John Lescroart - Son of Holmes

I looked down at my hands. “I’d rather not serve at the front, if that’s what you mean, but in my case it’s more a question of age than conceit.”

He shrugged. “Call it what you will. Are you getting ready to go?”

I’d gotten up, alerted by noises upstairs. He put his fingers to his lips as he crossed over to me, and together we listened at the door to what sounded like Magiot himself talking to Vernet.

“You expect me to believe that he left here this afternoon and left no hint of where he was going?”

“I expect nothing, monsieur,” Vernet replied. “I merely tell you what happened. I dismissed him. He left. C’est ça. C’est tout.”

Magiot asked a couple of questions about Fritz and then, angry but satisfied with the responses, left. So it had worked.

Lupa walked back to his chair and sat. “Satisfactory. Jules, you’re going home this evening? Good. Would you check something for me?”

“Of course.”

“The table in your sitting room, in front of the fireplace, I’d like you to look at it carefully and describe it to me in detail when you return tomorrow.”

I left him exactly as I’d found him, sitting over a book at his desk. I found my way out easily through the tunnel, walked to the car, and began the drive home. It had been a long day. Only as I turned off the light near my bed to sleep did I remember that the telegram from Georges hadn’t arrived.

14

Tuesday, May 25, 1915. The day broke cool and clear. I threw the comforter off and got to my feet. Downstairs, the kitchen was spotless as always but, without Fritz, seemed lifeless. I made my own coffee, which was not good, and ate one of yesterday’s croissants, which was worse. I hadn’t seen Tania since Sunday after the shooting, and so I decided to pay her a call.

The walk to her house was always pleasant for me, and no less so this morning. The greens were vibrant, and I’d gotten started early enough to hear the birds chirping. It was not quite cold, though I walked with my hands in my pockets.

Danielle answered my knock and stood wringing her hands in the doorway.

“Is madame in?” I inquired.

She shook her head back and forth and looked at me helplessly.

“What’s the matter, Danielle?”

I brushed past her and on into the foyer. “Tania!” There was no answer.

“Elle est partie.” Danielle had come up behind me.

“Where’s she gone to? When did she leave?”

The domestic only shook her head, tears coming to her eyes.

“The other woman? What about her?”

“She’s also gone.”

“When did they leave? Have you no idea?”

“They were gone when I got up this morning. They were here last night. Oh, Monsieur Giraud, I’m so worried. I don’t know what could have happened. Everything was normal last night, and now they are gone. There is no note. I heard nothing.”

She was becoming hysterical, so I walked her to a chair and we sat down. I took her hand.

“Now look, Danielle. Try to remember. Did anyone come last night? Did madame act strange in any way? How was the other woman?”

“Last night she was walking around, of course with the bandage still on her head. But we talked, and she seemed well. The madame had dinner and went up to bed early, complaining of a headache. No one came to the house.”

“What time did you get up this morning?”

“At dawn, monsieur, comme d’habitude.”

“Were there any signs of trouble? Struggle of any kind?”

“No.”

“All right. Wait here. I’ll look around.”

So saying, I left her in the sitting room and went to Tania’s room. The bed had been slept in. Her cosmetics were neatly arranged. Her brush had some hair in it—since Danielle cleaned daily, it was likely that Tania had taken the time to comb out her hair. Everything was in order.

On Tania’s bureau there was a framed photograph of herself, her husband, and the four boys formally posed around their sitting room mantel. The focus was clear, all the likenesses visible. From the age of the boys, the picture had been taken within the past two years. I remembered Lupa’s directions and my hand reached out to take the thing. But then I stopped. Could I do this to my lover? Were there no limits to this intelligence gathering? How would Tania react to the missing picture? Turning abruptly, I left the room empty-handed.

In the other rooms, I looked at windows for signs of forcible entry, for scuff marks in the hall which might show where a struggle had taken place, but I found nothing. Anna’s bandage lay in a wastebasket near her dressing table, but she may have had it changed. I came back down to find Danielle as I’d left her, but now dabbing at her eyes more frequently. The girl was not yet twenty and no doubt was easily upset.

