Deadly Descent (25 page)

“Yes, until tomorrow,” she murmured to herself as she closed the door.

Chapter 26

Death in the Night

Shortly after sunrise, a thin morning mist hovered over the low-lying land around Chateau Beaumont. Anne had put on riding clothes and was leaning out the open window of her room over the front courtyard. A moist breeze bathed her face. She shivered slightly. Impressions from yesterday in Comte Debussy's apartment teased her mind. But she could deal with them later. Having rested well, she looked forward to the ride with Paul.

Hooves clattered on the cobblestones. She glanced down. Georges was already at the entrance, holding a pair of eager dark brown thoroughbreds, groomed and saddled. In the distance, a man galloped up the avenue of chestnut trees toward the chateau. Odd, she thought, squinting for a clearer view.

At that moment she heard faint footsteps in the hallway, then a gentle rapping on her door and the voice of Paul calling softly to her. He had seemed greatly relieved when she and Michou returned safely last night from Chateau Debussy. She warmed at the recollection of their embrace, his arms around her, his lips against hers.

She closed the window and brushed dust from her skirt where she had leaned against the sill.

“Anne,” he called again from the hallway, a little louder this time.

Biting her lips to freshen their color, her heart drumming, she opened the door.

“Good morning, Anne.” He bowed slightly, smiled, then stepped back for her to pass. He was wearing a brown riding suit, an eager, playful expression on his face, as if caught up in the pleasure before him. At the stairway they paused and clasped hands, then descended in step together.

In the foyer they met Georges rushing in, followed by a hatless young groom. “Comte Debussy is dead!” Georges shouted, then glanced at the messenger. “The stablemaster sent him.” At a word from Georges, the young man went on to report that the comte had died during the night. Krishna had been found unconscious and bound. The young man hadn't been told if anything had been stolen.

“Chevalier de Pressigny and the others haven't heard the news yet,” Georges added with a touch of contempt. “They caroused all night and are still in bed.”

Paul stopped in his tracks. Disbelief, then concern spread over his face. He turned to Anne. “Comte Debussy was vigorous when
you
last saw him, wasn't he?”

“In a manner of speaking!” She vividly recalled his lecherous smile. He might nonetheless have died of natural causes, she thought, perhaps of a shock too severe for his frail constitution. But, the violence done to Krishna meant the comte might have been murdered. Unbidden, Anne thought of yesterday's visit with Claire—the vase exploding against the wall. And the day before that, the young woman rising wrathful from the table, gripping the knife.

Paul's jaw stiffened with resolve. “Georges, send the messenger with an order to the Royal Highway Patrol at Villejuif. I want a brigade of five men to join us at Chateau Debussy.”

As Paul was about to mount, a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “I'm sorry this came up, Anne.” He drew close to her. His voice grew tender. “We shall ride another day.” He took her hand. “Stay with Aunt Marie for the time being and tell her what has happened. Later we'll need a statement from you at Chateau Debussy.”

She pressed his hand. “I'll be ready.”

He walked back to his horse, staring down in reflection. A pregnant silence came over the courtyard, broken only by the animal's restless snorts. Finally, Paul glanced back at Anne and then over at Georges, who drew his horse near. “I'll wager the jewels have been stolen and Pressigny's somehow involved.”

Georges furrowed his brow. “A theft like the others we've had in this area. Like Michou's jasper bowl.”

Anne joined the two men by the horses. “Pressigny would steal the jewels, if he thought he could get away with it. He believes Comte Debussy swindled his legacy. And we know how he killed Lélia Laplante. Taken by surprise, threatened, he might also kill the comte.”

“Quite likely,” Paul agreed. “Many hands could be involved in this affair, including intruders unknown to us.” He stroked the horse's glistening neck, paused, then glanced at Anne with an afterthought. “There is something you can do. Ask Michou to work on those sketches of the Chanavas jewels. We may need them.” Smiling farewell, he swung into the saddle and beckoned Georges to follow him.

For several minutes after the men had galloped out of sight, Anne stood in the open doorway, staring westward toward Chateau Debussy. She recalled her last impressions of the comte. A wasted body, eyes lit by lust, a voice heavy with sarcasm. Flashes of hot anger raced through her body. His contempt for actresses was like Jack Roach's. Had she not been shielded by the patronage of a police colonel and his highborn aunt, she might have undergone a beating or far worse.

