CHAPTER 8

 

 

The others were standing up, preparing to go. “We’re going to stay with M’sieur Armand and Hélène,” Amy told me.

“Fine,” I said. “Thank you, m’sieur.”

He nodded, and Hélène told Amy, “You know where we are. We have things to attend to. We will see you at the house later.”

“You’re very kind.” Amy was on the brink of tears, but Hélène brushed off the thanks impatiently. “You should have called us.”

They went back to their car, and I led Amy over to ours. I glanced up at Madame Boulanger’s window. She was at her post.

Constance’s old car was missing when we went back to La Fongeline, so Amy wrote her a quick note explaining what had happened. It covered two pages, so it must have gone into a fair amount of detail, but it was her concern. I left the book Constance had lent me on the bed and put the bags into the car, looking over my shoulder the whole time. I didn’t say a lot to Amy. I wanted to know all about Orsini and try to get to the bottom of what was happening, but that would have to wait. For now, it seemed, nobody was after her.

The Armands were staying in a château located in one of their vineyards. It was a second residence, Amy told me briefly. They lived in Paris most of the time, where the senior Armand had his offices, dealing with wines from all of the regions of France. But he had started out here, in his ancestral home, and still kept an apartment in the château, which was also occupied by the factor of the estate.

Set among vineyards, it was a handsome late-nineteenth- century brick building with a half acre of lawn and old oak trees around it. The resident family lived in an apartment on the ground floor, leaving the major rooms free for the owners, Amy had told me. They had made themselves at home, it seemed. There was a clutter of young children playing around the house, swinging on a rope hanging from an oak limb, laughing and calling out like kids anywhere.

Madame came to the door when Amy knocked and insisted on helping us in with the bags. She was a round-faced, happy woman, as close to plain as any Frenchwoman ever gets but pert and cheerful.

She was not sure of our domestic setup, and so she put all the bags in the bigger spare bedroom. Amy was subdued and didn’t argue, but we didn’t do any unpacking. Instead, we accepted her invitation to coffee on the terrace and went down to sit and and watch the children playing and wait for the Armands to arrive.

Forcing herself to make conversation, Amy asked, “What do you think of Hélène?”

“Sensational,” I said. “I’ve worked for movie stars that can’t hold a candle to her.” I was watching Amy, trying to read her emotions. She had seen more violence in the last twenty-four hours than had happened in her whole life, and here she was chatting like a cocktail-party guest. Either she had no heart, or she was hanging on to her sanity by her fingertips.

“Don’t lose your heart over Hélène.” She said it lightly, but it came out almost bitchy.

I grinned agreeably. “I leave my heart at home when I’m working.” My glands travel with me, but I didn’t tell her that.

“Very professional,” she said. And then the Bentley rolled in, and we got up to meet our hosts.

Hélène soon set the domestic arrangements straight. Amy stayed along the hall from her on the second floor. I was moved up to the third. I said nothing, but the arrangement didn’t please me. I hadn’t seen any security arrangements around the house. There was a dog, but it was a children’s pet, small and silent. A professional could get into the house and murder Amy, or even abduct her, without anybody’s knowing. I would have to make changes.

We were invited to share a late lunch with the Armands. Amy and I sat and sipped wine while the other two picked at their food. Nobody said much, and afterward Armand went to his room. The women sat and talked, soon lapsing into French, a clear signal that I wasn’t welcome.

I took the hint and excused myself and went outside to check the lay of the land.

It was a typical Provençal summer day, sunny, the temperature in the high eighties. The heat had slowed down even the kids, and they were sitting in the shade of a tree having a serious-seeming conversation. I walked all around the house. The garage was at the back, and I found the chauffeur washing the car, unnecessarily, moving slowly, filling time. He smiled when I spoke to him but made no attempt to answer, so I didn’t push it but walked on. The only useful thing I noticed was that the roof of the garage, formerly the stables by the look of it, reached to the second floor of the main house, giving access to a window. I rechecked the map of the interior in my mind and saw that the window must be in Amy’s room.

She and Hélène were still talking when I returned. They looked up when I came in. Hélène spoke first. “Yes?”

