Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Read online

  “Left or right?”

  “Sleep, now,” she heard Giorgio say.

  “Is the baby all right?”

  “She’s delirious,” she heard Rosa say. “She’s a midwife.”

  She didn’t listen to Giorgio. “The French don’t know what they’re talking about. I must go home. The kitten and the baby. Find Elena.” Was that her voice?

  “Do you listen to anyone?” That was Rosa’s unmistakable gravel.

  She tried levering herself up using her good elbow and became so dizzy she had to bend to the bowl again.

  “All last night’s good food wasted on a stubborn sleuth.”

  When she woke, a figure, dark but familiar, stood against the light from the window. Was it the shadowy man come to finish her off?

  He rubbed his lapel.

  She squinted up at him. “Good morning.”

  “Good evening, you mean. You’ve slept the whole day.”

  She opened one eye, her good hand visoring the crimson rays of the sun.

  “But the sun is ...”

  “Setting, I’m afraid. My wife sends you these from her garden.”

  “How lovely.” Serafina had never seen such beautiful flowers before, small and delicate stems, droopy, the petals like the ears of elves. A nun took them from his hand. She wore a habit the same color as the flowers. Folded wings covered her head. Serafina heard the click of beads and listened to her footsteps recede.

  She sank back into the pillow. “The hospitals have private rooms in Paris?”

  “Only for special patients,” Valois said. “The prefect arranged it. You were shot and we feared for your life. Two policemen have been assigned to guard you.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Rosa. I owe you an apology.”

  The madam smiled. “She’s difficult, sometimes I think not worth the trouble, but we’ve been friends too long to sever ties in Paris. One more trick like this, however ...”

  The inspector continued. “The pictures of the dead woman are still missing. I asked the photographer to make duplicates, but he can’t find the plates, so I suspect someone did not want you to see them, someone with a long and influential reach.”

  Serafina nodded slowly as if she understood everything he said and told him two men had been following her ever since she was commissioned by Elena’s father to find his daughter’s murderer.

  “We saw them in Oltramari and in Marseille and here in Paris.”

  “The same men?”

  Carmela nodded and told him about their encounters with the men in Marseille and Paris.

  The inspector was intrigued enough to write himself a note. “I took your two young men with me and we searched your friend’s apartment today.”

  “In Sicily, we need an order from the courts for that, not that we always stand on ceremony,” Serafina said.

  “Obviously,” Rosa said.

  “Here we follow the rules. We obtained a warrant to search the apartment. When your countess friend returns, if she’s still alive, she’ll find quite a mess, all the drawers in the apartment emptied, the clothes searched. It looked like she left in haste. The bed in one room was unmade.”

  Serafina told him about the maid from another apartment.

  “So you had quite a busy night.”

  “Are Elena’s clothes still there?”

  Valois shrugged. “Her wardrobe seemed barren for a woman of fashion. Just a few garments hanging in a closet in her bedroom. Heavy winter clothing, a cape, some heavy brocade evening gowns. But either the apartment’s manager or the Busacca family will have much to clean up, not the least of which is the amount of blood in one of the beds—”

  “The bed where the maid gave birth,” Serafina said.

  Valois smoothed his coat. “And your blood spilled all over an Aubusson carpet in the ladies’ parlor. You know how to leave tracks.”

  “And you’ve uncovered what?”

  “Nothing yet. Arcangelo and Teo are sifting through the papers.”

  “What about the kitten?”

  “For now, I’ve given him a home.”

  “The maid said she had an arrangement with Elena to take care of the kitten while she was gone,” Serafina said.

  “When was the last time she saw her? When did she say she’d return?” Rosa asked.

  “The maid was in labor,” Serafina said. “Hard to get straight answers.” A euphemism for she didn’t remember the maid’s answer. Last week, maybe. She’d expected to hear something else from Valois, a stiff scolding at least, and marveled at his transformation, at least in her mind. She told Rosa to go through the pockets of her dress and bring her the contents.

