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

  “Shot from the same gun?” Teo asked. His mouth was ringed with chocolate cake and crème fraîche.

  Valois shook his head, taking the last bite of sorbet and swallowing his tea. “Our expert in firearms compared the two. He said they came from the same type of gun, perhaps from a matched pair although he couldn’t say for sure, just that the markings on the two bullets are similar and definitely from the same model, a Remington 95. It’s a Derringer double-barreled pistol, small enough to be concealed in a man’s pocket. Might I try the gateau?” he asked.

  “Or in a woman’s purse,” Rosa said, cutting a piece of cake for the inspector.

  Serafina felt privileged to be working with the French. They were experts in ballistic investigation going back to the beginning of the century

  “That reminds me,” she said, turning to Valois, “I didn’t tell you about my visit to the Rue Cassette late Wednesday afternoon.” She told him about meeting the policeman who found the dead woman. “And I spent an hour interviewing Elena’s latest lover, Étienne Gaston.” She gave Valois his address and related Étienne’s account of the evening he and Elena spent together after the opening April 15, telling Valois that Gaston saw the dead woman in the street shortly after she was shot and claimed she had a much smaller frame than Elena. “He said it most certainly was not Elena.”

  “Here we go again,” Rosa said. “Tell him about the revolver.”

  “Revolver?”

  “Forgotten that part, have we? No matter, I remember.” And Rosa told Valois about the French revolver missing from Gaston’s apartment.

  All this talk of murder and Serafina thought too late of Teo. He was red-faced and looking down, although he too was making notes. Serafina reached over and touched his hand, remembering the tragedy surrounding his parents.

  “It was long ago.” He managed a smile, and took another forkful of cake. But Serafina knew better. Once it happened, sudden devastation never quit the soul, not for long.

  The inspector took a bite of cake. “During our initial investigation, we found blood on a carpet in the ladies’ parlor, a few clothes in Elena’s bedroom closet, no sign that the apartment had been used recently, except for one bedroom, and you’ve explained about helping the maid give birth. Daily newspapers from April 16 to the present were found in the hall, unread. But so far, we haven’t been able to find the cartridge in Elena Busacca’s apartment. It would help us to identify the exact gun, should it be recovered.”

  “Don’t forget the kitten,” Serafina said.

  Rosa sent Serafina a look. “The presence of the kitten suggests she did not feign her death, as some would have us believe, but was murdered.”

  Serafina looked at Rosa. “According to Mimette, she expected to be gone for a while.”

  “Where is the kitten?” Arcangelo asked.

  “In a good home,” Valois said. “For now.”

  “And now to what we must do,” Serafina said. “If we put our heads together, we’ll discover who killed the woman in the Rue Cassette, who attacked me, who are the men who follow us and why, and I think we will discover who stole the photographs and the plates.”

  Valois finished his cake and tea. He opened his mouth to speak, but Serafina broke in.

  “First things first. I’m sorry, but considerable doubt has been raised about the identity of the dead woman, and I think it no longer necessary to hold Elena’s husband for questioning. Do you agree, inspector—especially in light of the new statement by the café owner?”

  There was silence. Serafina could feel Rosa’s disapproval. She heard traffic outside, a spurt of laughter from the square below.

  Valois narrowed his eyes. “We’ve charged him with murder. He denies it of course, but has no alibi on the night Elena was murdered. Of course he claims he was in his room alone, but there is no one, not even the concierge, who can verify his story.”

  “What about Gaston, Elena’s lover? By admission, he was at the murder scene. Couldn’t he have been the one the café owner saw with Elena? He, too, fits the description of a tall and angular man, and he claims that his revolver is missing. Could it be similar to the one the killer used? And why haven’t you taken him in for questioning?” She knew about French questioning, brutal and cunning. They were at an impasse unless she could be more convincing. She looked at Rosa who was frowning at her.

  “Valois and I discussed this,” Rosa said. “Leave it to us, please.”

