In Their Footsteps & Thief of Hearts (17 page)

Good. By the time she woke up, he should be back from making his rounds. Just in case he wasn’t, though, he left a note on the nightstand. “Gone out. Back around three.

R.” Then, as an afterthought, he laid the gun beside the note. If she needed it, he figured, it’d be there for her.

After confirming that the two guards were still on duty, he left the flat, locking the door behind him.

His first stop was 66 Rue Myrha, the building where Madeline and Bernard died.

He had gone over the Paris police report again, had read and reread the landlord’s statement. M. Rideau claimed he’d discovered the bodies on the afternoon of July 15, 1973, and had at once notified the police. Upon being questioned, he’d told them that the attic was rented to a Mlle Scarlatti, who used the place only infrequently and paid her rent in cash. On occasion, he had heard moans, whimpers, and a man’s voice emanating from the flat. But the only person he ever saw face-to-face was Mlle Scarlatti, whose head scarves and sunglasses made it difficult for him to be specific about her appearance. Nevertheless, M. Rideau was certain that the dead woman in the flat was indeed the lusty Scarlatti woman. And the dead man? The landlord had never seen him before.

Three months after this testimony, M. Rideau had sold the building, packed up his family, and left the country.

That last detail had garnered only a footnote in the police report: “Landlord no longer available for statements. Has left France.”

Richard had a hunch that the landlord’s departure from
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the country just might be the most important clue they had.

If he could locate Rideau’s current whereabouts and question him about those events of twenty years before…

He knocked at each flat in the building, but came up with no leads. Twenty years was a long time; people moved in, moved out. No one remembered any M. Rideau.

Richard went outside and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. A ball hurtled past, pursued by a pack of scruffy kids. The endless soccer match, he mused, watching the tangle of dirty arms and legs.

Over the children’s heads, he spotted an elderly woman sitting on her stoop. At least seventy years old, he guessed.

Perhaps she’d lived here long enough to know the former residents of this street.

He went over to the woman and spoke to her in French.

“Good afternoon.”

She smiled a sweet, toothless grin.

“I am trying to find someone who remembers M.

Jacques Rideau. The man who used to own that building over there.” He pointed to number 66.

Also in French, she answered: “He moved away.”

“You knew him, then?”

“His son was all the time visiting in my house.”

“I understand the whole family left France.” She nodded. “They went to Greece. And how do you suppose he managed that, eh? Him, with that old car! And the clothes their children wore! But off they go to their villa.” She sighed. “And I am here, where I’ll always be.” Richard frowned. “Villa?”

“I hear they have a villa, near the sea. Of course, it may not be true—the boy was always making up stories. Why should he start telling the truth? But he claimed it was a 158

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villa, with flowers growing up the posts.” She laughed.

“They must all be dead by now.”

“The family?”

“The flowers. They could not even remember to water their pots of geraniums.”

“Do you know where in Greece they moved to?” The woman shrugged. “Somewhere near the sea. But then, isn’t all of Greece near the sea?”

“The name of the village?”

“Why should I remember these things? He was not
my
boyfriend.”

Frustrated, Richard was about to turn away when he suddenly registered what the woman had just said. “You mean, the landlord’s son—he was your daughter’s boyfriend?”

“My granddaughter.”

“Did he call her? Write her any letters?”

“A few. Then he stopped.” She shook her head. “That is how it is with young people. No devotion.”

“Did she keep any of those letters?” The woman laughed. “All of them. To remind her husband what a fine catch he made.” It took a bit of persuasion for Richard to be invited inside the old woman’s apartment. It was a dark, cramped flat. Two small children sat at the kitchen table, gnawing fistfuls of bread. Another woman—most likely in her mid-thirties, but with much older eyes—sat spooning cereal into an infant’s mouth.

“He wants to see your letters from Gerard,” said the grandmother.

The younger woman eyed Richard with suspicion.

“It’s important I speak with his father,” explained Richard.

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“His father doesn’t want to be found,” she said, and resumed feeding the baby.

“Why not?”

“How should I know? Gerard didn’t tell me.”

“Does it have to do with the murders? The two English people?”

She paused, the spoon halfway to the baby’s mouth.

“You are English?”

“No, American.” He sat down across from her. “Do you remember the murders?”

“It was a long time ago.” She wiped the baby’s face. “I was only fifteen.”

“Gerard wrote you letters, then stopped. Why?” The woman gave a bitter laugh. “He lost interest. Men always do.”

“Or something could have happened to him. Maybe he couldn’t write to you. And he wanted to, very much.” Again, she paused.

“If I go to Greece, I can inquire on your behalf. I only need to know the name of the village.” She sat for a moment, thinking. Wiping up the baby’s mess. She looked at her two children, both of them runny nosed and whining.
She’s longing to escape,
he imagined.

Wishing her life had turned out some other way. Any other
way. And she’s thinking about this long-lost boyfriend,
and how things might have been, for the two of them, in a
villa by the sea….

She stood up and went into another room. A moment later, she returned and laid a thin bundle of letters down on the table.

There were only four—not exactly a record of devotion.

All were still tucked in their envelopes. Richard skimmed 160

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their contents, noting an outpouring of adolescent yearnings. “I will come back for you. I will love you always. Do not forget me….” By the fourth letter, the passion was clearly cooling.

There was no return address, either on the letters or on the envelopes. The family’s whereabouts were obviously meant to be kept secret. But on one of the envelopes, a postmark was clearly printed: Paros, Greece.

Richard handed the letters back to the woman. She cradled them for a moment, as though savoring the memories.
So many years ago, a lifetime ago, and see
what has become of me….

“If you find Gerard…if he is still alive,” she said, “ask him…”

“Yes?” Richard said gently.

She sighed. “Ask him if he remembers me.”

