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

  “Can I go, too?” Tessa asked. “All I’m doing is sitting around with you two.”

  The madam’s first response was to refuse and there was a row, stomping feet and raised voices. Onlookers became interested. But when Carmela said that Tessa could help with a diversionary tactic she’d been thinking of using, Rosa relented.

  Rosa and Serafina found a bench near the entrance and sat enjoying the warmth of the morning sun. If Paris was as delightful as Marseille, their stay would have its rewards. A young girl selling carnations came over to them and Rosa bought two, gave one to Serafina and pinned the other on herself. A breeze from the harbor brought the sharp scent of fish.

  Serafina shielded her eyes with her hand and looked into the center of the square where the two shadows leaned against a statue as if in conversation, their attention momentarily arrested by Carmela and Tessa who just happened to be strolling past the men.

  All at once the cap flew off one of the men and there was a cloud of dust. Instantly, he bent over, clutching his ear. His companion ran to him, looking over his shoulder at Serafina and Rosa as they approached.

  “I saw you both in Oltramari yesterday. Your cover is infantile. What do you think you’re doing?” Serafina asked.

  “We’re here for your protection,” one of the men said in a thick accent as his companion wiped the blood from his ear.

  “I don’t believe you. Who’s paying you?”

  “Can’t tell you who he is, the boss’ll have my hide if you find out. Been in danger many times and you’ve pulled through, thanks to us, so you ought to be grateful.”

  “Nonsense, we owe you nothing,” Rosa said. “But I recognize your friend with the ear. I’ve seen him in the piazza talking to old soldiers.” The journey through choppy waters had been tiring and they still had a long train ride ahead.

  They stared at Serafina but made no move to leave.

  “You can go home and tell your boss that we don’t need your protection. Leave now or I’ll call the police.”

  They watched them disappear. So they were Palermitans, their clothes too good to be friends of Don Tigro who had peasants from Oltramari working for him.

  “Are they Inspector Colonna’s men?” Rosa asked.

  Serafina shook her head. “He has nothing to gain.”

  “Perhaps a bribe when you return? I can hear him now. ‘If it weren’t for my men protecting you, you’d have failed.’ Never forget how crooked the fat inspector can be,” Rosa said. “And there’s something comic about those two.”

  “They’re unprofessional, that’s for sure, but I fail to see the humor. And they’re deflecting us from our task, so they do cause harm.” Serafina said nothing more, but thought they might be hired by Busacca who was having her shadowed, not so much for protection—he would have mentioned them—but for information. But why would he do that? She’d promised to send him a report of her progress at the end of each week. She considered some more and concluded Busacca did not trust her. He was a businessman protecting his interests. She couldn’t blame him. After all, she and Loffredo were lovers and he knew it. He’d hired her on the strength of her reputation for finding killers. She relaxed.

  In a few minutes, Carmela and her group appeared.

  Rosa hugged Tessa and told her how good she was. “A little actress.”

  Serafina said nothing more about the men. They were harmless enough now, perhaps comical as Rosa suggested, but she feared they might cause harm in the future.

  * * *

  Serafina watched the landscape speed by from their first-class compartment, the view blurred by steam and the strong rays of the setting sun. Unlike the Italian landscape which was craggy one moment and breathtakingly beautiful the next, the French countryside seemed all of a piece as the train sped through fields of grain and apple orchards with mountains in the distance. The land was peaceful, the contours undulating, and yet there was something mysterious about it. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was if they rode across a great stage where nothing was real. Yes, that was it, the French panorama seemed too good to be true, created by a designer who understood that style, if displayed to perfection, could be alive and arresting, could be an expression of a nation’s soul.

  They were rolling at top speed but it seemed as though nothing moved. The train arced and dipped slightly through planted fields, the acreage vast, the sun a glowing ball sinking toward the horizon. Peasants bent to their work and a farmer tilled his land with a plow pulled by four horses while above them, large winged creatures soared and dipped, their underbellies catching the last rays of the day.

