Seen and Not Heard (11 page)

There was no escape. There were dark figures at the end of the alley, milling around. He would have to hide, back among the garbage, and wait for daylight. Wait for them to give up, to go back to their cars and their police station and realize it was hopeless. They were too clever for the police; even hopeless, bumbling Yvon was too clever for them.

He tucked himself back among the battered garbage cans, ducking his head beneath the heavy onslaught of rain. He should have realized, should have planned it better. When they were young he had always screwed things up. The others had teased him unmercifully. Gilles had hit him, hurt him, his brutish bullying somehow less devastating than the quiet contempt of his idol. From him he had suffered pinches, slaps, and soft, jeering laughter.

He would laugh again, if he wasn’t too angry. He would read in the paper how Yvon had once more screwed up, and unless it endangered him he would simply shake his beautiful head, sigh, and say, “Poor Yvon. He never could do anything right.”

Gilles was another matter. If he made it past the police, made it home safely to his apartment just three blocks over,
Gilles would find him. Gilles wouldn’t be able to tell what endangered him and what didn’t, and he’d always hated Yvon. No, when it came right down to it he was in as much danger from Gilles as he was from the police milling around.

He must have dozed off. The rain had lessened somewhat, the sky was growing lighter. It must be near dawn. Yvon stirred his cramped muscles, peering out into the darkened alleyway. The police were gone. Standing alone, silhouetted against the street light, was a figure, a man.

It was him. His idol, his hero, the god of his childhood, the one he’d worshiped with blind obedience. He was standing there, waiting, and Yvon could see the gun in his hand. He was there to punish him, punish him for failing in their pact. Yvon hung his head, and the rain sluiced down around his face. His hands were clean of blood now—the steady downpour had washed it away, but his clothes were black with it. He would show him, he would throw himself on his mercy.

But his idol had no mercy. He was waiting there for him, waiting, and Yvon knew he could be a coward no longer. Slowly he rose, knocking over the piled garbage, and stepped into the alley.

Suddenly the place was flooded with light, blinding him. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear the words. He lifted his arms, and his hand still clutched the knife. And then there was a rushing, roaring sound, a thousand fists struck his chest, and he was hurled backward by an invisible force, thrown against the building. He looked down at his body, and there was still blood everywhere. He would have thought the old lady would have stopped bleeding by now, but there was fresh blood pouring all over his body. He watched with dazed surprise, tumbling forward onto the puddled streets. And before he died he said one word. “Marc.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Malgreave fumed, watching as they carried the corpse away. The black plastic body bag
wrapped up the bullet-riddled remains of a minor bureaucrat named Yvon Alpert. It wrapped up Malgreave’s only chance at finally getting a few answers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Josef murmured miserably.

“What did the men think? He had a knife, a small knife. He couldn’t have thrown it far enough to hit anyone, even if he’d been a circus performer and not a pencil pusher. Damn their trigger-happy stupidity!”

“They saw what was left of the old lady,” Vidal offered. “Most of them have grandmothers. This has spooked them all.”

“I suppose they think they’ve solved the problem.” Malgreave’s voice was bitter. “That they’ve killed the murderer, that justice is served.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it isn’t. They haven’t. Alpert didn’t kill the nun in La Défense, or the twins, or the old lady last week. Unless I’m mistaken, Alpert never killed anyone before.”

“He won’t kill anyone again,” Josef offered.

“No, there’s that. But he won’t help us find the others.”

“Are you so sure there are others? Perhaps just Guillère … ?”

“More than that, Josef,” Malgreave said wearily. “More than that.” He looked around at the barely discernible dawn. The rain was continuing in a steady downpour, and he felt as old as the women who were being murdered. “I need some coffee,” he said finally, hunching his shoulders and heading back toward the car.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” Josef scampered after him, miserable and guilt-ridden, and Vidal was already in the driver’s seat. They all knew Josef could have kept a tighter rein on the men who’d surrounded the alleyway. They all knew Josef could have stopped it.

Malgreave paused by the door of the car, the rain sliding off the battered brim of his hat. “Pray for sunshine, Josef. Pray for time.”

