The Art of Seduction (21 page)

“I need to talk to you,” Mason said urgently.

“My dear, you look positively white. Come, let's find a quiet spot, if that's possible, and you may tell me what I can do for you.”

Emma led her through the crowded front salon. Some of the ambassadors from the Wild West ogled Mason as she passed, and one of them let out a low whistle. Emma laughed. “Aren't they colorful?”

As they bypassed an even more crowded room, more sounds of gunshots erupted from it. Some rowdy was using the crystal ornaments of the chandelier for target practice.

“What is the Duchess of Galliera going to think when she gets back and sees the damage?” Mason asked.

Emma waved a dismissive hand. “She won't mind the damage. She'll be ecstatic to discover that I scored this social coup for her. All the crowned heads of Europe are competing for the honor of hosting Buffalo Bill and his troupe on their tour of the Continent. She'll only be livid that she missed all the excitement.”

They found a settee in a relatively tranquil corner of a cavernous room. “This is about as quiet as it's going to get today, I'm afraid. Now, you wanted to speak with me.”

Stiffly, Mason said, “I want you to tell me everything you know about Richard's past.”

“My goodness! That's rather an odd thing to come here and ask.”

“I need to know. And I need to know now.”

“I'm afraid you've braved this rambunctious spectacle for nothing. You see…Richard and I have an understanding. We don't talk about one another's past.”

The sound of breaking glass reached them from the room beyond. Then cries of “Fight! Fight!”

Mason tried to ignore it. “He's in deep trouble. I need you to tell me what you know so I can help him get out of it.”

“Trouble? I find that difficult to believe. He was positively ebullient the other day over his triumph with Signore Lugini.”

“He's drowning in a delusion. I've got to find out why.”

“A delusion?”

“Emma, before he was a Pinkerton man, he was a thief….”

Emma's polite façade cracked a little. “He told you about that?”

“Then you knew.”

“Yes,” Emma confirmed cautiously, “I knew.”

“What can you tell me about those days?”

Somewhat testily, Emma responded, “If you're on such close terms with him, why don't you simply ask him yourself?”

“I've tried, but he won't say anything. It's as if there's something there he can't look at, yet which still has a power over him. I was hoping you could tell me what that might be.”

“I'm afraid you're wasting your time. With him
and
with me.”

Some of the more boisterous of the cowboys began to flood into the room, laughing and shouting, waving their pistols in the air.

Raising her voice to be heard, Mason said, “If you tell me, there's something I can give you in return.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Information that can save you a great deal of embarrassment.”

More people stumbled in the room. One of the frontiersmen was about to give his society companions a demonstration of the western fast draw.

But Emma was now completely focused on Mason. “And what sort of information would do that?”

“I've seen the paintings you bought and I can tell you with absolute certainty that they're forgeries.”

Emma's violet eyes narrowed. “How can you possibly say such a thing with absolute certainty?”

Mason hesitated a moment. She hadn't come for this purpose. But forced to the precipice, she decided to take the leap. There was no other way.

“I can say with absolute certainty that those pictures were not painted by Mason Caldwell because I
am
Mason Caldwell.”

The blood drained from Emma's face. “That's…ridiculous. You're her sister.”

“I have no sister.”

The woman's shock was palpable. For a moment, Mason feared she might faint. “You can't be!”

“I assure you, I am.”

Emma's eyes were flitting in her sockets. “Mason Caldwell committed suicide. Why would you say such a thing?”

“There was no suicide. It was another woman's body they found. It was all a big mistake, which, I'm sorry to say, I compounded.”

Emma closed her eyes. A shudder passed through her. Then, without warning, she shot to her feet, wrenched the Colt .45 from the holster of the nearest cowboy, pointed it at Mason, and pulled the trigger.

M
ason dove for the floor as the bullet whizzed over her head and shattered the vase of flowers behind her. In a daze of disbelief, she looked up and saw Emma cock the hammer and pull the trigger again. Mason vaulted aside as the bullet splintered the parquet floor behind her.