Regal women leave me cold. I was once dumb enough to fall for the daughter of an earl, the sister of a fellow officer in the Guards. It ended when she broke her claws trying to make me feel small. “Excuse me,” I said, and spoke to Amy. “Your room has a roof outside, right?”

“I think so.” Canadian women don’t have the knack of superiority. They’re still busy trying to prove they’re equal.

“I don’t like it. Any guy who isn’t in a wheelchair could be over that roof and into your room like a shot.”

Hélène spoke first; I would have bet on that. “My friend is in the guest room,” she said.

I ignored her. “If you’re staying there, I’d suggest you leave the door unlocked, and I’ll sleep in the corridor.”

Hélène was about to speak, but Amy beat her to it. “You think someone will follow us here?”

“If they’re after you, yes. You’re gift-wrapped and waiting if you sleep in that bedroom.”

Hélène picked up the bell she’d used to call Madame during lunch and spoke to Amy in French. I made out the word lit, bed.

“No,” I said firmly. “Thank you, anyway. Don’t tell Madame. She doesn’t need to know, and I don’t want a bed.”

Hélène stretched her elegant cheeks in a mocking smile. “You are hoping to use someone else’s?”

I looked at her and sighed. She flushed; I’d trumped her ace.

Amy said. “You think someone would climb over the roof to reach me?”

“Somebody is serious enough to have killed Pierre. Until the gendarmes catch whoever it is, you’re in danger.”

Hélène said, “Not while you stay here, Amy. Papa will have men patrol the grounds at night.”

“I can’t just hide like this,” Amy burst out. “I came here to do a job.”

I answered that one. “It will wait a few days or weeks. You heard what the captain said. You can’t go back to questioning people. If anything goes sour, he’ll lock you up.”

Amy stood up angrily. “I’m going to rest,” she said. “I’ll be in my room, Hélène, if you’ll excuse me.”

Hélène only nodded. I stood aside to let Amy pass, and then Hélène spoke. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

Nobody would attempt to go over the roof in daylight, I was off duty for an hour, so I nodded. “Thank you.”

She poured us both a glass and handed mine to me.

I raised it to her. “A votre santé.”

“Well done,” she said mockingly. “And to your health.”

It was time to get her support. Amy was still at risk, I was certain of it. If I was thrown out of the house for being unreasonable, it would mean sneaking about the grounds all day instead of staying close to Amy. I had to play nice. “I am very sad about your brother. I met him only once, but he was a good, gentle man.”

“Gentle, yes.” She sipped her wine and sat with her right elbow cradled in her left hand, looking into the glass. It was as formal as an art deco sculpture.

“Not good?” I made the question gentle.

“If good is the absence of positive evil, then yes, he was good.”

“I seem to have disturbed something. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t clear whether or not she was flirting. If she was, I figured it was only because she didn’t have a good book with her.

“He was wasting his life with his silly writing.” She was angry now, controlled but venting steam like an overstressed boiler.

“I thought he was a scholar.”

“So did he.” She set down her wineglass. “He should have been working with Papa.”

“But now you do that instead of Pierre.” Amy had given me that much on the ride over. And she was probably excellent at business. She was cool and brisk, and very few men would have had the heart to haggle with her. Just one million-watt flash of her smile and they would cheerfully pay through their noses for the family’s plonk.

“This is boring you,” she said.

“On the contrary. I’ve been parachuted into the middle of a mystery. Anything I can learn is likely to help me.”

“How?” A fair question, but she used it like an ax, swinging it with real weight.

“His death was no doubt connected with the fact that someone tried to abduct Amy yesterday. Find his killer and we find out what’s happening.”

“I’ll tell you what’s happening,” she said suddenly. “Someone is declaring war.”

“On whom?” Well done. An educated woman like Hélène would appreciate the “m.”

She shrugged and picked up her wine again, not posing, just gripping it as if it were her only connection to sanity. She was angry, I saw, and frightened, but she was not grieving. A very cold fish. “Perhaps my father.”

“You mean some business competitor? Surely they wouldn’t get around to murder? Especially of Pierre. You say he wasn’t connected to the business.”

“He is, was”—she shook her head impatiently—”the most important person in my father’s life. Since my mother died last year.”

