“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.