Deadly Descent (29 page)

“You've got to do better than that,” growled Noir. “Carrying any weapons?”

While the powerful man held her, Noir patted her down. A puzzled expression spread across his face. He pulled off her cap and brought the lamp up close. His eyes brightened.

“I know you!”

He held her jaw with one hand, stared into her eyes, then slowly turned her head left and right.

“The tall bitch from the Camp of the Tatars. With the little deaf woman.” His eyes hardened with menace. “Are you working for the police?”

She regarded him coolly and said nothing.

He raised his arm to strike her but changed his mind. He stepped back.

A thought raced through Anne's mind. Break loose. Run for safety. But the heavy man was between her and the first of two doors. Noir would quickly help him. She'd have to bluff her way out.

The older man nodded to Gros, who came up quickly, seized her right arm, and twisted it behind her back again. Her body arched with the pain, as he pushed her toward a door. Noir opened it and Gros shoved her in.

This was a larger, low rectangular chamber warmed by a glowing brazier and lighted by oil lamps. Cloaks, hats, and other clothing hung on pegs on the right wall. Beneath them were racks of shoes—some plain, some fancy—and riding boots. Cabinets and chests of drawers lined the left wall. Near them were stacks of wig boxes. On the wall facing her, a map of Paris hung next to a full-length mirror. A table with wooden chairs stood in the middle of the room in front of the map.

“I'll bet she's a police ferret,” said Noir, as he moved slowly around the intruder.

“Let's make her talk,” said his heavy companion grinning. Anne stiffened as he lurched eagerly toward her.

“We haven't time for that.” Noir had sat down at the table and was observing her intently. He turned to his companion. “Take her downstairs while I get the horses ready. We'll deal with her when our work is done. That's something to look forward to.” With a wave and a crooked smile, he left the chamber.

Gros pushed her roughly around the table toward the mirror. With a touch he released a latch hidden in the wall, and the mirror swung open. They passed through a small room that served as an armory. A wall rack held a half-dozen muskets. Several pistols rested on a gun case; sabres, rapiers, and daggers hung on another wall.

The heavy man lit a torch, then opened a sturdy wooden door and gestured impatiently to her. “Go ahead of me.”

By the flickering light of his torch, she could see a steep flight of narrow steps descending into the darkness. She walked down side-wise, plotting a desperate strategy, with each step feeling she had less to lose. As she neared a small landing, she let her left foot miss a step. She fell too fast for Gros to catch her. Down three steps she tumbled, her head grazing the wall. Her body hit the landing with a painful thud and crumbled against the left-side wall. Bruised, dazed, she was alert enough to close her eyes when Gros bent over her. His torch scorched her cheek.

“Damn!” exclaimed the man. “She's a bloody mess.” He began to climb over her. “I'll have to haul her the rest of the way down!” While he was still moving forward, she suddenly coiled her body like a spring and thrust her legs upwards, striking him on the left hip. The blow caught him off-balance. With a short, squawking cry and arms flailing, he dove off the landing into the black hole of the stairwell.

On her knees now, Anne listened as his heavy body struck the steps. The sharp sound of splintering bone echoed up the shaft. Thud followed thud until he crashed on the floor of the chamber below. Holding up the torch he had dropped, Anne peered over the edge of the landing. An inert, grotesque figure lay barely visible in the dim light. Panting and trembling, she staggered to her feet. For a moment she thought gratefully of her stepfather. He'd taught her how to fall, to spin a large ball with her feet while on her back, to keep her nerve when performing the dangerous tricks of an acrobat.

Once upstairs, she latched and barred the door to the stairway. At the gun case, she examined the pistols, picked out two that were loaded, and stuck them in her belt. Entering the main room, she glanced about quickly, then closed the door.

In the mirror she saw blood running down her forehead from a ragged scrape at the hairline. Before she could wipe it away, she heard someone in the outer room. She turned around as the door was pushed open. Noir had taken a few steps into the room before he realized she was there.