  “I’m afraid your dress is unusable, I think the hospital disposed of it.”

  Serafina tried to sit, but couldn’t manage it. “But I stuffed papers in the pocket, Elena’s little book filled with writing, perhaps a diary or journal, along with many addresses. It contained information about her friends, I think—I only glanced at a few of the pages. And I also found envelopes bearing an address in ... Arles, I believe. Loffredo would know. Her husband has information. If she’s alive, he shouldn’t languish in prison, surely.” She felt the madam’s pinch.

  “That hurt!”

  Rosa’s eyes dug into hers. “Valois and I are taking care of Loffredo. He’s the least of your worries.”

  A brother brought in some chairs. “Ten minutes more. She needs rest.”

  “She needs a good scolding,” Carmela said. “She’s messed up this investigation.”

  Valois took the brother aside and spoke to him.

  “What about Loffredo?” Serafina asked again. “Please. He may have information we need.”

  Rosa said something and Valois nodded, but the madam spoke so softly that she had trouble hearing.

  In a while Serafina awoke. Carmela and Rosa stood by the bed.

  “You’ve slept almost twenty-four hours.”

  Her tongue felt like sawdust. With help, she sat up and ate a bowl of soup, hot and delicious. She had to hand it to the French. Even their hospital cuisine was inventive. Her head reeled, but she kept the broth down and in a few minutes, felt much better.

  “Why did you pinch me?” Serafina asked.

  “You started mumbling about Loffredo and weren’t yourself. I was afraid you would say too much in front of Valois.”

  Serafina nodded.

  “I showed the café owner’s statement to Valois who had trouble believing him—you know how men are when they don’t do something themselves. But he did give me access to Loffredo. He’s in Prison de Mazas and I saw him two days ago and told him not to worry. He should be out soon. I told him you were up to your old tricks.” Rosa dried her eyes with a linen. “He sends you his love.”

  A nurse poked her head into the room, and in a moment reappeared with two doctors who jabbed around doing their doctorly thing and grunting in unintelligible French. In the end they told her she was “bon.”

  Giulia brought her a change of clothes, fresh undergarments and several silk blouses created in a strange design, but one she could wear over the bandages which held her back stiff and her left arm in place.

  “I’m leaving today?”

  “Yes, but you must agree to stay in the hotel. The care there will be much better. We’ve arranged for policemen to guard your room so you can’t go off on your own again. This evening Inspector Valois will return to the hotel and the investigation can resume.”

  “I can’t leave looking like this. Bad enough Valois saw me.”

  “And don’t forget the two magnificent looking men who guard your door,” Rosa said.

  “My hair is a snarled nightmare. I need someone to work miracles.”

  A nun came in wagging her cornette. She produced a scissors and waved it in the air. Menacing shadows crossed her face. “I’ll cut it all off, shall I? And lend you a headdress?”

  Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois

  The hospital retrieve
d the book and papers found in Serafina’s pockets, bloody but readable. They were written in the bitten-off Italian they spoke in Oltramari, she told him. She doubted that Valois’ translators would make sense of it, but she promised to share any useful information.

  Gesuzza rouged and powdered Serafina’s face and combed out her knots while Rosa threatened her if she made a fuss during the ordeal. When she looked in the glass, she saw a remarkable transformation, her complexion not quite so pale, her coiffure not exactly in the latest French style, but presentable, and she was released from the hospital, expressing her gratitude to the staff for their care. She arrived at the hotel in time to see the sun bathe Paris in crimson and gold.

  After the evening meal, waiters set up a large round table in Serafina’s suite. A chambermaid fluffed the pillows, lit the jets and lamps, and opened some of the windows leading out to the balcony. The staff seemed glad she had returned, sound and in good spirits.

  “Here I sit in Paris and I’m too ill or too busy to enjoy its magnificence.”

  “You sound like Nicchia,” Rosa said. “Your disposition is a horror when you’re well, even worse when you’re sick. No one feels sorry for you. You’ve brought this on yourself, so grow up.” The madam patted her black curls.