“There, there,” I said, which was patently no help. She cried for another small time before I could quiet her by suggesting that she go to my house, until further notice, and try to keep the place in order. Even as I said it, I cursed to myself. I’d forgotten to look over the table near the hearth. Still, it was no great matter. I was worried about Tania’s disappearance. If nothing else, it was badly timed. What would Lupa say when he heard that Anna had disappeared? I didn’t care to think about it.

As we were about to lock up the house, I excused myself for a moment, trudging wearily back up the stairs to Tania’s room. Carefully I removed the family portrait from the frame, rolled it, and placed it in my coat pocket. If it would serve to clear her of suspicion, she would have to do without it for a time. On the way back down the stairs, I tried to rationalize my guilt by telling myself that, had she been there, I would have asked to borrow the picture, and she would have acceded. It was small consolation.

We carefully locked up the house and walked together as far as the road. I was in a hurry to get to Valence, though I couldn’t have said why—perhaps I was as much concerned with getting out of Danielle’s presence. Nothing upset me more than the whimpering voice of an hysterical teenager. Be that as it may, I left her with my keys and turned to Valence. I found myself breathing hard and forced myself to a slow walk. It would be good if, as Lupa said, this thing was coming to a head. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stand the pace much longer.

I stopped at the first cafe en ville and ordered a double espresso and a newspaper. By the time I’d finished both, it was close to nine o’clock and traffic had picked up on the road. I felt much more relaxed and decided for the moment to put off seeing Lupa. Shut up as he was in his hideaway at La Couronne, he would not be of much help in determining Tania’s and Anna’s whereabouts anyway. And I was still not at all sure that the ladies were at risk. Walking out of the cafe, I glanced in the direction of St. Etienne and saw sulfur clouds beginning to rise. So the factory was still producing. Things hadn’t gotten out of control yet.

I headed toward the telegraph office to check on early telegrams. Perhaps they hadn’t bothered to deliver Georges’s telegram of the night before, or maybe it had only arrived this morning. No such luck. Nothing had arrived for me at all.

Again out on the street, I turned toward the police station, thinking it would seem logical to Magiot if I showed an interest in whether they’d taken Lupa or not. The way my morning had been going, Magiot might even cheer me up.

I was ushered directly into his office. He rose to greet me, and we shook hands.

“Well, Jules, what wakes you so early?”

I’d play his game. “Curiousity, Jacques. I wanted to see if eight o’clock came twice a day. Someone told me it appeared in the morning, and I wanted to check it out for myself.”

He smiled tolerantly.

“But,” I said, “I really thought I’d drop by and see if you’d picked up Lupa or gotten anywhere with this thing. I had a devil of a time sleeping last night, what with all your talk of international affairs. Have you got him? Did he confess?”

Magiot arranged some papers on his desk, taking his time. He got out a cigarette, offered me one which I refused, and lit it. “No,” he said finally, “we didn’t get him. He’d left La Couronne by the time we’d come to arrest him.”

“Lupa left? When did he go? I saw him there only yesterday morning.”

“Evidently Vernet fired him outright when he learned of the forged papers. He packed up and left immediately. You know they’ve hired your man—Fritz, isn’t it?—to take his place?”

“No. No, I didn’t know that.”

“By the way, Jules, why did you fire him just at this time?”

I shrugged. “I found myself not trusting him. It wasn’t anything specific that brought it on, but since he’d brought in the beers that night, it occurred to me that he’d had as good a chance as anyone to poison one of them. I kept getting more and more nervous as mealtimes approached, until finally I wasn’t enjoying his cooking, so I let him go.”

“But I understand he brought the beers in on a tray from which everyone selected . . .”

“True. As I said, it wasn’t anything specific. I just can’t have a man in my house whom I don’t trust completely. He could have arranged it, possibly.”

“Yes, from your point of view, possible. I think you’ve been unjust, though it’s your right.”

I shrugged again. “There are other chefs. But what are you doing about Lupa? Have you any ideas?”

“None, really. He didn’t leave by train. At least, no one saw him leave by train. He could really be anywhere. We’ve wired all the neighboring towns and asked for their hotel lists, though of course he’ll change his name. He may have sheafs of forged papers. Still, I think we’ll get him. You can rest assured.”

“I hope so. Why, though, did you wait until last night to go for him? Surely you could have picked him up at any time.”

