Deadly Descent (31 page)

Chapter 31

Search for Neptune

Anne cupped a hand above her eyes. A bright noonday sun bathed the garden of the Palais-Royal. Paul brushed lightly against her, warding off the jostling crowd. She glanced at him and smiled. He seemed curiously distracted, troubled perhaps by a reflection that had also occurred to her.
What if LeCourt had been a better shot…?
She caught Paul's eye. He responded with an embarrassed shrug that told of his feeling for her.

A pang of conscience struck her. She had not told him of Claire's confession. He would have wanted to know. But it might not be necessary, she hoped. Anyway, his mind was now occupied with another matter.

Michou was walking a few steps behind them, looking at the ground, apparently mulling over the story of Pressigny, Lélia Laplante, and the missing jasper bowl. Its location was still a mystery—the owner had raised the reward to a thousand livres, a year's wages to a working man. With Anne translating, Paul had prodded Michou in vain for new clues that the investigation might have overlooked.

Near the central fountain, they went separate ways: Michou to the shaded bench she loved, promising to search her memory. Paul and Anne turned left to the Café Odeon in the Montpensier arcade and sat outside under an umbrella. Michou would join them when she was ready. Paul removed his hat, patted his brow with a kerchief. Anne fanned herself.

“I questioned Pressigny this morning,” he began. “Krishna walked him at knife point from the theater's office down to the palace dungeon. That's why the office appeared undisturbed. He then bound him and stuck him with the point dipped in aconite. The mixture was weak enough to cause a lingering death in the pit. Krishna wanted the man to suffer.”

A waiter hovering nearby approached the table. “We'll order shortly,” said Paul. “When our friend arrives.”

He glanced sideways at the small figure of Michou, who had left her bench and was staring at the fountain. “She may come up with something,” he said hopefully, then resumed his account. “At first, Pressigny refused to incriminate himself. But I offered him the prospect of a beheading on Place de Grève. And he talked.”

Anne shuddered violently, reminded of painful associations with that place. She choked back a reproof rising from her throat.

Immediately contrite, Paul lifted his hands, palms out. “Sorry,” he murmured.

Anne took a deep breath. “No harm done. What did you learn?”

“As we suspected, he helped Noir and Gros reach the roof of the chateau to gain entry into the treasury tower and opened the tunnel for them to leave. Their shoes in the cave matched the prints in the tunnel. All the stolen goods are now accounted for.” He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. “Except the jasper bowl and a few precious stones.”

Throughout this conversation, yesterday's encounter with Claire had nagged at Anne's mind. She finally tried to ease her conscience. “By the way, who does the lieutenant-general believe killed the comte?”

“Noir, acting on his own,” Paul replied, adding that the lieutenant-general still wanted to question Claire de Pressigny and René Cavour and had issued warrants for their arrest.

Anne felt relieved at least to hear that no innocent living person would be accused of Claire's crime. “But wasn't Noir working for LeCourt?”

“Yes, he was,” Paul agreed. “Nonetheless, LeCourt denies playing any part in the Debussy case. He also claims he killed Krishna in self-defense while recovering the jewels and hired the coach to bring them to the police.”

Anne scoffed. “To drive a quarter of a mile through Paris on his errand he needed several trunks of clothing, financial records, and works of art!”

“Lieutenant-General DeCrosne shares your skepticism. That's why LeCourt's under arrest in the fortress at Vincennes.” He frowned for a moment. “But Comptroller-General Calonne's working hard to free him.”

“He might be released?” she asked. The thought chilled her.

“That's possible, unfortunately.” Paul's voice softened. His eyes gently engaged Anne's.

She was still for a moment, then bent forward in distress, her hands covering her face. LeCourt, the man most responsible for Antoine's death, might escape punishment. She imagined him walking about this garden, elegantly attired and coiffed, ladies and gentlemen fawning as he passed. She would walk up to him with her pistol. Bring raw fear to his eyes. “For Antoine,” she would say. Then blow his brains out.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. “The Law is clumsy,” said Paul softly. “LeCourt may escape its clutches. But decent men will despise and distrust him.” His voice brightened. “And there's good news too.”