“Move to the center of the room,” she said, aiming a pistol at him. “I know how to use it.” Her legs spread for balance, she held the weapon in a two-handed grip. He hesitated. She cocked the pistol, surprised by a growing urge to kill him. He stepped forward, his eyes glancing toward the mirror-door to the armory. “Your thick-necked friend isn't going to help you,” she said grimly.

“That ring!” She pointed with the pistol. “Take it off your finger, put it on the table, and step back.” She had noticed the simple gold band while he was questioning her. He did as he was told. She took it up and glanced at it, watching him like a hawk.

“Where'd you get it?”

“Bought it from a dealer in the Palais-Royal. Montpensier arcade.”

“That's my father's wedding ring,” she said in a low voice. “You didn't notice the inscription on the band or take the trouble to file it off.”

He seemed surprised. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

A practiced liar, Anne thought. But she noticed a glint of anxiety in his eyes. “I'll tell you,” she said scornfully. “Someone saw you and Jacques Gros kill my father. But you didn't do it on your own. Pressigny was in shock, so Derennes thought up the confession and the rest of the plan.” She paused, holding his eye. “I want you to tell me, did Derennes give the order to kill my father, or did someone else?”

His eyes downcast, Noir appeared to weigh his alternatives. Anne began to feel dizzy. The pistol grew heavier in her hands. He would stall until she collapsed. She couldn't afford to wait.

“All right, you win,” he said, lifting his hands palms up in a gesture of capitulation. “I'll tell you.”

She felt herself relaxing her grip. The gun wavered.

Suddenly, he lunged at her. Energy seemed to surge through his body and brought color to his face. For a moment, he looked twenty years younger.

Anne pulled the trigger at six paces. The shot entered his left eye, the top of his head seemed to explode. His body arched, then fell back sprawling.

Still holding the pistol with both hands, Anne stood stunned for several seconds, its report hammering in her head. The acrid stench of the powder stung her nostrils. Her eyes smarted. She choked. As the sound ebbed away, so did the nervous tension that had kept her going. She felt panic, an urge to flee, but her legs would not move. Panting, she reached for a chair and sat down.

Her eyes turned away from the body on the floor, a dark pool spreading out from the shattered head. She stared numbly at her father's ring on the table, rubbed it, put it in her pocket. There were odd markings on the map that might make sense later. She rolled it up and put it under her arm.

Leaving the room, she noticed the dead man's coat draped over a chair. A quick search. In one of the pockets was a familiar leather wallet. She gasped. Inside was the notebook she had seen him using at Café Marcel. Should she skim it? No, not now. Her fatigue was almost overwhelming and her head had begun to throb. She tucked the wallet in her shirt and hurried out.

In the stable she found the horses Noir had prepared. Choosing the smaller of the two, a black mare, she threw the map into a saddle bag and rode down the shadowed lane to the highway. She looked up into a clear, fading blue sky. The sun's faint glow hovered on the horizon. She felt like she had climbed out of a grave.

Chapter 29

Murderous Intent

“Where's Miss Cartier?” asked Colonel Saint-Martin, walking away from an open window overlooking the courtyard. He had been watching the departure of several friends, when Georges entered the sitting room.

The adjutant shrugged his shoulders, a puzzled look on his face. “She should have been back hours ago.”

“Back?” The colonel frowned. “Where's she been?”

“Helping me.”

“Do what?”

“Keeping track of Monsieur LeCourt.” Georges hesitated, cleared his throat, wet his lips. “She said she'd keep a safe distance and get back before dark.” He stumbled on about LeCourt's meeting at Café Marcel and Krishna's distraught appearance. “I followed him to a pretty widow's wine shop on Rue Saint-Marc. He seems at home. Stayed there all day.”

Saint-Martin stared speechless at his adjutant, holding back the urge to throttle him. The man looked so distressed. For the moment there was nothing to do but wait, nursing the hope that she might return at any minute.