  “He’s a foreign national. I’m afraid if we release him, he will flee.”

  “We know him personally,” Carmela said, staring pointedly at Serafina. “He would never murder his wife.”

  Serafina could have hugged her daughter. She knew how much Carmela disliked Loffredo. Instead, she said, “In addition the count is a medical examiner, used to investigations. I’ve worked with him in Oltramari and can vouch for his expertise. And don’t forget,” why hadn’t she thought of this before, “he has intimate knowledge of his wife, Elena, and will be able to give us details about her person which only he can identify. If the body is exhumed, he must be present.”

  Valois shook his head. “We’re not ready to request the order of exhumation.”

  Rosa looked like an eagle about to swallow a canary. “I think the Italian ambassador might question why you don’t release one of his citizens. He is a gentleman in good standing, well respected in his community, and a count at that. Holding him for over a week on no evidence but the word of a barkeep who now claims he’s not sure that he saw him in his café seems flimsy at best. Help us to keep this investigation in this room, Inspector.”

  The color washed from Valois’ cheeks. But to his credit, he smiled and it spread to the rest of his face, creasing his cheeks and the skin around his eyes. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about.”

  “What would happen if you released him now? You’d have no suspect in custody. Are you afraid of looking foolish?”

  The color which vanished from Valois’ face now returned in fury. “If I am to release our only suspect, I must have more information to feed to the press.”

  Valois’ reluctance to act was maddening, although Serafina understood why. The inspector was caught between what he should do and what his superiors expected of him. If he released Loffredo without taking another person into custody, he would look weak, even more so if he were importuned by the Italian ambassador to release one of its citizens. And he was hesitant to question Gaston, even though he was a more likely suspect than Loffredo, because he was a prominent French citizen.

  Valois got up and looked out the window, a sure sign that he was thinking about Serafina’s arguments.

  “You make a valid point. I’ll talk to him. He is a respected scholar, you know.”

  There, at least he’d admitted why they were treating Gaston with such deference.

  “Let’s get back to what we must do, find the man who shot you and take him in for questioning.”

  “You mean, find the men who attacked me. It sounded like there was more than one.”

  “And we must find out as much about the other men, the ones who follow you.”

  “You mean, take them in for questioning?”

  He nodded. “Arcangelo and Teo can help us locate these men; Carmela and Tessa can help with Elena’s apartment. I’d like them to make a list of all articles of clothing and see if we cannot find more documents hidden somewhere in her apartment.”

  “We still need to search for more of Elena’s friends, especially those in the art world,” Carmela said. “Tessa and I should go to Café Guerbois. We’ve been told that many painters gather there, especially on Sundays and Thursdays.”

  “And I need to read the documents we’ve gotten from Elena’s apartment,” Serafina said.

  “As for the men who follow you,” Valois said, “I have a plan, and disguises for my two friends here.”

  “And Rosa and I would like to question Dr. Mélange about his autopsy of the dead woman,” Serafina said. “I’ll
need a letter of introduction.”

  * * *

  Carmela, Tessa, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Rosa’s room listening to Carmela as she read Elena’s address book. It contained more than addresses of her friends, but he book was a jumble. At best, it was an index into the character and mind of the woman that Serafina sought to understand. For example, an address would be partially written, punctuated by two or three quick words meant to indicate the character of the friend. But like a boomerang, the jots became indications not so much of the friend as they were of Elena herself and her disjointed mind.

  “While Valois works with Arcangelo and Teo, we’ll split up and talk to as many of her friends as possible. Since Tessa speaks the language of artists—”

  “What do you mean, speaks their language?” Rosa asked. “She is an artist. It’s the dream she was born with. Remember, she was born with a caul covering the tender spot on her head. She’ll see visions, isn’t that what artists do?”

  “They capture the truth of what things really are so that others may see,” Carmela said.

