City of Light (City of Mystery) (37 page)

“Very well,” said
Emma.  “I shall leave it to you to explain why such a simple task will pull you
away for the whole morning.”

“But in return,”
said Tom, squinting into the distance.  “You must promise me that you won’t
come back here on your own.  It’s too risky.”

7:40 AM

A woman’s glove
could be many things.  An indication of her status in society, since the
material is it made from offers a visible measure of her husband’s wealth.  Women
in cotton gloves curtsey to those in calfskin.  It can be an accessory of
flirtation, a suggestive symbol hinting of more hidden but similarly shaped
pleasures.  It could be a signal, far more effective than a bare hand for attracting
the attention of others.  And a glove could be a container as well, Rayley thought,
a vessel, an envelope, a hiding place. 

Perhaps, if he were
lucky, even a missile.

Although he had been
unconscious when he had been carried into this cell, Rayley had managed to
conclude a fair amount about the world beyond its borders. The two walls whose
corners were damp evidently were the ones that abutted the river and, judging
by the smell, the sewer that emptied it.   The other two walls must face up the
bank to the street, as indicated by the dryness of their own corners and the fact
that the window above them captured the distant glow of a street light. 

Which also meant
that anything that went out that window would land on the ground, and not in
the river.

It still was a long
shot.  Paris was enormous and there were innumerable places where the forensics
team might be searching for him.  Rayley had spent the last few minutes
mentally going over the letters and telegrams he had sent Trevor, trying to
recall the exact wording and thus how much of his theory about Graham’s death
he had managed to relate.  He was sure that the fact he was besotted with
Isabel Blout had come through perfectly clearly and could only hope that Trevor
would not have thus discounted his suspicions of Armand Delacroix as the result
of pure jealousy.  He doubted it.  Their brief time together on the Ripper case
had taught each man that the other was capable of setting aside his personal
feelings when the time came for cold logic.  Rayley was reasonably sure that
anything he told Trevor would have been taken seriously.

The trouble was, he
couldn’t remember exactly what he had told him.   Rayley knew that he had put a
few theories about Armand in his personal notes but he doubted that he had
labeled anything in a manner that would be clear to anyone other than himself. 
Still, the list of addresses… At the time Rayley had been astounded by the
sheer volume of properties Armand Delacroix had owned or rented but he had
intended to visit every place on the list, certain that one of them would be
the place where Graham had been killed.  He himself had been kidnapped before
he had the chance to see the plan through, but he hoped that Trevor would
recognize that a list of addresses must mean something, even if he didn’t know
what.   

That, of course, was
assuming that Trevor was given access to his file.  When Delacroix had first
said Trevor was in Paris, Rayley’s optimism had soared and he had briefly
indulged in the notion that Trevor had come bearing the insignia of Scotland Yard,
on order of the Queen, and thus would muster the full if somewhat grudging
support of the Paris police.  But upon deeper reflection, he had abandoned that
idea.  If Trevor was traveling not with Davy but rather with the civilians -
Tom, Emma, and Geraldine Bainbridge - it must be because he was traveling not
under the auspices of Scotland Yard, but rather as a private citizen. 
Geraldine had evidently come along as the money. 

So the odds were
that Trevor had not gained access to Rayley’s file as all.

It was
disheartening, true, but Rayley tried to stay focused on the fact that at least
Trevor was in Paris.  That was cause for hope, however slim, and got him to considering
how he might manage to send some sort of message. 

Rayley gazed up at
the window, which had traded the artificial illumination of the streetlight for
the more natural glow of the sun.  Despite the fact the window was so high that
no man could reach it, further precautions had been installed in the form of
bars which were spaced rather closely.  A shoe would not go through them.  Nor
would a tin cup.  A glove would, of course, but the glove would have to we
weighted with something.  None of the items in Rayley’s paltry inventory met
the needs of being heavy enough to be successfully thrown such a significant
distance without being too large to clank against the bars.  He looked around
the cell.  He needed something else.

7:55 AM

To their horror, Tom
and Emma found Geraldine not only up and dressed but in the breakfast room,
scanning the morning paper and finishing a cup of tea.  If she was surprised to
see them straggle through the front door in workman’s clothing, she hid it
well.  She merely sat back in her chair, folded her paper, and regarded them
with a steady stare.

“You’re both very
lucky,” she said mildly, “that I am such an avowed liberal.”

“Oh Gerry, it’s not
what it seems,” Emma began, and then her voice immediately faded because she
honestly couldn’t imagine what it seemed.

“Emma had a theory
she wanted to test,” Tom said hastily.  “About bodies in the river-“

Geraldine silenced
him with a shake of her head.  “Trevor is out sending a telegram to Davy,” she
said.  “And he will return at any minute, so I suggest you save your
explanations for another time and go straight to your rooms.  Emerge as soon as
you can, and dressed in a manner that would suggest you’ve had a pleasant
night’s sleep.  Anything else will only distress him and he is under too much
strain as it is.”

Emma and Tom both
nodded and started down the hall.

“And darlings,”
Geraldine called out, just as they were at their respective doors. “One more
thing.  I love you both, exactly as if you were the son and daughter that I
never had.   But don’t ever expect me to lie on your behalf to Trevor Welles
again.”

8:29 AM

A half hour later
only Emma and Geraldine were left in the apartment.  Trevor had returned from
his errand to the telegraph office in time to see Tom seated at the breakfast
table, yawning and stretching in such an exaggerated manner that Geraldine had
been forced to kick his shins in order to rein in his performance. Emma emerged
from her bedroom door a few minutes later, back in her navy day dress and
claiming that she had never slept so well in her life.  And then, after Tom had
made short work of a plateful of eggs served by the disapproving Claire, the
men had been off to the station, leaving the women to finish their tea in
peace.

