Paris Requiem (38 page)

After that, everything happened quickly. Touquet
reappeared
with a gaggle behind him. The narrow lane heaved with people and voices. A baby’s cries echoed through the air. Someone proffered brandy. Three men arrived with a stretcher, closely followed by two caped constables. Dr Comte was heaved on to the stretcher and borne aloft to the end of the lane where a hospital vehicle waited.

‘We should go with him,’ James said.

‘You’re right.’

No sooner had they begun to move forward, than they were surrounded by the three police officers.

‘You’re under arrest.’ The moustachioed plainclothesman announced.

‘Arrest. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Raf tried to push him aside.

‘This woman here saw you both kneeling over the body.’

‘Of course she did,’ James said evenly. ‘We found the man here, Officer. We heard a scream and came running. We put out the alert.’

‘You’ll come quietly.’ The man seemed a little confused, but he wasn’t about to let them go. ‘You can repeat that at Headquarters.’

‘Search us for the weapon, you oaf. If you find a knife on us, then you’ve got a reason to take us in. The man was stabbed,
remember. If you don’t and you still insist, you can bet your life, you’re going to be back in uniform. And in a hurry. Touquet, get over here.’ Raf waved to his friend.

‘We’re going to Headquarters,’ the officer repeated stubbornly.

‘It looks like Headquarters is coming here,’ James
murmured
. Over the heads of the lingering onlookers, he glimpsed Chief Inspector Durand’s staunch form. He was coming from the end of the lane opposite to the ambulance. James waved him forward.

‘I’ve rarely been so pleased to see you, Chief Inspector.’

‘Indeed. What’s happened, Flammard?’ Durand addressed his officer, who quickly relayed his view of events.

‘That’s all nonsense, Chief Inspector,’ Raf burst out. ‘The Nortons of Boston are hardly in the habit of stabbing doctors in alleyways.’

‘So what exactly were you doing here? I don’t relish being woken in the middle of the night just because you’re out playing, Monsieur.’ Durand peered up at Raf. His face was bullish.

‘Let me handle this, Raf.’ James took the Chief Inspector aside and explained briefly, stressing that they really should all accompany Comte to the hospital. He might have some valuable information, if he was in any state to be questioned.

The Chief Inspector rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘A knife wound, you say?’

James nodded.

The youth who had first held the lantern came up to them. ‘I saw it all, Monsieur. Well most of it. The scream woke me. I live up there.’ He pointed. ‘I heard footsteps running in that direction. And then more of them coming from over there.’ As he pointed again, James saw a broad-shouldered, capped form emerge from the shadows.

For a second, the message his eyes conveyed lacked distinctness. Then he bounded forward, using his shoulders as
a ram to clear a space through the crowd. He charged the man with his head, forced him against the wall. Thick
fingers
gripped his arms, pressed him backwards. This time he landed a fist square into the man’s chest. There was a return punch at his jaw, a kick at his groin.

Like a flash of forked lightning, he saw the glint of steel. ‘Caro,’ he shouted, ducking as the knife lunged at him. ‘Caro,’ he screamed again and felt stone scrape against his back, his head.

‘Bastard,’ Raf was yelling. ‘Pimp.’

James heard steel clatter on cobbles. And then he heard nothing more.

H
e was back on shipboard. He could feel the heave and toss of the waves, a gentle rhythmic swaying which wasn’t unpleasant at night, except that it tugged at his innards and his head felt too heavy to lift. Then came the mutter of indistinct voices. An alien smell attacked his nostrils. He wondered distantly if some waste pipe had burst, wondered too at the ache which cut through him, as regular as the ship’s sway. But he was too tired to pay it heed. Sleep carried him away.

The next thing he knew cold hands were prodding his chest. He flinched away. Steel weighed on his eyelids. With a grunt, he forced them open. A world he didn’t recognise swam slowly but not fully into focus, so that he thought he must be dreaming. A white-coated man stood over him, next to him a vaguely familiar but unrecogniseable figure with a pointed weasel-face and drooping moustaches. Beyond them, a sea of beds floated in murky light.

