Lovers and Liars Trilogy (150 page)

“What are they doing? And stop showing off…”

Markov, here today in his capacity as a celebrity, gave another small smile. He always played to the crowd, and his comments had been made in a loud voice.

“I rather think,” he said more quietly, “that they’re
filtering
people out. They’re making for the animal pen right now. No, don’t look—we’re nearly inside.”

They surged through to the entrance doors. Beyond, Lindsay could see rows of gold chairs, banks of cameras, the glitter of lights. Black-dressed female Cazarès minions were patrolling the sanctum, spraying scent from cut-glass bottles. She smelled spring, the scent of narcissus and hyacinth:
L’Aurore.
She glanced back one last time. The animal pen was a small area, chain-link-fenced, off to the side of the courtyard. It was crammed with the young, the poor, and the impassioned: art students, fashion students, fans; a few might possess admission tickets, most would not. Every year, at every collection, some of them would manage using guile, deception, theft, forgery, or sometimes force, to get in. Lindsay found their desperation frightening. It was like her own, but she felt—irrationally—that it was worse.

And Markov was right, she saw; it was these people who seemed the focus of the attentions of the black-garbed special police. She could just see a tall, dark, long-haired young man being yanked to the side. He was screaming abuse, being pulled by the hair. As she was propelled forward through the entrance doors, he gave a sudden scream of pain; then his yells stopped.

It was past eleven; even at Cazarès, where events were usually organized with near-military precision, the collection would begin late. The salon was still less than half full, its space a bewilderment of color and movement, of air kisses and embraces and shrieks. The usual arguments were breaking out about seating; the usual accusations and miniaturized fights. At Chanel yesterday, two exquisitely dressed women had come to blows; they had hit each other with their identical quilted, gold-chained Chanel bags. Both Markov and Lindsay had enjoyed this.

It was as always—and yet it was not as always. Once she was seated, and as the great room began to fill, Lindsay realized there were police inside as well as outside—not GIGN, but plainclothes police. They were moving along the back rows, and they had a dog handler with them. She stared in astonishment and craned her neck. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on because the seating was tiered and the lights dazzled her eyes, but there was obviously a serious security alert. She could feel a new tension in the room, a buzz of rumor and alarm. It spread from the photographers clustered around the end of the runway up and through the room. She caught little whispered clutches of words and sudden nervous glances:
bomb, terrorist threat, sniffer dogs.

“Well, they don’t like the hoi polloi,” Markov said, pointing. “Watch the back row, Lindy. That’s the second one they’ve yanked out.”

Lindsay narrowed her eyes, shading them from the lights, and watched another young man being hustled away. He was tall, with long, dark hair, dressed in black jeans; he was wearing a red bandanna around his neck.

The collection finally began half an hour late. By then, the activities in the back row had almost ceased. The room was settling, and expectation was in the air. Attention was returning to the runway. Gradually, the room hushed. Lindsay glanced up at that back row once more. Whatever had been the cause for alarm, precautions were still being taken. At the very back of the ranked tiers, and at intervals down the central aisle that led to the photographers’ pit, were police operatives. A solid line of flak-jacketed black-helmeted men ringed the rear tier. She gave a small shiver, then glanced down at her program. Maria Cazarès’s last three designs would punctuate the show. One would be the first shown; one would mark its midpoint; the third would be the collection’s finale.

Lazare, who had always come out just before Maria Cazarès herself and stood next to her while she took her bow, would on this occasion appear last of all, and, of course, alone.

The lights dimmed; there was a sudden and glorious burst of Bach. Lindsay and Markov lifted their faces to the runway. Just before the first model appeared—Quest, swinging along at top speed, glaring at audience and cameras with her customary disdain, half-veiled, hatted, dressed in a magnificent confection of eye-blindingly assertive fuchsia-violet—just before this Lindsay thought she glimpsed the figure of Rowland McGuire. She caught sight of him for an instant, standing in an aisle on the far side, talking to a man who might have been police. Then the music and the movement and the loveliness of this Cazarès dress distracted her attention. A small sigh of collective delight rose from the room. When Lindsay next remembered to look across at the aisle, Rowland was nowhere in sight.

