The building where a murder and a rash of burglaries took place did not offer an elevator to the top floor. Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars stopped taking the stairs two at a time after the third level to accommodate his sluggish companion. Geoffrion was catching his breath in awkward intakes and exhales by the time they knocked on Moira Ellibee’s door.
‘Remember,’ Cinq-Mars reminded him, ‘this could get bizarre. Hang back. Play along.’
‘Won’t budge unless she pulls a weapon.’
Geoffrion had no clue what he was in for.
The mingling of scents impressed Cinq-Mars on the way up. Mexican tortilla, Japanese tempura, Italian spaghetti, Ukrainian cabbage rolls, matzah balls from Poland. The day before, he hadn’t noticed the culinary mishmash on the rear exterior stairs. The cumulative fragrance in the front stairwell was both intoxicating and disorienting.
He rapped on the door again.
‘We may both need protection, Nord. Only not as you imagine.’
Moira Ellibee flung the door open without checking who might be there.
‘Oh! I was expecting Jehovah’s Witnesses. They’re on the street. They like to drop by. Nice ladies. A little too … dour. But nice. We have tea and biscuits and discuss the end of the world. Who won’t survive. They say I’m doomed. I think it’s them.’
‘Do you discuss the Virgin Mary?’
Her eyes slid from Cinq-Mars to the stranger next to him, then returned. ‘Once,’ she replied, ‘I did.’ She tucked a forearm across her waist and planted her free elbow onto the opposing fist. ‘The oldest lady declared that she did not come to my home to entertain me. “That being the case,” I said, “you may leave.”’ Ms Ellibee snapped her fingers. ‘Boy, did that change her tune. They never want to exit. Usually I start the vacuum to get them going.’
She wore a yellow-green frock. She was slim, her movements lithe. Moira Ellibee marshaled the men into her living room and commanded they sit.
‘Drinks? I don’t, myself, but I have beer in the fridge. Gifts from others. They shouldn’t go to waste.’
Either she was lying, and secretly drank, or she had suitors. Cinq-Mars could imagine the latter, as she seemed to put up no defenses. He might have interviewed her on his own, but given that their talk was likely to be tricky, he felt safer with Nord Geoffrion along.
‘Ms Ellibee—’
‘Moira,’ she corrected him. ‘Ground rules! Amuse me. Call me Moira or giddy-up and go.’
Cinq-Mars consented to her rules of engagement. ‘Moira,’ he said to appease her. ‘On the night of the robberies and the murder next door, you were visited by an apparition.’
Geoffrion glanced his way.
For a moment, it appeared as though the woman might deny her previous claim. Then she said, ‘A good word. Apparition. Fair. There’s a difference between ghosts and spirits. I was visited by a spirit. But apparition. Yes. That word is fair.’
Geoffrion asked, ‘You mean like a ghost of Christmas past? But wasn’t he a spirit, too?’
She scowled. Cinq-Mars censored any further comment from him with a stern glare. ‘Nord, Ms Ellibee endured a sexual predator. She warrants our sympathy.’
‘Of course. Sorry.’
She held her head higher, her shoulders more square, as though to purposefully indicate that she now felt elevated in the world.
‘Apparition, then,’ Cinq-Mars encouraged her. ‘Let’s agree on that word. I wonder if you can describe him in more detail. I know it was dark. You mentioned his stomach muscles. Is there anything else you recall?’
‘Stomach muscles on a ghost,’ Geoffrion murmured, unable to hold the comment in. He noticed that if looks could kill, he’d be a dead man, Cinq-Mars the shooter.
Moira Ellibee paid him no mind. ‘Dark. Confusing. He had a smooth face. When I was imploring him to stop, I touched his face. Smooth.’
Cinq-Mars slowly looked over to Geoffrion as if daring him to say peep. She’d forgotten about her attacker’s balaclava.
Learning, his partner remained mute.
‘Excellent. His height?’
‘A little taller than me. Hard to tell.’
‘Then five-eight to five-ten, approximately, would you say?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘His clothing?’
‘The light from the back lane into my bedroom is not very bright, my detective. He was an apparition. They tend to be dullish, although some are capable of changing their appearance, even the color of their outfits.’
‘Was he wearing what might be called an outfit? Or regular clothes, a man-in-the-street kind of look? To fool you that way.’
‘More like that.’
‘Was he wearing a jacket?’
‘A reddish shirt, I think. Maybe bright red, but in the dark … And his trousers.’
‘Yes?’ Not one to take notes, Cinq-Mars signaled Geoffrion to do so. His intention having to do with encouraging Moira to continue rather than as an aid to memory.
‘Pleats. A fine sharp crease. As if they were dry-cleaned. It’s not like a man to have a crease in his trousers unless someone else put it there. Like a dry-cleaner, or a wife.’
Cinq-Mars began to work a suspicion. ‘Ms Ellibee, do you think there’s any chance – and you would know—’
‘Moira,’ she reminded him.
‘Moira, apparitions can have such extraordinary abilities to project themselves, to seem real. People perceive them to be real. Don’t you agree?’
‘Of course. Absolutely.’
‘Then, is it not possible that you might have mistaken a real person for being an apparition? I mean, wouldn’t that be an easy mistake?’
Her puzzlement proved temporary. ‘I thought of that. If the spirit was real, he’d have goop. He would … you know … you know …’
Cinq-Mars shot a glance at Geoffrion as though warning him not to breathe.
‘That confirms it, don’t you think? No goop. A spirit. Not a man. Tell me … on a different subject. Did you know the man who was murdered next door?’