Taking the attack as a cue for more fun, several of the other showmen drew their pistols and fired them at the ceiling, whooping and hollering like drovers hurrahing Dodge City. Mason bounded to her feet and hurtled past Emma in a race for the door. Charging after her, Emma fired a third time. The bullet nicked the doorway as Mason flew through it.

Mason ran across the courtyard. At the front gate, she paused and looked back. Emma was standing at the front portico holding the gun outstretched. She fired three more times in rapid succession. But Mason was well out of range.

She whirled and ran down the street in no particular direction. She just had to get as far away as possible. There was no time to think, no time to reason out what had just happened.

She was running so furiously that she collided with a group of men coming out of a restaurant. They called after her as she barreled past, but she ignored them, pushing on. She was vaguely aware that she was presenting a spectacle of herself and that people were staring at her. But she couldn't stop.

Finally, after a mile or more of zigzagging through the streets to lose anyone who might be in pursuit, she darted down a side street and fell back against the stone wall. She was gasping for air, her lungs on fire, exhausted and terrified.

The woman was trying to kill her!

For God's sake, why?

It made no sense. For some reason, finding out that Mason Caldwell was alive threatened her to the point that she'd become unhinged. The scene was so unexpected and bizarre that Mason still couldn't believe it had actually transpired. The only thing she was sure of was that it was the act of a pathologically jealous woman.

A terrible thought seized her. If Emma was jealous and unbalanced enough to try and kill her in front of a hundred witnesses, might she not also be crazed enough to try and kill the real object of her rage: Richard? And if, after their fight earlier that day, he was shrewd enough to figure out where Mason had gone, wouldn't he also likely try to intercept her?

He could have been right behind me!

In her mind's eye, she saw him walking into the Galliera estate, saw Emma aiming the gun at him, and saw her pull the trigger.

She couldn't very well go back. Emma would shoot her on sight. She could try to cut Richard off, but she had no way of knowing if he was coming at all, or from which direction. And what if Emma, having gone this far, decided to go after him? She could go to the Grand Hotel and be waiting for him there. She felt the threat to him on all sides. She was utterly powerless to negate it.

Unless…

By telling Emma who she really was, Mason had crossed a bridge from which there was no turning back.

Suddenly, she knew what she had to do.

The situation had spiraled lethally out of control. She had to put a stop to it. All of it.

She went out onto the boulevard and hailed a passing fiacre. The driver gave her a peculiar look, making her aware of her harried state. She told him, “Take me to the Prefecture of Police as fast as you can. It's a matter of life and death.”

He cracked his whip and they were off. Racing through the streets, Mason could only think that Richard, mindless of the peril, was in mortal danger. “Faster, please,” she urged the driver.

After what seemed hours, the cab pulled up to the gate of the Prefecture of Police. “Wait here. I'll pay you when I come out,” she called as she jumped down and made for the courtyard. The driver yelled after her, but she ignored him, rushing past two guards to enter the building. They stepped forward to stop her, but she said, “I have an appointment with Inspector Duval. Don't you dare get in my way!”

The authority in her voice caused them to step back to let her pass. She charged up the two flights of stairs, her heart in her throat. But as she entered the antechamber of his office and approached his secretary, she discovered that he wasn't in.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“He's upstairs in a meeting in the Salle Voltaire,” the man told her.

“I must see him. It's urgent.”

“That's impossible. He's meeting with the Minister of Justice. There is no way you could interrupt such a conference.”

Mason turned on her heels, ran up to the third floor, and entered a wide hallway. Down at the end of the corridor, she saw a set of double doors below an ornate fleur-de-lis. Two guards stood sentry. She headed straight for them. Without slowing down or offering explanation, she barged through the doors before the guards knew what was happening.

She entered a large, high-ceilinged chamber so grandiose that it seemed to reflect all the power and glory of France itself. Duval was sitting at a Louis XIV table opposite a bureaucrat with thinning red hair. As they looked at her in surprise, she heard a voice behind her scream, “
Arrêt
!”