She focused on clothes, and the details of the clothes. She made her customary quick sketches and notes. She felt excitement, nostalgia, sadness, and elation begin to fill the air.

Afterward, when it was all over, both she and Markov would have to admit until the very end that they had heard and sensed nothing. Quest knew; one or two of the other models knew; the
directrice
backstage knew; the police knew. But this was theater, and the show went on—as Lazare and Maria Cazarès would have wished.

Jean Lazare first saw the young man by Mathilde Duval’s side at eleven-ten. He was first brought to Lazare’s attention by Juliette de Nerval, who explained that he was Madame Duval’s great-nephew, and that the old woman, tearful and nervous, had telephoned her early that morning, insisting that she could not face this sad occasion alone, and saying that her beloved great-nephew had traveled up from the country especially to assist her at this time of trial. Without him Mathilde would not attend, so Juliette had given her reluctant consent She hoped, she said, eyeing Lazare nervously, that she had been correct.

Lazare gave the young man a long, considering, and cold look that finally, to Juliette’s puzzlement, became one of amusement. Yes, yes, he said, moving away; of course her decision had been correct. Perhaps someone would show the young man and Madame Duval to her usual room, and her usual seat?

Juliette, flustered by the sudden security alert, had hastened to do this. Both Madame Duval and the young man were, at present, in the corner of the huge, chaotic room in which the models made their lightning changes. They were facing an eddying sea of makeup artists, hairdressers, dressers, and models. They were hemmed in by racks of clothes, by scurrying assistants. The air was rank with scent and abrasive with hair lacquer. Madame Duval, her handsome great-nephew’s hand supporting her elbow, looked dazed and faint.

Juliette managed to persuade them both back down the maze of corridors behind this dressing room, to the small, quiet room where Madame Duval had always stayed with Maria Cazarès. She settled them there, made sure Madame Duval was comfortable, and that the video screen showing the runway was well positioned for her. She made sure that tea, coffee, canapés, and drinks were available—not that Madame Duval ever touched any of them—and then rushed away to another part of the building, and the next crisis with these impossible, alarmist, and very stupid police.

At eleven twenty-five Madame Duval’s great-nephew was brought to Jean Lazare’s attention a second time. On this occasion it was Lazare’s senior aide, Christian Bertrand, who raised the subject. Lazare was, as expected, in the dressing room, the one calm person in a surging ocean of chaos. He was standing next to Quest, a model Bertrand disliked, who was looking astonishingly beautiful in an astonishingly beautiful dress. Fuchsia-violet: worn with a collar of amethysts three inches deep. Lazare was personally adjusting the veil to Quest’s romance of a hat. He wanted it lower by two millimeters. He turned away from Quest only when he had achieved this.

“Monsieur Lazare.” Christian Bertrand spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry to interrupt you with this, at such a moment…”

“Yes?”

“—But in view of the situation, the security out front. I was told, Monsieur Lazare, to take every precaution, and—the young man with Madame Duval. He appears to have left her alone, sir. And no one knows where he is.”

“I know where he is.” Lazare gave Bertrand one of his black-ice looks. “He is in my office, waiting for me. I shall join him shortly. Attend to more urgent matters than Madame Duval’s nephew, if you would be so good. The collection begins in”—he checked his watch—“three and a half minutes. If it begins one half minute after that, consider yourself relieved of your post.”

“Yes, Monsieur Lazare.”

Bertrand backed away. The towering figure of Quest, three inches taller than Bertrand in high heels, moved past him. From here, just backstage, the noise of the audience was muted, soft, as seductive as the sound of sea in a shell. The models were ready, the minions were ready, everyone was ready. Bach burst forth, trumpets proclaimed elation, confidence, magic, and success. Quest mounted the steps, braced herself, moved forward, and disappeared out to the runway beyond. Waves of reaction mounted and broke. Bertrand looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty precisely. He began to make his way back to his office, where he would watch the show on closed-circuit television. As he left the dressing room, he saw to his surprise that Jean Lazare, who always remained there supervising each last tiny detail of each outfit, was also leaving. Lazare turned in the direction of his own office, near the exit, at the end of a long corridor. This departure from tradition seemed to please him; he left the room, Bertrand noted, with an expression of relief on his face.

