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

  “Not quite. She’s my age.”

  The madam gave her a wicked glare. “Dream on. How old were you when the twins were born twenty-two years ago?”

  Serafina looked at a seagull flying low over the Seine. The morning traffic was thick and they were stopped near the Pont Neuf. “You’re right. We must find confirmation. If we could prove that Elena was with child on April 16, then perhaps we wouldn’t have to request exhumation, and think of it, Sophie de Masson can sit forever with the body buried in the family crypt, penniless.”

  “Why don’t we find Elena? If she’s not lounging about in her coffin, then she must be somewhere,” Rosa said.

  There was silence for a moment until the madam with that mind of hers said, “I’ll tell you why we don’t search for Elena, because you’re not convinced that Elena lives.”

  As they approached the hotel, Serafina wondered how much Sophie had to gain by deliberately identifying an unknown corpse as the body of her niece. Or was it an honest mistake and Sophie was in fact losing her eyesight? As she turned the key to her door, she glanced at the two policemen guarding her room and went to her desk. She picked up Elena’s address book and sat in the chair, reading and looking up to stare at the wall and think. Perhaps doze.

  * * *

  “Are you mad? Why travel again to the place where you were shot?”

  “I need to sit and think.”

  “Do that in your room.” Rosa looked at her as if she were wild. Perhaps she was. But there was something in the address book, something she was reading and re-reading and still missing because she hadn’t yet fathomed the mind of Elena. The best way to do that was to sit in the woman’s apartment, breathe the air she’d once breathed, touch her desk, her chair. After all, they weren’t friends, not really, and she needed to get to know Elena in order to ferret out the cryptic notes in her address book. It wouldn’t take long, she explained to Rosa.

  This time they took le petite ceinture. It was a much faster way to the sixteenth arrondissement during the day because they avoided traffic.

  More important, Serafina saw the people of Paris, listened to them speak in low tones to one another, the words nasal and clipped yet somehow sonorous, especially because she didn’t understand the sense and could therefore concentrate on the sound.

  The French loved to talk. Most of the women on the train wore aprons and long cotton dresses, the men, thick corduroy trousers, many with long faces, tired. Maybe they were going home, having worked most of the night and much of the morning as well. Women carried baguettes, clutched in hands cracked and blistering and from harsh soap, callused from work. They were women who worked as laundresses, the sleeves of their blouses rolled up, exposing powerful arms. Serafina remembered what the young sergent de ville had said about the calluses on the dead woman’s hands. The men wore berets on their head, leather aprons over their bleu de travail, and their handlebar mustaches were neatly trimmed. Some had linen kerchiefs rolled and tied around their necks. Their eyes were bloodshot from drink, their hands thick and bruised from work.

  They got off at Station de Passy, a quieter section of the city new to Rosa. Serafina marveled at the rows of apartment buildings interspersed with large homes, the noise muffled by the great trees of the Bois de Boulogne. When they arrived at Elena’s apartment, Serafina was struck by two men wearing bleu de travail who pruned the shrubbery near the entrance. They shoveled clippings into a wheelbarrow, their pace slow, pausing to look around, saying a few words to each other, then gazing out at the scene, cigarette butts dangling from their lips.

  She smiled. “Do you recognize anyone?” she asked Rosa.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The two workers in blue uniforms. Look familiar?”

  Rosa smiled. “One’s pulling his sleeve, the other licking his lips, both hardly working—how could I not recognize them?”

  They rang the bell.

  Instead of the concierge reading Le Figaro, a policeman sat at the desk polishing the visor of his kepi.

  “Inspector Valois is expecting us.”

  He nodded and pointed to the elevator down the hall. “Eighth floor, mesdames.”

  “Liar,” Rosa said, under her breath as they ascended in the slow, creaky lift. “The stairs would have been faster. If we fall and die, it’s all your fault.”

  Serafina was surprised to find so many men in the apartment. Several detectives were assigned to each room, some lifting the carpets, some with magnifying glasses, others carefully putting what they’d found in small envelopes and marking them. The French investigators were impressive, she had to admit it.