“It still doesn’t make sense. If someone wanted to pressure your father, they would have threatened Pierre, they wouldn’t have killed him. That throws away their advantage.”

“Logically, yes.” She sipped her wine and set the glass down. We might have been discussing a soccer game, for all the emotion she was showing. “But my father is weak. His heart. This will crush him. It could even kill him.”

“And then who takes over? Are you a public company?”

“No. We are a family concern.” She pointed at her left breast with her right index finger. The nail was a perfect filbert shape and a quarter inch longer than her fingertip. The breast was world-class. “When Papa goes, we becomes me.

“But where does Amy fit into this? Why was someone trying to drag her into a car with Marseilles plates?”

“Did nobody tell you?” She smiled again. My not trying to impress her was impressing her. I figured she planned to win my heart and then gleefully jump up and down on it in high heels.

“I was hired to protect her from a man called Orsini.” I said. “But from what I heard today from Captain Labrosse, that’s a crock.”

“What did he tell you?” She snapped out the question.

“It’s confidential.”

“Then why did you suggest something?” She was sneering now. If the carrot of her smile wouldn’t work, she’d try the stick.

“Because somebody is after her. Somebody who was angry enough at missing her to kill your brother for his part in her rescue. I thought perhaps you knew something that might help me do my job.”

“The gendarmes will find these people.” She sipped her wine and then rummaged in her purse for cigarettes. I made no attempt to light up for her. The rough-hewn caper was working.

“It may take them months. In the meantime, I think she’s in danger. Have you any idea why?”

“No,” she said. She blew out the match and dropped it in the ashtray. “But I know what you are speaking of. I was with Amy when she met Orsini.”

“Were you?” I shook my head. “If I may make a personal comment, ma’amselle, I find it hard to believe that he would have approached Amy with you at the same table.”

“Explain yourself,” she snapped, but I could see she had got my drift. She wanted to hear the compliment in full, that was all.

“Amy is attractive; you are beautiful. Unless this man had some kind of hidden agenda, something to do with Amy’s being North American, I fail to understand his action.” There, lady, what do you say to that?

She milked it. “Are you paying me a compliment, Mr. Locke?” she asked almost coquettishly.

“Just imagine I’m giving evidence,” I said. “The facts, ma’am, just the facts.”

“He approached our table,” she said. “When I did not reply to him and Amy did, he concentrated his attentions upon her.”

“The girls all get beautiful at closing time.” I grinned. “And then what? You said good night to Amy and left her drinking wine and talking about the good old days with Signor Orsini?”

“You do not find her beautiful?”

“I’m working for her, or for her uncle. I don’t mix business and personal feelings.” It sounded good even though it wasn’t true. And there’s a big chunk of business sense in getting close to the woman you’re guarding. You can spend your nights outside her door with one ear open or inside her room, where you’re at hand if anything occurs. I’m all business, really.

“I think you have spent too much time with the English,” she said, smiling as shyly as Lady Di. “Your blood has become cold.”

“It’s as red as ever. I have a job to do, that’s all.” This was a lot more fun than sitting upstairs reading a book, waiting for Amy to come out of her room and make herself a target again.

“Does she know what this gendarme told you?” She nudged me back on track.

“Not yet. I plan to discuss it with her to see if she can explain who might be threatening her in all this.”

“And how will you pass the time until you have an opportunity to talk to her?” The invitation floated across the table as tangible as a visiting card.

“I have to stay in the house, but I’m open to suggestions.”

She stood up, crushing her cigarette on her plate, ignoring the ashtray. “Come with me,” she said harshly.

She led the way upstairs, pausing at the top to turn and put her finger to her lips. I inclined my head and followed, walking softly, my excitement rising with every step.

She stopped at Amy’s room, tapped at the door, and then opened it and slipped inside, pushing the door shut behind her. She was out a minute later and closed the door carefully, nodding her head along the corridor. I followed, and she opened the door of her own room and turned to beckon me.

I went in after her and closed the door, noticing that the wall was almost a foot thick. Even though Daddy was next door, he wouldn’t hear anything unless we started yelling at one another.

