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Bell’s first big break came in spotting Massard on his first day of observation, so he wasn’t expecting to have lightning strike twice. But it did. He had no real interest in Yves Massard. He wanted to trail the man’s girlfriend or wife.
There was no hard-and-fast rule about it, but in Bell’s experience identical twins, if they remain close as adults, tend to spend a great deal of time together. Marc and Yves Massard worked out of the same office, so it st
ood to reason they would live near each other and, by extension, the women in their lives would be close, possibly sisters or cousins, but not necessarily the case.
A woman came out of the building just as Massard was reaching for the door. She’d obviously been waiting for him in the entry vestibule and saw him through the glass. She slid an arm around his waist and tilted her face for a kiss, which he dutifully delivered. She then handed him an umbrella, which he opened and held more for her benefit than his. She had glossy dark hair and was rather tall and slender.
The couple started back the way Massard had come. Bell didn’t react. He was just another salaryman on the way home from work. The woman wore a waterproof cape over her outfit that was buttoned up to her throat and she had on practical shoes rather than flat slippers or the increasingly popular heels. Her makeup was artful, accentuating her eyes, which were dark, and her lips, which were generous and strawberry red.
With but a glance, Bell committed her face to memory. Massard had no doubt heard of his brother’s death from Gly in a telegram more than a week earlier, and Bell could tell the woman was trying to cheer him up. As they passed, something she said curled his lip into a smile and he tightened his grip around her waist. Bell doubted they were visiting the Widow Massard tonight. Tonight looked like a dinner date, so Bell continued on, leaving the pair in his wake. Tomorrow he’d take up following this woman until she went to console the grieving Theresa Massard. It was she who held Bell’s ultimate interest because she was going to be his key to getting a message to Joshua Brewster.
Thinking back to what Colonel Patmore had said about Massard’s ruthlessness, it didn’t seem compatible with the tableau of domesticity he’d just witnessed. It proved to Bell something he’d witnessed time and time again as an investigator—you never understand anything about a person until you learn everything about that person.
12
From a convenient brasserie near the Massards’ apartment—Bell had noted she wore a wedding ring—he’d watched her for three days and he felt time slipping away. Mrs. Yves, as he thought of her, did not work, so she spent much of her time in her own apartment. On her occasional forays out into the continuously damp and chilly November air, she went mostly to a market for meal supplies, once to a café for tea with a woman who was not Theresa Massard, and she’d spent part of one afternoon at a cinema watching several one-reelers.
Bell was frustrated that his plan to find Theresa through Marc’s twin’s wife wasn’t panning out. He now had to consider a more direct route, one that risked tipping his hand to Gly, Massard, and the powers that ran the Société des Mines. He could further jeopardize the miners if he was caught.
He couldn’t imagine the French consortium keeping the American miners in Paris for much longer. The simple fact was they would never reach their destination once the seas iced over. The window to reach Novaya Zemlya was closing rapidly. So too was Bell’s opportunity to give them a warning.
The little eatery’s owner was well compensated for Bell’s use of the front table, so as a courtesy he kept the detective’s coffee topped off. Bell nodded when the man offered to refill the bone china cup in its little saucer but then waved the man away when he saw Mrs. Yves step out from her building. Today was Friday. If she had a standing date to visit her sister-in-law, now was the most logical time and day. Bell stood quickly and gathered his coat and hat. He let the woman get halfway down the block before leaving the brasserie and giving casual chase. She was dressed conservatively and her hair was up. She usually wore it down to frame her face. But now it was in a tight bun pinned close to her skull. She was purposefully making herself seem less attractive. Bell suspected he’d finally caught the break he needed.
As he’d predicted, the twin brothers lived just a couple of blocks from each other. Mrs. Yves entered an apartment building on the corner of a busy street. Cars and carriages jockeyed with one another for space on the congested route. Even from a distance Bell could hear raised voices, horns, and the neighing of frightened draft horses. He made a mental note of the address and retreated to a newspaper kiosk. He bought a paper and moved to a spot where he was partially shielded from view from the building’s entrance. He settled in for a long wait but soon found himself in motion again. Mrs. Yves came out of the building with another woman. Bell didn’t need to consult the old photograph in his pocket to recognize Theresa Massard.