‘Willy! Yes! That’s so terrible, I can’t even say.’
‘How would you describe him? What was he like? We don’t have a photograph, Moira. I saw him briefly, but he was dead. I’d like to have a good description of him.’
‘Oh, Willy was a quiet man. Almost like he didn’t have a voice. He could say hello sometimes. Once he asked me if Tuesday was garbage day. For him, that was like reciting the entire Old Testament. He listened to news on the radio. I heard it through the wall. No music. He never played music.’
‘How heavy was he?’
‘Thin. Not heavy. Soft, I think. But trim.’
Cinq-Mars created a pretense of searching deeply for his next question. ‘How did he wear his hair? Long, like the fashion these days? Short? Neat? Scruffy?’
‘Oh, scruffy all right. He seemed to always have day-old whiskers, and of course those long sideburns. His hair was medium. On the long side of medium.’
‘Excellent. I want to thank you, Moira. You’ve been a great help.’
‘You’re welcome. The beers? They’re cold. If not now, you could come back. Anytime. Even the one you keep shutting up …’ Moira looked at Norville Geoffrion for the first time. ‘Even you,’ she said, ‘can come back. Maybe on a hot day?’
Cinq-Mars interrupted her move on his partner. ‘Thank you for your generosity, Moira. We may do that.’ He stood. Geoffrion stood with him, and a moment later they were safely on the landing outside her closed door.
‘You’re kidding me, Émile. She wasn’t describing Willy.’
‘I think she was.’
‘If that’s true, Willy wasn’t the dead guy in the closet.’
‘Take a bow. You were right to warn about that.’
‘Who was it then?’
‘Smooth-shaven. Slick hair. Taut stomach. Who does that sound like?’
‘The dead guy. But not the guy who had sex with her.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wasn’t wearing a red shirt. He had on a jacket.’
‘What does that tell you?’ Cinq-Mars asked him.
‘Nothing makes sense, that’s what it tells me.’
‘The dead guy was wearing Willy’s clothes. Except his socks. The killer never put socks on the corpse.’
‘The killer … what?’
‘The killer. He dressed the dead guy. Put Willy’s clothes on him.’
‘Why?’
‘To make us think that he was Willy.’
‘OK. Same question. Why?’
‘Because maybe he was Willy.’
Nord Geoffrion blew out a gust of air. ‘He kills the guy having sex with his neighbor? Then tries to make us think the dead guy was him?’
‘Close. No cigar. The killer arrives. With, or separate from, the gang of thieves. That part remains to be figured out. The killer enters the wrong apartment, looking for Willy.’
‘Her apartment. Since he’s there anyway, he has sex.’
‘In her mind. Remember, Nord, no goop. That tells me the man was either a spirit, like she says, or there was no man. Or, a man who didn’t stay for sex.’
‘She just likes to say so.’
‘Or think so. Captain Delacroix mistook your son-in-law for a bad guy because that’s how he was inclined to interpret what he saw. Mistaken identity. Before we think too badly of him, bear in mind that I assumed the dead guy was the same person who lived in the apartment. You were smarter.’
‘Thanks. I guess.’
‘Another case of mistaken identity. Moira comes across a man in her bedroom. Maybe she really thinks he’s an apparition, or she thinks she has a new secret lover. Either way, mistaken identity. The killer, if that’s him, went into the wrong apartment. Easy to do in the dark from the rear of this building. He comes across the wrong person. A woman. Not a man. No chance of mistaken identity there. He leaves. He enters the correct apartment, and because he’s an assassin on a mission, he hides in the bedroom closet. When he didn’t find Willy, he waited for him to come home. What he didn’t know was that Willy – for now, a huge assumption – was onto him. Maybe he heard him enter his apartment so hid under the bed, or something similar. Maybe he knew he was coming. Maybe he saw him go into Moira’s place. That way, the killer is taken by surprise, totally, when Willy whips open the door and slams that huge butcher’s knife through his larynx.’
‘You know,’ Geoffrion pointed out, ‘we’re not supposed to be investigating this case. You might be solving it, but how will you pitch this to homicide?’
Cinq-Mars shook his head. ‘Worry about the case, not them. Willy has a dead guy in his closet. He removes the killer’s bloody clothes, stuffs them in a bag he’ll take away. Then dresses him in one of his own suits. It’s obvious it’ll be a decent fit. He even puts a pair of slippers on him. Socks are too much trouble. That’s why the dead guy has hardly any blood on his clothes, despite being stabbed in the neck. I bet when we read the autopsy report, we find out that he had blood on his body. That’ll confirm the theory. Blood on his body, not much on his clothes, yet he’s wearing clothes. How does that happen unless his clothes were removed while he was still dripping from the neck, and a new outfit – a new suit – was put on him? As though he was a mannequin. Next, Willy goes through his apartment removing any trace of his own identity – bills, photographs, his wallet, etcetera. It’s easy for him, he knows where to look. Then he takes a hike. Why? Because he wants this death to be a case of mistaken identity. He wants to be alive but to be considered dead.’
‘The killer’s dead,’ Nord said. ‘Long live the killer.’
Cinq-Mars looked at him.
‘Sorry. A little humor on the job.’
‘That’s all right,’ Cinq-Mars told him. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘We solved one murder today, maybe, now we have a new one. What’s next?’
‘We haven’t solved a thing. As for what’s next, we take your advice.’
‘Mine?’
‘Back when this was our case, you said I should talk to the landlord’s son. Let’s do that.’
‘Should we mention that it’s not our case?’
‘I wouldn’t. Not to anyone.’
‘Gotcha.’
Cinq-Mars believed he did.