Lazare’s office here, like his office in the main Cazarès building, was austere. It was also, as were all his workplaces, soundproofed. Entering the room and closing the padded door behind him, he wondered if the young man who was claiming to be Madame Duval’s great-nephew had realized this.

He was seated, much as Lazare had expected, in a chair facing Lazare’s large, plain, black desk. His eyes were fixed on the twenty-four-inch video monitor with its view of the runway and a beautiful, arrogant, fuchsia-dressed Quest. As Lazare entered, he glanced around, and then rose politely to his feet. He was, Lazare thought, disconcerted. He had not expected Lazare to be here now, and he had not expected it to be this easy, perhaps.

Lazare looked at the young man, who was taller than he was by six inches at least. He noted the black suit—he, too, was wearing black—and the carefully pressed white shirt. The shoes were newly polished, the tie was discreet. The young man, who had a beautiful face, began on some quick apology and explanation for his presence. Lazare cut him off.

“I know why you’re here,” he said. With a sigh he moved to a side table, poured himself a drink. He offered one to the young man, who refused with a quick shake of the head. Lazare could see that he was almost certainly on something: his pupils were narrowed to pinpricks; he radiated a peculiar tension, like light. White Doves? Lazare thought, then reconsidered: no, probably not. It could be cocaine, or speed—and if so, the young man had better be careful. His judgment would be impaired, his reflexes slowed.

He took his brandy glass with him to the desk, sat down, and looked at the young man. He wondered if he would be cold or impassioned, slow or quick. He might relish drama, Lazare thought—he looked the type. At this he felt impatience, weariness, and a certain contempt.

“Do you know who I am?” the young man demanded with that desire to take the initiative Lazare found tiresome in the young.

“I imagine you are not Madame Duval’s great-nephew,” he replied. He took a sip of the brandy. “I also imagine you’re going to tell me who you truly are. Make it brief.”

The young man did not like that reply. Indeed, a taste for dramatics, Lazare thought, watching him: his response was to remove a gun from his pocket and place it, under his hand, on the desk.

Lazare glanced down at the gun, which he recognized as a Beretta. The safety catch was off.

“Continue,” he said.

“You have security in here?” The young man jerked his gaze away, tensing. “You have an alarm system—something like that?”

“Of course.” Lazare indicated a small panel built into the surface of his desk. “I could activate that. I could also activate a small button set into the floor by my feet. You needn’t worry. I have no intention of activating either. Besides—unless you are a very poor shot—I’d be dead or dying before assistance arrived—so there isn’t a great deal of point to it.”

He was still disconcerting the man—even alarming him, he realized, and this was not what he wanted. He saw his eyes swivel and the color come and go in his face. With a quiet gesture Lazare pushed his chair back from the desk. He sighed.

“I’m now beyond reach of either alarm. You prefer that?”

“Sure I do. Stay like that.”

“Tell me who you are,” Lazare said. “I should tell you, I already know the part you played in Maria Cazarès’s death. It was you who told her about that chemist in Amsterdam, was it not? Your friend who could provide the one pill that would restore her happiness and enable her to work? Maria told me—oh, nearly a year ago now—that some friend had discovered this man. She told me it was another designer. I didn’t believe her—but that didn’t matter. I even believed in the man and his experiments for a while, which was why I was persuaded to help fund them. I wanted to believe, of course.”

“You did?” The young man stared at him. “Why?”

“Because we had tried everything else. Innumerable doctors, clinics, methods of treatment. I had spent five years exploring the further reaches of medicine, with the help of some arcane and semilegal practitioners as well as some of the finest doctors in Europe. I was—desperate.” He paused. “And when one is desperate, one will try anything. Is that not so?”

The man made a small convulsive gesture of the hand. Lazare frowned.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, however. When you planted the idea in Maria’s mind that this chemist and these pills would be her salvation—did you realize they were lethal then?”