City of Light (City of Mystery) (26 page)

“The foreign press
office? Geraldine, on the boat over I thought I made it quite clear that you
were not to –“

“You did make it
clear, Trevor, and I promise you I won’t do anything dangerous. We’re talking
about a stroll across town in the middle of the day to visit a public place,”
Geraldine said.  “Do you recall how in Rayley’s letter about climbing the tower
he very specifically mentioned that Graham had been distracted the whole time
by an American reporter?”

“Aunt Gerry, I don’t
think I’ve ever been so impressed with you as I have been in the past
twenty-four hours,” Tom said. “Yes, of course, the girl from the New York
Times.  Graham was trying desperately to charm the young lady, so if he told
anyone about his big story, it was most likely her.”

“Indeed, Gerry, good
job,” Emma said with equal enthusiasm. “I’m upstairs taking a silly nap and all
the while you’re across town being very clever indeed.  I can’t recall - Did
Rayley name the girl in the letter or are female reporters enough of an anomaly
that she was easy to find?”

“She stood by the
railing, if you’ll recall,” Geraldine said, “and thus her picture was in all
the papers, including the London Star, and she was mentioned in the caption
below.  She actually has the most marvelous name – Marjorie Mallory - and when
I asked the young man at the desk if she was there, he most promptly fetched
her.”

“And what did she
tell you?”  Tom demanded. “You have us all on tetherhooks.”

Trevor nodded too,
although he was both surprised and a little distressed that Geraldine, when
left to her own devices, had not only managed to locate Armand Delacroix but
had also thought of an avenue of pursuit that he had not.

“She didn’t tell me
anything, because I didn’t ask,” Geraldine said.  “When I had explained who I
was and ascertained that yes, Marjorie was in confidence with Patrick Graham, I
invited her here to tea.  I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, Trevor,
especially on a day when you’re already overwhelmed with information.”

“No need to
apologize, for your instincts were spot on the money,” said Trevor.  “The maid
has undoubtedly shown Miss Mallory to the sitting room, so shall we proceed?”

“She’s only
expecting to talk to you, Trevor,” Geraldine said. “You’re the one from
Scotland Yard, after all, while the rest of us are mere amateurs.”

“Geraldine,” Trevor
said with mock sternness.  “It’s bad enough that both you and Emma have outsmarted
me.  Don’t compound my humiliation with such uncharacteristic false flattery.  All
right, so I shall interview the young lady on my own.  In the meantime, Tom, I
need you to find a wire office and send Davy a telegram.  We were so absorbed
in conversation walking home that we forget to stop and do so.”

Tom nodded.
“Precisely what do you want me to ask him?”

“Tell him that the
French police have the body of a dead boy-girl in the Paris morgue,” said
Trevor. “And that we need him to help gather evidence that Charles Hammond and
Armand Delacroix are the same person.”

“What sort of
evidence?” Emma asked.

“Each investigation
starts with the construction of a timeline,” Trevor said, “telling us where and
when, with the hope this will lead us to whom.  All of which matter a great
deal more at this point than why.  More specifically, we need to determine when
Hammond was seen in London and Delacroix was seen in Paris.  Then we can deduce
the specific dates on which he must have traveled and check the channel dockmaster
records for either name.  Make sure Davy is quite clear on all this, Tom, no
matter how many words it takes you to explain.  We’ve made such a religion out
of holding ourselves to the telegraph standard of twenty words per message that
I suspect we’ve risked confusing each other in the interest of economy.  Tell
him to travel straight to Dover and pick up the dockmaster records himself.” 

“But how can we
learn the dates Armand was in Paris?”  Geraldine asked.

“Your soon-to-be
best friend Isabel might be some help with that,” Tom said.

“And there are
really only three dates which are absolutely pivotal,” Emma added.  “April 11,
the date the boy-girl must have been murdered, and April 21, when Graham was
murdered, and… What date was the raid on Cleveland Street?  Hammond was
definitely in London then, if the boy you interviewed from the jailhouse was
telling the truth.”

