Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (5 page)

Chapter 7: Arrival

As they pulled into the Gare de Lyon,
the train belched steam and the iron wheels screeched to a halt. Serafina rose
and Rosa stretched. They descended, making their way on unsteady legs down the
length of the platform. Serafina felt the damp evening chill and walked with
increasing speed out of the station and into the Paris dark, the end of a long
journey. The beginning of another.

She gazed up, trying to see the
stars, but the night was cloudy and the air misted. Haloes surrounded rows of
gas lamps and Parisians swept past, speaking in that guttural way of the
French. Serafina peered across the boulevard to the notorious shape of the
Prison Mazas and felt a stony creature breathing fire deep within her.
Buttoning the collar of her cape, she glanced back at Teo and Arcangelo who
walked behind her, talking and pointing at everything they saw. She looked over
at Rosa embracing Tessa and gesturing toward the huge square buildings
surrounding them while carriages whirred by in the wide tree-lined streets.

Carmela caught up with them,
towing a stevedore and his cart. She took Serafina’s arm and marched her to the
curb where three of Busacca’s agents greeted them in passable Sicilian. After
suitable small talk, she asked the men to arrange a conference for her with the
prefect of police and with Madame de Masson, Busacca’s sister, as soon as
possible. “I want to begin my investigation tonight.”

“An impossibility,” they said,
laughing and saying, “No, no, Madame,” and stomping their feet on the cobbles.
They said Madame de Masson expected her at ten tomorrow morning and they’d
scheduled a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the prefect. A carriage would be
waiting for her at half past nine in front of her hotel.

“Nothing for it but to enjoy
Paris tonight. I for one am famished,” Rosa said.

In a few minutes, the hotel’s
omnibus arrived. While a porter stowed their luggage, a liveried footman helped
them up the few steps into the vehicle. Serafina took one last look around the
station. A figure, dark and foreboding, hid in an alcove across the square. As she
stared at him, the cloaked man receded into the shadows.

Arcangelo and Teo wanted to ride
on top so they all climbed the stairs and sat holding onto the rails in the
open air, Serafina hugging her cape and rubbing her arms for warmth. She felt
the resistance of the wheels as the horses strained and they began to move.

Plunking down next to Carmela,
she gave her a peck on the cheek and an encouraging hug. Poor Carmela, an unwed
mother, by necessity she’d stayed at home most of the time with her baby, helping
at home with the younger children, forgotten by the world. Carmela’s brow was
furrowed. Serafina looked down at the people in the streets, the Frenchwomen
with such flare they exuded an unmatched style and sophistication. She felt
rather than saw them staring back at her. Fingering the thin fabric of her
dress worn through in spots at the hem, she pulled at a loose thread and tried
to smooth the pucker.

As the horses clopped onto the
Rue de Rivoli, the crowds thickened and their glamor increased, taunting her.
She tried to see herself through the eyes of the wealthy Parisians and other
travelers who flocked to the city. They seemed to mock her with their finery.
Why did she think she’d have the skill to operate here? She felt each breath of
air like a fist in her stomach. Her imagination fed her fears, no doubt a
trick, but in her mind, Paris was filled with disquiet, the straight boulevards
and laughing crowds an elaborate charade hiding a medieval terror lurking
beneath the paved avenues where the real city waited like a wild beast ready to
pounce. After all, she’d been a student of midwifery in the old Paris, long
before Haussmann bulldozed the medieval neighborhoods. She remembered the dirty
warrens, the narrow alleys that bred bitter poverty and disease and far too
much death. And as in all cities in Europe, she knew there were scores of the
desperate ready to kill for a sous. She doubted they’d been totally eradicated;
memory and minds and class structure would have to change first. She shivered.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that one or two hapless souls waited for her
somewhere in this city ready to surprise her one day, hired by a formidable
power as yet unknown. Well, she’d just have to disappoint them.

“I want to see the Bastille you
told me about,” Arcangelo said.

“Torn down,” Teo said. “We
passed the spot where it stood, not far from the station. Hundreds of thousands
were imprisoned there. Thousands died by hanging or starvation or the
guillotine.”

