She wasn’t in the cupboards. Maybe he was wrong, maybe in his heightened state he’d only imagined the sound. Or maybe not. If she’d been in the kitchen she was gone now, how he wasn’t quite certain.
She usually left quite promptly at five. Chances were she’d done so today, was safely back with Claire, never realizing her beloved grand-mère was breathing her last in the arms of her stepfather.
He needn’t worry. He could make his plans carefully. Tomorrow he would return to the bosom of his makeshift family, and the first chance he got he would take care of Nicole. And he would take his time doing so, savoring every moment.
The kitchen door shut behind him. The sound of footsteps died away, but still Nicole didn’t move. He was clever, he was hideous and mean and clever, and he knew how to make the right moves, the right noises to make it appear one thing when it was the other. He could be right outside the door, waiting for her to move. She wouldn’t.
When she’d seen the knife she’d hidden in the first place she could find. She crawled under the sink, pulling back against the pipes, wrapping herself up in a tight bundle, and waited, silent tears streaming down her face.
There had been no outcry from the front room, not as there was on TV. No screams, nothing but the quiet murmur of voices and then silence. She’d pulled back out of the way when he’d walked in the door, not even breathing as he called her name. All he had to do was squat down and he would have seen her. But he didn’t. His legs were only inches away from her nose as he ran the water in the sink. One of the pipes grew very hot, burning her arm, but she still didn’t make a sound.
When he began opening the cupboards she knew she was lost. She knew he was going to find her, going to drag her out from under the sink and kill her with the knife he still held. She’d shut her eyes, bit down hard on her lip, and waited.
And then he was gone. Nicole’s tears dried on her face, and she felt her heart grow small and hard within her. She waited, unable and unwilling to move, waited for someone to find her, hoping against hope that Claire hadn’t abandoned her after all.
* * *
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” Claire said, striving for calm. She reached out and fiddled with her coffee, refusing to meet his eyes.
“All right, it was a stupid, romantic gesture. I wanted to experience life as it really was, without the cushion of credit cards,” Tom said somewhat desperately, running a hand through his thick, curly hair. “Listen, I didn’t turn them in, I just left them back in the States. I could get a replacement for my American Express card in less than twenty-four hours.”
“So can I. Don’t worry about it, Tom. We’ll be fine. One more night in that apartment won’t kill us.”
“But what about Bonnard?”
“I’m sure Marc is touring somewhere in the south and that Solange was wrong.”
“Then what happened to your passport and credit cards?”
“A sneak thief.”
“A sneak thief who specializes in passports and credit cards? Surely there was something of value in that place besides the contents of your wallet?”
“Maybe the thief was part of a band of terrorists, looking for new identification papers to get people out of the country. Under normal circumstances it would have been weeks, months before I looked for my passport. It may have already been missing that long.”
“You’ve been reading too much Ludlum.” Tom was clearly disapproving. “Even if a female terrorist wanted to get out of France posing as you, why would she want a passport for a nine-year-old?”
“Maybe terrorists have children too.”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“What else can I do?” She could hear the note of desperation in her voice, and quickly she tamped it down. She wasn’t going to lose it, not at this stage of the game. Tomorrow she would get her credit card—after that she had all of France to hide in until she figured out how to get Nicole’s passport.
“You can let me help you. For starters you and Nicole could spend the night in my apartment.”
She raised her eyes from her rapt contemplation of her coffee cup and looked up into his face, seeing what she was afraid to see. “No, we can’t do that. Don’t worry about us. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“I’m not.”
Claire turned her head to stare out into the streets. The café window was streaked with rain, the tables and chairs outside in the downpour looking oddly forlorn. Quite suddenly she hated Paris, hated the incessant rains of winter and spring, hated the beautiful streets where it was so easy to lose her way, hated the people and their liquid, incomprehensible language.
“God,” she whispered, “I want to go home.” And it was a cry of desperation.
“Are you certain you can’t leave Nicole with her grandmother?”
She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, she’s been there too long already. What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“I’d better go.”
He rose, towering over her, his rangy height protective, not threatening, Claire thought wearily, still fighting. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why?”
“Why not? You’re so guilty, Claire, and unfortunately there’s nothing to be guilty about. I’m simply a fellow expatriate you ran into, who’s helping you deal with the vagaries of Paris. Why shouldn’t you take me to meet the old lady?”
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t.” She rose also, pulling her heavy sweater over her head once more. “But I will. Do you think there’s any chance of finding a taxi?”
“Where does the old lady live?”
Claire stared at him in mute frustration. “In a red building. Twelve blocks east, two blocks north past the church with the bronze roof.”
“This is from your apartment?”
She nodded, anger and misery at her own inability clouding her already furious mind.
“We’ll find it,” he said, his voice soothing. “Come on. We don’t want to be any later than we already are, do we?”
“No,” said Claire. “We don’t.” And she followed him out the door.
