TWELVE

I left the countess and walked back to the pont Saint-Michel. Across the river I could see the gray stone of the Prefecture of Police. That was where Inspector Guillaume had taken Honoré Palmer and I knew I could not return to the Palmers’ house without finding out what had become of their son. I sighed. The pleasant part of the day, when I could act as a tourist, was over.

I owed it to the family who had been so good to my own, to find out what I could. It just seemed that Bertha Palmer had impossibly high expectations that I would be able to gain the confidence of the Parisian policeman. I doubted that very much. To him, I must appear to be a mere secretary to a wealthy American woman. I had no history with him, as I did with Inspector Whitbread back in Chicago. That was an entirely different situation. Whitbread knew me. We had shared experiences that had challenged us and we knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It was true that, if we were in Chicago, I could have gone to Whitbread, and he would have found a way to include me in the investigation. He was, in many ways, my mentor. And I had always felt, with him, that the fact that I was a woman was a good thing. Theoretically, he saw no reason for that to be an obstacle to my understanding of the techniques of investigation and, practically, he considered the thought that women were not expected to understand such things a challenge he was sure he could overcome. It was an attitude unique to my old friend and not one I could expect to be shared by a different policeman in a foreign country. Yet, both Bertha and my husband thought I could somehow solve the mystery of the jewel thefts.

I forged ahead, overcoming a natural trepidation. After all, since when had I ever let that stop me? Surely my husband and my mentor would both be disappointed if I failed to at least try. I trudged across the bridge to the large gloomy building that was the Prefecture of Police, determined to find Inspector Guillaume. Before I entered, I looked down the cobblestones of the old boulevard. Across the way was the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette had been kept before being led out to the guillotine. What a contrast that was to the Paris I was experiencing. Paris was about strolling by booksellers and sipping coffee in cafés, while the world passed in front of you, yet it was also the city where the mob had set up the guillotine and publically executed hundreds of the aristocrats of the time. I shook my head and walked firmly through the doorway.

With my lack of French and my unorthodox request, it took more than an hour to reach my goal. I was shuffled around to various waiting rooms, including one with hard benches where several bareheaded young women gave me angry stares, and another filled with ordinary people with worried looks on their faces. At last I followed a uniformed young policeman up some stairs to a small corner office where I found Inspector Guillaume.

He looked bemused as he sat me down in a chair opposite him, across a desk of scattered papers. There were framed charts of various criminal statistics on the walls, above bookcases filled with volumes similar to those in Whitbread’s office but, of course, these were in French. On the corner of the broad wooden desk, which filled up most of the room, was a small red guillotine. I learned later that it was really used to cut the ends off cigars, but it seemed a most ominous sign at the time. It was meant to be. Apparently the inspector would handle it during an interrogation to delicately remind suspects of the consequences that were in the balance. I suppressed a shiver.

But he was calm and pleasant with me, as he had been before. His deep brown eyes considered me thoughtfully. He was such a large man that he was by no means overwhelmed by the proportions of his desk. But it all felt very foreign. Of course, it was foreign. I was in the Prefecture of Police in Paris, France. Somehow the realization of that made me homesick for Detective Whitbread’s office, with its window opening onto a brick wall and his poster listing maxims for life, such as “Don’t wait to do tomorrow what you can accomplish today.” I bit my lip to remind myself of where I was.

“And what can I do for you, Mme Chapman?” This reminded me of the poem I’d heard about the spider and the fly, although Guillaume was much too substantial to in any way resemble a spider.

“I wanted to find out how your interview with Mr. Honoré Palmer was concluded. He did not return to us at Notre Dame.”

“And you must go back to the very impressive Mrs. Palmer and let her know what happened to her son?” Before I could respond he raised a hand. “Do not bother yourself, madame. The young man answered my questions and then he was rescued from my clutches by the amiable English lord.”

“Lord James?” I was relieved to hear this. I had some idea that the French justice system would allow them to hold a man without actually charging him.