Georges glanced at four empty wine glasses on a small table.

“Visitors,” remarked Saint-Martin distractedly. “Army officers on duty at Versailles and Mr. Jefferson, the American representative in France.” His eyes drifted to the window, drawn by drunken shouts from the street. “We've kept in touch since meeting in America.” He waved Georges to a chair and sat facing him. “They had much to say about Monsieur LeCourt. A major player at the royal court. It's uncanny, how his talent for financial trickery wins the confidence of otherwise sensible men.”

Georges started to add his jaundiced views on bankers and aristocrats. But Saint-Martin raised a hand to stop—that was enough. His mind wandered anxiously. Could LeCourt have discovered Anne following him and somehow trapped her? She could be lying helpless and in pain, left for dead anywhere in Paris.

He glared at Georges. “How on earth can we find her?” His fist struck the table. The glasses jumped; one tumbled over. He caught it before it rolled off and crashed on the floor. “I'd need the entire royal army for a proper search of the city. With little hope of success.”

At that moment a distant knock echoed through the room. Saint-Martin rushed to the window. The gate to the street was thrown open. A rider crossed the courtyard on a small horse, its hooves clattering on the cobblestones. The stranger stumbled as he dismounted, rose uncertainly to his feet, then staggered to the door.

With Georges close behind, the colonel dashed down the stairs and threw open the door. The stranger was leaning against the doorpost.

“Anne?” Saint-Martin caught his breath, confused for a moment by the artisan's clothing and the pistol tucked in her belt. “Good God! What's happened?”

She responded with a weak smile, brushing aside the arm he extended toward her. Erect but unsteady, she walked stiffly into the office. Suddenly, she seemed to wilt and slumped down on a chair.

Saint-Martin gently removed her cap. Smeared with dirt and sweat, streaked with gore, her face was a ghastly mask. “Anne….” Struggling for words, he drew a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed vainly at the encrusted blood. “You've given us a terrible fright.”

“Paul,” she mumbled, glancing up at him. “Noir's dead… Montsouris.”

“Noir? Montsouris?” The colonel drew back, glanced at Georges.

“South of the city, Sir. She must have followed him to the old quarries.”

Anne tried to rise on one arm, but fell back. “His book…,” she whispered, touching her chest, then passed out.

***

Her eyes opened to a darkness broken only by the eerie flickering light of a hidden candle. A heavy silence pressed upon her like a stone weight. Sensations flashed through her body as if she were lying stretched out deep in the cave at Montsouris. She groaned and writhed. Then a hand lightly caressed her cheek, the candle drew near. Michou looked down at her, eyes full of care, and smiled broadly for a few moments. Then she vanished.

Anne realized she was in her own bed in the guest apartment, freshly bathed. When she lifted herself up, her head throbbed, but not more than she could bear. It was bandaged neatly at the hairline. Since the moment Gros had grabbed her, she had acted on impulse and instinct. There had been no time to think. Now, she sat in bed, reflecting. Scenes from the quarry rushed back. The worst was the taut face of Noir rushing at her, the shot shattering his head, and the crashing echo.

She had crossed a threshold. Killed the man who murdered Antoine. She shuddered. Her conscience was clear. She had brought him to justice, but she felt wretched and wished someone else had done it.

To her relief Michou returned with Paul. “You've been unconscious for four hours,” he said softly, taking a seat beside her. “Your head wound looked worse than it was. It's clean and should soon heal.” His face was lined, his jaw taut. An angry man. But he took her hand and patted it gently. “If you're feeling well enough, tell me what happened.”

Michou gave her a sip of water and Anne began to recount the day's events. When she reached the confrontation with Noir and Gros in their den, Paul turned pale. At the end he kissed her hand.

“We are most grateful that you have survived and are well,” he said, drawing Michou next to him at the bed. She clasped her hands fervently and bowed to Anne. At a nod from the colonel, she left the room.