  “Carmela and Tessa went to talk to artists at the exhibit,” Valois told them after greeting them.

  Serafina explained why she was here. Any room would do for her purposes, so she sat in a chair in the glassed-in sun room at the back of the apartment. It faced the center of Paris. At first Serafina was enthralled with the view until she settled into a meditative arrangement with herself, unmoving.

  Rosa sat for a while, and then became bored. She decided to help the inspector in whatever way she could, but found he was occupied in a corner of the ladies’ parlor talking in low tones to one of his men. Drifting through the kitchen, she opened each drawer, uncertain as to why she did, other than for something to do. As she opened a cupboard full of cut glass, she saw what looked like a pile of notes rolled and stuffed into a small vase in the rear. After spreading the papers out on the table she read one, shook her head, scooped them up, and stashed them in her pocket. She went through all the other drawers, climbing the ladder to root through the high cabinets, but found nothing else of interest.

  Slowly she made her way back to the sun room where Serafina sat. She hadn’t moved, so Rosa sat down opposite her, instinctively opting for the most comfortable chair in the room. She put her head back and dozed, waiting for Serafina to finish. When Rosa opened her eyes, the wizard had disappeared.

  * * *

  Valois was still busy, most of his men huddled around the blood stain Serafina had created on the Aubusson carpet, so she made her way to the main foyer and up a winding staircase to the second floor, a glass conservatory and ballroom. It was enormous. Elena must have the exclusive use of the building’s roof. It had a breathtaking view of Paris. She doubted she’d find much of anything up there other than all of Paris spread out before her, but she wanted Rosa to see it, so she went back downstairs and saw Valois talking to a photographer.

  When she ascended with Rosa, the madam was enthralled. They looked to the east and saw the Île de la Cité like a magnificent boat riding the Seine with the statue of Henri IV at its bow, the ruins of the Hôtel de Ville on the far bank of the river, the traffic on the bridges, the boulevards, the streets. She saw the Jardin des Tuileries and the destroyed remnants of the Palais des Tuileries, their hotel and the Place du Palais Royal, the Place Vendôme, the glittering streets in the first arrondissement where the wealthy from all over the world did their shopping. Her eyes moved across the river to the Palais du Luxembourg and its sweet gardens where she could spend a month, the impressive dome of the Pantheon, even the tiny Rue Cassette which ten days ago held the mystery she hoped to unravel.

  Rosa pointed to the esplanade and chapel of Saint-Louis-des-Invalides and Mansard’s dome glistening in the sun. “And there’s the Champ de Mars and the military academy.”

  Serafina said nothing.

  “And winding through it all, the Seine, mistress of the city, the barges floating on it like black swans,” Rosa said.

  Serafina looked at the scene, the light unique to Paris. The world seem silvery. “I must agree with you,” she said, “Paris is a beauty.”

  “Too poetic by half,” the madam said. But her face betrayed her enchantment. “Could you live here?” she asked.

  Serafina nodded. “The people still have what we’ve lost.”

  To the west stood La Muette, its delightful park a pale green, and behind it, the deep gree
n mantle of the Bois de Boulogne, dark and foreboding. “You can’t see it, but beyond the Bois is Longchamp. Remember Ricci telling us we should go?”

  “If we have time, we must. His description of the sound of hooves on grass made me shiver,” Rosa said.

  “We’ll have time.” Serafina looked at her friend.

  “You know what happened already, don’t you,” Rosa said.

  “Not completely.”

  “What does that mean? Is that a yes or a no?”

  “It’s a yes and a no, but I see now through a glass darkly.”

  “You stole that line.”

  Serafina smiled. She could tell by the roll of Rosa’s eyes and the upward thrust of her arms that the madam didn’t much care to understand. She looked at her watch, reluctant to leave.

  “If we have enough time to go to Longchamp, then we’ll have enough time to visit Père-Lachaise,” Rosa said.

