Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (17 page)

“It’s a yes and a no, but I see
now through a glass darkly.”

“You stole that line.”

Serafina smiled. She could tell
by the roll of Rosa’s eyes and the upward thrust of her arms that the madam
didn’t much care to understand. She looked at her watch, reluctant to leave.

“If we have enough time to go to
Longchamp, then we’ll have enough time to visit Père-Lachaise,” Rosa said.

“Say again? Wasn’t our visit to
the morgue enough for you? Why traipse around in a cemetery?”

“Murat’s grave. He was so
dashing, so handsome. I’ve loved him since grade school history.”

Rosa was her oldest friend.
They’d known each other since forever, too many years to count, and yet she
still surprised Serafina. Rosa harbors a longing for Joachim Murat? How could
she?

Serafina closed her eyes,
letting the breeze blow her curls, feeling the peace of it. She was close to
the end, she knew it.

Rosa touched Serafina’s good
shoulder. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a wad
of paper. “While you were sleeping in the sun room—”

“I was most certainly not
sleeping.”

“Whatever. I found these. Keep
them in your pocket. Too much for Valois to handle just now. Besides, I know
you’ll want to act on them. They’re notes of indebtedness to Elena from that
handsome young pup, Ricci. Seems he ran up gambling debts.”

“Ricci?” Serafina couldn’t
believe it of him. “He seemed so genuine, so polite, so ...”

“So little you know of men. Did
you total up the cost of his suit, his hat, cologne, cane, gloves? He’s
expensive, I tell you. In total, he owes his cousin a small fortune,” Rosa
said. “By my calculation, close to twenty-five thousand francs. For all we
know, there are others. So clever of you to ask about Elena’s will.” Rosa
tapped the side of her nose. “Who said, ‘In the end, it’s all about lucre’?”

“You repeat yourself. Have you
heard from your source?”

“I have, but I was saving the
news for later.”

“Go on, then. Who is he, by the
way?”

“Fina. You should know better
than to ask. I never reveal my sources. Except I will say, he struts about the
piazza like a rooster wearing an
avvocato’s
robe. When you hear the terms,
promise not to jump to conclusions.”

Serafina crossed her arms. “Go
on.”

“There’s a substantial bequest
to
La Maternité
and to some society of artists,
I don’t remember the whole name, but you can imagine.”

She was silent, waiting for the
rest.

“The major portion of her
estate, some twenty-five million lire, goes to her aunt, Sophia Busacca.”

Serafina stopped. Her hands were
cold. For Loffredo, not a mention.

“You’re jumping, I see it, and
you promised not to. There’s more. Should the aunt pre-decease, it’s equally
divided between her sons, Elena’s three nephews.”

“I thought so,” Serafina said.
“And that’s why Levi Busacca commissioned me to find his daughter’s murderer. I
cabled him, you know. I told him I thought his daughter might be alive.”

“What did he say?”

“He hasn’t replied.”

They were silent for some time,
drinking in the beauty of Paris, until Serafina asked about Elena’s bank
account.

“On April 15, one-thousand
francs were withdrawn. No activity since that time.”

Serafina read one of the notes signed
by Ricci, shuffled through the rest, and put her hand to her forehead.

“Do they darken the glass you
look through?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shook her head.

“Just so you don’t go all wizard
on me again. And by the way, I’m famished.”

“Keep the notes and remind me
about them later.”

On the way out, they met Valois.
“We’d like to take you and your wife and son to dinner,” Rosa said. “Véfour at
nine tonight? We’ve asked for a private room.”

As they walked to the carriage,
they saw Teo and Arcangelo lumbering behind two policemen. They’d cuffed the
two shadows and were pushing them toward a wagon.

Chapter
20:
La Maternité

“Port Royale, driver,” Serafina
said.

“Not on your life. I don’t know
what’s there, but it doesn’t sound like my kind of place. Anyway, I must have
food first. It’s a long time until we eat tonight.”

Serafina told the driver to find
them a brasserie in the sixth arrondissement. “Not too noisy.”

When the waiter brought their
food, a sole meunière with a glass of mineral water for Serafina and a peppered
steak and
pommes frites
with a glass of Bordeaux for
Rosa, the madam said, “Tell me what’s at the Port Royal, something to do with
Elena, I fear.” She forked a morsel of steak and French fries into her mouth,
savoring the richness and swallowing a large mouthful of wine.

“
La Maternité
, one of the hidden treasures of Paris,” Serafina began.
“What you thought of as sleeping on my part was thinking.”

“Your mother sent you there,
didn’t she? After that disastrous affair of yours with what’s his name. That
was one of your worst moves, by the way. You almost failed to get your
certificate. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” Rosa shoveled; she chewed;
she drank.

“You’re off the subject entirely.
Today I remembered a doctor who was making a name for himself at
La Maternité
, all over Paris in fact, at the
time I attended the school of midwifery.”

“One of your teachers?”

“No, we were taught by the head
midwife, a
femme savante
. Wonderful woman. Strict, which
is what I needed at the time. Mama used to say that the French have a lot to
teach the world about midwifery, and she was right. But we attended his
lectures. He had most unusual thoughts about delivering breech births, I
remember. I was slightly in awe of him.”

“So?”

“I saw his name, Tarnier, in
Elena’s address book, and I’ve been puzzling over it ever since, trying to
remember its significance until today in Elena’s apartment.” She reached into
her pocket, brought out the little book, and showed Rosa the note written in
Elena’s hand—“Tarnier, April 18, La M”.

“But
La Maternité
is for women who can’t afford a midwife. And if he’s the
chief of surgery, why would he agree to treat Elena?” Rosa asked.

“You need to ask? The will?”