Arcangelo’s eyes widened.

“Too much Dickens,” Serafina
said, and tried to swallow her own fears.

The omnibus turned into the Rue
de Rivoli, passing buildings grander in scale than those surrounding the
station and lit by rows of gas lamps. The wide sidewalks were filled with
groups in evening attire walking arm in arm, the women elegantly coiffed, the
men in top hats.

“What’s that?” Tessa asked,
pointing to a large building on their left.

“The Louvre. It used to be a
palace,” Rosa said. “Filled with art, but not your taste, I’m afraid, my girl.”

“But I want to see it at least
once.”

“Me, too,” Teo said.

“You boys and Carmela will have
your days filled with work,” Serafina said. “Which reminds me ...” She tapped
her daughter’s shoulder. “Tomorrow while Rosa and I are visiting Madame de
Masson, I’d like the four of you to go to a studio on the Boulevard des
Capucines. There’s an exhibit I want you to see, and the paintings will be more
to Tessa’s liking.” The omnibus turned and they held onto the railing.

Tessa smiled.

“I read about it too,” Carmela said,
taking out her map, silent while she studied it. “No need to take public
transport. It’s close to our hotel, right in back of us.” She traced the route
with her finger. “And why do we visit this exhibit, not just to look at
paintings, I hope.”

Arcangelo made a face, straining
to hear Serafina’s reply.

Serafina paused a moment, taking
in the scenery, then continued. “I’m hoping you’ll find some of Elena’s
friends. If no one’s there when you arrive, return later. I want you to find
out as much as you can about Elena’s life in Paris, the names and location of
her friends, their regard for her, how they took her death, the shops she
frequented, the names of her lovers, their addresses. I need to know everything
about her.”

“Won’t her aunt provide us with
that?” Rosa asked.

“Perhaps, but better to hear
information from several different sources.” Serafina continued. “You and Tessa
will be interested in the paintings. But Arcangelo and Teo won’t even go
inside.”

Arcangelo looked at Teo and
smiled.

“I want them to look for our
shadowy friends. We still need to determine who’s following us and why.”

“We’ve been through this. I
thought you figured they were Busacca’s men,” Rosa said.

“But I’ve got to make sure.”

Teo turned his moon face to
Serafina. Some of the chocolate dessert he’d eaten on the train had smeared
onto his shirt. She wondered what people in the hotel lobby would think of
their group.

They turned into a large square,
Serafina swaying with the motion.

“That’s our hotel?” Arcangelo
pulled at his sleeves.

* * *

The
Hôtel du Louvre was a large presence lit from within. It looked more like a
city than a hotel and faced a large square choked with hundreds of horse-drawn
vehicles. Pedestrians called to one another, disappeared into the dark, or
gathered around tour guides. Some hailed fiacres and
voitures de remise
. Men hawked newspapers. Women
sold flowers.

In
contrast with the surrounding panache, Serafina’s group were weary from a
seventy-six-hour journey. Grit from the train had seeped into their clothes,
and Serafina thought she heard the concierge sniff as he handed her the keys.
As she signed the register, she looked at Carmela blinking in the splendor, at
Tessa leaning against Rosa, her eyes barely open, at Teo, nodding his head into
a book pretending not to be exhausted or impressed by the surroundings.
Arcangelo yanked at the cuffs of his sleeves.

“May I take your knapsack and
show you to your room?” a bellboy asked Teo in schoolbook Italian.

Normally quick with a reply, Teo
was silent, absorbed in a new world decorated in the style of Louis Quinze. He
clutched his book. His eyes were giant figs.

Instead of taking the long and
impressive staircase, they rode to the eighth floor in a contrivance called a
lift. Their rooms faced the front, seven separate chambers furnished in French
rococo with a view of the Place du Palais Royal and beyond it, the Jardin des
Tuileries. Each room had its own maid curtseying in front of the door, and
inside, gilt and marble inlay, a rock crystal chandelier suspended from the
ceiling, a large bedroom and a water closet with porcelain bathtub, hot-running
water, and a pile of soft towels. Lush. Intimidating.

