“It was Rocco Guillère,” Malgreave announced abruptly when they’d covered five blocks.
Josef was startled, his ferretlike eyes darting in his egg-shaped head. “What makes you say that? Not that I wish to disagree, Chief Inspector, but there is no proof, no clues, nothing to tie the man to this murder. I agree with you, he must have been responsible for a number of the old ladies, but I can’t see why you suspect him of this one. This was scarcely his area of town.”
“I know.” Malgreave was weary. “I can only go by my instincts, and they seldom fail me. It was Guillère, all right. That elegant old lady in her beautiful apartment had been stabbed by a filthy hoodlum, then laid out on her silk-covered bed like a medieval effigy. God, it makes me sick to look at them. I’d rather there were more blood, signs of a struggle, not that damned formal lying in state, be they a comtesse, a nun, or a cleaning woman.”
Josef shook his head, unconvinced. “It couldn’t have been, sir. We’ve checked with everyone in the building. A man like Rocco would have stuck out like a sore thumb. We showed his photograph to everyone we could find, and not a soul had seen him.”
Malgreave shrugged. “You know what your great strength is, Josef? Your stubbornness and adherence to facts. You know what your great weakness is? The very same traits. We know there are several people in Paris going around murdering old women, and Rocco Guillère is only one of them. Logic tells us that he isn’t the one responsible for last night’s killing. It wasn’t his area of town, and people like him respect territory. A woman like Marcelle Boisrond would never have let a creature like Guillère near her. It stands to reason one of the other killers is responsible.”
“Exactly,” said Josef, not daring to feel smug.
“So when I insist that it was Rocco, despite everything, what will you think?”
Josef didn’t even hesitate. He huddled deeper into the fancy British coat his wife had made him buy. “I’ll know that Rocco did it,” he said flatly.
Malgreave nodded. “Good man. I tell you, Josef, this was one murder too many. We’re going to get him for it, and nothing is going to get in our way.”
And Josef, torn between conflicting emotions, hunched his shoulders against the encroaching wind and followed Malgreave to the corner bistro.
The wind had finally stopped. There was a quarter moon, hung lopsided in a blue black sky, and the bare branches of the trees stretched upward, looking, Claire thought, like desperate arms reaching for rescue.
Morbid fancies, she thought, not turning away from the ghostly landscape. Marc was asleep in the bed behind her, his suitcase was already packed, and in another few hours he’d be gone. She should be back in bed, curled around his warm body, not standing barefoot on icy floors, staring out into the night.
Claire stared down at her clenched fists, deliberately relaxing them, stretching the fingers out. No rings. She’d told Marc tonight that she’d wear one; she’d marry him when he came back from the tour. It was a decision that had needed to be made, and she’d made it. She only wished she’d made the choice somewhere else, over coffee, in a bistro, even walking in that depressing park. It was a choice she would have made sanely, rationally. Why did she feel he’d wrung it out of her in bed that night?
She shivered. Was she simply afraid of commitment? Had she gone directly from a married man to a widower, subconsciously hoping both men would be too involved with their wives, both living and dead, to demand too much from her?
The next month would give her time to sort through her feelings, to decide where neuroses began and ended. And when Marc came back, she would tell him about Brian and the accident.
The Paris moon was a mournful one, she thought, looking upward. For all the talk about lovers and Paris, it wasn’t a romantic sight. It was cold and lonely, shining down over the sleeping city, shining down on the corpses of old ladies, murdered before their time.
Claire shivered again, turning back to the bed. If she were very careful, Marc might sleep through the night. And tomorrow her last few weeks of freedom would begin.
“Tell me about this woman Marc lives with,” Harriette ordered, leaning her frail body back against the chintz sofa and surveying her favorite grandchild with well-disguised fondness. “She’s an American, I gather. Is she loud and vulgar?”
Nicole fiddled with her scratchy wool skirt. “Not really, grand-mère. She’s very quiet and pretty.”
Harriette snorted her disbelief. “Doesn’t sound like she’s Marc’s type. He always went in for flashy blondes while your mother was still alive.”
Nicole didn’t flinch. She had no illusions about Marc—his fights with her mother had been too loud. Harriette had done nothing to foster the relationship, but most responsible for Nicole’s dislike was Marc himself. Nicole had met him when she was four years old and her mother had gaily introduced him as her new father. She’d looked up into those dark, empty eyes of his and for the first time in her young life she’d felt fear. It hadn’t been the last.
“Claire has sort of red blond hair,” Nicole said. “She’s very smart, very nice, really. She tries too hard, but then, what would you expect of an Americaine?”
“Apparently she doesn’t try hard enough. Didn’t you tell me she has no French? Barbaric!” Grand-mère sniffed.
For some reason Nicole found herself defending the woman. “Marc says it’s not her fault. It’s something to do with her brain.”
“Heavens, don’t tell me the woman is a mental deficient!”
“No, no. She tried to explain it to me once, but I wasn’t paying attention,” Nicole said patiently. “She said it was like being partially deaf. She could hear the noises but she couldn’t make out the words.”
“She’s deaf?” Harriette demanded, incensed.
“No, Grand-mère. It’s like she’s deaf, but only when someone speaks in French.”
“How very convenient,” the old woman said icily. “Are you certain you don’t wish to stay here with me while your stepfather is away? You can hardly be comfortable living with an afflicted stranger.”
“I’m more comfortable with Claire than I am with Marc.”