* * *

He backed away, into the fast-disappearing shadows of the night, away from the milling police, the curious early risers. His feet were noiseless in the soft-soled slippers, his face under the slouched hat was unnaturally pale, a pure, unearthly white. He faded into the dawn as silently as a wisp of fog, unseen, unheard. Gone.

The day dawned cloudy and overcast, but at least it wasn’t raining. Claire lay motionless in the too-soft bed she’d shared with Marc, thinking of the old ladies who died in the rain. Never again would she enjoy the cozy sound of rain beating against the windows while she sat curled up in front of a warm fire.

Anyway, fires didn’t do much to warm this old barn of an apartment. While no one could deny its ancient elegance,
cozy it ain’t
, she thought, shifting around in the crumpled sheets. And today wouldn’t help matters. She could see the bare branches whipping about outside the multipaned windows. When the wind blew, there was no way they could warm the old place—they’d have to wear heavy wool socks and layers upon layers of sweaters. She could only hope Nicole’s grandmother lived in warmer lodgings.

Marc had been gone for almost two weeks. For two weeks she’d slept alone in this bed, left her clothes lying on the now-dusty parquet floor, left the dishes sitting in the sink, eaten junk food and starches and dressed in jeans. Each small act of defiance had given her pleasure, a childish, stupid sort of pleasure, she realized now. Marc had been gone two weeks, and instead of missing him, she was dreading his return.

Rolling over, she buried her face in the goose-down
pillow. The soft percale smothered her, as Marc smothered her. She flipped back, staring at the ceiling. There were cobwebs lurking there, new cobwebs. God knows, she’d spent more than enough of her time lying on her back to have memorized the ceiling. If Marc saw those cobwebs he’d have a fit.

And there was no if about it. If she hadn’t gotten rid of them by the time he returned he would walk into the room and his dark eyes would immediately go to whatever imperfection marred the bedroom. She could always distract him, leave her clothes lying on the Aubusson carpet, but the very thought turned her slightly ill with apprehension.

She scooted up in bed, pushing the pillows behind her and staring at the dawn-lit room in dismay. The longer Marc was gone the worse it was getting. Not the missing him. Just the opposite.

She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. Without his commanding presence, without his formidable sexual technique, she was suddenly beginning to think for herself once more. For six months she’d been in shock, content to follow where Marc led her, content to live an almost cloistered existence, doing penance for Brian’s crime and her complicity.

But with no one to tell her what to do, with Nicole depending on her, she’d begun to face life once more. And as the days passed she was coming to the unsettling conclusion that she didn’t want to face life with Marc Bonnard.

She was a slob, he demanded compulsive neatness. She was casual, he was formal. She liked to laugh and cry, he disdained emotions. She liked to lie in bed and read and eat chocolate and croissants and dribble crumbs all over the place; for Marc the bed was for sex and for sleep.

He wanted her passive, and for far too long that was exactly what she had been. Suddenly, without Marc around to keep her subdued, she was waking up. And she didn’t like what she saw.

The frightening thing, she realized as she leaned forward and stared out into the streets of Paris, is that the alternatives were so unpromising. If she left Marc, where would she
go? She couldn’t go back to the U.S. and pretend nothing had ever happened. If she went back she would have to go to the authorities and tell them about that night six months ago. She’d have to implicate Brian, implicate herself. She’d probably face criminal charges. Even if she didn’t, the publicity would be ghastly, and there’d be no way she’d be able to find work with that kind of past haunting her. She’d be friendless, jobless.

She could always go down to Florida to stay with her mother. But her mother’s retirement life of bridge and gossip and cocktail parties drove her crazy—even Marc was preferable to that.

Claire shivered in the drafty old apartment. Even Marc, she echoed, dismayed. When had it turned from passion to repression, when had it turned from idyllic love to resentment and the desperate need to escape? Even prison, an honest, American prison, would be preferable to the straightjacket kind of life Marc had forced on her.

