she too eager, she asked herself, glancing at the key he had given her, heavy and black and as long as her hand. No matter, she knew he was an early riser. She bit her lip, opened the door, and stepped inside. He was in the garden in shirt-sleeves, a pair of scissors in his hand, snipping wilted flowers from a rose bush. As she approached, he looked up. A pleased expression came over his face.

“An expert now holds the script you discovered in the Amateurs' office.”

Anne flashed a smile, then paused. “I've given more thought to that script.” Her breath still short, she measured out her words. “We know that Antoine's alleged confession is almost identical to a passage from the farce,
The Cuckolded Clown
. He
could
have borrowed the passage to explain his suicide. But he could also have simply taken dictation, and it was used to incriminate him. I hope your expert will judge the confession, at the least, to be suspect.”

“You can be sure he will examine it critically. He has served me well before.”

He bowed and took her arm. “Shall we go to my office?”

On their way through the garden, they stopped to pick a half-dozen yellow roses. He cut the thorns off the stems and handed the roses to her one by one. Tiny drops of dew fell from their petals on to her dress. She chose one of the flowers, inhaled its delicate scent, and offered it to him. He received it with a gracious bow, drew in its aroma, then gestured with it toward the house.

When she had arranged the roses in a vase on his desk, he beckoned her to a chair.

“Are you well? You look pale. What happened yesterday?”

“We learned Derennes is alive!” She went on to report LeCourt's conversation with the sharp-faced Monsieur Noir, with-holding the more harrowing details. Georges would present them when he met the colonel later in the morning. And she would be spared a scolding for the risk she'd taken.

“You've confirmed our suspicion,” he said. “LeCourt is protecting the Amateurs from the scandal of Derennes' crimes. Perhaps that's good. While in LeCourt's custody, Derennes, whether ill or mad, won't harm anyone. Unfortunately, we can't question him about Antoine's case.” He settled back in his chair, examining the roses with a preoccupied air. “LeCourt believes Pressigny was involved in the death of the young woman known as Nalini. But he needs Pressigny, so he's going to protect him. At least for now.” He looked up from the roses and glanced at Anne. “Is Pressigny really indispensable to the Amateurs?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Indispensable to LeCourt at least. His own reputation is at stake. After all, he persuaded the king to let Pressigny out of prison. Picked him to direct the Amateurs. LeCourt wants people to trust his judgment, invest their money with him.”

“We may find ourselves jousting with Monsieur LeCourt before this is over.” Saint-Martin leaned forward with concern in his eyes. “By the way, if he discovers the identity of the woman whom Derennes was planning to ‘question,' you might hear from Lieutenant-General DeCrosne—and so might I.”

While he was speaking, Anne's headache returned. Her short supply of good humor diminished. The lieutenant-general could go to hell, she thought, barely concealing her irritation. She stirred in her chair. “Let's talk about what you've found for me.”

He nodded patiently, as if he were facing a testy child, then walked round the desk and put before her a copy of a memorandum, dated September 21, 1785. “Georges dug it out of the Paris police archives,” he remarked, leaning over her shoulder. She felt the heat of his body and warmed to the thought that he and Georges were taking risks too.

“Start here. Inspecteur Mauvert is reporting to Magistrate Sorin concerning the Laplante case.” He pointed to persons questioned by the inspecteur. Anne recognized Henriette Picard and other companions at the variety theater as well as several Amateurs.

“This is what caught my attention.” He touched a line with his finger. Mauvert had also summoned a woman called “Michou,” who had sometimes assisted Lélia Laplante with her wardrobe. He could not interrogate Michou because she was deaf and simple-minded; could neither read nor write. Between the lines of the memorandum the magistrate had written, “
mute witness, incompetent to testify
.”

“Incompetent? Nonsense! I've met her.” Anne stared at the colonel defiantly. “She's scarcely incompetent, but she's terrified of the police and closed up like a clam when Mauvert tried to interrogate her.”