The white-coated man’s voice was brisk, but oddly maternal. ‘It’s only a surface wound. But your head must be hurting. I’ve given you something for the pain. Best to sleep.’

James’s eyelids obeyed the injunction with no prodding from his will.

When he woke again, pale sunshine streamed through windows, making dust motes dance. Raf was sitting by his side, anxiety etched on his handsome face.

‘There you are, Jim. I was beginning to think we’d lost you for another day. How’re you feeling, old man?’

James considered. ‘Rather like an old man. Where am I?’

Raf chuckled. ‘Well, the first thing to say is that you’re something of a hero. But like all heroes you needed just a little wound to make us believe it. So Marcel Caro provided one. He by the way is safely behind bars. Even our favourite Chief Inspector couldn’t doubt the evidence of his own eyes. An attack with a five-inch blade on an American citizen may not be murder, but it sure is an attempt. And the attempt has landed you in this not altogether pleasant hospital. We’ll have you out soon enough, Jim. The doctor says as long as you’re not seeing double and you can walk, you’ll be fine. Though you’ll probably be groggy for a bit. It’s your head that got the worst of it. That’s what knocked you out. He gave you a soothing concoction.’

James eased himself up on the uncomfortable roll of a bolster, battled with dizziness. He felt quite the opposite of a hero, whatever that was, though it probably had to do with bounding bewilderment and a creaking stiffness in the joints. He closed his eyes again for a moment. The dash through the wet streets, the body, came back through a fuzzy distance.

‘Comte.’ His mind sprang to attention. ‘What’s happened to Dr Comte?’

‘I’m afraid he hasn’t fared quite as well as you have.’

‘You mean he’s dead?’ James lurched forward, gasped at the pain.

‘Take it easy, Jim. Your wound’s not mortal, but it’ll take a few days to heal. No, Comte’s not dead, though I suspect
Marcel Caro hoped he would be, which is why he came back to check on the state of his wished-for cadaver. He wasn’t expecting quite such a crowd to happen upon the scene so very quickly.’

‘You mean Caro tried to kill Dr Comte?’ Confusion whipped through James, thicker than egg yolk. ‘I thought … I thought they were a team.’

Raf shrugged. ‘I’m pretty sure the knife that made that little indentation in you was the one that did the damage on Comte. For once the Chief Inspector seems to agree. Let’s hope he’s got Caro talking. Touquet and I briefed him, a little too hastily in the midst of all this, about the list of dead girls. Let’s hope that Comte wakes up to talk. He lost a lot of blood.’

A nurse appeared bearing a tray. A bowl filled with some grey-coloured gruel sat on it. It looked as appetising as sewage. James shook his head. A hammer seemed to have taken up residence inside it. He pushed the tray aside with as polite a ‘non’ as he could muster.

‘Was that breakfast?’

‘Lunch, I suspect.’

‘So I’ve been out for what … a day and a night?’

Raf nodded.

There was a moan from the next bed. A man tossed and writhed. He howled out a name. A nurse came running.

James winced. He didn’t want to be here. There was so much to do. He placed his feet gingerly on the floor, tested their strength.

Raf held on to him, his expression worried. ‘I’m not sure you’re quite strong enough yet.’

‘I’m not going to get any stronger here.’ He gritted his teeth against the pain at his side. Stitches, he imagined. He hadn’t dared to check yet.

‘Look, Jim. I’m going to find that doctor, take his advice. You just wait.’

‘Find out about Comte, while you’re at it.’ James inched back onto the bed. ‘I’ve been wrong, Raf. All my suppositions were wrong. Marcel Caro and Comte couldn’t have been in cahoots. I don’t know where that leaves us. I really don’t.’ His spirits felt as flat as a withered prairie at the end of August. ‘Just when I sensed we were getting somewhere.’

It was Raf’s turn to be patient and philosophical. ‘Let’s wait and hear what the Chief Inspector has to report. There are things going on here that we’re not seeing clearly. But I sense we’re on the right track, Jim. I really do. Caro and Comte were probably in on the trafficking together. And the murders. Then they fell out over something. Isn’t that always the way with villains?’ With a clumsy show of tenderness, he patted his brother on the shoulder and hurried down the aisle between the crowded rows of beds.

