The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (30 page)

Immediately my heart began to pound loudly, and I strained my hearing to its limits. Again, there was a gentle knocking at the door. Damn—I should have agreed on a secret knock with him, not a password. That would have been easier to hear.

Why was he knocking so quietly? Why not just knock away and risk disturbing the neighbors? He knew I was fearing for my life, after all!

I pulled the champagne I'd carried up from the cellars from my bag and held its neck, like a club. I crept toward the door, trying to make no noise. I put my ear up against it. Nothing. What the hell was Bertrand playing at? I pulled back and examined the door. There was no spy-hole to look through. If it
wasn't
Bertrand and his colleagues out there, who might it be? I didn't like any of the answers I came up with.

Once again I leaned forward to listen for the password. As I did so, the door splintered, and I was hurled into the large entry-way mirror behind me. A looming silhouette came toward me and I heard a voice say, “It's her—quick, grab her!” Then I lost consciousness.

I WOKE WITH A SPLITTING
headache. Everything was black. I didn't know where I was—again. I began to panic. My torso seemed to be pinned down. I couldn't move my arms. I couldn't even move the fingers on my left hand. I could feel my heart pound in my chest. Everything hurt. I felt dizzy. And sick. I realized my eyes were still closed, so I opened them slowly, terrified of what I might see. Everything was white. Blinding lights blazed down on me.

“
Elle est réveillée!
” said someone. I had no idea what that meant.

I blinked until my eyes became accustomed to the brightness. I saw Bertrand sitting beside me. I tried to say his name, but he immediately “Shh'd” me. Besides, my lips were too dry for me to move them properly.

“
Attention—elle est réveillée. Venez vite!
” he called.

Suddenly there were faces above me: two women I didn't know, and Bertrand.

I licked my lips, and rolled them together.

“Thirsty,” I managed to croak.

One of the women held a straw to my lips.

“Okay, okay,” she said.

I sucked. It helped. I cleared my throat. She smiled at me.

“You are safe,” said Bertrand.

That was all I needed to know. I closed my eyes and let my head relax back into the pillows upon which I was propped up. I gave myself a moment to collect my thoughts.

The last thing I remembered was the noise of bone against glass. The pain in my head reminded me that it had been my skull hitting the mirror in Madelaine's entry hall. I opened my eyes again. Clearly, I was lying in a hospital bed. The smell of the place alone signified as much. I looked down at my body. I was tucked tightly into a bed, both arms had drips attached to them and my left wrist was in a plaster cast. I wiggled my toes. They seemed to be functioning okay. Turning my neck sent pain shooting into my head.

“You must not move,” said Bertrand. “The doctor will be here in a moment. Try to be still.”

“Did you get . . . ?”

Again Bertrand “Ssh'd” me and nodded. “Everything is taken care of. The captain will be here after the doctor. You can speak to him. They said I could wait here with you. I did not want you to wake alone. It is my fault, this. I tried to get to you, but I am a junior officer. I could not act without the approval of my superior. If I had been faster, this would not have happened. I am very sorry, Professor Morgan. I did my best.”

I managed a smile. He was sweet. “It's Cait. And I'm
here
, aren't I? I might be sore, but I'm not dead. I think that's what they had planned for me.”

Bertrand nodded. “I think so too,” he replied gravely. “I think that is why they will not charge you,” he added.

I was puzzled. “Charge me? With what?” I really couldn't imagine. I hadn't done anything wrong.

“The doctor is here. I will be back when he is finished,” he said quietly, and he stood to leave.

“Bertrand—before you go . . . can you ask Moreau if he has told Bud Anderson that I'm safe? It's important. Please?”

“Commander Anderson knows,” he replied, nodding. He threw a very odd smile my way, then left.

The doctor appeared, looked down at me, a chart in his hand, and smiled. “Glad to see you're back with us,” he said.

“I'm glad you speak English,” I replied. “I don't think my French is up to much right now . . . I'm sorry . . .”