She walked back into the foyer, her anger slowly yielding to more pleasing images: the splendid halls and galleries of Chateau Debussy, the exquisite jewelry and elegant company. At the foot of the stairs she stopped, her hand resting on the bannister. An oriental vase stood on a sideboard, full of cut flowers. She pulled out a withered damask rose and breathed its fading scent.

She started up the stairs. Though Comte Debussy had tried to harm her, she now felt more sad than pleased by his death. Pausing on a step, she gazed at the blotched, pale flower in her hand. A pathetic man, the comte had savored the Chanavas necklace and tiara wistfully, as if for the last time before the final darkness.

***

A clap of thunder woke her up. She had fallen asleep in her room, sitting by the open window, the wilted rose in her lap. Droplets of water struck her face as she turned toward the courtyard. Bolts of lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rumbled again. She stretched, curiously exhilarated by nature's violence. Feeling her gown getting wet, she rose to close the window. A flash of lightning cast an eerie green light over the shining cobblestones. She sucked in her breath. A mounted figure was crossing the courtyard, erect in the saddle even in a driving rain. Paul!

She ran down the stairs and opened the front door just as he pulled the bell cord. Grooms rushed forward to care for his horse. In the entrance hall a footman carried off his dripping cape, his hat and heavy boots, and promised to return with a hot drink. Wiping his face, red with exertion, Paul followed Anne through the hall into a nearby parlor. They sat facing one another at a small table.

In a low voice, from which all feeling seemed to have drained, he told her that a violent crime had indeed taken place at Chateau Debussy. Under cover of darkness, thieves had broken into the treasury in the corner tower and had stolen the Chanavas jewels, knocked Krishna unconscious, and murdered Comte Debussy. Sometime before dawn, they had escaped through the tunnel to the garden pavilion. Servants and members of the family all claimed alibis.

Throughout his report, Anne sat still, listening. The footman arrived with hot, spiced wine and poured a glass for the colonel. Its pungent scent filled the room. Lightning flashed, followed by a deafening crash. Anne declined a glass. Her stomach felt queasy. The late hour. The storm outside. The terse report of violent death.

In a faltering voice she asked, “How did the comte die?”

“Smothered in bed. His eyes wide open. He may have seen his attacker, struggled briefly, but couldn't ring for help. We pried open his fingers. Found this.” He took a golden tassel from his pocket. “Madame Soucie searched the chateau in vain for a matching one. We'll keep it a secret. The official report says he was smothered by a bed pillow.” He handed the tassel to Anne. “Recognize it?”

She held the object to the light. “It doesn't look familiar. But I don't usually notice tassels.” She gave it back to him. “The comte may have been surprised by someone he knew.”

He shrugged. “A servant or member of the family, perhaps.” He sipped his wine, peering over the rim. “Or, more likely, professional thieves from the city, apparently well informed. We know they crawled over the roof, broke open a louver in the tower, removed a ceiling mirror, and lowered themselves into the treasury on a rope.”

“Why kill the comte?”

“I guess he woke up. Perhaps called for Krishna. The thieves would have moved quickly to silence him.” A troubled expression came over his face. “I've talked to Lieutenant-General DeCrosne this afternoon. I had to—this is a major case. He's assigned Inspecteur Mauvert to the investigation.” He sought her eye. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

She stared at him, dismayed. “Mauvert! The man who investigated Antoine's case. He takes money from LeCourt and spies on me.” Her mind raced on. “He'll surely suspect what we're doing here!”

“Don't expect him to be helpful!” With a scowl Paul drained his glass and set it on the table. “I picked him up in Paris. Brought him to Chateau Debussy. Greedy bastard! The main thing on his mind is the fat commission he'll get if he recovers the jewels.” Saint-Martin leaned back, gazing sympathetically at her. “He insists on questioning you at the chateau. You may have heard or seen something relevant to the crime.”

“Why let him? You or Georges could question me.”