“I will.”

She held the letters a moment longer. And then, with a sigh, she laid them aside and picked up the spoon. In silence, she began to feed the baby.

He made one more stop before returning to the flat, this time at the Sacred Heart Nursing Home.

It was a far grimmer institution than the one Richard had visited the day before. No private rooms here, no sweet-faced nuns gliding down the halls. This was one step above a prison, and a crowded one at that, with three or four patients to a room, many of them restrained in their beds.

Julee Parmentier, François’s retarded sister, occupied one of the grimmest rooms of all. Barely clothed, she lay on top of a plastic-lined mattress. Protective mitts covered her hands; around her waist was a wide belt, its ends secured
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to the bed with just enough slack for her to shift from side to side, but not sit up. She barely seemed to register Richard’s presence; instead she moaned and stared relentlessly at the ceiling.

“She has been like this for many years,” said the nurse.

“An accident, when she was twelve. She fell from a tree and hit her head on some stones.”

“She can’t speak at all? Can’t communicate?”

“When her brother François would visit, he said she would smile. He insisted he saw it. But…” The nurse shrugged. “I saw nothing.”

“Did he visit often?”

“Every day. The same time, nine o’clock in the morning. He would stay until lunch, then he would go to his work at the gallery.”

“He did this every day?”

“Yes. And on Sunday he would stay later—until four o’clock.”

Richard gazed at the woman in the bed and tried to imagine what it must have been like for François to sit for hours in this room with its noise and its smells. To devote every free hour of his life to a sister who could not even recognize his face.

“It is a tragedy,” said the nurse. “He was a good man, François.”

They left the room and walked away from the sight of that pitiful creature lying on her plastic sheet.

“What will happen to her now?” asked Richard. “Will someone see that she’s cared for?”

“It hardly matters now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her kidneys are failing.” The nurse glanced up the 162

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hall, toward Julee Parmentier’s room, and shook her head sadly. “Another month, two months, and she will be dead.”

“But you must know where he went,” insisted Beryl.

The French agent merely shrugged. “He did not say,
Mademoiselle.
He only instructed me to watch over the flat. And see that you came to no harm.”

“And that’s all he said? And then he drove off?” The man nodded.

In frustration, Beryl turned and went back into the flat, where she reread Richard’s note: “Gone out. Back around three.” No explanations, no apologies. She crumpled it up and threw it at the rubbish can. And what was she supposed to do now? Wait around all day for him to return? What about Jordan? What about the investigation?

What about lunch?

Her hunger pangs could no longer be ignored. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She stared in dismay at the contents: a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread and a shriveled sausage. No fruit, no vegetables, not even a puny carrot. Stocked, no doubt, by a man.

I’m not going to eat that,
she determined, closing the refrigerator door.
But I’m not going to starve, either. I’m
going to have a proper meal—with or without him.

Daumier’s men had delivered her belongings to the flat the night before. From the closet, she chose her most nondescript black dress, pinned up her hair under a wide-brimmed hat, and slid on a pair of dark glasses.
Not too
hideous,
she decided, glancing at herself in the mirror.

She walked out of the flat into the sunshine.

The guard stationed at the front door confronted her at once. “
Mademoiselle,
you are not allowed to leave.”
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“But you let
him
leave,” she countered.

“Mr. Wolf specifically instructed—”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “I get quite cranky when I’m hungry. And I’m not about to live on eggs and toast. So if you can just direct me to the nearest Métro station…”

“You are going
alone?
” he asked in horror.

“Unless you’d care to escort me.”

The man glanced uneasily up and down the street. “I have no instructions in this matter.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” she said, and breezily started to walk away.

“Come back!”

She kept walking.

“Mademoiselle!”
he called. “I will get the car!” She turned and flashed him her most brilliant smile.

“My treat.”

Both guards accompanied her to a restaurant in the nearby neighborhood of Auteuil. She suspected they chose the place not for the quality of its food, but for the intimate dining room and the easily surveyed front entrance. The meal itself was just a shade above mediocre: bland vi-chyssoise and a cut of lamb that could have doubled for leather. But Beryl was hungry enough to savor every morsel and still have an appetite for the
tarte aux pommes.

By the time the meal was over, her two companions were in a much more jovial mood. Perhaps this bodyguard business was not such a bad thing, if the lady was willing to spring for a meal every day. They even relented when Beryl asked them to make a stop on the drive back to the flat. It would only take a minute, she said, to look over the latest art exhibit. After all, she might find something to strike her fancy.

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And so the men accompanied her to Galerie Annika.

The exhibit area was one vast, soaring gallery—three stories, connected by open walkways and spiral staircases.

Sunlight shone down through a skylit dome, illuminating a collection of bronze sculptures displayed on the first floor.

A young woman, her spiky hair a startling shade of red, came forward to greet them. Was there something in particular
Mademoiselle
wished to see?

“May I just look around a bit?” asked Beryl. “Or perhaps you could direct me to some paintings. Nothing too modern—I prefer classical artists.”

“But of course,” said the woman, and guided Beryl and her escorts up the spiral stairs.

Most of what she saw hanging on the walls was hideous.

Landscapes populated by deformed animals. Birds with dog heads. City scenes with starkly cubist buildings. The young woman stopped at one painting and said, “Perhaps this is to your liking?”

Beryl took one look at the nude huntress holding aloft a dead rabbit and said, “I don’t think so.” She moved on, taking in the eccentric collection of paintings, fabric hangings and clay masks. “Who chooses the work to be displayed here?” she asked.

“Annika does. The gallery owner.”

Beryl stopped at a particularly grotesque mask—a man with a forked tongue. “She has a…unique eye for art.”

“Quite daring, don’t you think? She prefers artists who take risks.”

“Is she here today? I’d very much like to meet her.”