“Now do you want to
tell me, my dear?”  Geraldine said.

Emma confessed her
full story, which Geraldine calmly absorbed, smiling a bit when they got to the
point about Tom swapping Cousin Claude’s clothes for tattered pants and a
stained blanket.

“Poor Claude,”
Geraldine said.  “I must replace his rowing jacket before we leave.  How do you
propose to finish your experiment?”

“By returning to the
bridge and walking 7250 steps in the opposite direction.” Emma said.  “Somewhere
in that vicinity I think we shall find the place where the bodies were put into
the water.  Tom says he’ll be back by midmorning.”

“Midmorning?”
Geraldine shook her head.  “Trevor will keep him far too busy for that.”

“I know.  But it’s a
dreadful part of town and Tom has made me swear that I won’t go alone.”

Geraldine pushed her
cup back.  “I quite agree with Tom,” she said.  “You mustn’t go alone.”
 

London

8:45 AM

Davy went through
the dockmaster ledger books three times after breakfast and did not find any of
the names he sought:  Armand Delacroix, Isabel Blout, or Charles Hammond.

But he did find one
he didn’t expect.  The queer name had jumped right out at him, practically
shouting itself from the list of passengers.

On the morning of
April 11, the day before the first body had been found on the banks of the
Seine, Henry Newlove had traveled from Dover to Calais.

Davy was sitting
back in his chair, pondering what this might mean, when a messenger boy showed
up at the door bearing a telegram from Paris.  He was a husky lad who seemed
straight from the rugby fields, Davy was relieved to note, and could not have
convincingly passed as female on a bet.  Cleveland Street would forever change
the way Davy perceived messenger boys.

He tossed the boy a
coin, then quickly scanned Trevor’s brief directions.  For a moment he toyed
with the idea of carrying the print to Paris himself, for it offered the
perfect chance to join the others, to rise above these mundane clerical tasks
and participate in the more glamorous world of international intrigue.  But he
knew this was not to be.  Scotland Yard had professional couriers among its
ranks and Davy, after all, had volunteered to man the fort here in London. With
a sigh, he pushed to his feet.  After he found the courier, he would wire
Trevor with the news about Henry Newlove.  The timing of that particular
channel crossing had to mean something, did it not?

Paris

9:26 AM

“It’s a workable
print,” Carle confirmed, and although this was what Trevor strongly suspected,
he was still flooded with relief.  He and Tom had solemnly delivered the glass
to the forensics lab at precisely 9:01 and one of the scientists there had
promptly set to work.  One of the many scientists, Trevor couldn’t help but
note, but his envy of the enormous and well-staffed Parisian facility would
have wait for a more opportune time.  As for now, it was gratifying they could
return with an answer so quickly.

“With any luck, we
shall have the other by late afternoon,” he said to Rubois, as Carle
translated. “My best man in London is sending it.”  There was no need to add
that his best man in London was his only man in London. 

“Speaking of such,
is there anything further that we need to tell Davy?” Tom asked.  “I could dash
out and send a telegram.”

Trevor shook his
head.  “Nothing in the moment, and besides I have other plans for our morning,”
he said.  He turned back to Rubois and Carle and explained the need for the
Calais dockmaster records, a statement that brought the signature sadness to
the face of Rubois.  Even if the man saw the need of such a request, which he
probably did, he was doubtlessly wondering if he could spare the manpower to
carry out the task.

“A Scotland Yard
courier will be coming through the port of Calais this afternoon with the
fingerprint,” Trevor said.  “Perhaps if we alert the dockmaster to divert him,
he can bring the record books as well.”

Rubois nodded with
relief and Trevor wondered once again why a double murder and the kidnapping of
a detective should remain such a low priority case.  Apparently Rubois and
Carle were the only ones specifically assigned, which was appalling.  Of course,
to be fair, he wasn’t sure how much attention Scotland Yard would have directed
toward a crime with exclusively foreign-born victims.  Rubois left to wire the
dockmaster and Trevor turned back to Tom. 

“Remember that list
of addresses we found in Rayley’s notes?” Trevor asked.  “It occurred to me
last night, when I couldn’t sleep, that they were most likely tied to Delacroix. 
And Rubois confirmed that Rayley had come to him, in the day before his
disappearance, and asked if there was any city property office where he might
obtain the addresses of properties owned or rented in the name of Armand
Delacroix.”

“Good God,” said
Tom.  “He must have suspected the man from the start.”

“Indeed,” said
Trevor. “In the future we simply must become more uniform in our note taking,
and begin sending telegrams with more than twenty words.  Detection is no
longer a puzzle to be turned and twisted and ultimately solved all within the
brain of a singular man.  Sherlock Holmes is fictional, after all.  Modern
detection starts as a blank map, with many people adding a point of interest here
or a turn in the road there, until, there is an eventual moment when the whole
route becomes clear.”

“Quite,” said Tom. 
“Well put.  But if the French police had the means to obtain a list of all the
properties Delacroix owned, why the deuce haven’t they searched them?  The odds
are that Rayley is being held in one of them.  Isabel too, perhaps.”

Trevor grimaced, glancing
in the direction of Rubois as he did so.  “Rayley must have asked the question
in passing and evidently Rubois had forgotten it until I reminded him this
morning.  A source of embarrassment based on the expression that crossed his
face, although it shouldn’t be.  There are so many small details in a murder
case and it can be difficult to determine what avenues one should pursue and
which are pointless.  I still torture myself eternally wondering what manner of
things we might have missed with the Ripper. But the point is that Rayley has
done much of the work for us.  Armand Delacroix was a man with fingers in many
pies, and the list is long, but I suggest we visit each of them, one by one. 
We can’t expect much help from the French, you know.  I’m afraid it’s the two
of us. ”