  Serafina smiled.

  “Who is Nicchia?” Teo asked.

  “The Countess of Castiglione, mistress to many, including Napoleon III. A beauty in her day, but she lost her looks by debauching herself all over Europe. Now she sits alone in her apartment off the Place Vendôme like spoiled fruit. She’s draped all the mirrors in black and admits no one except for photographers, of course.”

  Carmela played with a pencil. “Sounds like Elena. I wouldn’t be surprised if she arranged her own death.”

  “It fits,” Serafina said. She glared at Rosa. “She could have hired the shadows who follow us. She could have arranged for her reticule to be stolen and the woman shot.”

  “How does one arrange for a purse to be stolen?” Rosa asked.

  “I wouldn’t know for sure. The wealthy have their ways.”

  “Your fantasy runs away with you,” Rosa said.

  “Perhaps, but let’s not reject it out of hand.”

  “The most plausible explanation is that Elena was the woman in the Rue Cassette,” Rosa said.

  Serafina’s shoulder throbbed. “Not true. We have it from her latest lover’s lips—Elena was not the dead woman in the Rue Cassette.” She must keep an open mind, she told herself.

  “No, really. I know you’ve doubted her death from the beginning. Tell me why,” Rosa said, turning to face Serafina. “Truly. Let’s think it through to the end and slay this dragon.” The madam looked like a stuffed owl. “Is it that you don’t believe in the God of happy endings?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Or do you think she planned it? So here it is, Elena disappears by staging her death as a murder so that the main suspect is Loffredo, a coup de grâce to undo the fetters from her past and at the same time get rid of her husband to say nothing of squelching your love affair with him since he’ll either be guillotined or languish in prison.”

  Serafina’s shoulder had stopped its drumming. Teo’s face was red. Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves and Carmela hid a smile. Gesuzza looked down at her sewing and Tessa looked at them all, a thick blush on her cheeks.

  Rosa continued. “It’s balderdash, this theory of yours that Elena contrived her own death. If so, to what end? How long do you think she can stay away from the Paris she loves? And if the case comes to court, as eventually it must, the details of her sordid life will be aired in public to the delight of the press.”

  “You’ve got a point,” Carmela said.

  “And who helped her—the aging Sophie who can barely move? Her nephews?”

  Serafina shook her head. “Perhaps, but not Ricci.”

  “Because you fancy him?”

  “Nonsense!”

  The madam continued with her theory. “And as for Loffredo languishing in prison, we’re working on his release.”

  Arcangelo and Teo nodded.

  “So there goes part of your theory,” the madam persisted. “Face it, Elena’s dead. She was slumming—always a danger, even in the respectable part of Paris—and someone killed her.”

  “What’s slumming?” Teo asked.

  “I knew it,” Serafina said. “Explain yourself.”

  While Rosa talked, Serafina half listened. She didn’t have the strength to stop her. But she was beginning to get a sense of the real instigator. She was about to offer another explanation when a knock interrupted them.

  Valois entered, dapper as ever and with a sharpened glint in his eye. Probably had his ear to the door for the last five minutes.

  After they greeted him, Rosa pulled the cord and ordered more coffee and sweets.

  Serafina opened her notebook and began. “Let’s start with what we know.”

  Everyone was silent until Teo spoke. “Two men have been following Donna Fina ever since she met with Levi Busacca in Oltramari. They followed us to Marseille and they follow us in Paris. When we corner them, they tell us it’s for our own good—they protect us.”

  Valois wrote in his notebook. “They agreed to speak with you? How so?”

  They told Valois about the incident in front of the Gare-St. Charles in Marseille, describing the men’s appearance and speech.

  “This afternoon we talked to them on the Boulevard des Capucines,” Tessa said. “Again they refused to tell us why they follow us, only that it’s for our protection.”

  “What else do we know about them?” Serafina asked, her shoulder beginning to feel like the raw meat it was. Shooting stars appeared in her vision. She had refused all palliatives at the hospital, afraid of their addictive nature ever since Loffredo had explained the danger of opium and its derivatives to her.