  The clack of the wheels, the sway of the car lulled her into a mindless state. She tried to picture the dead Elena and the streets of Paris as she, remembered them, all the while ordering in her mind the steps she must take to find the killer. She looked at her watch pin. They were to arrive at the Gare de Lyon in a few hours. She was sick of the train’s lurching movement, but at least it was the last leg of the trip. She watched Rosa seated opposite her swaying on plush seats and rubbed her eyes, trying to calculate the distance they’d traveled in less than three days, close to fifteen hundred kilometers, most of it by steamer.

  Glancing down the aisle, she saw Arcangelo, his hands and face pressed to the window. It was his first trip abroad. Teo sat beside him reading one of his books. How could he manage carrying that heavy knapsack on his back, she wondered, filled with his clothes, his precious knucklebones carved by his father, and several books. She buried her face in her cape, smelling the sea mixed in with the ghastly fumes of the train.

  “Stop fretting. You’ll find out about him soon enough,” Rosa muttered. But by the look on her face, Serafina could tell that her friend hid her fear. Something was wrong, Serafina was sure of it. Why hadn’t Loffredo sent her news of Elena’s death? Why wasn’t he the one asking for someone to investigate his wife’s death? On his other trips, he’d written every day, but this time she hadn’t received one letter.

  Toward the end of the ride, the conductor escorted them to the diner. Unlike their railway at home, there were tables covered in starched linen, the napkins fanned out at each place.

  Two waiters in white tie served them while bus boys, their hair slicked and wearing long aprons, ran back and forth with bottles of mineral water. A separate wine was served with each course. Their group was seated at three tables and the meal was a four course affair. They began with escargots, followed by their choice of beef with fresh herbs or duckling with crispy potatoes and asparagus with truffles. The food was served in china so fine that the candlelight shone through. For dessert they were served a selection of cheeses, brandy and café for the adults and to the delight of Tessa, Arcangelo, and Teo, crème glacée. Serafina had to admit the meal was an event, the food exquisite, and she’d been hungry.

  But with the last bite, her attention was arrested by fleeting light and shade moving at the end of the car. Staring, she saw the disappearing flap of a leather jerkin. The men who followed them were beginning to take up more and more room in her mind, the inscrutable Busacca swimming alongside the disappearance of Loffredo and the finality of Elena’s death.

  Chapter 7: Arrival

  As they pulled into the Gare de Lyon, the train belched steam and the iron wheels screeched to a halt. Serafina rose and Rosa stretched. They descended, making their way on unsteady legs down the length of the platform. Serafina felt the damp evening chill and walked with increasing speed out of the station and into the Paris dark, the end of a long journey. The beginning of another.

  She gazed up, trying to see the stars, but the night was cloudy and the air misted. Haloes surrounded rows of gas lamps and Parisians swept past, speaking in that guttural way of the French. Serafina peered across the boulevard to the notorious shape of the Prison Mazas and felt a stony creature breathing fire deep within her. Buttoning the collar of her cape, she glanced back at Teo and Arcangelo who walked behind her, talking and pointing at everything they saw
. She looked over at Rosa embracing Tessa and gesturing toward the huge square buildings surrounding them while carriages whirred by in the wide tree-lined streets.

  Carmela caught up with them, towing a stevedore and his cart. She took Serafina’s arm and marched her to the curb where three of Busacca’s agents greeted them in passable Sicilian. After suitable small talk, she asked the men to arrange a conference for her with the prefect of police and with Madame de Masson, Busacca’s sister, as soon as possible. “I want to begin my investigation tonight.”

  “An impossibility,” they said, laughing and saying, “No, no, Madame,” and stomping their feet on the cobbles. They said Madame de Masson expected her at ten tomorrow morning and they’d scheduled a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the prefect. A carriage would be waiting for her at half past nine in front of her hotel.

  “Nothing for it but to enjoy Paris tonight. I for one am famished,” Rosa said.