Saint-Martin stepped back, lips pursed. “Then we need to know more about her. The magistrate paid her little attention. The Amateurs and their patrons had urged him to close the case as quickly and quietly as possible.” He paused, tapping his fingers together. “You've had experience in London dealing with people like Michou.”

Anne recalled tutoring Benjamin and Sarah at Wimbledon, children who had heard for several years and had attentive, caring parents. “Michou's more withdrawn, more challenging to reach than the children I taught for Braidwood. But I'm hopeful.”

Returning to his chair, he glanced at her with an encouraging smile. “Then see if she can help us.”

As Anne rose to leave, he handed her a paper from the desk. “Sorry, I meant to tell you. I've received a report from Rouen. You recalled correctly, Antoine Dubois was born and raised there. We found several of his cousins.”

“I see the name Lélia Laplante,” said Anne skimming the page.

“Yes, she came from the same parish as Antoine.” He frowned. “Their families disowned them when they joined the theater and started living together. They soon clashed and separated, he going to London and she to Paris.”

“Why on earth did he live with her when he returned to Paris after the war?” Anne laid the paper on the desk, tapped it lightly. “They surely weren't good for each other.”

“Yes, the Paris police would say this report supports their findings.”

“Well, I'm not going to stop now.” She jammed Mauvert's memorandum into her bag. “I'm eager to learn what the inspecteur's ‘simple-minded deaf mute' can tell us.”

***

Michou was among the small knot of people gathered at midday in front of the Tatar Puppet Theater. Victor Benoit was performing a harlequin sketch with the hand puppets. Anne had followed her through the garden and now joined the crowd. Michou beckoned for Anne to join her. When the show ended, they were the only ones left. Anne called to the puppeteer. Would he let them play with the puppets while he waited for a crowd to gather? At first he looked surprised and annoyed. Then, recognizing her, he nodded.

Anne offered a hand puppet to Michou. She frowned slightly and refused, but Anne's repeated gesture reassured her. In a short while, with a little coaching from the puppeteer, the two women were running through simple skits. The pleasure of play transformed Michou. A smile erased the tight lines around her mouth, and her green eyes grew large and luminous.

When a half-hour had passed, Michou laid down the puppets. With a sigh, she mimicked a seamstress at work. Time to return to the theater, Anne thought. They set out together through the garden. As they approached the fountain, Anne pointed to Michou and to herself, then clasped the little woman's hands. Might they meet again?

Michou hesitated, a cautious look in her eyes. Her hands grew tense but she did not withdraw them. She scrutinized Anne for what seemed like minutes. Then, smiling, she pointed to the fountain. They would meet there.

Deeply touched by the woman's trust, Anne cast about in her mind for a way to fix the date.

Apparently anticipating the question, Michou made the sign of the cross, lifted her eyes, folded her hands in prayer.

Tomorrow, Sunday, at the fountain, Anne said aloud, clearly articulating the words.

Michou stared with blank eyes. She couldn't read lips, Anne realized. She also crossed herself and folded her hands. Michou nodded, raised nine fingers, then pointed toward the eastern sky.

“Nine o'clock in the morning,” Anne murmured, extending a hand to shake good-bye.

Michou took the hand and pressed it to her heart.

***

Anne entered the mall of the Palais-Royal on a cloudy Sunday morning, thinking Michou had perhaps not really understood their agreement. Or, she might have become ill. Anne was relieved to find her seated on a bench near the pool, surrounded by ducks. She rose quickly, scattering the birds in every direction. Anne put out her hands. Michou took them in hers. How delicate and beautiful they were, Anne observed. Slender yet strong.

To Anne's surprise, Michou seized the initiative. With a gentle smile she beckoned Anne to follow her. She had a routine for this, the only day of the week that was her own. They set off for the river Seine. For an hour they walked on the embankment toward the Pont-Royal, stopping several times to watch boats or to admire the imposing palaces on the other side.

