Serafina bit her tongue to stop her lips from trembling and concentrated on breathing slowly. “Please carry on with the specifics.” The pitch of her voice was higher than normal.
Rosa sat still, a bit out of her element, but to give the madam her due, she knew when to hold her tongue.
Reluctantly he continued. “The woman had been shot, one bullet to the left temple. Burns and gunpowder surrounded the wound. We found papers in her reticule identifying her as Elena Loffredo, Countess of Oltramari. An autopsy was performed a few hours later. It determined that the victim was murdered in the early morning hours of April 16. We made sure the woman was identified by the oldest and closest family member of the deceased, and following the family’s wishes, we released the body to them so that it could be prepared for burial in accordance with Judaic custom. Soon after the woman was discovered, we made inquiries and have detained a person of interest. With a few more hours of persuasive interrogation, I have no doubt he will confess to the countess Elena Loffredo’s murder.”
As Valois spoke, Serafina willed herself to concentrate on the sense of his words, as if they had nothing to do with her. Her body ached from lack of sleep and her heart beat wildly. So Loffredo was in prison, about to be charged with the murder of Elena. Why hadn’t she realized it before this? The pounding in her head grew, making understanding even more difficult. Her breath came in ragged gulps. Pressing fingernails into the palm of her hand, she forced herself to stay calm. She glanced at Rosa who was looking at her feet.
Groping for the right thing to say, Serafina thought she might start out with flattery, then rejected that idea. “I’m not convinced that the body you found in the Rue Cassette is that of Elena Loffredo.” She stopped, letting her words sink in.
Valois’ face was rigid, almost impassive. “I’m not sure I understand you, Madame.”
Rosa said nothing, but nodded her agreement.
Serafina continued. “I believe that hasty conclusions were drawn due to the actions of others, not the least of which was the disregard that Madame Sophie de Masson gave to the body. She identified the dead woman as her niece without the help of other members of her family, when she knew her eyesight was failing. Her sons, for instance, who are in Paris, should have been by her side.”
Color flooded his face. “You mock me. I am always thorough and methodical in my investigation.”
“Nevertheless, I stand by my statement. Deliberate obfuscation on the part of at least one person has caused you to make inaccurate conclusions.”
He shook his head. “The papers the dead woman had on her person were those of Elena Loffredo.”
“The reticule could have been stolen.”
“Possible, but improbable, Madame.” He rose and walked around his office, but he seemed to be considering what she had to say.
“I have photographs of the crime scene if you’d like to see them, but I warn you, they’re offensive in the extreme.”
Rosa shrugged. “You’re speaking to Sicilians. Both our countries have suffered recent atrocities. I’m afraid we’re used to them.”
Valois narrowed his eyes, staring at her, the urgency of his other meeting forgotten. “Her body was twisted, half her face was missing, her clothes torn and muddy.”
“Let’s see the photos.”
He sat and blew air out of his cheeks like a balloon deflating. Staring not at them but at something only he could see, Valois slowly shook his head. “At first I too was puzzled by the anomaly. Papers identified the dead woman as a countess, and yet she was clothed in the garb of a streetwalker. I came to the same conclusion as you-she was not a countess but a courtesan.”
“What changed your mind?”
“We searched the neighborhood and found a cafe owner who identified her as a familiar customer, a frequenter of his restaurant. He said she was often seated at a table in the back with a tall, angular gentleman. The owner didn’t know their names. He called her by her first name, Elena-not done in Paris, at least among polite society, I assure you. He didn’t know the name of the gentleman, but later identified her husband as the tall, angular man in his cafe. So now I have a witness, a cafe owner who calls her by the name listed on the documents in the dead woman’s reticule.”
“Where is this cafe?”
“Cafe Odile on the Rue de Vaugirard.”
Serafina made a note of it.
“I admit it, I’m unfamiliar with Sicilian countesses. But I’ve heard of the penury of the aristocracy on your island.”
Serafina was silent for a moment. “Elena’s family is not part of the penurious aristocracy, as you put it. Her title is acquired by marriage, not inherited. And her family’s wealth comes from trade.”
“At the time of her death, I knew nothing about her or her family.”
She thought for a moment. “I’d like to see the photos and the documents and the gun.” She knew she shouldn’t have snapped at him. The man was justifying his conclusion, laying out his thinking process, more for himself, she realized, than for her benefit. She felt his confusion. She must be patient.
He walked to the window and spoke, his back to them. “And there is something else I’d hoped not to touch on. It is of a delicate nature.”
“Go on.”
“Yes, Inspector, spare us your delicacy,” Rosa said.
“The Parisian demimonde is vast and has varied tastes.” He faced them. “There are certain women, upper class women, who for whatever reason like to…”
“We know all about slumming,” Rosa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Not that we condone it. What Elena calls being a free spirit we call unacceptable behavior. But we’ve known her for a long time. We went to primary school together, to celebrations with her, attended her wedding. We’ve been watching her flaunt convention all our lives. We’ll be able to clear up this anomaly of yours if you show us the photos.”
“And we’d like to see the gun,” Serafina said.
“The gun?” he asked. There was derision in his manner.
“I know little about them, it is true. I mean the pistol found in the dead woman’s hand.”
He clamped his jaw, opened the middle drawer of his desk and reached in, searching with his hand. “I warn you, the photos are not pretty, and what you call a gun is an ordinary double-barreled pocket pistol made by an American company, Derringer. It’s kept in the evidence drawer for this case along with the contents found in the reticule. They are locked in a special room.”
“Then I’d like to see all of the evidence later, but the photos now,” Serafina said.
Chapter 10: The Exhibit
Carmela smelled varnish and oil as she entered the studio at 35 Boulevard des Capucines. She felt a hush in the space she couldn’t quite explain. Her skin prickled as she walked slowly around the room, surveying the paintings. There were so many. They made her smile and forget everything else. She thought of the courageous endurance of these artists. Rejected time and again by the Salon, Tessa told her, yet they continued with their work despite their poverty, often spending their money on paints and brushes rather than on nourishing food.
For Tessa, the experience was monumental, Carmela thought. She could feel the girl’s excitement. Even Gesuzza was interested, although she didn’t say much and stayed by Tessa’s side.
“The room explodes with color and line and movement,” Tessa said, not knowing where to look first. Her face was flushed. She ran to a painting on the far wall, then back to Carmela, grabbing her hand, the maid walking behind and trying to keep up, gesturing from one painting to another. The girl was swept up into their world, their impression of a moment, their intensity of color.