  “I think I may have recognized one today. He works for the don in Oltramari.”

  Valois frowned, but said nothing.

  “They stole the photos from Inspector Valois and shot Donna Fina,” Arcangelo said.

  “Careful,” Valois said and shook his head. “We know photos and plates are missing. We don’t know who stole them. But there probably is a connection between the theft, the shooting of the woman in the Rue Cassette, and the shooting in Elena’s apartment, and these two men might be responsible. At least it’s worth questioning them.” He scribbled in his black book.

  Serafina listened, but made no comment.

  Valois continued. “We found a cartridge a few meters from the body on the Rue Cassette. A careful killer would have destroyed it, however we believe this killer was smart but inexperienced. He had enough cunning to place the gun in the slain woman’s hand, but not enough wit to know that she was right-handed and would not have attempted to shoot herself in the left temple with her left hand.”

  “But we can speculate that the thefts and shootings are connected,” Arcangelo said.

  “Precisely. Right now, we are dealing only with the knowns, but since you drew it to my attention, questioning these men is something I’ve added to my list,” Valois said, writing in his book. “Good work.”

  Serafina saw the satisfaction on Arcangelo’s face. Alphonse Valois had taken both young men under his wing. She nodded slowly to herself, wondering what had caused the inspector to change.

  Their meeting went on like this, labored, slow. Her body was stiff. Her temples throbbed, but she sat expressionless and still during the exercise, uncomplaining, writing in and consulting her notebook. She made a list of all the knowns surrounding the murder in the Rue Cassette. The murder itself, the attack in Elena’s apartment, being followed, and the theft of the photos and plates. More important, Serafina and Valois together would decide the course of action they’d take in order to solve the mystery of the woman’s death and bring whoever was responsible to justice.

  Once again they covered what they knew of the murder, autopsy, and burial.

>   “Is there a way to determine the dead woman’s identity, other than through exhumation?” Serafina said. Before Valois replied, Carmela asked, “Was the dead woman with child?” She explained the reason for her question.

  “The doctor said nothing to me about the condition of the body’s internal organs, but I have re-opened the case based on the attempt to kill Madame Florio two nights ago.”

  “Why did her friends say she was pregnant?” Rosa asked.

  “Elena told her so.”

  “Could be Elena’s fantasy, nothing more.”

  Serafina said nothing.

  “We know the woman, given to fabrication.”

  Valois seemed uncomfortable. “If and when I feel it necessary to request an order of exhumation, I will tell you.”

  “But we’d like to work with you,” Serafina said.

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  She doubted it. “I know you think we’re a nuisance.”

  Valois stroked his lapel. “Not at all. But we’re not finished with the knowns, are we?”

  “Almost finished. Just the attack in Elena’s apartment the other night. We’ve covered the theft of the photographs and plates.”

  There was a knock on the door and waiters brought two carts, one with tea and coffee, the other with a tray of profiteroles, a silver bowl of lemon sorbet, individual apple tarts, marron glacé, and gateau chocolat, and a bowl of crème fraîche.

  Rosa served while Serafina talked. “I’ll have the marron glacé with crème fraîche, a profiterole, and a latté, please.”

  “Feeling better?”

  Serafina nodded.

  “Someone summarize the attack?” Valois asked.

  “I was shot two nights ago in Elena’s apartment. Approximate time, eleven-thirty. It was dark, one or two gas jets on low. I had taken an address book and some envelopes from the middle drawer of the desk in the ladies’ parlor. The bullet, lodged in my trapezius, was recovered during the operation.”

  Arcangelo handed Tessa a tart and smiled. He took three profiteroles for himself. Teo chose some of everything, and Carmela declined dessert, but accepted a latté.

  Valois held up a piece of metal. “The surgeon gave me this bullet from Madame Florio’s shoulder. Please observe, it is similar to the one found in the dead woman’s mouth.”