But what about Nicole? Nicole, with no one to love her but her grandmother, a grandmother who was gone far too much of the time. In the early-morning light Claire could no longer come up with excuses for Marc. If he loved his daughter it was a useless kind of love. His behavior toward Nicole was as controlling and repressive as it was toward Claire. Never had she seen him kiss the child, cuddle her, praise her, even greet her warmly. And while Nicole still didn’t trust Claire, didn’t accept her, at least Claire was able to distract Marc when he grew terrifying.

No, she couldn’t leave Nicole. Not unless she made some arrangement with Madame Langlois, made certain the old woman wouldn’t desert her again. And in order to do that, she’d have to go see the old lady.

Claire shoved the covers back and climbed out of bed, padding across the floor in the oversized T-shirt that Marc would have disdained. He preferred her in ruffly silk and laces, like a Victorian whore, Claire thought bitterly, yanking the shirt over her head and dropping it on the floor. She picked up the jeans from the Louis XIV slipper chair and headed for the bathroom. The more she thought about it,
the more determined she grew. She’d see Madame Langlois, assure herself that Nicole was in good hands, and then she’d make her plans to leave.

Rocco heard the pounding at the door. He’d been in bed less than an hour and he was in no mood for visitors. Giselle was still out, which was fine with him, and normally he wouldn’t get out of bed until late afternoon.

The pounding continued, and Rocco squinted at the thin gold watch he’d taken off the Spaniard. Seven-fifteen. Any man who woke another up at seven-fifteen deserved to die. Rocco pulled the huge Magnum from under the grimy pillow, aimed it at the door, and fired twice.

“God damn it!” A furious voice came through the holes in the flimsy pine door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Guillère?” The door slammed open, bouncing against the peeling wall, revealing a tiny figure vibrating with rage.

“Hubert,” Rocco acknowledged, sitting up and pulling his boots on. The man in his doorway was no more than five feet tall, almost as round, and dressed quite nattily in a gray linen suit that emphasized his bulk. His egg-shaped head was completely bald, and there was a long scratch on top of that shiny pate, oozing blood.

Hubert was dabbing at it gingerly with a white handkerchief. “Damn your eyes, Rocco,” he said with his unmistakable voice. Upper-class Parisian combined with a lisp, Hubert’s voice was his trademark. “You could have killed me.”

If anyone could have chastened Rocco, Hubert was the one. No one could. “It’s lucky you’re so short, Hubert,” he said lazily. “Anybody else would have gotten it in the throat.”

“Is that what you were hoping?”

“It’s effective. That way they die quickly and they can’t scream.”

“It makes a hell of a mess.” Hubert peered at his bloody handkerchief in disgust, then tucked it away in his vest pocket.

“I’m not fastidious.”

Hubert wrinkled his nose. “In our long association I have discovered that about you. I have a job, my friend.”

“A job that brings you here in the middle of the night?”

“You’d prefer the middle of the night. I don’t sleep more than an hour at a time, Rocco. If you wish to work for me you’ll have to accommodate yourself to my schedule.”

Rocco stared at him stonily, the warm gun clasped loosely in his hand. For a moment he considered shooting one more time. He didn’t like to take orders from anyone, even someone as deceptively impressive as Hubert. But the old man was legendary, with connections that reached all the way to the top of the government, and those kinds of connections couldn’t be thrown away in a fit of pique. Besides, Hubert’s jobs were never boring.

“I wish to work for you.” Rocco kept his voice lazy, insolent. “What is it this time?”

Hubert seated himself gingerly on the green plastic American recliner that was Rocco’s pride and joy. “It’s a tricky one, my boy, but well suited for your talents and reputation.” He sighed, dabbing at his eyes with the bloody handkerchief and then grimacing. “It’s a favor for an old, dear friend.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“Don’t be absurd, my boy. It’s my friends that serve us so well, that have saved your butt time after time. Though this is somewhat different, and I’m counting on your delicacy to handle it properly.”

Rocco looked down at his black-rimmed fingernails and smirked. “Who do you want me to kill?”

“So blunt, my boy.” Hubert sighed. “This is not just any friend. This is the woman I almost married. I would do anything for her, no matter how distasteful. For her sake I come to you.”

“She has a husband? Is that what you want?”

“She’s a widow.”

“It’s too early for guessing games, Hubert,” Rocco snapped. “What is it you want from me?”