Malgreave was staring at Rocco in mute frustration when the call came in. He picked up the phone, barking into it, and then grew very still as he listened to the report.
He replaced the receiver back in the cradle and looked up, smiling for the first time. “Everything become’s clear.”
Rocco’s weaselly little lawyer looked affronted. “Pardon?”
Malgreave rose, shrugging into his jacket with efficient movements, signaling for Josef to follow him. “I wondered what the hell you were doing, wasting my time here. Now I know.”
“What’s up, boss?” Josef knew when to respond to a cue, and he did so perfectly.
“Another old woman, this time on the Left Bank. And our friend here with such a convenient alibi. Notice how he grins, Josef? We will wipe that grin off his ugly face, hein? He’s just proven beyond all doubt that he’s involved. How else would he know to show up exactly at this point? You’ve gone too far, Rocco, and I’m going to nail your balls to the wall for it.”
“I must protest,” the lawyer began, but Rocco shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it, Lefèvre. Malgreave’s got to think he’s a big man. He’s pigshit.”
Malgreave only smiled faintly. “Shut the door when you leave, Rocco.” And he headed out toward Harriette Langlois’s apartment.
They could see the flashing lights from the parked police cars from several blocks away. The street itself was cordoned off, and Claire could do nothing but follow Tom, listening to his fluent explanations to the obstructive police as a growing sense of horror filled her. The official vehicles cluttering up the street were centered at Harriette’s building, and she didn’t need Tom’s shuttered expression to tell her something was terribly wrong.
He pulled her to one side, huddled against the building, and his face was grim. “It??
?s Harriette,” he said. “She’s been murdered.”
Claire shut her eyes for a moment, letting the cold, icy rain stream over her eyelids. “Where’s Nicole?”
“They haven’t found her yet.”
Claire’s eyes shot open. “Oh, my God.” Pulling away, she headed for Harriette’s apartment, ignoring the protests of the policemen around her, ignoring Tom’s restraining hand.
Claire’s first thought was that Harriette wouldn’t like all these wet, large men tramping through her apartment, putting muddy footprints on her beautiful carpets, dripping on her furniture. And then she saw her, stretched out on the chintz sofa, withered hands crossed over her chest like a medieval martyr, and she knew Harriette wouldn’t mind anything at all.
She felt suddenly faint. Tom was beside her, his hand on her elbow, and she swayed against him for a moment. She had never seen death before, and the polite formality of this one was somehow worse than bloody carnage.
A man detached himself from the group standing over the body, one who looked vaguely familiar, though Claire couldn’t place him. He spoke to her, and she looked up, blinking rapidly, as Tom intervened.
“I speak English, Mademoiselle MacIntyre,” he said. “I am Chief Inspector Louis Malgreave, in charge of the investigation. You knew Madame Langlois?”
“She was my … fiance’s mother-in-law.” God, it sounded like one of those French exercises that had always defeated her.
But Malgreave had apparently mastered the English equivalent. “I see. Who is your fiance, and where is he now?”
“His name is Marc Bonnard. He’s on tour in the south of France with the Théâtre du Mime. His daughter …”
“Do you know where he can be reached?”
“No. He usually calls in. Nicole …”
“Do you know why anyone would want to kill Madame Langlois? Had anyone threatened her, did anyone wish her harm?”
For a moment Harriette’s fears came back to her. Claire looked over at the still, shrunken body, shivering. The doors were open, letting in the damp, chilly air, and it seemed as if she’d never get warm again.
“No one,” she said.
Tom’s hand tightened on her elbow for a moment, and she waited for him to say something, to contradict her. He didn’t know Marc, he still thought it was a possibility that Marc could have done such a thing. Looking at the eerie stillness of Mme. Langlois’s body, Claire knew it was impossible. She couldn’t have lived with a man capable of murder. Her instincts couldn’t be that awry. As if by magic her doubts had vanished. A small part of her brain had shut down in protest against what was unacceptable. It couldn’t be Marc.
Malgreave nodded. “We’re assuming it is part of the string of murders plaguing Paris.”
“Where is her granddaughter? We were coming to fetch her …”
“There was no one else in the apartment.”
“But she would have waited for me.”
“No one else was here, and there was no sign of a struggle. My men are searching most diligently, and of course we shall want to talk with her when she’s found. But I suspect she left long before anything happened. Fortunate for her sake, unfortunate for ours.”
“But …”
“Go back home, mademoiselle. We will be in touch as soon as we find out anything. And you will call us if the child is waiting for you at home, yes?”
“But …”
“I will send you in a squad car. We will need to talk to you, but tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“But …”
“Bon soir, mademoiselle, monsieur.”
They were being dismissed, like obnoxious children. For one moment Claire considered behaving like one, throwing herself on the floor and refusing to move, and then thought better of it. The French equivalent of a coroner was examining Harriette’s body, moving the stiffening hands to expose a red, gaping wound, and Claire felt her stomach turn.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said quietly. “He is right—if we’re lucky Nicole is already at home, waiting for us. She probably doesn’t have any idea what happened.”