As Michou's shyness receded, she let Anne look at a small book in which she sketched anything that caught her eye. The pages were filled with human faces in rage, ecstasy, repose or pleasure. A bushy-tailed cat arched its back, repelling an inquisitive poodle. Swallows swooped over rooftops. Fashionable men and women strolled in the garden of the Palais-Royal. Beggars sat at a church door. Peddlers showed their wares on a tree-lined boulevard. There were swords and costumes and designs for embroidery and tools of the seamstress' craft.

The sketching was often just a few fine lines, enough to capture a child's hoop or a street lamp. Several drawings were in a nearly finished state. Among them was a sensitive, miniature portrait of an elderly nun, evidently the one who had befriended her.

As the sun broke through the clouds and approached its meridian, Michou indicated it was time to eat. Anne glanced about for a street vendor or a decent café. Her companion smiled and took her hand. Follow me, she gestured.

A half-hour later, barely escaping a summer shower, Anne climbed behind Michou up steep, narrow stairs to her little attic room on Rue Richelieu, a block north of Palais-Royal. Anne welcomed this opportunity for an undisturbed conversation with the little woman. She was far from moronic. If she could express what she knew about Lélia Laplante, she might shed light on the dark mystery of her death.

Watching Michou prepare the meal, Anne leaned back on a wooden chair, lulled by the patter of rain on the roof blending with muted sounds from the kitchen. Michou stirred charcoal, poured water, chopped a carrot, then a stalk of celery. From time to time, she cast a glance over her shoulder, her large green eyes smiling, no longer wary. Anne felt a simple closeness to this person, an undemanding trust.

She hadn't known such intimacy since her mother died and Antoine left her. Alone, she had relied on her own wits. Dodged obstacles in her way. Then the nightmare at Islington: Roach's fist; Hammer, gloating, her long, golden hair clutched in his hand. She saw again the upturned, leering faces. Coarse voices thundered, “French whore.” No one had helped her. No one. Until almost too late.

A drawer slammed shut. Anne's demons vanished. She saw Michou bending over a bubbling pot, tasting with a wooden spoon. The aroma of chicken broth hung in the air. Anne
was
not alone. Somehow Michou was leading her out of what she now recognized as personal darkness. Her eyes moistened. Dear God, she thought, this had to be what redemption meant.

When they had finished the meal of soup, bread, and cheese, Michou laid out on the table several thick, well-worn folders of drawings and watercolor paintings. At a quick glance, Anne recognized a few finished pictures from sketches in the notebook. Michou's tutor, the old nun, was lovingly rendered, a white wimple framing her long, thin face with its generous mouth and proud, mischievous eyes.

Thumbing through the folders, Anne realized this was Michou's journal, the fruit of a powerful curiosity. “Incredible,” she murmured. By drawing or painting objects, Michou took mental possession of them, adding to the rich treasury of her imagination. Unable to speak with others, she seemed to converse with their images.

Anne looked up, suddenly aware of Michou's scrutiny. Lips parted, she leaned forward with cautious anticipation. Discovered, she flashed a smile, then pushed two miniature portraits across the table to Anne, both highly finished watercolors.

The first depicted the murdered actress, Anne surmised, comparing the image with descriptions she had gathered at the variety theater. As if to please the actress, Michou gave her a long, slender neck, a clear olive complexion. In the eyes and mouth, however, Michou had captured the woman's vanity and guile.

Chevalier de Pressigny was the second portrait, his handsome countenance disturbingly enigmatic. In the lines of his mouth Michou had found playful sensuality; in his eyes, a cold and calculating intelligence.

Anne laid the portraits side by side. When had Michou done them? And why? Perhaps Laplante commissioned them, a gift for Pressigny as directeur of the Amateurs. Or, as lover? Anne shrugged. The actress had not claimed them before she was murdered. She and he might have had a falling out.

Pointing to the portraits, Anne nodded her appreciation. Michou leaned back, smiling, then pulled three more pictures from a file. Anne gave a start—they were extraordinary mosaics. For better light Anne held them up at an angle to the window, one by one, and felt a surge of pleasure. With infinite patience Michou had pieced together countless tiny colored fragments cut from scraps of heavy paper. Gathered secretly, no doubt, from stage sets.