The room was huge and sported a business-sized bed. She stood by it and turned to face me, smiling now. I wasn’t sure if this was a spider-and-fly party. She had me in her web now. She could holler “Rape” and have me arrested if she wanted to. No French cop would believe I’d been invited in. I stood there, looking at her, frankly admiring her beauty but not moving in.

“You are frightened, perhaps?” she asked, smiling.

“Not frightened. It’s just that I’m a little too old to believe in Santa Claus.”

“Perhaps you will change your mind,” she said, and came over to me. I stood while she slid her arms around my neck and kissed me, softly, a very practiced kiss. At that point my hormones took over from my conscience, and I responded, moving slowly, one arm around her waist, the other caressing the nape of her neck. She sighed and then gently stood away from me and undressed, slowly, teasingly, like someone opening an expensive present.

First she unbuttoned the jacket of her suit, dropping it casually behind her. Under it she had a cream satin blouse, which she unbuttoned carefully, from the top, then the cuffs, then wriggling if off her shoulders so it shucked like the skin of some white snake. She was wearing a brassiere with fine lace across the top of her breasts. I was ungentlemanly enough to notice that the opaque bottom half seemed to have some kind of bone in it to take the strain.

Now she reached around herself and unzipped her skirt, pushing it down over her hips so that it and her slip slid down with a faint swish of fine fabrics rubbing together. She was wearing cream-colored flare-legged panties over an honest-to-god garter belt with white stockings, something you only ever see on the Benny Hill TV show. The effect was heart-stopping. Lord, she’d even left her high heels on.

I managed to avoid saying, “Wow,” but only because I put my arms around her and kissed her again, concentrating first on the kiss and then on unsnapping the brassiere. It came away, and I bent my head and kissed her breasts, tugging at her nipples with my lips until she groaned and started unfastening my belt impatiently.

She was like the survivor of some disaster, reassuring herself that she was alive. I tried manfully to pace us, but she dragged me backward onto the bed, and we came together in a frenzy.

Afterward I expected her to pull away, disgusted with herself and therefore with me. It had all been too precipitate, grief for her dead brother, anger, I wasn’t sure what, except that I don’t ever think of myself as God’s gift, especially to a woman as beautiful as this. But she didn’t. She clung to me, not fiercely, as if she were afraid I’d get up and drop a couple of hundred francs on the mantelpiece, but as if we were longtime lovers with an architecture to our relationship. I kissed her again, and soon we made love a second time, more slowly, savoring one another, giving as well as taking.

After that she slept, and I lay wondering what had triggered the explosion. Had it really happened because I’d been cool? Or was she like so many beautiful women, so intimidating to men that they get far fewer advances than they should because guys just figure they wouldn’t stand a chance, so why get their egos damaged? It was a mystery, but I didn’t care if I ever solved it.

In the end I got up. She moaned in her sleep but did not wake up, so I got dressed and sat across the room from her, marveling at her looks. I’m not a scorekeeper. Making love to a woman doesn’t diminish her in my eyes. She was just as beautiful as she had been an hour ago, but I couldn’t help wondering what her reaction was going to be when she was vertical again.

As I sat there, I heard a car crunching over the gravel. I looked out through the jalousies and saw a big black Daimler pull up in front. It got me moving. I went over to the bed and woke her, speaking softly.

She stirred and then sat up, startled. “What is it?”

“A car just arrived. It looks like it could have an executive in it. That probably means someone will come and wake your father. I should go.”

She was very French. “D’accord,” she said, and gave me a brisk kiss on the lips.

I winked at her and left, checking the corridor to make sure Papa wasn’t prowling. He wasn’t, so I went up to my bedroom and retrieved the book I’d brought with me from home, Bruce Catton’s Stillness at Appomattox. Then I came back down to the second floor and sat on the top step with the open book on my knees. I’m a big fan of General Lee’s, and now, all languid from my time with Hélène, I was prepared to sit there all afternoon if I had to, reliving his triumphs and final disappointment. But I didn’t get the chance. Madame came up the stairs from below, cocking her head inquisitively when she saw me. “J’attends Ma’amselle Roger,” I said.

That triggered a burst of French that I had to ask her to repeat. This time she tried her very creaky English. “Ma’amselle ’as a visitor. M’sieur Orsini.”