  “Say again? Wasn’t our visit to the morgue enough for you? Why traipse around in a cemetery?”

  “Murat’s grave. He was so dashing, so handsome. I’ve loved him since grade school history.”

  Rosa was her oldest friend. They’d known each other since forever, too many years to count, and yet she still surprised Serafina. Rosa harbors a longing for Joachim Murat? How could she?

  Serafina closed her eyes, letting the breeze blow her curls, feeling the peace of it. She was close to the end, she knew it.

  Rosa touched Serafina’s good shoulder. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a wad of paper. “While you were sleeping in the sun room—”

  “I was most certainly not sleeping.”

  “Whatever. I found these. Keep them in your pocket. Too much for Valois to handle just now. Besides, I know you’ll want to act on them. They’re notes of indebtedness to Elena from that handsome young pup, Ricci. Seems he ran up gambling debts.”

  “Ricci?” Serafina couldn’t believe it of him. “He seemed so genuine, so polite, so ...”

  “So little you know of men. Did you total up the cost of his suit, his hat, cologne, cane, gloves? He’s expensive, I tell you. In total, he owes his cousin a small fortune,” Rosa said. “By my calculation, close to twenty-five thousand francs. For all we know, there are others. So clever of you to ask about Elena’s will.” Rosa tapped the side of her nose. “Who said, ‘In the end, it’s all about lucre’?”

  “You repeat yourself. Have you heard from your source?”

  “I have, but I was saving the news for later.”

  “Go on, then. Who is he, by the way?”

  “Fina. You should know better than to ask. I never reveal my sources. Except I will say, he struts about the piazza like a rooster wearing an avvocato’s robe. When you hear the terms, promise not to jump to conclusions.”

  Serafina crossed her arms. “Go on.”

  “There’s a substantial bequest to La Maternité and to some society of artists, I don’t remember the whole name, but you can imagine.”

  She was silent, waiting for the rest.

  “The major portion of her estate, some twenty-five million lire, goes to her aunt, Sophia Busacca.”

  Serafina stopped. Her hands were cold. For Loffredo, not a mention.

  “You’re jumping, I see it, and you promised not to. There’s more. Should the aunt pre-decease, it’s equally divided between her sons, Elena’s three nephews.”

  “I thought so,” Serafina said. “And that’s why Levi Busacca commissioned me to find his daughter’s murderer. I cabled him, you know. I told him I thought his daughter might be alive.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He hasn’t replied.”

  They were silent for some time, drinking in the beauty of Paris, until Serafina asked about Elena’s bank account.

  “On April 15, one-thousand francs were withdrawn. No activity since that time.”

  Serafina read one of the notes signed by Ricci, shuffled through the rest, and put her hand to her forehead.

  “Do they darken the glass you look through?” Rosa asked.

  Serafina shook her head.

  “Just so you don’t go all wizard on me again. And by the way, I’m famished.”

  “Keep the notes and remind me about them later.”

  On the way out, they met Valois. “We’d like to take you and your wife and son to dinner,” Rosa said. “Véfour at nine tonight? We’ve asked for a private room.”

  As they walked to the carriage, they saw Teo and Arcangelo lumbering behind two policemen. They’d cuffed the two shadows and were pushing them toward a wagon.

  Chapter 20: La Maternité

  “Port Royale, driver,” Serafina said.

  “Not on your life. I don’t know what’s there, but it doesn’t sound like my kind of place. Anyway, I must have food first. It’s a long time until we eat tonight.”

  Serafina told the driver to find them a brasserie in the sixth arrondissement. “Not too noisy.”

  When the waiter brought their food, a sole meunière with a glass of mineral water for Serafina and a peppered steak and pommes frites with a glass of Bordeaux for Rosa, the madam said, “Tell me what’s at the Port Royal, something to do with Elena, I fear.” She forked a morsel of steak and French fries into her mouth, savoring the richness and swallowing a large mouthful of wine.