She slowly leaned back. His hand withdrew. She stared at him. “Did Pressigny confess to the murder of Lélia Laplante?”

“Yes, but he claimed self-defense. Derennes came up with the idea of blaming your father. LeCourt approved it.” He met her eye. “Lieutenant-General DeCrosne now agrees Dubois was innocent and has promised to clear his name.”

Ever since Michou's story of Laplante's death, Anne had been expecting these words. And had struggled to earn them. Now when they were spoken, they stunned her. Tears came to her eyes. She rose from her chair, walked a few steps into the garden, looked up into the clear blue sky. A light breeze caressed her face. For a few moments she let it dry her tears. Then she returned to the table and gazed fondly at Paul. “You drew that promise from him, I'm sure. Thank you.”

A smile flickered on his lips. “I promised I'd do my best. But without you….” His eyes lingered for a moment on her face. Then he pointed toward the fountain. “Michou's coming. We'll celebrate Antoine together.”

He beckoned the waiter and they ordered sweets. Michou's choice was a dish of fresh raspberries and cream, a treat she had enjoyed recently at the colonel's table. Sitting across from Anne, she ate absentmindedly, pencil in hand, sketching in her book. Anne caught her eye and signed a mild reproach.

Smiling an apology, Michou placed an unfinished drawing of the jasper bowl in front of the colonel. Neptune with his trident and the grotesque dolphins stood in bold relief, the rest of the bowl was faintly outlined. She pointed to the drawing, then signed her opinion that Chevalier de Pressigny would not have passed the bowl on to anyone. He was too fond of it. Anne and Saint-Martin glanced at one another, astonished by her confident expression, eyes bright and unwavering.

“What does she think he did with the bowl?” Paul asked Anne, his gaze fixed on Michou.

Michou looked to Anne, who translated the question.

“Kept it close to him,” Michou signed with assurance. Glancing from Anne to the colonel, she clutched her notebook to her chest in mock anxiety.

“But his rooms have been thoroughly searched,” countered Saint-Martin.

Michou's face lighted up with a bright intelligence. “It's there,” she signed without blinking. “I can find it.”

At the exit from the garden, they met a long line of carriages on Rue Montpensier, gleaming in the sunlight. Coachmen stood by in colorful livery. Their fashionable passengers were mingling outside, heads bobbing in animated conversation. Colonel Saint-Martin began to lead Anne and Michou toward his own carriage when he heard his name. With a swift reflex he caught the speaker's eye. The man quickly looked away.

“They are talking about us,” Anne whispered, “and they aren't smiling.”

“Rumormongers at work,” he said in a low voice meant to be heard. “These people,” he went on softly, “have little reason to smile. Their investments in LeCourt's business ventures have collapsed since his arrest.”

Financial losses were not the only things being discussed, Anne thought. These fine folk were staring at her and at Paul. Was it the clothes they were wearing? His officer's uniform—blue coat, red cuffs and lapels, tan breeches—might attract a glance or two because Paul wore it so well, but it seemed plain compared to what men of fashion were wearing. Her simple blue frock wasn't worthy of notice. Michou stood beneath their line of vision. Something was amiss.

At the carriage next to Paul's, they met a small group dressed in the latest style, the women in narrow-waisted full skirts and towering hats adorned with feathers and silk ribbons, the men in delicately embroidered silk coats in pastel rose, green, and yellow with matching breeches.

“Paul,” exclaimed a powdered and painted woman in her forties, attractive but for a small mouth and weak chin. “It's ages since I've been this close to you.” She stepped toward Saint-Martin, casting a glance at Anne. “Is this your English…” she paused, pursing her lips, “lady?” The others tittered. “She's the talk of Paris.”

“Why?” he asked in English with faintly concealed irony. “For catching a well-connected thief and murderer?” He bowed rather stiffly to the woman. “Miss Anne Cartier, my cousin, Comtesse Louise de Joinville.”

Anne uttered a polite greeting in perfect French.

Comtesse Louise arched her brow, scrutinizing Anne's unvarnished features and simple attire, then shifted to Paul. “You do have remarkable taste,” she said, a mocking glint in her eyes. “Like our Jean-Jacques Rousseau, you delight in the natural and common or, may I say, primitive.”