“We’d already been by in the morning, if you remember what I told you yesterday—it must have been after you had talked to him, because he wasn’t there. We reasoned our best chance to find him was during dinner hours. With the force so shorthanded we couldn’t leave someone there to cover the doors at all times, so we gambled and lost.”

“A shame,” I said, sincerely.

“Damned right,” he agreed, stubbing out his cigarette. “And now, old friend, if there’s nothing else, I should be getting on to routines. I’m glad to see you showing some interest at least. Do drop around later if you have any more questions. We should have him within the week.”

“Yes. Well, thank you for your time, Jacques. I know the way out.”

Out in the corridor, I allowed myself a smile. Passing through the lobby, my hands in my pockets and my head down, I heard a familiar voice. The American accent echoed unmelodically off the marble walls. I stopped and saw Paul leaning over the reception desk, obviously angry.

“But I’ve been reporting at St. Etienne every day for a week now! I can’t be there tonight. Don’t you understand? I can report here just as well . . .”

The gendarme replied in a low voice.

“Well, all right then, arrest me, but at least let me . . .”

I tapped him on the shoulder. “Paul,” I said.

He stopped and turned. “Jules, thank God. Listen, can you help me? These people don’t seem to realize that I can’t report to St. Etienne this evening.”

“Why not?”

“I received a wire from my publishers telling me to meet their representative tonight in Valence. So I thought it would be a simple enough matter to report here, but this man here keeps telling me that it’s against the rules. If I were told to report in St. Etienne, then I must report in St. Etienne. It’s insane. What’s the goddam difference?”

“Why don’t you just wire the representative to meet you in St. Etienne?”

“He’s already left by now, Jules. If I’m not here, they won’t take it lightly.”

“I imagine not. All right, let me talk to him.”

I leaned over the desk and pointed out to the flic that since they already had a suspect, it was rather pointless to keep hounding everyone else involved. Perhaps Monsieur Magiot would see the logic of my position. At the mention of the chief’s name, the desk guard looked down and mumbled that perhaps something could be done to accommodate the monsieur. I told him I sincerely hoped so. Then I turned, took Paul’s arm, and walked out the front door.

Out on the stoop, I put my arm around him. “Well, how are you?”

“Fine, now, thank you. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Volontiers.”

We settled in a cafe, and I surprised both Paul and myself by ordering a Vichy water.

“What were you doing in the station?” he asked. “I certainly didn’t expect to run into you there.”

“Oh, the police chief here is an old acquaintance of mine. Yesterday he told me they were going to arrest Lupa, and—”

“So it was him. I’m damned.”

“Not necessarily. The police have decided it was him, and he’s left town—”

“Well, that clinches it.”

“Well, yes, it appears so. Anyway, I was at the station to see if they’d got him and found all this out. Seems his papers were forged, too.”

He sipped at his whiskey. “Doesn’t surprise me any, though.”

“No?”

“No. Look at it like this, Jules. We’d all been meeting there at your place for a long time, and if anybody wanted to kill Marcel they could have done it any old time. But everybody liked Marcel. ’Course there’s other reasons for killing than having it be personal. But anyway, this Lupa fellow comes in, and right off Marcel is killed, and then Lupa runs away. Didn’t he have to register every day? He was foreign, too, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose they asked him to. But no, since he was in town, they only requested that he not leave.”

“Well, there, now. I hope they hang the bastard.”

We were sitting on the sidewalk, and the talk turned to other matters. It was a fine day, and we chatted until noon and then decided to have a bite.

Halfway through our ham sandwiches, Paul looked up across the street and spoke. “It’s old home week at Grand Central.” He motioned with his head to a couple walking toward us on the other side of the road, as yet unaware of us. It was Georges and Madame Pulis. When they were abreast of us, Paul called out to them.

“The secret’s out now about you two. Come on over and join us and maybe we won’t tell Henri.”

They stopped abruptly, waved, and waited for the traffic to let up. Georges took her by the arm and, limping nimbly, guided her to our table. They ordered drinks, and while waiting for them to arrive, Georges continued the teasing.

“Now that it’s known, my dear, why hide it any longer?” He winked at us as Madame Pulis flushed crimson. Taking her hand, he gave it a gallant kiss. “Or is it to be au revoir?” He turned his head away in mock despair.