“But I told her to stay until I came!”
“Does she always do what you tell her?”
“What nine-year-old would?” Claire countered miserably. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”
If she’d hoped the apartment would be a blaze of lights she was disappointed. Everything was dark and empty when she let herself in the front door. Tom followed, looking about him with a curious air, and his hands were gentle and impersonal as they stripped her of her sodden sweater and took her purse out of numb hands.
“I suppose I’d better call the police and tell them she’s not here,” Claire said woodenly.
“I’ll do it. Why don’t you go and make us both drinks? Something very strong.”
She nodded, not moving. She wanted to sink back against Tom, lean against his strong, comforting body, but she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury. “If he’s hurt her I’ll kill him,” she said, her voice low and fierce.
“Who? Marc?”
“No. It couldn’t have been Marc. If there was even the faintest possibility I would have said something to the police.”
“Do you think,” Tom said gently, “that you have the right to make that determination? Don’t you think you should have told Malgreave about the old lady’s fears?”
She shook her head fiercely, fighting the doubts. “Impossible,” she said. “It was a coincidence, a random murder.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tom said.
She looked up at him. “Neither do I,” she said finally. “You make the drinks. I’m going to check Nicole’s room.”
The faint glow of the street lights cast a tiny pool of light into the spotless confines of the room. Claire reached for the light, then stopped. She could see the small figure lying in bed and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, make out the sodden shape of a raincoat lying on the floor.
She moved into the room and sat down carefully on the bed. “Nicole?”
The small, familiar shape shifted. “I don’t feel well, Claire,” she said in a tiny voice. “I just wish to sleep.”
“When did you leave your grandmother’s?”
There was such a slight hesitation Claire thought she might have imagined it. “Early. I’m sorry, I know you told me to wait, but I had a stomachache. So she sent me home in a taxi quite early. I don’t remember when.”
For a long moment Claire said nothing. Nicole had an unfortunate habit of making up tales, and this sounded like one of them, but there was no earthly reason for her to lie. “How are you now?”
“I threw up and I’m feeling much better,” her muffled little voice replied. “I just want to sleep now.”
Claire knew a dismissal when she heard it. She also thought she knew a lie when she heard one, but she had no proof. “All right. You sleep, and I’ll check on you during the night and make certain you’re okay.”
“That would be nice,” she said in a woebegone little voice. “I thought I heard voices. Is … is Marc back?”
“Not for a few more days. It’s just a friend of mine. He’ll be leaving soon.”
“If he spends the night I won’t tell anyone.”
Claire stared down at her, astounded. “Well, he’s not going to spend the night. I can’t imagine …”
“If he doesn’t, can I come in and sleep with you again?”
“Certainly. If you want I’ll send him home now.”
“No. He should stay. I just want to sleep. Good night, Claire.”
Claire shut the door behind her, her face creased in worry. Now was not the time to tell her about her grandmother—tomorrow would be soon enough. But she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that Nicole already knew.
CHAPTER 15
Nicole burrowed deeper into her bed, scarcely daring to breathe. Beneath the crisp white sheets she was still fully dressed, and her clothes were damp from her walk home through the pouring ra
in.
She’d run more than walked, looking over her shoulder, terrified Marc would reappear. But she’d made it back safely, back to the dark, empty apartment, moments before Claire returned.
She’d had enough time to think it through, to realize how hopeless the truth was. Claire wouldn’t believe her. Women always believed Marc—the same thing had happened with her mother. When she’d tried to tell Maman about Marc her mother would get very angry and accuse her of lying.
So why should Claire believe her? If she was able to convince everyone she had seen nothing, maybe she’d be safe. Marc hadn’t found her—he couldn’t be sure she’d been there. Maybe if she lied and said she came home early people would believe her, Marc would go away and leave her alone, and no one would hurt her.
She hunched down deeper in the bed, her teeth chattering. When she’d first heard the man’s voice she’d been terrified that Marc had come. But she knew even before she asked Claire that it was someone else, someone with a slow, deep, American voice.
As long as the person with that voice was here, she’d be safe. And if he left, she would go and sleep in Claire’s big bed. Either way, no one could harm her for now. She could close her eyes and sleep.
Tomorrow she would think about Grand-mère. Tomorrow she would mourn properly, would decide how much to tell Claire. For now all she wanted to do was sleep. And blot out the memory of Marc walking into the kitchen, a bloody knife in his hand.
Claire walked slowly back to the living room, trying to rationalize her fears. It was no wonder she was troubled, she told herself. She’d seen violent death, murder. It should come as no surprise that she was filled with a nameless, overwhelming dread.
At least Nicole was safe. That, for the moment, was the most important thing.
“She’s here?” Tom was standing by the door. Ready to leave, Claire realized with numb panic.
“She says she came back early. She doesn’t know what happened to her grandmother.”