  Serafina had forgotten about the caul. She took two pieces of the hotel’s stationery, one for Carmela, the other for herself. Turning to her daughter, she said, “We’ll make two lists. You and Tessa will interview painters and the like. Go to their studios if possible. Rosa and I will concentrate on the others.”

  Carmela grabbed the book from Serafina. “You and your lists. But how will we know which ones are artists, which are not, and where to find them? The book has some addresses, but there’s no order to it. Most of these scribbles are notes to herself. Some of the comments I understand, but much of the information is abbreviated, intelligible only to Elena herself. This page, for instance: ‘Renoir, studio No. 2, B. Mich, near St. G ...’ and nothing more. Then ‘Mallarmé, Rue de R,’ on the same line with ‘Tarnier, April 18, La M.’ Or this one, ‘M. Misère, blanch.’ And here, ‘Degas, Rue Canard.’

  Tessa told her that she’d recognized the names, Degas and Renoir as two of the artists whose paintings were hanging in the show they’d seen two days ago. Carmela picked up her map and tried to find Rue Canard, but could not. “The word Canard must stand for something else, Elena’s pet name for a street or a district in Paris. The book is useless!” She tossed it on the bed.

  “I have an idea,” Tessa said. “We have an invitation to visit Victorine Meurent’s studio. We’ll start there. Victorine knows Elena. Perhaps she knows the names and addresses of other artists who also know Elena. Or we can go back to the exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. Perhaps Berthe Morisot will be there, and we can get a list of Elena’s friends from her.”

  Carmela agreed. “Perfect. Something I should have done on our first visit. She’ll help us, I’m sure.”

  Having decided the book was of no further use, the three retired to their separate rooms.

  Serafina, however, was not yet ready to toss the book aside, telling herself she’d get up early the next morning and study it some more. After the chambermaid helped her into bed, she slept for a few hours, but was awakened by singing and laughter, a rowdy party down the hall or on the floor above or below, most likely. She had to lie flat on her back, unmoving, and that made sleep impossible. She rose and spent the next few hours combing through Elena’s book, scrabbling through the pages, trying to understand the woman’s notes. Her forehead was tight, her vision strained, and something she’d eaten was playing havoc with her stomach, but still she looked at the book, then at the wall as if mesmerized. There was something she was missing, something in the book that disturbed a memory long forgotten, some words that held the key, she was sure. She dozed.

  In an hour or so she awoke and started reading the address book again from the beginning, opening the pages slowly, scanning with a finger down the page, stopping at cryptic comments. Nothing jumped into her mind except bright spots swimming before her eyes. Maddening, like a door opening a crack but not enough to pass through. Perhaps it was the chimera created by wishing it were so. Nothing looked familiar. Were these the hallucinogenic scribbles of a drugged mind? Some of them, perhaps. Other comments were just humorous asides. But there was something she’d read, something disturbing, something buried, clawing to break free. She wanted this case to be over. She wanted Elena to be alive, Loffredo to be released.

  She remembered the envelopes she’d found in Elena’s ladies’ parlor. Two were addressed to her in the Rue des Juifs, another to her at an address in Arles. Would she have gone there to hide? For how long? How could Elena believe she wouldn’t be discovered? Then she remembered that if her father hadn’t asked that her death be investigated, the ruse would never have been discovered. Despite what Gaston claimed, could Elena in fact be the dead woman on the Rue Cassette? She pushed the thought away. And the most puzzling question of all, why would Elena want to disappear.

  “You’re doing your wizard thing again,” Rosa said. A few minutes earlier she’d returned with her maid to check up on Serafina. She sat on the bed while Gesuzza washed and dressed Serafina’s shoulder. “You’re far away and in some bygone century. Thinking of Loffredo?”

  “There’s something we forgot to consider,” Serafina said.

  “Let me guess, you’re building a case again.”

  “Who inherits Elena’s estate?”

  The madam narrowed her eyes. “I take back everything I’ve said about you and business.”