  “La Maternité, one of the hidden treasures of Paris,” Serafina began. “What you thought of as sleeping on my part was thinking.”

  “Your mother sent you there, didn’t she? After that disastrous affair of yours with what’s his name. That was one of your worst moves, by the way. You almost failed to get your certificate. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” Rosa shoveled; she chewed; she drank.

  “You’re off the subject entirely. Today I remembered a doctor who was making a name for himself at La Maternité, all over Paris in fact, at the time I attended the school of midwifery.”

  “One of your teachers?”

  “No, we were taught by the head midwife, a femme savante. Wonderful woman. Strict, which is what I needed at the time. Mama used to say that the French have a lot to teach the world about midwifery, and she was right. But we attended his lectures. He had most unusual thoughts about delivering breech births, I remember. I was slightly in awe of him.”

  “So?”

  “I saw his name, Tarnier, in Elena’s address book, and I’ve been puzzling over it ever since, trying to remember its significance until today in Elena’s apartment.” She reached into her pocket, brought out the little book, and showed Rosa the note written in Elena’s hand—“Tarnier, April 18, La M”.

  “But La Maternité is for women who can’t afford a midwife. And if he’s the chief of surgery, why would he agree to treat Elena?” Rosa asked.

  “You need to ask? The will?”

  “The large bequest to La Maternité. Of course, how stupid of me,” the madam said.

  They paid the bill and left, thanking the maître d’hôtel for the wonderful service.

  When they arrived at La Maternité, Serafina asked to speak with Dr. Tarnier on a matter of some urgency and was disappointed. He was in Lyon for a conference, the receptionist told her. When she asked to speak with his assistant, the woman shook her head. “I’m afraid he is away as well. He returns Monday.”

  Serafina thanked her and walked toward the door.

  “Giving up like that?” Rosa asked.

  “You’re right.”

  They walked back to the desk. “I was a student here many years ago. Madame Charrier was the chief midwife.” The young woman nodded and said she’d heard the name. “May I speak with whoever is in charge?”

  Serafina and Rosa were ushered into a parlor with a view of the cloisters and gardens. The grounds looked the same to Serafina, large, old, quiet, boring, and imposing. A group of students passed by, huddled together, and a young woman sat on a bench in the gardens, her head buried in a book. Serafina remembered her school days here, the ordeal of early morning cla
sses in the cold when a thin coating of ice floated on top of the pitcher in her room. But the French led the world in compassionate and innovative birthing techniques and Serafina learned most of her midwifery skills during the six months she’d spent here.

  In a while a woman dressed in fine black wool with a stiff collar and apron entered the room. She was introduced to Rosa and Serafina as the chef de la Maternité. She listened patiently while Serafina told her that their friend was missing, perhaps wrongly assumed dead, probably with child and in need of help.

  “We are trying to locate Elena Loffredo. I’d like to know if she was a patient of Dr. Tarnier. His name appears in her address book. As her physician, perhaps he would know where she is.”

  The woman made no response but smiled. Her blue eyes held only compassion and intellect. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Your face, your eyes, the richness of your hair, yes, I remember you now. Don’t tell me ...Charlotte ... that’s it, Charlotte Clémence. You were a star and I was a foreign student, but you helped me with the language.”

  “Now I go by the name Charlotte Clémence-Callé. Despite the language difficulties, you were quick to catch on.”

  “And very appreciative of the skills I was taught by Madame Charrier. Such a learned woman. Small, but every bone in her body was alive and focused on helping mothers birth their babies. You were so kind to me.”

  There was a pause.

  “I know you can’t tell me why my friend saw Dr. Tarnier, but if you could please tell me if she is one of his patients, I’d be grateful.”

  Charlotte Clémence-Callé rang a bell. “You’re correct, I can’t tell you. Privileged information. But I’ll ask a student to get his appointment book.”

  While they waited, they reminisced about their time as students, the early morning hour of the lessons, the live demonstrations which Serafina found so helpful, the professional compassion of the school and hospital.