Marc and Theresa were young enough in the picture to believe in a fairy-tale life together and were probably on their honeymoon. Assuming that, and knowing that most French are Catholic, divorce was out of the question and so they’d still be partners.
He was wrong in thinking Mrs. Yves and Theresa could be related. They looked nothing alike.
Time and Theresa Massard’s current circumstance had not been kind to her. Her once dark hair was streaked with dull gray and hung limp to her shoulders. She’d gained weight since she and Marc had posed for the Eiffel Tower photograph, and her posture was becoming stooped around the shoulders and upper back. She was in her early to mid-thirties, by Bell’s estimation, but appeared well past her prime, like someone who’d endured many decades of hardship.
Life had beaten Theresa Massard, and Bell suspected her husband had as well. He had stopped thinking of that man as the friendly reporter he’d caught stalking a story and remembered that he’d participated in the burning of innocent villagers. The man was a monster and so were his brother and the Goliath, Gly. He imagined he’d mistreated his wife badly over the years. She moved with the timidity of an oft-whipped dog. Her eyes remained downcast, and she stepped through the crowds with quick, jerky motions so that no one got too close to her. She did allow her sister-in-law to take her arm and thread it through her own.
From a good distance back, Bell could see Mrs. Yves trying to chat up Theresa and lift her spirits but was getting only one-word answers in return. He knew even some whipped dogs missed their masters, and no matter how poorly she’d been treated by her late husband, she was obviously in mourning. The two women ate lunch at an inexpensive café. Bell left them so he could grab a quick bite from a nearby patisserie. Upon his return to the street outside the restaurant, he saw, to his horror, that Mrs. Yves was alone now and discussing the bill with a waiter. It could be that Theresa excused herself to use the ladies’, but why was the bill there so quickly? It made more sense that Theresa was too upset to even have a meal in public and had run home. Mrs. Yves was in a hurry to pay so she could catch up.
Bell started walking quickly back toward the apartment building where Theresa Massard lived. He cut through the crowds without looking like he was hurrying and soon saw the slope-shouldered silhouette and the jerky, awkward tics. Bell settled his pace to stay behind her. She reached her building before Mrs. Yves caught up. Bell waited across the street at the news kiosk again. When he spotted Mrs. Yves hurrying on the sidewalk, he started back for the apartment building, timing his move so he arrived just a second after the woman. She acknowledged his presence with a look and started up the wooden stairs that rose up through an open shaft in the building’s center. Bell gave her a polite few seconds and started up after her. She climbed past the second floor and up to the third. Bell slowed a little more and watched her move down the short, carpeted hallway to apartment C and knock. He continued climbing up to the building’s top floor to wait.
He heard the woman knock a second time, then a third, and call Theresa’s name. To no avail. Theresa wasn’t going to let her sister-in-law try to cheer her up. Mrs. Yves gave up after a minute more. Bell listened to the clack of her shoes as she descended to street level and waited until the building’s front door squeaked open and clicked closed.
He descended to the third floor. He took the old photograph from his pocket and slipped it under the door of apartment C. He knocked, and said in French, “Mrs. Massard, I was there when Foster Gly murdered your husband.”
For thirty seconds he got no reaction. The door remained closed, the apartment beyond silent. Bell was raising his hand to knock again when he heard the lock thrown. She pulled the door against herself and looked out like a frightened mouse peering from its den.
“Je m’appelle Isaac Bell. Je suis Américain.”
“I speak English,” Theresa said. “They told me my husband died in a fight at a bar.”
“That isn’t true. We were in the mountains outside of Denver, Colorado. They had just tried to kill me and another man. I managed to chase down your husband. He was unarmed. I had this.” Bell opened his coat to show the butt of his .45 in a black leather shoulder rig. “I was just about to begin questioning him. Gly couldn’t risk Marc telling me anything, so he shot him from a great distance with a rifle.”
“You are police?”
“A private investigator.” She appeared not to know what that meant. “Like a policeman people can hire for themselves.”
She nodded. “Why should I believe you?”
“May we do this in your apartment?”
“Non. Until I know what you want, you will remain where you are.”