  “I remember some time ago during the case in Bagheria, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. It’s where Umbrello and I met. Quite a delicious affair, that.”

  “You’re off the subject. No, I meant that it was during our time in Bagheria that Elena found out about Loffredo. She threatened to change her will and cut off his allowance, remember? Loffredo laughed, but she may have done just that. How can we find out? We’d need to know who profits by her death.”

  They were silent a while. Serafina may have dozed, but was awakened by a sharp noise in the street below. Paris became even more alive at night.

  “Leave it to me,” Rosa said.

  “And while you’re at it, check her account activity. Can you manage it?”

  “What account activity?” Rosa asked.

  “Her bank account, of course.” The perfect job for the madam.

  Chapter 19: A View of Paris

  Dr. Mélange was a slight man with long fingers and a thin mustache. He took their note of introduction with a slight incline of the head, reading it over several times. His office was in the morgue facing the back of Notre Dame. Serafina and Rosa arrived early, before the crowds that formed later in the day. They were seated in front of him waiting for him to finish reading over his notes.

  Serafina wondered why she found the room so close. Perhaps because she was defying the orders of her doctor to stay flat on her back for a week. She could wait no longer and asked her question. “Was the woman murdered in the Rue Cassette with child?”

  He shrugged. “Yes.”

  “I told you,” Rosa said. “Thank you doctor, we won’t waste any more of your time.”

  Serafina felt her pulse quicken. She looked at Rosa expecting the madam to gloat. Instead, her face was inscrutable.

  The doctor finished his thought. “No longer with child. But at one time she had given birth or at least had expected a child, perhaps many times, but she was not with child at the time of her death. She was wracked with lesions caused by venereal disease, a condition common among prostitutes. I’m afraid she would have died in a few months if she hadn’t been murdered. She was a prostitute who should have been imprisoned for defying the health laws. You were her friends?”

  “No. And you told this to the inspector?”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t asked. I was asked to determine the cause of death and if the deceased had committed suicide, but why would I include the fact that she was not pregnant?”

  “Because her condition may have had something to do with her death. For example, her husband finds she is not
with child, the reason he married her, so he shoots her.”

  “Far fetched. I respect the privacy of the dead and don’t mention their condition unless I am asked specifically by an investigator, such as yourself, if the woman was with child. As a matter of course, we examine the whole body including all the organs.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the hotel, Serafina said, “I knew it. The dead woman was not with child. Then she could not have been who she claimed to be.”

  “She didn’t claim to be anyone. She was dead,” Rosa reminded her.

  “You know what I mean. The reticule she carried was stolen. It belonged to Elena. The papers inside identified her as Elena. Sophie de Masson identified the dead woman as her niece, that’s what I meant. Must I spell it out?”

  “What have you found out about her will?” Serafina asked.

  “Give me time. It’s not easy, although it should be public knowledge. Elena is dead, after all.” The madam shot Serafina a triumphant glance. “Oh, really?”

  They were silent as they fought the crowds gawping at the bodies displayed in the front glass of the morgue, one of the more ghoulish recreations of some Parisians. The driver helped them into the carriage and they headed for the hotel, swaying with the clopping of the horse. Serafina’s mood matched the grayness of the sky. She tried to tighten her cape. “I’m freezing.” She glanced at Rosa and added, “But the hat is keeping my feet warm.”

  The madam said nothing.

  “I knew it. The woman was not with child.” Serafina’s shoulder ached.

  “You said that. Proves nothing,” Rosa said. “Not yet. All we know is this: Elena’s friends said that she was pregnant. You know she bent the truth to suit her whim. Whatever she did, whatever she said was for attention. She longed for it. Sad, really, when you think of it. Bizarre. I believe at times Elena is mad. Perhaps she felt she was no longer in the limelight, so she told her friends that she was with child in order to gain their attention. Anything to provoke a shocking response and an exciting way to explain a gain in girth. And the woman was what, at least forty?”