James wasn’t discharged until dusk had fallen. Raf had brought him a fresh shirt, a suit, all the necessary. He told him he had chucked his other clothes. No point in being reminded of rents and slashes and blood.

Despite protests, James suffered the humiliation of being wheeled to the hospital gates in a chair. It made him think of Ellie and he asked Raf if he had checked in on her.

‘I’ll send her a bleu as soon as I’ve dropped you at Marguerite’s. We won’t worry her, just let her know that you’ve had a little accident and need a few day’s mending.’ Raf gave him a swift assessing look as he helped him into the carriage. ‘You’re too good at guilt, Jim. She’ll be all right. We have other things to think about.’

‘Why Marguerite’s? I don’t want to go there.’ James settled testily into leather and realised simultaneously that it was the Landois carriage they were in. ‘I’d really rather be on my own.’

‘You need a little looking after, Jim. And Marguerite’s got the staff. Besides, she insisted.’

The carriage lurched into motion. James flinched, held himself rigid. He was grateful for the traffic which kept their progress along the boulevards slow. The evening was clear, the sky a deep, darkening blue and after the persistent rain, strollers were making the most of the weather. Everything looked a little unreal to him, even the most mundane things, as if he had been away for a long time. At the edge of the Jardin du Luxembourg, the chestnuts swayed with a sumptuous motion. The smell of hot, apple-filled beignets wafted through the window from the vendor’s kiosque with a sweetness that made his mouth water. A cyclist in a peaked cap and goggles raced past them with supernatural grace. A woman in nurse’s black bent over a large pram and shook a wooden rattle. Her dimpled smile had an extraordinary delicacy.

‘You haven’t taken against Marguerite, have you, Jim?’ Raf was surveying him. ‘I realise she might be a little, well let’s say sophisticated for your tastes. But she’s a good soul. You can trust me on that, if nothing else. She’s a brick, really.’ Raf’s voice carried the ring of earnest passion. ‘She’s helped me more than I can tell you.’

James attempted a chuckle. ‘I have no doubts at all on that score. It’s just that I’m not feeling quite up to such stimulating company.’

‘I think you’d find trying to get to the Grand rather more stimulating. The boulevard’s been cordoned off. A bomb exploded somewhere near there last night. Anarchists, I imagine. I had a prowl when I went back for your clothes. I should be covering it. I may go and have another ferret round once I’ve dropped you. But I’ll make sure to tell Marguerite all you want is rest.’

Rest of a kind was what James got. He didn’t lay eyes on Marguerite. Pierre accompanied him to the room he had stayed in the previous week, told him a light supper would soon be brought up and that the doctor would be visiting first
thing in the morning. Then he was left to his own devices. He sipped a little of the hot broth, nibbled at the chicken and dozed. He dozed through the night, his dreams galloping in reckless directions, taking him down treacherous streets where blood ran in the sewers like so much rainwater. Looming giants hurled knives at him and he caught them and hurled them back only to wake, bathed in perspiration.

When his eyes closed again, he was on a rickety barge in wintry waters. Something thudded against the stern and he raced towards the sound, chased by a grotesque woman with a gap-toothed grin. She got there first and with an icy chuckle heaved a body from the waters, a beautiful girl, weeds dangling from her hair like tresses. A sheet floated behind her. It trailed from her neck which was arched in an odd position, but her eyes were open and they wept giant tears. It was a waif’s face. Eugénie. All around her now stood a circle of onlookers – a woman in a top hat like a circus ringmaster, a frail creature with rouged cheekbones and gnarled skeletal fingers which tapped the arms of a wheelchair, a bearded, wild-eyed figure, with outstretched hands and a soundless wail of a mouth. There was a stout bearded man, too, in a white coat, a malevolent smile on his face as he reached for a syringe, but he fell into the waters and they closed round him in a whirlpool.