“Yes, the Lord James. He began by demanding to see me but he became quite friendly when he was allowed to join us. He agreed with M. Palmer that they saw nothing of use and that they left the ball before the theft was discovered. The English lord attempted to suggest that the sapphire might have been misplaced, as the pearls of Mme Palmer were supposed to have been misplaced, but, alas, that is not the case. The star sapphire was most definitely stolen.”

“You are sure?”

“Very sure. A most thorough search was made of the house, and all of the guests and staff who remained were searched. Most discreetly, you understand. Every person who was present has been interviewed and the premises were searched multiple times. It is unclear who is the thief and how they got the stone out, but it was most certainly stolen.”

Guillaume and his men must have been up all night to accomplish such a conclusive search. But my main concern was Honoré. “So, Mr. Palmer was allowed to return home?”

“But of course.” He leaned towards me. “Surely you did not think that we would detain the young man? That is perhaps what your police in Chicago would do?”

“No, no, of course not.” But that was the concern that had compelled me to find out what happened to Honoré before returning to his parents.

“You must report back to your employer, no? She was very worried about her son this morning. Is it because, with a mother’s feeling, she senses something is wrong with her son? Has he gotten drawn in by bad companions? A bad crowd, perhaps?”

“I don’t believe so.” He was right, however. Bertha had been overly concerned about her son.

“He is a young man in Paris. Perhaps he stays out too late at night? He goes to the races? He gambles?”

“Well, of course, he does those things. But, so does his father. Mr. Potter Palmer is quite fond of the races. My husband goes with him. He is rather frail, as Mrs. Palmer said, and my husband is a medical doctor. But I suspect he wagers a lot more money than his son does.”

“Hmm. But perhaps he also has a lot more money at his disposal?”

“He’s a very wealthy man, yes.”

“You think it unlikely that the young Mr. Palmer might have taken his mother’s pearls, or Mlle Worth’s sapphire?”

I was surprised he seemed so interested in my opinion. It was flattering, but I was wary. This policeman was very different from any other I had met. He was nothing like Detective Whitbread, who was one of the most forthright people I have ever known. Guillaume looked large, but not threatening, as he sat across from me, considering me with a quizzical smile. “No, I don’t believe Honoré would steal,” I told him.

“I see. And what about the young ladies who were at Notre Dame today? They were also at the reception, were they not? The young M. Palmer is gallant. Perhaps he would help the young ladies, if they were in difficulties.”

“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that he would steal jewels for them if they needed money? Is that what you think? But these young women have no ‘difficulties’ as you say. Miss Lydia Johnstone has enough money that her mother wants to marry her off to an aristocrat. And, besides, Honoré is not interested in the young Americans. If anything, he’d be interested in Miss Sonya Zugenev, the daughter of Countess Olga, and she has no need of jewels.”

“Ah, yes, the American comes over with the intention to buy a title. You believe this is true for M. Palmer?”

“Well, I don’t know. His mother thought it would be nice if the young people met and liked each other.” I waved my hand a little helplessly. This sort of matchmaking was not something I wanted to be involved with. And, yet, I was also a mother. How could I know how I would feel about it when my children were Honoré’s age? I couldn’t even imagine it. I pulled myself back from such speculation as from the edge of a cliff. I needed to make the inspector turn his suspicions away from Bertha and her family. They could have no reason to steal. The idea was absurd.

“Really, Inspector, isn’t it more likely that someone on the staff at the House of Worth is the thief? All these young people…they don’t need jewels.”

“And yet, the young people who followed the Pied Piper before, they also seemed to have no need.”

I stared at him as he let that hang in the air. Finally, he looked away. “You must not think that we ignore the staff of the House of Worth. I can assure you that we are keeping a close watch on them. It is something you can convey to Mme Palmer.” He folded his hands on the desk. “M. Worth prepares for the opening of his exhibit tomorrow night. You and the Palmers will attend?”

“Of course.” Bertha had succeeded at the last minute and the long awaited exhibit of the House of Worth would have a more prominent place in the Palais des Fils, Tissus et Vêtements. A reception to unveil the exhibit was planned for the next evening.