“April 7,” Trevor
said.  “And I believe Charlie Swincow’s statements were fully accurate.  We
might also add to the timeline that we know for certain Delacroix was in Paris
on April 23, because the Paris police brought him in for questioning in the
death of Graham.  But he provided an alibi in the form of Isabel.”

“Now she could most
certainly have been lying,” Emma said, although she had begun to obligingly
scribble the dates on the blank flysheet of the book she was reading.  “Unlike
Charlie Swincow, Isabel Blout has every motivation to dissemble.”

“Perhaps we should
check the dockmaster records in Calais as well,” Tom said.  “It seems the key
is determining if a passenger named either Charles Hammond or Armand Delacroix
traveled from London to Paris sometime between April 7 and April 11.”

“Will the French
port authorities give us that information?” Emma asked.  “Even if Trevor says
he’s from Scotland Yard?”

“Probably not, but
they’ll certainly turn the ledgers over to Rubois,” Trevor said.  “With Davy checking
documentation from Dover and us from Calais, we should be able to procure proof
that the man crossed the channel between those two pivotal dates by tomorrow
night.  It’s not enough evidence to convict, but that’s a French problem.  All
we have to do is come up with enough evidence to bring him in.  If we can
arrest him and interrogate him, I have no doubt this will lead us to Rayley.” Trevor
looked reassuringly around the circle and then pushed to his feet. “And as for
now, wish me luck,” he said.  “I’m off to interview the marvelous Marjorie
Mallory.”

4: 40 PM

Miss Mallory had
been shown, as predicted, to the smaller parlor where she sat slumped dispiritedly
on a blue silk divan.  When Trevor entered and introduced himself, she gave a
small nod, but did not speak.

The girl was
attractive, but in a most specific way, a style and manner Trevor had come to
associate with young women who held extreme political views.  Her hair was
cropped short, but it was also wavy and blonde.  Freed from the natural burden
of its weight, it twined around her ears in ringlets, a veritable halo of
curls.  She was wearing what appeared to be a feminine version of a man’s
business suit:  A crisp white shirt, trim gray vest, and a narrow skirt made
out of tweed.  The overall effect was not displeasing.

But the most notable
thing about her was that she was very pale. 

Trevor extended a
hand and they touched palms as he thanked her for coming.  He considered
sitting down in the chair opposite hers.  He didn’t wish for their meeting to
seem like an interrogation, but he wanted to be situated where he could observe
everything about the girl.  Their brief handshake had confirmed that Miss
Mallory was not only pale but trembling, so perhaps it would be best to provide
her with some sort of refreshment before they began.  He had the impression
that she was on the verge of a faint, but that if she gave into such frailty,
she would never forgive herself.

“May I offer you
tea?” he asked. 

The girl winced. 
“Do you have something more…A glass of wine, perhaps?”

Trevor was shocked. 
A woman taking wine with no meal and so early in the day?  But of course she
was American, her odd flat accent reminding him of that within a mere nine
words, and there was no telling how they did such things over there.  He nodded
and walked back to wrench open the door into the foyer where he found, not
entirely to his surprise, Geraldine waiting with wide expectant eyes.

“I sent Claire to
the market,” Geraldine whispered. “She behaves as if she doesn’t understand
what we say, but you never know.  It seems that the British always claim to
speak French when they really don’t, and that the French always claim they
don’t speak English when they really do.  For all we know that sinister little
slip of a maid is a spy, and I promised Miss Mallory absolute discretion.  Does
she want tea?”

“She wants wine.”

Geraldine arched an
eyebrow.  “She struck me as having a rather anxious disposition.”

“She does indeed.”

“Wine for you as
well?”

Trevor shook his
head.  “No, but you might consider a small sip for yourself.”

Geraldine bustled
off on her mission and Trevor returned to the sitting room.  Perhaps in light
of the girl’s obvious distress, positioning himself directly opposite her would
be too confrontational.  He smiled as he walked towards her - the smile was not
returned – and then opted to sit beside her on the small divan, as if this were
merely a friendly visit.  Unfortunately he had never before lowered his
considerable bulk to this particular piece of furniture and was unaware that
the divan was constructed in such a manner that he would immediately roll
toward the girl.  He grasped the armrest just in time to avoid touching her, a
mishap which likely would have sent her shrieking from the room.  

