Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Most likely she didn’t know whether she wanted him to or not. Or even better, she knew, but didn’t like the answer. Tom stood staring over the gloomy, rain-swept rooftops of Paris, wishing there was something he could do to help her make up her mind. He knew, with a depressing certainty, that the best thing he could do was give her time.

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In the meantime, he had friends in Paris, friends who either knew things or could find them out. Claude was a journalist for one of the leftist newspapers. While the Théâtre du Mime didn’t normally fall under their jurisdiction, Tom had great faith in Claude’s contacts. If Claude couldn’t find out something about Marc Bonnard, then no one could.

He looked out into the rain once more. The last thing he wanted was to spend more time on the cold, wet streets of Paris. With a resigned sigh he reached for his navy jacket and pulled the collar up around his neck. Some things were worth the trouble, some things weren’t. There was no question at all in his mind where Claire MacIntyre fit in the scheme of things. And he headed out into the icy rain.

He wasn’t home, damn it. Claire leaned against the flimsy, locked door, panting from the six-flight climb. She could feel tears of exhaustion and frustration burn her eyes, and angrily she rubbed them away, smearing her flawless makeup. She couldn’t afford to spend her time moping around weeping. Too much depended on her, Nicole depended on her.

She moved to the landing window. Why in the world had Tom gone out on such a miserable day? She’d never even considered he might not be home. It had taken every ounce of her courage, every ounce of self-justification, to make the climb, to steel herself to face him, to tell him what she’d planned.

All that courage screwed up for nothing. Damn and double damn. She looked down at the thin, feminine watch on her slender wrist. Marc had given it to her, disliking the flat, masculine diver’s watch she’d always worn. When she got back to the apartment she’d take off the watch and dump it, she promised herself.

In the meantime it was only two in the afternoon, hours before she was due to pick up Nicole, and nothing to fill her time. She wasn’t going back to that apartment alone, she couldn’t walk the chilly, damp streets of Paris or she’d be courting double pneumonia, and she couldn’t just sit here and wait.

Or could she? Tom lived alone on the top floor—no one would come along and bother her. She sank down on the top step, ignoring the dust and mud, and leaned her head against the stained, peeling wall. It had been so long since she’d slept through the night. One more night, and there’d be the safety of an anonymous hotel room, with clean white sheets and no one knowing where to find them. Closing her eyes, she smiled faintly at the delicious picture and fell sound asleep.

“Nothing,” said Josef, looking disgusted and quite human for a change. “Absolutely nothing.”

Malgreave roused himself from his contemplation of his pencil. Things had gotten worse, so much worse. He and Marie had exchanged no more than ten words in the last two days. Of course, he had never been a loquacious man. And his hours had been longer than usual, as the case heated up. Two suspects dead within forty-eight hours, three new victims in the last week. They’d picked up the butcher’s assistant on suspicion of murder, but they were going to have to let him go. There wasn’t enough to pin Sahut’s death on the boy, and Malgreave didn’t give a damn. If anything, young Edgar had done the world a favor.

Malgreave ran a weary hand through his thinning hair. Things were escalating, usually a good sign. He’d dealt with enough homicides over the years to know—when the killing frenzy became overwhelming the victims began to pile up. And mistakes were made.

He looked over at Josef. “Nothing?” he echoed, hoping he sounded knowledgeable. He spent far too much time mooning over Marie. He had to learn to let go, to accept whatever she decided. He had to keep his mind on business.

“The orphanage,” Josef said patiently. “There were no records left.”

“That’s absurd. There must have been something. We’re a nation of bureaucrats, Josef. Somewhere in the Ministry of Records there must be folders and folders of information on the Marie-le-Croix orphanage.” Josef had gotten his interest by now, his domestic problems forgotten.

Josef shook his head. “As far as I can tell the place was started for war orphans. It was in existence less than twenty years, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, on file since the late nineteen-forties.”

Malgreave stared at his assistant, at the uncharacteristic smugness around Josef’s prim mouth. “What is it? There’s something you’re just waiting to spring on me, I know you too well.”

Josef’s smile broadened to an outright grin. “I was fortunate enough to talk with the deputy assistant to the under-associate secretary. You may remember him, a man by the name of Balfour?”

Malgreave shook his head impatiently, waiting.

But Josef was not to be hurried. “Well, he remembered you. He remembered the fuss you made when Rocco Guillère’s file disappeared two years ago, and your demand that a thorough investigation be made, to see what else was missing. He doesn’t like you very much, sir.”

Malgreave waved away such inconsequential information. “Get on with it, Josef. Though I hope and pray I know where you’re going.”

“Of course you do, sir. The only other files taken at the time of the Guillère file were the Marie-le-Croix orphanage files. Including records of inmates and the complete investigation of its destruction.”

Malgreave leaned back, sighing, a broad smile wreathing his lined face. “Josef,” he said, “we’re going to get them.”

“Yes, sir,” said Josef, beaming. “I believe we are.”

Tom trudged upward. He had to admit, he was getting tired of a sixth-floor walk-up. It wasn’t that he minded the exercise. He just didn’t like it forced upon him, particularly on a cold, gray day following a sleepless night. As he paused on the fourth-floor landing he thought longingly of clean, soulless condos and self-service elevators.

The smells of the ancient hallways surrounded him, that familiar smell of cabbage and dead fish and fresh bread and cats. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounded, and he had no doubt he’d miss it when he was back in the manufactured air of his New York apartment.

Today the smell was subtly different, and he paused, sniffing, trying to place it. The dampness brought out the worst of the old building, adding mildew to the aromatic pot, but there was something new. The faint, lingering trace of flowers in the air. Someone must have a new lover, he thought as he climbed higher. Or a new perfume. If the scent was bottled, he’d have to find out what it was. There was something indefinably arousing about it. It reminded him of warm summer afternoons, and soft breezes, and spring flowers, and … Claire, it reminded him of Claire.

He took the next flight three steps at a time, racing around the corner landing and stopping short, staring up at her. She was still asleep, her red gold head against the wall, her hands resting lightly in her lap. She was wearing those ridiculous high-heeled shoes, and from his vantage point he could see her slender, silk-covered ankles were splashed with mud. The heavy sweater was beaded with moisture, and it looked far too big for her slender body.

There were purple circles under her eyes, and she looked pale. Even in sleep her soft mouth looked determined, and he knew he was right. She might be confused, but she didn’t frighten easily.

As he started up the final flight of stairs, she opened her eyes and looked down at him. He stopped, not moving, standing a few feet below her.