“You are closer to the truth than you realize,” he returned brusquely. “Excuse us, we're on our way to certain official business.”

The expression on Comtesse Louise's face had hardened during this exchange. As Saint-Martin turned away, she caught Anne by the sleeve. “You should read this.” She handed her a crudely printed sheet from her purse. “It appeared on the streets last night.” She left quickly, a fury in swirling silk, and joined her group at their carriage.

Anne scanned the sheet, the color draining from her face.

Rumor has it that the Provost of the Royal Highway Patrol for the region around Paris is enjoying the services of an English whore. He had better be careful. She is violent as well as promiscuous. Haled into a London magistrate's court last year for soliciting and assaulting a gentleman, she was sentenced to be publicly stripped and flogged
.

With trembling hands she tucked the paper into her purse.

Paul, who had noticed the incident from a few steps away, asked what had happened.

“Later,” she whispered and climbed into the carriage next to Michou. They got underway, he sitting opposite the two women. He asked again about the paper. She handed it over without looking at him.

“Vile gossip,” he muttered, glancing at the sheet. Suddenly he grew rigid, instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. Cold fury filled his eyes. Unable to speak, he shook the sheet helplessly, as if he would scramble its words. With an explosive sigh he looked up slowly to Anne, his face a confusion of tender pity and rage. “I'm sorry beyond words.” He crumpled the paper in his fist and threw it on the floor. “You don't deserve this.”

She mustered a grateful smile.

He leaned forward and held her hand. “It's a contemptible lie, but it still hurts that someone has said it.” He looked gently at her. “Scandalmongers have mentioned me from time to time, and they certainly haven't spared the queen.”

“Who is behind this?” She felt a wave of hot anger.

“Mauvert. The rumor surfaced a couple of days ago. Georges heard it. We didn't know it got into print. Somehow Mauvert has been in touch with Jack Roach in England, who is both a police informant and a fence for smuggled goods.”

“Mauvert's revenge. What are you going to do about it?” She pointed to the paper on the floor.

“Ignore it. Otherwise the public will think it's true.” He tore the offensive sheet to pieces and threw them out the window. “I've started to deal with Mauvert. He's not fit to be an inspecteur and I've said so to Baron Breteuil.”

“And the Comtesse de Joinville?” Anne asked, a touch of irony in her voice.

“Ignore my cousin's malice. She's caught up in a society of parasites that breeds envy, spite, and callous contempt for others.”

Anne saw the point of Paul's argument, but she could not stir up much sympathy for the woman. “‘Common and natural' I take as a compliment, but I don't care to know what she meant by ‘primitive.'”

Michou had noticed the offensive sheet and sensed the tension it caused. Eyes clouded with confusion, she stared at Anne.

“Mauvert insulted me,” Anne signed, then shrugged it away. Michou's eyes moistened. She leaned over and gave Anne a hug. A shadow of pain lingered on her face, prompting Anne to wonder what insults this small deaf woman had experienced. Michou slumped down in her seat and stared glumly out the window as the carriage passed by a rolling sun-drenched meadow.

After a few minutes she grew absorbed again in her sketch pad, oblivious to the pitching of the carriage. Having sensed Anne's curiosity, she displayed the page she was studying, a free-hand portrait of Chevalier Jean de Pressigny, dark-browed, his face hungry with sensual appetite.

Anne pointed to the sketch and signed, “I agree with you. He's passion's slave.”

Michou smiled gratefully and returned to the sketch.

“What are the odds of finding the bowl?” Anne asked Paul.

He shrugged his shoulders. “A few days ago, Inspecteur Mauvert searched the chateau again with a fine-toothed comb.” A mirthful grin spread over his face. “When he found nothing, he grew desperate and rushed up to the chalk caves by the kilns. For hours, like a madman, he pawed through centuries of sheep dirt! As he left the caves, you could smell him halfway to Paris.”

The image of the soiled detective, otherwise so fastidious in dress and manner, set them to smiling. Then they giggled and finally, losing control, they laughed until their sides ached and tears came to their eyes.

Michou stared at them open-mouthed.