Saint-Martin drew his chair close to Anne, his eyes level with hers. His voice quivered with feeling. “The thought that I might have lost you today is almost more than I can bear. You have become so dear to me. I can hardly bring myself to reproach you. Yet I must wonder when you rush rashly into great danger.” He paused for a long moment, mastering himself. “Didn't you think of the pain and trouble you might cause others?” His voice fell to a whisper. “Is my concern for you of such little consequence?”

She felt a stab of remorse. She had been too single-minded in her pursuit of Noir to think of anyone else. Had Paul gone off without a word on a dangerous mission, she too would have worried and felt resentful. She drew his hand to her heart. “I'm sorry if I've seemed reckless. But, when I'm on the high wire, or in great danger, I blot out everything but the next step I must take. I promise to improve.” She pulled him into a tender embrace and felt his anger subside.

“We must talk more about Noir and Montsouris,” he said. “Now there's no time to lose. Georges and I will have a quick supper. Would you want something brought to you?”

“No, I feel well enough. Send in Michou to help me. I'll join you.”

As Michou dressed her, Anne recalled Paul's worried look while she was telling her story. Was he anxious what others would think? Gros might have survived his fall and could claim she broke into the cave, surprised and assaulted him and his companion. There were no witnesses. LeCourt and Pressigny would stand behind him. Her imagination now raced out of control. She saw herself arrested by Mauvert. Convicted of murder by the Parlement de Paris. Executed like the young woman on the Place de Grève.

She shuddered violently. Michou, who was tying a blue ribbon around her waist, stepped back. “What's wrong?” she signed.

Looking her in the eye, Anne signed with more confidence than she felt, “A bad dream. It will pass.”

***

In the parlor, Paul and Georges were seated at table, the map spread out before them, Noir's notebook off to one side. As Anne entered, she overheard them speculating on what others might make of her violence in the quarry, assuming Gros lived to accuse her.

She pulled up a chair. “LeCourt would say I murdered Noir, and Mauvert would agree.” The men fell silent, staring at her with uneasy eyes. “My motive? Revenge for the death of Antoine Dubois. They'd claim Noir had nothing to do with it.”

Paul signalled to a servant for supper, then turned grimly to Anne. “They'll be too busy defending themselves to attack you. Georges and I have gone through the evidence you brought back from the quarry.” He rolled up the map. “We'll study it again after we've eaten.”

The meal finished and the plates cleared away, Georges laid out the map again and pointed to several marks in the vicinity of Paris. “These indicate all the places, including Chateau Debussy, where jewels have been stolen during the past three years.” He turned to Anne. “You stumbled into a thieves' den.”

Then Paul passed Noir's notebook across the table to her. “They appear to have hidden the stolen goods somewhere in the cave. But there's more. Open to the page I've marked.”

With growing dismay Anne read LeCourt's plan for a double murder earlier in the evening. He had arranged a confrontation between Krishna and Pressigny in the empty palace theater. If they were to fail to kill one another, Noir and Gros would finish the work.

“You scuttled LeCourt's scheme,” Georges broke in, shaking a finger at Anne. “As soon as we discovered what Noir and Gros were supposed to do, we ran over to the Palais-Royal with a few troopers.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No sign of the supposed victims. A watchman at the Palais-Royal had noticed them entering the building earlier in the evening. First Krishna, then Pressigny. They haven't been seen since, though they could have left under cover of darkness.”

“Krishna has always disliked Pressigny,” said Anne. “But why would he confront him now?”

“According to one of Noir's entries,” Georges replied, “Pressigny helped Derennes hide Nalini's body in the dungeon. Imagine, if someone put Derennes' diary in Krishna's hands, what would happen?”

“He might try to kill Pressigny.” From the Amateurs' banquet Anne recalled the Indian's dark eyes narrowing with suspicion as he looked over the guests and their host. “But why would LeCourt want to pit the two men against one another?”

Georges reflected briefly, then measured out his words. “Suppose LeCourt was behind the theft of the Chanavas jewels, and Krishna and Pressigny had played a part and demanded a share of the profits. LeCourt might feel threatened and order Noir and Gros to silence them.”