“That's alright, don't say you are sorry. You have been saying this all night. What is it you are sorry for?”

Now that was a question and a half! I didn't even dare start to answer it, truthfully, so I just said, “Oh, I'm probably just feeling sorry for myself. How am I, by the way? My head hurts like hell.”

“This is to be expected. You have ten stitches in the back of your head, but the scans suggest no concussion. So, no lasting effects, except the loss of a patch of hair which we had to shave, but the hair should grow back, in time, and cover the scar.” He said should—good grief! “Your left wrist is broken, but it is a good break. Six weeks in this plaster and you will mend. You have some pulled muscles in your left shoulder, but it is not dislocated: you must have put out your left hand to try to stop your fall. Your right side? We cleaned up the blood. None of it was yours. No damage there.”

“Who else's blood got on me? And how?”

The doctor looked at me with concern. “You do not remember?”

I thought for a moment, but nothing came back to me. “No—I can't remember anything after my head hit the mirror. What happened?” I was getting quite concerned, and the doctor's reply didn't help.

“I think it is better that you talk to the police about this. From a medical point of view I am not worried: I think it may be a normal reaction to the blow to the head and the . . . situation . . . that you do not remember. Maybe one day it will come back to you. I will tell this to the police captain when he comes. I think he will understand.” He wrote something on my chart.

Well, that'll be more than I do
, I thought to myself, but I decided to wait until Bertrand came back to ask what had happened, because, clearly, the doctor wasn't going to tell me.

“What about these?” I asked, nodding painfully at the needles in my arms.

“I think we can remove them now. You have been sedated. We can allow you to leave here later today, with some pain medication that you will find useful. Your vital signs are good, all your readings are normal. We have treated the traumatic injuries. You can be discharged.”

“What day is it?” I asked. I had no idea.

“It is Monday.” He looked at his watch. “It is two thirty. You were brought here about twelve hours ago.”

“Can I fly?” I asked.

The doctor looked puzzled. “In an aeroplane?”

I smiled and said, “
Yes
, in an ‘aeroplane.' I haven't gone mad, thank you.”
Good grief!
“I'm due to fly back home to Canada tomorrow. Can I do that?”

The doctor gave it a moment's thought, then replied, “If the police allow it, yes. There is no medical reason to stop you. You must report to your doctor when you get there. I will make sure that all your records are ready for you to take when you go to the cashier.”

The cashier? Oh bugger. Of course. I hoped that my travel insurance would cover all this. I saw mountains of paperwork in my future.

“Thank you,” I replied absently, then I gave myself a mental poke. I added in a rather more sincere tone, “And thanks to you and all the team for looking after me and sorting me out. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

The doctor smiled at me and said, “You are welcome. Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“No, ask away.”

“Who is this ‘Bud'? You have been asking for him in the emergency room. You were very upset, crying. Is he your boyfriend?”

A wave of sadness flowed over me as I answered, quietly, “No, not my boyfriend. He is a good friend, a colleague. His wife . . . just died. She was my friend also. I miss them both.”

I could feel a tear begin to spill from the side of my eye, and roll down my cheek.

“Ah,” was all that the doctor said, as he left the room. His expression was enigmatic.

I managed to work out how to move my right arm without dislodging the needle poking out of it, and I wiped away my tears. I also tried moving around a little to see what hurt, and how much. I realized the doctor had been right—my left side had really taken the worst of it, but, thankfully, my right side wasn't too bad. Being a righty, not a lefty, that was a good thing.

Having established what was in working order and what wasn't, I looked around for Bertrand. I was alone in a little room whose half-glassed wall divided me from what sounded like a nurses' station beyond. I kept trying to remember what on earth had happened after I had hit the mirror, but I couldn't come up with anything: it was like trying to catch a cloud.

I was beginning to get a bit restless when Bertrand finally popped his head in and said, “The captain has arrived. Good luck!”