Serafina smelled heat pouring in
from the floor vents of her corner room. She breathed in moist air when she
opened doors leading to a balcony overlooking the Place du Palais Royal. In the
near distance, the Tuileries were silent and dark except for the gas lamps
which threw pools of light far into the park. She watched the people on the
ground below, some walking, others embracing, still others getting into cabs.
All seemed carefree, full of energy and laughter.

While Gesuzza sat in a far
corner of Serafina’s suite, the chambermaid rolled down the damask bedspread.
Carmela and Rosa admired the silk sheets. Tessa, Teo and Arcangelo huddled
together, reluctant to go to their own rooms.

“In two days you’ll be used to
all this luxury,” Serafina said. “And in two weeks you’ll be speaking the
language like natives.”

“Can we order breakfast in our
rooms?” Tessa asked.

“Anything you want.”

The three looked at one another,
whispering.

There was a knock on the door.
Giulia and two of her assistants bustled in, lugging several dresses from the
House of Grinaldi for Carmela and two evening gowns for Serafina. For a moment
it seemed like home with all the flying hands, the hugs, the kisses, the
exclamations. Then Carmela took Giulia and her friends to her room so she could
try on her new wardrobe, and Rosa went with Gesuzza to supervise the unpacking.

“Over here,” Tessa said, motioning
to Arcangelo and Teo. “Take a look at the square.”

Teo corrected her. “You mean
piazza.”

“No, she means
place
. It’s the
Place
du Palais Royal,” Serafina said
to the empty room.

Lulled by the sudden quiet and
the cool breeze from the open balcony doors, Serafina sank into the comfort of
a well-padded chair, one which, for a change, did not roll or sway. She pulled
out her notebook and after flipping back and forth through the pages, wrote a
few lines summarizing the journey, underlining their encounters with the men
who followed them. She thought them harmless and without sense, but annoying.
She may have dozed until Rosa’s skirt brushed by her.

The madam waddled over to the
French doors leading to the balcony. Visoring her eyes she said, “Look at all
the gas lamps and the traffic, my girl.”

Teo, Arcangelo, and Tessa
continued to gaze at the square below, bustling with more carriages and
horse-drawn vehicles than they’d seen in one place, ever, even in Palermo. But
the flow of traffic was different here, Teo pointed out, more orderly.

“Tonight we tour and eat,”
Serafina said, closing her notebook. “Tomorrow we work.” She thought they’d
have plenty of time to visit museums and exhibits after she dispensed with
Elena’s killer.

“Not all of us. Remember Tessa
is on holiday.”

Tessa shook her head. “I’m here
to work with Teo and Arcangelo. I’m one of them, remember?”

“We need her,” Teo said.

In a few minutes, waiters
arrived with trays carrying food steaming under glass and silver domes. They
arranged it on a long dining table in the middle of the room.

“This is a light supper, Madame,
as you so wished. You do not wish to dine in one of the restaurants?” a waiter
asked in Italian, his dialect barely intelligible.

“Not tonight. I hope this a good
sampling of the menu,” Rosa said.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Enough for all of us? We’re ten
with our visitors and we’re famished. And there’d better be dessert.”

“But of course, Madame, let me
show you.” He picked up each lid as he explained the dish in detail. “A
selection from the chef’s kitchen—escargots marinated in wine.” He
plunked down the lid and it made a soft metallic bong as he picked up another.
“A dish of shallots in a light cream sauce, some fresh legumes, and a surprise
for you, caviar mixed with pine nuts and basil oil—very, how shall I say,
Méditerranée
to suit your
palette—sweetbread and tongue of veal, cream of chestnut with a duck foie
gras, and a specialty, stewed figs and sardines.” He paused, frowning at Rosa’s
wrinkled nose. “The soup is a beef and onion consommé topped with toasted bread
and Gruyere. And we have six bottles of red wine from the Médoc and four
bottles of chilled white from Chablis.” The waiter folded his hands over his
ample stomach, his bulging eyes on Rosa. “And if that will be all, Madame ...”