It was after eleven when he got home. Claire had left him at five, but he’d been too restless to go home and work when he knew damned well he ought to. He’d gone out to see friends, spent the entire evening talking about Claire, and then finally ended up back at the apartment, still too dreamy and lightheaded to tackle the novel.
Claire was part of the problem. She’d made her appearance in chapter seven as Elizabeth, the madonna. Then he’d revised her into Violette, the whore. But now he knew her too well, he couldn’t turn her into a stereotype and make her do what he wanted.
Ignoring the typewriter, he flopped down on the bed, letting his big body absorb the vibrations from the ancient springs. Who the hell was he fooling? He wasn’t a novelist. He wasn’t a dancer, a clarinetist, a playwright, or a painter. He couldn’t even run a vineyard. He had seven more weeks left, but he already suspected he knew the answer to his quest. He was a damned, dull, boring stockbroker. His creative gifts lay in making money, whether he liked it or not.
He knew something else, too. Irrational, unbelievable as it was, at the age of thirty-two, with a decent amount of experience behind him, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with a stranger. And while common sense told him it was absurd, common sense didn’t make a dent in his conviction. For almost two years he’d been convinced he’d come to Paris to find himself. Right now he wasn’t so sure. He might very well have come to Paris to find Claire.
The old lady had opened the door, and Yvon knew why. Even soaking wet he looked the model of a French bureaucrat, sane, unimaginative, unthreatening. France had more people in civil service than the rest of Europe combined, and the French were used to interference in their lives.
The old lady was already dressed for bed. Her soft wool bathrobe would have cost him a week’s salary, and her faded blue eyes were chilly with hauteur. She believed him when he said they were checking gas meters, though her snobbery and impatience were clear. She didn’t look like Grand
-mère Estelle, but the cool contempt in her eyes brought back his childhood with dizzying force. That, and the smell of her apartment, of papery old skin, of wool and cough drops and strong tea. Of sweet pink roses.
She let him go into the kitchen alone. It didn’t take him long to find the knives, and his conviction strengthened. It was right, it was his destiny. Everything was falling into place so easily. The old woman had let him in, the knives were at hand, the rain was falling, beating against the old house.
His hand was still damp with rain, with sweat, as he clutched the knife. He’d chosen a sharp one, not too big, not too small. He would take it with him when he finished, and at last he would be free.
She was just replacing the telephone in its cradle when he walked back into the coolly elegant living room.
“Your meter is in order,” he said. “Who were you calling?”
She couldn’t see the knife. He’d done nothing to alarm her, he knew that. So why was she backing toward the door? There was no fear in her disdainful old face, only contempt, and he felt the black hole in his heart reach out to engulf him.
“The police,” she said in her cool, upper-class voice. “I was very stupid to let you in without proper identification, particularly at this hour. They will be here in less than five minutes. I would suggest you leave.”
“Five minutes,” said Yvon. He smiled, and he could feel the grin devour his face. “That should be time enough.” He started toward her, the knife no longer hidden.
The police car raced through the wet streets, klaxon blaring to warn away the nonexistent traffic. They’d come to fetch Malgreave, Josef and his nemesis, Vidal, driving. Malgreave barely had time to give his excuses to Marie.
Not that excuses would do any good anymore, he thought. It was a lucky thing he hadn’t yet gone to bed. He’d pulled on his heavy raincoat and battered old hat and followed his assistants out into the rain. He’d known all along something would happen that night. His instincts were well honed after all his years on the force, and he knew the killer, the killers, would be half mad with bloodlust after their forced inactivity during the last sunny spell. He’d even considered staying late, staying all night if he had to, waiting for the call to come in, but then had decided against it. If he’d been waiting, the call would never come. And he knew, ghoulish as it was, he would have been disappointed.
“This may be a wild-goose chase,” Josef said as they careened around a corner. “The call came in and they passed the message on to me while they sent someone to investigate it. Just an old woman near the Pompidou Centre with a late-night intruder. Probably harmless—the man said he was with the Department of Public Works and she said he looked respectable.”
“Then why did she call? Why the hell did she let him in in the first place?” Malgreave fumed. “Doesn’t she read the papers, doesn’t she know old women are being murdered? Why the hell can’t these people show some sense?”
“They’re probably all senile,” Vidal offered from the driver’s seat. He was younger than Josef, not nearly as thorough, but he made up for his lack of attention to detail with flashes of intuitive brilliance that couldn’t be learned.
Malgreave shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. You heard the report, Josef. Was this woman confused, disturbed?”
“Madame Bonheur? Not according to the dispatcher. She sounded very sensible.” Josef glared at his subordinate. There was no love lost between the two men. Josef disapproved of Vidal’s cowboy ways and brightly colored jeans. Vidal couldn’t be bothered to disapprove of Josef’s stodginess in return, a fact which made Josef even more hostile. In easier times Malgreave used to enjoy setting them against each other. He learned a great deal about both of them when they were quarreling.
There was no time for that now. “Not sensible enough to keep strange men out of her apartment on rainy nights.” Malgreave leaned forward and tapped Vidal on the shoulder. “Drive fast, Vidal. She’ll be chopped into little pieces at the rate you’re going.”
Vidal nodded, grinning, and the car skidded around a corner. Malgreave leaned back with a sigh. “We’ll be too late, I know it.”
“The police station was only three blocks away,” Josef soothed him. “They should have made it in time.”
Malgreave shook his head. “We’ll be too late.” And leaning back against the uncomfortable seat, he shut his eyes wearily, preparing himself for blood and death.
It shouldn’t have been like that, Yvon thought as he stumbled through the back alley. There shouldn’t have been so much blood. He was covered with it, swimming in it, and still the old lady had fought. He was so much younger, so much stronger, and yet the frail, aristocratic old woman had had the strength of tigers.
And then there was the dog. The damned stupid yapping dog, attacking his ankles, barking and yelping and raging at him. No sooner had he finally finished with the old lady than he’d had to contend with the furious assault of the tiny poodle.
He chased him all over the apartment, trailing bloody footprints. He’d caught the wretched brute by the back door, finished with him, and flung the little carcass across the room. And then he’d heard them, pounding at the front entrance, and he knew he’d taken too long.
He didn’t dare go back to the living room. He’d left the old lady where she’d fallen; he hadn’t been able to arrange her properly, to do all the small, ritual things he’d promised he would do. This wouldn’t count, he’d bungled it, he’d have to do it again, properly next time, or he wouldn’t be free.
He was sobbing as he fumbled with the back door, muttering over and over to himself as he staggered out into the rain. The back alley was dark, deserted, only the rank smell of garbage mixing with the heavy, metallic odor of blood and sour sweat. He slammed the door behind him, seeing his bloody fingerprints with blind eyes, and stumbled into the darkness.