The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

“He and Gly were in the United States to escort a handful of men to Paris and see them off on a polar expedition.”

“I understand.” But clearly she didn’t.

“I have strong reason to believe that these men will be murdered upon the completion of their mission.”

She gasped, now seeing the full picture.

“I need to get word to the team leader to expect betrayal. I know they are here in Paris getting the last of the supplies they will need. I don’t know where, exactly. Did your husband ever mention any houses the company owns?”

“They own a great many for factory workers.”

“No, not like that. This would be one where they would lodge visiting dignitaries, heads of other companies, potential clients.”

She shook her head. “I am sorry, monsieur, but Marc did not discuss such things with me.”

Bell doubted he’d have told her anything, but it was worth the shot to ask. Now he had to go the old-fashioned route. “Did your husband leave behind any keys?”

“No,” she said, then immediately amended her reply, a little buoyed by being able to help. “Yes. In his strongbox.”

She rose from her spot on the couch and vanished into the bedroom. She returned a moment later with a gray pressed-metal box about the size of an encyclopedia volume. She held it out to him. She took back her place, wedged tightly against the sofa’s armrest, and began fidgeting with a fresh handkerchief. Bell examined the box. The lock was a simple clasp type that was better at showing evidence of tampering than keeping contents safe. Bell used the knife he kept strapped to his ankle to work at it, bending the cheap metal until the internal lock snapped in two and the clasp popped open.

Inside was a set of substantial brass keys on a very fine chain of silver. In addition to a snub-nosed revolver and a box of ammunition still in its grease paper, there were bundled stacks of francs. With the lid open so Theresa couldn’t see, he thumbed through one of the stacks of mixed bills and quickly calculated the value. He removed the keys and money and closed the lid.

“These the keys he took to work every morning?”

“Yes. They are for his office and desk and the like.” She spotted the money. “Mon Dieu!”

He stood and handed the sheaves to her. “I’d guess about twenty thousand francs.”

“How did—” She wisely reconsidered asking. “No. I do not want to know.”

“You’re right. You don’t. I do not wish to alarm you, but there is also a gun in this box. If you would like, I will get rid of it for you.”

“Yes, please. I want nothing to do with any of that.”

“I have no advice for your future, madame,” Bell said as a way to wrap up their meeting. “Your sister-in-law seemed to pay you kindness.”

Theresa dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand, the handkerchief c

lenched tightly in her other fist. “Bah. She’s a former dancer at Les Follies. Little better than a whore, and now she is pregnant and only talks about her having a son and naming him Yves after his father. The mere sight of her is a reminder of why my marriage turned out so poorly.”

“Then I am truly sorry.” Bell stood and slipped into his overcoat and hat. He tucked the box under one arm. “You have been a tremendous help to me and I am grateful. I would not be surprised if Gly and your husband’s brother know about the money. They will likely come for it. Hide it someplace outside of this apartment and plead ignorance when they ask. Spend it slowly.”

“I understand. Merci. I guess I too am grateful, monsieur. I might never have found the money before Gly and Yves came for it. Also knowing the real”—she paused, trying to recall the English word—“circumstance around Marc’s death. I suppose it helps a little knowing the truth.”

She escorted him to the door. He asked for, and she gave him, the specific floor of the office her late husband shared with his brother and Foster Gly. As he stepped out into the hallway, he said, “I often find knowing the truth helps, Madame Massard. You have my condolences. Bonne chance et au revoir.”

13

Bell returned to the environs near the Société des Mines where he had started out. This was not the shiny headquarters in the second arrondissement close to the Paris Bourse, the city’s fabled stock exchange, but a satellite facility to house the worker bees who kept the hive humming—accountants, copy and file clerks, ledger keepers, and the like.

The building took up the entire block and could probably house a thousand workers comfortably. He circled the block, discovering one of the green iron and glass Art Deco Métro station entrances designed by Hector Guimard that were rapidly becoming as familiar a symbol of the city as Monsieur Eiffel’s Tower. The back of the building was punctured by an alley that led to an open central courtyard. The alley was protected by a grillework gate that was chained shut. Bell could see into the brick-paved court. There was nothing of interest, but he took a moment to note that, in a pinch, he could climb up and over the gate.

He finished his tour, passing the main entrance again and pausing to check out the lobby. It was stark, befitting the lowly workers who toiled within, but functional. A wooden railing bisected the room, with a guard stationed at its only opening. The uniformed agent checked that each person entering had a proper identification badge. If not, Bell saw a reception counter along one wall with three women ready to process visitors.

The hole beneath the doorknob looked right for the largest key on Marc Massard’s ring.

He eventually found a taxi and gave an address some blocks from the Hôtel Lutetia. When he was certain the driver’s attention was on the congestion, he surreptitiously transferred the revolver to a coat pocket. He’d dump Massard’s strongbox in a public trash receptacle and walk the last half mile to his hotel.