“Rayley wrote of
meeting you on the fateful morning that you all climbed the tower,” Trevor
began, looking over his shoulder as he gamely continuing to clutch the armrest
with both hands. “He was of the impression that Patrick Graham was determined
to befriend you.”

Marjorie nodded.
“Graham came to see me that afternoon. Which would have also been, I suppose,
two days before he died.”

“A social call?”

A dismissive toss of
the head, sending her wispy curls bouncing. “All the foreign reporters keep a
desk at the press office. Graham dropped by mine, sat himself down on the edge
of it without invitation, and proceeded to tell me a rather fantastical story.  At
the time I thought he was only boasting, trying to impress me.  He was the type
who…you know...whenever he was with women…”

“I believe I
understand,” said Trevor, still struggling to contain himself and avoid
pressing her thigh against his. “Rayley’s description of the man was most thorough.
 So what did Graham tell you?”

“That the Englishmen
who are giving such great sums of money to the French Exposition are not doing
so willingly. They are being blackmailed by a man named Armand Delacroix.”

Trevor rolled back
in his seat, no longer caring if this meant his body touched that of the
girl’s.  He was both surprised and not surprised at this rapid confirmation of
his theory, but before he could ask Marjorie anything else, Geraldine entered with
a glass of white wine on a tray.  She lowered the tray to Marjorie, who took
the glass, drained it in a single gulp, and returned it to the tray with a
delicate shudder.

“Another?” Geraldine
innocently asked. Marjorie wiped her mouth with her fingertips while Trevor
nodded on her behalf.

“And did he tell you
why they were being blackmailed?” Trevor asked, when Geraldine had again left
the room.  

“Graham claimed he
didn’t know.  At least not yet.  But he said he was determined to find out and
then, on Monday, when I heard his body had been pulled from the river…”
Marjorie leaned back too, blinking her eyes rapidly.  “I’m not a coward,
Detective.”

“Of course not,”
Trevor said soothingly, although he had no idea why she should feel compelled
to make this particular declaration.   American women were certainly a flock of
odd ducks.

“I’m not a coward,”
Marjorie repeated, but her voice was lower this time, as if she were speaking
to herself and not to him. “I asked a few questions around the press room and
the first thing I learned was that Armand Delacroix is married to Isabel
Delacroix, the other woman who had come along on the tower ascent.  So what was
I left to conclude but that Graham and Isabel must have shared some sort of
conversation on that, just as you say, fateful morning.  Perhaps he had slipped
somehow and told her more than he’d intended.  Or, who knows, for the man was
impulsive, especially when women were around, perhaps he had directly
confronted her with his knowledge that her husband was a blackmailer.  But he
must have said something to her that she repeated to Armand, for now Graham was
dead, tossed in the Seine like a load of trash.”

“Trash?”

She paused to think.
“Rubbish.”

“Ah. Yes.”

She was blinking
tears again.  “I wired my editor but he told me to leave it alone.  Said this
sort of business isn’t my affair, and it’s not what our audience in New York
wants to read.  Said I’ve been sent to Paris to write about fashion and art and
architecture and wonderful new inventions.  It’s my job, he wires back, to
extol the wonders of the Exhibition, to praise the city of light.”

“City of light?”

“That’s what they
call Paris,” Marjorie said. “That’s what they want all of us call it.  God
knows they’ve made that plain enough.”  She gave a bitter little laugh.  “We’ve
been indoctrinated at every turn that our function is to write about parties
and pastries and the new republic, not some squalid tale of bodies floating
down the Seine.” She looked Trevor directly in the eyes, for the first time
since they had met. “Because it must be something very dark, don’t you think? 
Delacroix is apparently blackmailing quite a few men and for significant sums
of money.  So whatever he knows about them has to be absolutely dreadful.  I
remember Graham sitting there on the corner of my desk saying, ‘It must be
damning information, Marjorie. Damning indeed.’”