She rushed toward Duval, and the voice cried, “Stop or I'll shoot!”

But Duval was on his feet with his hand raised. “No, wait.”

Mason half fell into his arms. “Inspector, you've got to help me! I'm here to confess everything.”

Duval glanced at the minister and said, “Monsieur, I am afraid I must deal with this. It could be vital to the case we were just discussing.”

He told the two guards to escort her to his interrogation room. “I'll join you there presently,” he promised.

“You must come at once,” she insisted. “Please. There's no time to waste. A life is at stake.”

The guards took her to a small room that was just off the antechamber of Duval's office. Its single window stared across the courtyard at Notre Dame. When he didn't come at once, she stood up to pace. Where was he? What was he doing? Didn't she say it was urgent?

At last the door opened and the inspector entered. He sat down at the sparse table and said, “Very well, Mademoiselle, I am ready for you.”

“I want to confess everything. I'm sick of the lies.”

His eyes widened. “Very well, Mademoiselle.”

“I'm not going to do anything until you send some men to find Richard Garrett. His life is in danger.” In a jumble, Mason told him what had just happened, adding, “If he's not already at the Galliera, he might be at the Montmartre apartment or his suite at the Grand Hotel. Wherever he is, you have to find him and protect him from that crazy woman.”

After a brief hesitation, Duval rose, stepped to the door, opened it, and gave the order to the guard outside. When she heard the words, she finally felt her body relax. Thank God. Now at least Richard would be safe. The relief was so great that she collapsed into the other chair beside the table.

Duval returned and sat across from her. “Now, start from the beginning.”

There was no stopping now. “Mason Caldwell did not commit suicide.”

“I am most aware of that. But tell me, how do you know it?”

“Because I
am
Mason Caldwell.”

He jerked back as if he'd just accidentally put his hand on a hot stove. He was clearly surprised. But how could he be? He'd been hinting that he knew the truth. He had proof that there'd been another woman on the bridge.

In an icy voice, he ordered, “Tell me everything you know.”

She did. Standing and pacing before him, she related the entire story from the beginning. Every detail, no matter how bad it made her look.

He listened, sitting ramrod straight in his seat, never once taking his eyes from her as she paced. When she was finally finished, she dropped into the chair, feeling drained but relieved.

He remained seated for what seemed an interminable time, deep in thought. Then he stood and slowly crossed the room to stand before the window, looking down onto the courtyard below.

After another eternity of silence, he finally spoke, “I am going to have to take you into custody.”

“I assumed that. I'm ready to face the consequences for what I've done.”

“I am afraid,” he said, still staring out the window, “that the consequences you are going to face are not at all what you expect.”

“I don't care what you do to me. Just so it's over and Richard's safe.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot accept your story, as detailed as it is and as persuasively as you have presented it.”

She looked up at him in alarm. “But it's true. Every word.”

“It can't be true, Mademoiselle. You cannot possibly be Mason Caldwell, because Mason Caldwell's body was found washed up on the bank of the Seine.”

“I told you. That was Blanche Cauvereaux.”

“And yet you say there are no records of such a woman.”

“No, I told you. Richard had them removed.”

“How very convenient.”

“Stop playing games with me, Inspector. I told you. I didn't kill myself.”

“That much is true. Mason Caldwell did not kill herself.”

“Finally!”

“She was murdered.”

The word seemed to reverberate in the hushed aftermath. “Murdered!”

“Foully murdered by the woman she was seen with earlier that evening. The woman who hurled her from the bridge.”

Mason shot to her feet. “No, no. You have it all wrong. I told you—”

“The murderess whose identity I have painstakingly deduced over these past few weeks. Whose name will be released to the press this very day.”

“This is insane! What murderess?”

“Come here. I will show you.” He gestured her toward the window. “Look. She is arriving now.”

Through the window, she could see that a police wagon had pulled into the courtyard. Two officers were hauling a handcuffed prisoner from its interior.

A woman.

Fighting them heatedly.

Sunlight glinting off her golden hair.

Lisette.