“That's plausible,” said Saint-Martin, leaning back in his chair. He lowered his eyes for a few moments, lost in thought, then roused himself. “I'll ask the Paris police to bring Krishna and Pressigny in for questioning.” He turned to Anne, his voice soft with care. “If you're fit, you must tell us how to find the quarry at Montsouris.” He glanced at a wall clock. It was two in the morning. “No time for sleep. Georges and I and a couple of troopers must get there before anyone else finds Noir and Gros.”

Anne was relieved that they would go without her. The mere thought of the quarry made her stomach roil. Edging between the two men at the table, she located Montsouris on the map, then pointed out the landmarks. Paul took her hand. “We'll find the way, Anne. If Gros is alive and conscious, we'll question him before LeCourt and his allies silence him or tell him what to say. In any case, the cave must be sealed until it can be thoroughly searched.” Rising from his chair, he smiled with anticipation. “A treasure is hidden there.”

***

Anne tossed in bed, unable to sleep, though she felt tired. She threw the thin cover on the floor. No use. The warm, clammy air pressed on her naked body like a sodden blanket. In the distance, a clock struck three. She stared at the ceiling. Her mind followed Georges and Paul through the thieves' den. Noir's body in a pool of blood. Gros, crumbled at the foot of the stairs. The horror gripped her like an obsession.

She forced herself to dwell on the mystery of Krishna and Pressigny. What had really happened? According to Paul's theory, the two men came to the palace theater's office. Krishna accused the chevalier of helping Derennes bury Nalini. Pressigny denied the charge, most likely claiming Derennes' diary could not be trusted. After much heated discussion the two men left the building, each going his own way unnoticed in the darkness. The more she pondered the idea, the less plausible it seemed. Their disappearance didn't make sense.

She got out of bed, stretched, and went to the open window for air. The garden was dark and silent under the new moon. She recalled Krishna's menacing glance at Pressigny during the Amateurs' banquet. An explosive force lurked behind that inscrutable face. He would not walk away from the man he believed had helped hide his daughter's murdered body.

A whiff of fresh air floated through the window. Anne pulled on her shift and walked out into the garden, puzzling over Paul's investigation of the Amateurs' office. He had found no sign of a struggle. But Krishna might have taken his prey unawares or been himself surprised.

At the fountain she surveyed the flowers, their glorious hues lost in darkness. Only a thin light cast by the lamp at her door revealed their shapes. There was better light at the gates to Palais-Royal. Neither Krishna, or Pressigny would have risked dragging a corpse across the palace courtyard.

She drove her fist into the palm of her hand. “There's surely a victim,” she exclaimed, her voice resounding in the silent garden. “He must still be in the palace!”

***

Through nearly deserted streets she hurried to the Palais-Royal, disguised again as an artisan, face grimy, cap pulled low over her bandaged forehead. She slipped through a gate open for carts hauling rubbish. At the back entrance to the palace theater the door stood ajar. She stole silently past a sleeping watchman and, borrowing one of his oil lamps, worked her way into the basement and down musty corridors until she saw the basilisk sconce. Avoiding its baleful eye, she tapped the wall and heard the hollow sound of a door. She shoved the sconce up, swung the door open on its pivot and stepped into the dungeon. Heart pounding, she lifted the trapdoor and peered into the pit.

A shadowy figure lay inert below. Chevalier de Pressigny or Krishna, she couldn't say. But either one would be too heavy to lift. She lowered herself into the pit, gagging at the stench, and brought her light close to the man's face. Chevalier de Pressigny. Bound, barely breathing. But still alive. Blood trickled from a small knife wound on his neck. He had vomited. Poisoned perhaps. She rushed back upstairs, woke the watchman, and ordered him to call a medical doctor and the Paris police. He gaped bewildered, then protested stupidly, but finally seemed to grasp her meaning.