  In a few minutes, the hotel’s omnibus arrived. While a porter stowed their luggage, a liveried footman helped them up the few steps into the vehicle. Serafina took one last look around the station. A figure, dark and foreboding, hid in an alcove across the square. As she stared at him, the cloaked man receded into the shadows.

  Arcangelo and Teo wanted to ride on top so they all climbed the stairs and sat holding onto the rails in the open air, Serafina hugging her cape and rubbing her arms for warmth. She felt the resistance of the wheels as the horses strained and they began to move.

  Plunking down next to Carmela, she gave her a peck on the cheek and an encouraging hug. Poor Carmela, an unwed mother, by necessity she’d stayed at home most of the time with her baby, helping at home with the younger children, forgotten by the world. Carmela’s brow was furrowed. Serafina looked down at the people in the streets, the Frenchwomen with such flare they exuded an unmatched style and sophistication. She felt rather than saw them staring back at her. Fingering the thin fabric of her dress worn through in spots at the hem, she pulled at a loose thread and tried to smooth the pucker.

  As the horses clopped onto the Rue de Rivoli, the crowds thickened and their glamor increased, taunting her. She tried to see herself through the eyes of the wealthy Parisians and other travelers who flocked to the city. They seemed to mock her with their finery. Why did she think she’d have the skill to operate here? She felt each breath of air like a fist in her stomach. Her imagination fed her fears, no doubt a trick, but in her mind, Paris was filled with disquiet, the straight boulevards and laughing crowds an elaborate charade hiding a medieval terror lurking beneath the paved avenues where the real city waited like a wild beast ready to pounce. After all, she’d been a student of midwifery in the old Paris, long before Haussmann bulldozed the medieval neighborhoods. She remembered the dirty warrens, the narrow alleys that bred bitter poverty and disease and far too much death. And as in all cities in Europe, she knew there were scores of the desperate ready to kill for a sous. She doubted they’d been totally eradicated; memory and minds and class structure would have to change first. She shivered. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that one or two hapless souls waited for her somewhere in this city ready to surprise her one day, hired by a formidable power as yet unknown. Well, she’d just have to disappoint them.

  “I want to see the Bastille you told me about,” Arcangelo said.

  “Torn down,” Teo said. “We passed the spot where it stood, not far from the station. Hundreds of thousands were imprisoned there. Thousands died by hanging or starvation or the guillotine.”

  Arcangelo’s eyes widened.

  “Too much Dickens,” Serafina said, and tried to swallow her own fears.

  The omnibus turned into the Rue de Rivoli, passing buildings grander in scale than those surrounding the station and lit by rows of gas lamps. The wide sidewalks were filled with groups in evening attire walking arm in arm, the women elegantly coiffed, the men in top hats.

  “What’s that?” Tessa asked, pointing to a large building on their left.

  “The Louvre. It used to be a palace,” Rosa said. “Filled with art, but not your taste, I’m afraid, my girl.”

  “But I want to see it at least once.”

  “Me, too,” Teo said.

  “You boys and Carmela will have your days filled with work,” Serafina said. “Which reminds me ...” She tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Tomorrow while Rosa and I are visiting Madame de Masson, I’d like the four of you to go to a studio on the Boulevard des Capucines. There’s an exhibit I want you to see, and the paintings will be more to Tessa’s liking.” The omnibus turned and they held onto the railing.

  Tessa smiled.

  “I read about it too,” Carmela said, taking out her map, silent while she studied it. “No need to take public transport. It’s close to our hotel, right in back of us.” She traced the route with her finger. “And why do we visit this exhibit, not just to look at paintings, I hope.”

  Arcangelo made a face, straining to hear Serafina’s reply.

  Serafina paused a moment, taking in the scenery, then continued. “I’m hoping you’ll find some of Elena’s friends. If no one’s there when you arrive, return later. I want you to find out as much as you can about Elena’s life in Paris, the names and location of her friends, their regard for her, how they took her death, the shops she frequented, the names of her lovers, their addresses. I need to know everything about her.”

  “Won’t her aunt provide us with that?” Rosa asked.