Paul shifted uneasily in his chair. “I wish we could do it that way. But Mauvert's demand would seem reasonable to the lieutenant-general. An inspecteur needs to observe the testimony of a witness to judge its credibility. To refuse would only spark suspicion. Mauvert would think we were trying to conceal something.” He glanced apologetically at Anne. “I've scheduled the questioning at noon tomorrow. Tell Mauvert no more than he needs to know.”

***

Anne's carriage rattled across the courtyard at Chateau Debussy, splashing through puddles on the glistening paving stones. Opening the window, she tasted the cool fresh air, cleansed by the night's rain. At the main entrance, the carriage stopped with a nerve-jarring screech of brakes and jangle of harness. Moments later, Paul left the building and strode briskly towards her.

She smoothed her soft woolen dress—pearl grey, trimmed with black lace. Another loan from Comtesse Marie's wardrobe. She had argued that an elegant, tasteful,
and
costly costume might win some regard from the inspecteur. Anne dubiously touched the strings of her bonnet. A distant bell rang noon. She was right on time.

Walking beside Paul through the main hall, she sensed anxiety grow beneath his calm, official demeanor. They entered the ground floor room that served as a temporary office. Georges, seated at a table, rose to greet her. Inspecteur Mauvert, reading a file by the window, looked up at her with a tight-lipped, mocking smile. She instantly disliked him, a slim ferret of a man, eyes small, cold, and malicious.

“Colonel Saint-Martin,” said the inspecteur, laying the file on the table, “I would like Mademoiselle Cartier to go with us through the chateau, recalling whatever might have bearing on the theft of the treasure and the death of the comte.”

The colonel turned to Anne, holding out his arm in a courteous request. She smiled as if pleased to be of assistance.

She led them past Chevalier de Pressigny's apartment, mentioning the debris that fell on the balcony during his party. Mauvert's face lit up; a piece of the puzzle had dropped into place.

Glancing sidelong at him, Anne wrinkled her brow.

The inspecteur noticed her perplexity and explained that the thieves must have loosened a few tiles while exploring the roof for a way into the treasury.

In the main hall, she spoke of LeCourt's fascination with the jewels. “At the reception, I felt they had extraordinary power over him. I could imagine him buying them from the thieves, if not stealing them.”

“What a fanciful notion,” scoffed Mauvert. “Typical of a woman!” He turned to Colonel Saint-Martin. “Robert LeCourt is a rich banker, a generous patron, and an ardent collector. Hardly the kind of person who deals in stolen goods.”

Anne felt a rush of color to her cheeks, a tightening in her throat. Mauvert had turned his back to her and walked several paces ahead. “You little bastard!” she said under her breath. She was about to call after him, that being rich didn't mean LeCourt was honest. But Georges silently mouthed a warning. She bit her lip.

She was still irritated when they entered the comte's apartment. Mauvert asked about her confrontation with him. The colonel had tried to prepare her for this question, but she loathed explaining to the inspecteur how Debussy had insulted her. As she stumbled through her account, a shadow of doubt crossed the inspecteur's face.

She challenged him. “Sir!”

His eyes brightened with malign amusement. “Perhaps Comte Debussy thought you would welcome his playfulness.” He pursed his lips in a smirk. “After all, you are an actress. Had spent the night with one of his servants.”

Anne flinched as if struck in the face.

The colonel stiffened, glaring at Mauvert.

Before either Anne or Saint-Martin could protest, Georges stepped forward. “Miss Cartier allowed me to sleep in the parlor of her apartment, not the bedroom. I was guarding her and her maid from Pressigny's drunken guests.”

Lips parted, speechless, the colonel glanced at Anne, then at Georges.

Mauvert brought a hand to his mouth. “I am so sorry. I didn't mean to offend.” Even while he was apologizing, his eyes brimmed with the pleasure his thrust had given him.

She stared at him with thinly veiled scorn.

His brow furrowed in afterthought. “You brought a maid with you, a woman who works at the Tatar Puppet Theater.” He spoke in a curious way, as if intending to joust with Anne. “May I speak with her?”

“She can't tell you anything,” Anne replied, her tone ironic. Mauvert knew who her maid was. Henriette Picard would have told him.

“I insist.” His face took on a smirk.

“Then waste your time.” Anne had reached the end of her patience. “The Laplante case, remember? She's Michou, the little deaf woman you called simpleminded.”