“Thanks,” I replied, worried about why I'd need “luck.” What the hell had happened? “Bertrand,” I called before he'd left the room, “can you stay and translate? I don't think I'll be able to cope with the language right now.” He looked hesitant. “Please?” I tried to make my most appealing face.

“I will ask the captain,” replied Bertrand, and he disappeared.

I could hear Moreau and the doctor talking to each other outside my room. Then the captain appeared in the doorway. His expression was grim. I didn't like the look of that.

“
Professeur Morgan? Bon, vous êtes réveillée. Nous devons parler.
”

As he entered and sat beside me, I said, “Could Bertrand translate, please?”

Moreau didn't answer, but he turned his head and called Bertrand into the room.

“
Merci, Capitaine
,” I managed. I felt relieved. Bertrand hovered at Moreau's elbow, and filled his now usual role.

“You will be discharged today, Professor. That is good news.” Moreau spoke gravely.

“Yes, I'm very pleased. I'm due to fly home tomorrow, and the doctor said that would be okay.”

“We will see about that,” replied Moreau. He looked at me intently, then said, “The doctor tells me you cannot remember what happened after you were knocked over at Mme. Schiafino's apartment. Is this correct? Nothing?”

I shook my head, carefully. “I've tried, Captain, but I can't remember anything. What happened? They said I had blood on me—someone else's blood. Was someone injured? Who?”

He didn't reply. He just looked at me. He sucked his teeth and said, “You do not recall beating anyone?”

“Beating someone? Me? Who? When? With what? Why?” The questions tumbled out of me. “I don't remember beating anyone. I'm not the beating type. What are you talking about?” I was nonplussed.

Again, Moreau didn't answer immediately. I could sense intense mental activity behind his cold, watchful eyes. He blinked, sighed, and said, “You battered a young man about the head with a champagne bottle last night. The bottle broke. You continued to beat him with the broken bottle. Bertrand here had to pull you off him. You would not stop.”

I was shocked. “Me? I did? When?” I couldn't comprehend what he was saying. Moreau's face was grave. “Oh my God . . . he's not . . . ? I didn't . . . ?” I couldn't say it.

“He is alive, but in a critical condition. He might lose an eye.”

I sat for a moment, struggling with what the captain was telling me. I could feel my heart pounding. The damned machine that I was hooked up to seemed to beep more loudly. I pushed myself to an upright position. I was struggling to make sense of it all.

“Captain—I've never hurt anyone in my life! I'm not a violent person. Who was he? Why would I do that? Oh my God, the poor man! I'm so sorry . . .” It seemed I had more reasons for apologies than I knew about. I held my head. Why couldn't I remember?

“The young man is called Henry. Henry Tyler-Whyte. He is English.”

“I've never heard of him. Who is he? Oh, wait . . . was he the man who was looking for me in the cellars?”

“I believe so. He found you at Mme. Schiafino's apartment.”

“The last thing I remember is hitting my head against the mirror there. The door flew open and I fell backward. Did I hit him after that? I know I had a bottle of champagne in my hand when I was at the door. But hitting him? I can't recall that . . .”

“For a woman with a photographic memory, that must be unusual,” said Moreau, suspiciously. “This attack, it is serious, you know.” It wasn't a question.

I realized I was in
big
trouble. Why couldn't I
think
? I can
always
think. It's the only thing I'm good at, after all.

I was babbling, but I didn't stop. “I didn't
mean
 . . . well, I don't
know
what I meant to do . . . I
can't
have meant to . . . Oh, I don't
remember
! I
do
remember I was afraid. I'd heard knocking at the door, and I was trying to listen to find out who it was. It must have been him. He must have broken down the door. Maybe I didn't lose consciousness for long. I
must
have been defending myself. I
must
have been. You've got to believe me! But I don't even know what happened myself . . . so how can I ask you to believe me? Oh God. I'm so sorry . . .”

“Tell me exactly what happened, as you remember it, after you sent the e-mail to me. Take your time. This is important. Tell me everything.” Both Moreau and Bertrand had pulled out notepads, and were poised to record my answers.