  “Perhaps, but better to hear information from several different sources.” Serafina continued. “You and Tessa will be interested in the paintings. But Arcangelo and Teo won’t even go inside.”

  Arcangelo looked at Teo and smiled.

  “I want them to look for our shadowy friends. We still need to determine who’s following us and why.”

  “We’ve been through this. I thought you figured they were Busacca’s men,” Rosa said.

  “But I’ve got to make sure.”

  Teo turned his moon face to Serafina. Some of the chocolate dessert he’d eaten on the train had smeared onto his shirt. She wondered what people in the hotel lobby would think of their group.

  They turned into a large square, Serafina swaying with the motion.

  “That’s our hotel?” Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves.

  * * *

  The Hôtel du Louvre was a large presence lit from within. It looked more like a city than a hotel and faced a large square choked with hundreds of horse-drawn vehicles. Pedestrians called to one another, disappeared into the dark, or gathered around tour guides. Some hailed fiacres and voitures de remise. Men hawked newspapers. Women sold flowers.

  In contrast with the surrounding panache, Serafina’s group were weary from a seventy-six-hour journey. Grit from the train had seeped into their clothes, and Serafina thought she heard the concierge sniff as he handed her the keys. As she signed the register, she looked at Carmela blinking in the splendor, at Tessa leaning against Rosa, her eyes barely open, at Teo, nodding his head into a book pretending not to be exhausted or impressed by the surroundings. Arcangelo yanked at the cuffs of his sleeves.

  “May I take your knapsack and show you to your room?” a bellboy asked Teo in schoolbook Italian.

  Normally quick with a reply, Teo was silent, absorbed in a new world decorated in the style of Louis Quinze. He clutched his book. His eyes were giant figs.

  Instead of taking the long and impressive staircase, they rode to the eighth floor in a contrivance called a lift. Their rooms faced the front, seven separate chambers furnished in French rococo with a view of the Place du Palais Royal and beyond it, the Jardin des Tuileries. Each room had its own maid curtseying in front of the door, and inside, gilt and marble inlay, a rock crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling, a large bedroom and a water closet with porcelain bathtub, hot-running water, and a pile of soft towels. Lush. Intimidating.

  Serafina smelled heat pouring in from the floor vents of her corner room. She breathed in mois
t air when she opened doors leading to a balcony overlooking the Place du Palais Royal. In the near distance, the Tuileries were silent and dark except for the gas lamps which threw pools of light far into the park. She watched the people on the ground below, some walking, others embracing, still others getting into cabs. All seemed carefree, full of energy and laughter.

  While Gesuzza sat in a far corner of Serafina’s suite, the chambermaid rolled down the damask bedspread. Carmela and Rosa admired the silk sheets. Tessa, Teo and Arcangelo huddled together, reluctant to go to their own rooms.

  “In two days you’ll be used to all this luxury,” Serafina said. “And in two weeks you’ll be speaking the language like natives.”

  “Can we order breakfast in our rooms?” Tessa asked.

  “Anything you want.”

  The three looked at one another, whispering.

  There was a knock on the door. Giulia and two of her assistants bustled in, lugging several dresses from the House of Grinaldi for Carmela and two evening gowns for Serafina. For a moment it seemed like home with all the flying hands, the hugs, the kisses, the exclamations. Then Carmela took Giulia and her friends to her room so she could try on her new wardrobe, and Rosa went with Gesuzza to supervise the unpacking.

  “Over here,” Tessa said, motioning to Arcangelo and Teo. “Take a look at the square.”

  Teo corrected her. “You mean piazza.”

  “No, she means place. It’s the Place du Palais Royal,” Serafina said to the empty room.

  Lulled by the sudden quiet and the cool breeze from the open balcony doors, Serafina sank into the comfort of a well-padded chair, one which, for a change, did not roll or sway. She pulled out her notebook and after flipping back and forth through the pages, wrote a few lines summarizing the journey, underlining their encounters with the men who followed them. She thought them harmless and without sense, but annoying. She may have dozed until Rosa’s skirt brushed by her.