He started awake. His throat was parched. He reached for the glass by his bedside and drank noisily. Then he was asleep again. A woman lay at his side. He stroked her hair. It was crinkly and rough, but as he stroked, it turned silken. Maisie, he whispered, but she turned to dust in his hands and from somewhere a babe cried. Then he was standing in the dock in a courtroom. A tricolor fluttered above a moustachioed judge in black robes and a strange, round hat. The judge consulted the stern matriarch at his side. She had the features of his mother, but they spoke whispered French and in unison they
pointed a finger at him and passed sentence. A stabbing pain rent his chest. Feet marched towards him over wooden floors. ‘Monsieur Norton. Monsieur Norton.’

It took James a long moment to recognise Pierre’s voice. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur, but Dr Blanchard has arrived.’

Pierre waved through the maid with a tray. ‘I’ll have him hold on for a few moments, while Monsieur has his coffee.’

‘Thank you, Pierre.’

The doctor, when he came, was gentle, but thorough. He checked his pulse, shone a light into his eyes, examined the back of his head, dabbed at it with some stinging lotion, then washed and changed his dressing. For the first time, James looked down at his chest and saw a sizeable welt of mottled blue and yellow, the puckered skin at its centre held together in ugly leather notches. He averted his gaze. The doctor tsked beneath his breath, wound gauze round him, counselled rest, and said he would be back the following morning.

James lay there, sipping coffee, crumbling bits of brioche and feeling sorry for himself. At last, with a grunt of impatience, he got up. He gazed out the window. The sky was blue, laced with the fluff of clouds. He made several turns of the room, checking his balance. He was fine, he determined. Within minutes, he had his clothes on. Quietly he made his way downstairs.

From the orangerie came the sounds of a familiar sonata. Marguerite must be at the piano. There was a pause and a child’s high clear voice rose from the room. Juliette. He recognised her at once and faltered, drawn by the thought of a morning in such inviting company. Then, with quick decision, he continued on his original course. He chose to walk the distance rather than risk the bumps and jolts of a cab. The slow but steady progress also helped to chase the clouds from his mind.

The Quai des Orfèvres had the dusty gloom and rancorous commotion of a headquarters of disaster. Uniformed officers jostled and prodded unwilling suspects. Villains shouted and cursed. Plaintive women, shoulders hunched and eyes lowered, huddled on benches. Self-important police clerks extracted requests or charges and noted them with a laborious slowness calculated to intimidate.

James’s terse demand for the location of Chief Inspector Durand’s office was met only with narrowed eyes and an order to wait. He waited. He repeated his request, this time with an emphasis on the fact that he had an appointment. He waited some more. The scene he had forsaken in Marguerite’s organerie grew more inviting with each passing minute. At last, with a surge of anger, he shouted at the delaying official, only to be met with an innocent gaze and a pointing finger. Chief Inspector Durand had just come in. James turned to see him hurrying across the hall.

‘Chief Inspector.’ James hailed him.

Durand gave him the full benefit of his surprise. ‘Up already, Monsieur Norton. Good, good.’ His expression belied his words. The man looked exhausted. His eyes bulged, his cheeks were sallow, his tie was askew as if he had been tugging at it for need of air.

‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’

‘Talk, talk, of course.’ The Chief Inspector seemed distracted, but as he ushered him up stairs and along a corridor, he chuckled sardonically. ‘If only you were a little the worse for wear, Monsieur Norton, the case against Marcel Caro would be that much stronger.’

‘What are you talking about? You can throw the book at Caro. Two attempted murders. Suspicion of several successful ones. Not to mention trafficking and pimping. Come on, Chief Inspector. You hardly need my dead body for evidence.’

‘Calm yourself, Monsieur. Of course, we can hold Caro. But
as for the trial, the only thing we’ve got is his assault on you, which he claims is self-defence. You went for him first. You’re a lawyer, Monsieur Norton. You understand the difficulty.’

Durand waved him through into a not-insubstantial office. James was astonished at its aspect. The papers on the mahogany desk were stacked with a fanatic’s precision. Pens and a bronze inkwell stood next to a vase of perfect flesh-pink roses arranged with a woman’s eye. There were prints and drawings on the walls which displayed a collector’s refined taste. Even the leaves of the plane trees outside seemed to have been arranged for effect.