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“You can buy the coffee,” she said. “And you can lend me your American Express card.” And without waiting for his response she started down the stairs.
He was chilled and wet to the bone. He was going to get pneumonia, he knew it. She was absolutely right—if they’d gone into his apartment they would have ended up in bed. And what a divine place to be, warm and dry and then hot and damp. Instead it was back out into the streets again, and he didn’t even have the wistful fantasy that he was suffering for his art.
He was suffering for Claire MacIntyre, and she was more important than a dozen muddy paintings, an execrable play, three chapters of the worst novel in history, and cases and cases of bad wine. Without any hesitation Tom started after her. And if he was becoming obsessed with how soon he could get her back up all those interminable flights of stairs, he wasn’t about to let her see it.
“For once I should get home on time,” Malgreave announced, shuffling the folders on his desk and stacking them in a neat pile. Normally he hadn’t such a precise nature—he left fussy behavior to his assistant. But the Grandmother Murders were of interest to too many people, and if he left his desk cluttered with his work in progress he would return hours later to find things shifted about.
Josef looked at his watch. “Five-thirty,” he said. “Madame Malgreave will be pleased.”
“You see too much,” Malgreave grumbled. “And I’m no longer sure there’s any way to please my wife.” He rose, stretching wearily. “If only the damned rain would stop, maybe we’d have a night or two without interruptions.”
Josef shook his head. “The forecast is for rain through Thursday.”
“Damn,” said Malgreave, reaching for the rumpled, still-damp raincoat that hung on a hook by his office door. He stopped, his arm outstretched, at the sight of the men standing in his doorway. In particular, by the look and smell of the first man, from his shiny black boots to his greasy, thinning black hair.
“Rocco,” he said flatly, dropping his arm and heading back to his desk. “And who is this with you?”
“My solicitor.” Guillère’s voice was both raspy and high, and his flat, soulless eyes glittered with a hidden amusement.
“I thought as much,” Malgreave said with a sigh, sinking back into his chair. “I suppose you’ve come to confess to the murders of the old women.”
Rocco grinned, exposing an incomplete set of teeth. “No, Louis,” he said with deliberate insolence. “We’ve come to insist you stop harassing me.”
Malgreave smiled faintly. “We could compromise. I’ll stop harassing you and you confess. It would make things very neat.”
Rocco stepped into the room, and the smell was overpowering. “I didn’t come here at …” he made an elaborate survey of the very expensive gold watch, “… at five-thirty-five to make jokes, Louis.”
Malgreave admired the watch, and wondered where its owner rested. In the Seine, most likely. Rocco wasn’t making much of an effort to be subtle, his contempt all too plain, but Malgreave could play the game.
“All right, Rocco,” he said gently. “You and your lawyer sit down and tell me why you chose …” and he made a matching, deliberate perusal of his own utilitarian watch, “… a time as late as five-thirty-five to come to me.”
Grand-mère’s apartment was still and silent. Nicole sat at the kitchen table, chewing steadily on a peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter was one of the few American things of which Grand-mère approved, and every day she and Nicole would eat thick sandwiches made with baguettes and plum preserves and imported peanut butter.
It was after five-thirty, and Nicole didn’t really want another one. But she’d seen Grand-mère’s eyes drooping, as they did so often after she had to take one of her pills, and she knew that the old woman would welcome a few minutes of peace, to doze.
Nicole was usually gone by now, back at the apartment she now thought of as His. Claire would be making her silly, inconsequential chatter, and they’d eat something awful, like macaroni and cheese or frozen pizza, and then they could watch TV and Nicole would explain everything to a confused Claire.
Sometimes she lied, and made up stories to fit the people on TV, stories that had nothing to do with what was really happening. Sometimes she lied about things in real life, too. Marc knew, and had punished her for it. Claire knew, and just ignored it. Maybe she’d tell Claire a lie tonight, tell her Marc had called, asking for her. It would be interesting to see if Claire would be happy or sad.
But she didn’t need to lie to Claire to know the answer to that, she’d already seen it in her eyes. Claire was going to leave. She’d probably go without saying good-bye, Nicole thought, stolidly chewing the sandwich. She was surprised to find the thought pained her. Her mother had gone without saying good-bye. But then, her mother had died.
Claire wasn’t going to die, she was simply going back where she belonged. And then she would be alone with Marc again. The thought gave her … what was Claire’s wonderful American word … the creeps. It gave her the creeps.
Nicole dropped the crust back onto the plate. She’d dispose of the garbage and Grand-mère wouldn’t have to know that she hadn’t finished it all. Maybe she could talk Claire into buying some Coca-Cola. Another excellent American invention, though this one Grand-mère didn’t approve of. But Nicole loved it with a passion. There were times when she wished she lived in the States and could drink all the Coke and eat all the peanut butter she wished. And never have to put up with Marc watching her, ever again.
He particularly liked to come in when she was in her bath. He would stand in the doorway, watching her, giving her clipped orders where to wash. The one time he tried to wash her himself, her mother had caught him. It was just before Maman had died, and Nicole would never forget how angry she was. She’d heard the two of them arguing that night, low, bitter words. Actually she had only heard Maman—Marc had retreated into his customary wall of silence, his only response a mimed expression that made Maman scream with rage.
At least he didn’t fight with Claire. Claire behaved herself, did everything she was told. As did Nicole herself. Life was more peaceful now in the old apartment, and with Grand-mère around there was always some place she could run to, if things got too bad.
She didn’t want Claire to go. It surprised her to realize it, but she would miss her, miss her awful food and her silly chatter and her clumsy efforts to take care of her. How could Claire take care of her, protect her from Marc, when she couldn’t even take care of herself?
Nicole rose, scratching her scalp beneath the tightly braided hair. Claire had tried to get her to wear her hair down, even get it cut, but she had steadfastly refused. She didn’t like her hair. She could remember too vividly the night Marc had come in, sat on the edge of her bed, and stroked her hair—long, soft, horrid sort of strokes—while he said absolutely nothing.
That was just before he’d left for America. He’d come back with Claire, and he’d kept out of her room since then. If Claire went, there’d be no one to stop him. And she didn’t know exactly why, but she didn’t want him to come into her room, ever again.
Maybe she could stay with Grand-mère. Marc had always refused, but maybe if Grand-mère offered him some money he might agree. He never had enough money, he would often say. If it weren’t for Nicole he wouldn’t have to worry, he would say. And Nicole would sit there, eyes downcast, silent.
Maybe Claire wouldn’t come fetch her tonight. Maybe she’d already left. The thought was depressing. Grand-mère was getting too old, the pills were making her forgetful. If Claire had gone, who would take care of her?