“The large bequest to
La Maternité
. Of course, how stupid of me,”
the madam said.

They paid the bill and left,
thanking the maître d’hôtel for the wonderful service.

When they arrived at
La Maternité
, Serafina asked to speak with
Dr. Tarnier on a matter of some urgency and was disappointed. He was in Lyon
for a conference, the receptionist told her. When she asked to speak with his
assistant, the woman shook her head. “I’m afraid he is away as well. He returns
Monday.”

Serafina thanked her and walked
toward the door.

“Giving up like that?” Rosa
asked.

“You’re right.”

They walked back to the desk. “I
was a student here many years ago. Madame Charrier was the chief midwife.” The
young woman nodded and said she’d heard the name. “May I speak with whoever is
in charge?”

Serafina and Rosa were ushered
into a parlor with a view of the cloisters and gardens. The grounds looked the
same to Serafina, large, old, quiet, boring, and imposing. A group of students
passed by, huddled together, and a young woman sat on a bench in the gardens,
her head buried in a book. Serafina remembered her school days here, the ordeal
of early morning classes in the cold when a thin coating of ice floated on top
of the pitcher in her room. But the French led the world in compassionate and
innovative birthing techniques and Serafina learned most of her midwifery
skills during the six months she’d spent here.

In a while a woman dressed in
fine black wool with a stiff collar and apron entered the room. She was
introduced to Rosa and Serafina as the
chef de la Maternité
. She listened patiently while Serafina told her that their
friend was missing, perhaps wrongly assumed dead, probably with child and in
need of help.

“We are trying to locate Elena
Loffredo. I’d like to know if she was a patient of Dr. Tarnier. His name
appears in her address book. As her physician, perhaps he would know where she
is.”

The woman made no response but
smiled. Her blue eyes held only compassion and intellect. “You don’t remember
me, do you?”

“Your face, your eyes, the
richness of your hair, yes, I remember you now. Don’t tell me ...Charlotte ...
that’s it, Charlotte Clémence. You were a star and I was a foreign student, but
you helped me with the language.”

“Now I go by the name Charlotte
Clémence-Callé. Despite the language difficulties, you were quick to catch on.”

“And very appreciative of the
skills I was taught by Madame Charrier. Such a learned woman. Small, but every
bone in her body was alive and focused on helping mothers birth their babies.
You were so kind to me.”

There was a pause.

“I know you can’t tell me why my
friend saw Dr. Tarnier, but if you could please tell me if she is one of his
patients, I’d be grateful.”

Charlotte Clémence-Callé rang a
bell. “You’re correct, I can’t tell you. Privileged information. But I’ll ask a
student to get his appointment book.”

While they waited, they
reminisced about their time as students, the early morning hour of the lessons,
the live demonstrations which Serafina found so helpful, the professional
compassion of the school and hospital.

“And the fire—a terrible
time,” Charlotte said. “They never discovered who caused it, but a student
studying by candlelight was suspected. She was reprimanded and left in
disgrace.”

Serafina started in her seat. “I
remember. But she didn’t cause the fire.”

Should she say something now?
What good would it do, so long after the event? She shut her eyes and recalled
the flames in the middle of the night, the screams, running feet, the choking,
the retching, the pushing as girls and teachers rushed to safety. The stench of
smoldering wet wood was all that remained of the wing in the morning. Contained
in an unused part of the building, the fire was extinguished before there were
any deaths, but it was an event Serafina never forgot. She took a few deep
breaths. At the time she suspected one of the custodians. She could see him
behind her closed lids—horrid how his pig eyes haunted her
still—the wine-colored flush of his bloated face, the rotten smell of his
breath as he stood leering before her on the edge of memory. She’d gone to
Madame Charrier’s office to tell her what she suspected. About to knock, she
hesitated. She lost her nerve.

The realization still shamed
her. That night she wrote to her parents begging them to let her leave. And
they had, but the horror of the fire remained, the sudden twist of fate, an
unexpected, uncontrollable force rushing in and lashing out, leaving only
destruction in its wake. And worse, her weakness in not speaking her mind, in
letting an innocent be reprimanded. It was a sin against the truth that
remained to torture her. She would never be silent again.

When she re-focused, Charlotte
Clémence-Callé was paging through a leather-bound book, no doubt skimming Dr.
Tarnier’s appointments.

“She saw him at the end of
March, again on April 9, and most recently on April 16.”

Serafina and Rosa exchanged
glances. “The time of the appointment on April 16?”

“Two in the afternoon.”

“You’re certain of the date?”

“Of course.”

“And would Dr. Tarnier be
willing to share this information with representatives of the
Sûreté
?”

“I don’t see why not.”

She hugged Madame Clémence-Callé
and told her what a help she’d been. “And the custodian, a round man with dark,
stringy hair, a wine-colored face and rotten teeth, he’s the one I suspected of
starting the fire.”

Charlotte Clémence-Callé widened
her eyes. “Our suspect, too. I cannot forget him. He insisted he was fast
asleep when the blaze broke out. We couldn’t prove otherwise.”

Serafina shook her head. “I saw
him standing in the garden, watching the fire, his eyes lit by the lantern he
held in his hand, and the look on his face, I’ll never forget it.”

The teacher nodded slowly, then
gave Serafina a Gallic shrug. “Too late now. One day soon after the Siege, the
custodian disappeared. We heard he’d joined the Communards and was executed
after the city was freed.”

“Proves nothing,” Rosa said on
the way back to the hotel.

“Elena had an appointment with
Tarnier on April 9 and April 16 in the afternoon, hours after she died and it
proves nothing?”

Rosa smiled. “Very well, it
proves you were right. I need a sweet.”

“After the meal you had at the
brasserie?”