“But she wasn’t killed for the money. Six-hundred francs remained in the purse.”
“There are many reasons to kill, Madame. Her type have more reasons to kill than you and I can dream up together in a lifetime, and kill they do. Perhaps with little thought beforehand, or perhaps the killing was a long time brewing-a fantasy of their sodden brains.”
“Would her companions kill her with a derringer and feign suicide?”
“Might. Don’t forget, we try to fathom, but not with their besotted minds. They’ve become jackals.”
Serafina was silent, taking in the policeman’s words. She wished Carmela was here. She’d introduce them.
“Are you married?”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. You seem so wise for your years. I have unmarried daughters and I’d like you for a son-in-law.”
He blushed and Serafina knew she’d overstepped the mark. “Forgive me. I meant that as a compliment.”
He touched his cap and smiled.
“The body was identified as a contessa, the one whose passport was in the reticule. Identified by none other than the woman’s aunt. What do you think of that?”
“The aunt must be infirm of mind or going blind.”
She paused for a moment before asking, “No one’s reported a missing purse?”
“I wouldn’t know that, Madame.”
Serafina asked herself what she would have done if her reticule had been snatched. “Where’s the nearest gendarmerie?”
“This way, turn onto the Rue de Tournon. On your left. Can’t miss it.”
“And one more question if I might.”
“Of course, Madame.”
“Could you point me to the Cafe Odile?”
He led her to a corner cafe with a red awning and the word, Odile, written in white script. “But you don’t want to go inside, Madame.” He touched his cap and walked off into the early evening.
Before she ventured into the cafe, she located her driver, gave him a few coins, and he agreed to wait for her.
Serafina stomped into the Cafe Odile. Clouds of yellow smoke hung in the air and she looked around the crowded room, dimly lit by a few gas lamps. There were several people seated at small tables drinking an opaque liquid, a small throng of noisy customers in the back, and a crowd around the zinc bar. She stood at the door for some time until her eyes adjusted to the dimness. Then she asked the bartender if she could speak with the owner.
He stepped out from behind the counter. “Help you?” He was a tall man with a deflated balloon for a stomach that rolled over his apron. His complexion was a pasty pink.
She showed him her identification card and told him she was investigating the murder of a woman in Rue Cassette.
“Not the same one as last week? Old news.” He coughed.
She nodded. Pulling out a photo of Loffredo, she asked him if he recognized the man.
He took it and walked to the window. He squinted at the picture. After a moment he said, “Never seen him before.”
“The woman who was killed in the Rue Cassette, was she a customer?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Answer the question.”
He shrugged. “Seen her in here from time to time. A regular, I’d guess you’d say. “
“And this photo, is it of the man you saw her with?”
“Like I said, I never seen him before.”
“Then why did you tell the police you had?”
He ran a thumb over his mustache, silent, hugging a cork-lined tray to his middle, his face now mottled, his eyes cast down.
“This is a photograph of the man you told the police was the companion of the woman who was shot. Would you like to see it again?”
He coughed.
“Is that a yes or no?”
He wiped his face with a towel.
“Are you having second thoughts about your identification of him? You’ll have to testify in court and trust me, the man’s attorney will delight in making you look like a fool unless you’re absolutely sure you saw him.”
“Didn’t say I’d have to testify. Light’s dim here. Hard to tell one face from another.”
“When asked shortly after the murder, why were you so sure?”
He looked at her like she’d been born on the moon.
Serafina felt heat rise up her neck and flood her cheeks. “You were paid, weren’t you? You were paid by someone to recognize this man as Elena’s companion.”
Water beaded on his forehead. “Now I never said-”
“Who paid you?”
He shook his head and she realized she’d be there forever. She looked at her watch pin.
“No matter. A man can change his mind,” she said. “Give me pen and paper.” She sat down and wrote an account of her interview with him. Handing it back to him, she said, “Just sign this. It says you’ve thought about it, and you couldn’t swear under oath that the man you identified was in fact with Elena that night. We’ll forget any mention of bribe.”
Hunched over the zinc and rimmed with light from the streetlamp, he coughed into a handkerchief and looked at the piece of paper, turning it over, swiping at his forehead, and finally signing it.
“Like I said, I didn’t know they’d make me swear to it. Couldn’t say for sure that he’s Elena’s man. Tall, angular, all right, but not the one in that photo.”
But before she paid a call to the gendarmes, she wanted to spend more time on the Rue Cassette. One or two gates were open and Serafina peeked in at courtyards and gardens, one with a two-wheeled contraption leaning against a tree. She stopped in front of the dry cleaners, intrigued by the gown in the window.
Peering inside, she saw a light on in the back of the store so she turned the handle, but it was locked. Looking inside, Serafina saw a few garments on hangers toward the front, but what drew her into the shop was the lovely dress on a mannequin in the window, a light green watered silk like the one Carmela described Elena as having worn to the exhibit on its opening night. Odd that it would be in a shop on the street where the murdered woman’s body was found.
Serafina heard a pounding in her ears as she rapped on the door. No answer. She looked left and right, knocked again as loudly as she could and rubbed her knuckles. In a moment, a rather broad-shouldered woman lumbered into view.
Clothed in homespun and wearing a long blue apron, her sleeves rolled and a scarf tied around her head, she had a pleasant round face.
“Coming to pick up clothes, Madame?”
“Not exactly. I’m interested to learn how that dress came to be hanging in your window. I believe it’s a garment belonging to a friend, and I’ve spent the day trying to find her. I’m new to the city, as you might have guessed.” Serafina felt her eyes stinging and her throat dry from whatever substance they used in the cleaning process, and she wondered how this woman could stand breathing it all day.
“Italian?”
Serafina smiled.
“Thought so. You can tell by the R’s, at least that’s how I tell. We swallow the R’s and you roll them around your tongue,” she said. “First time here?”
Serafina told her she’d been to Paris once before, studying midwifery several years ago, but she hadn’t been back in over twenty years.
“In that case, you speak French very well.” All the while the woman spoke, she was peering into her ledger, running a finger down each page. When she found what she was looking for, she told Serafina that the garment was brought in by a M. Gaston last Thursday and that he’d promised to pick it up tomorrow. That’s why we’ve hung it in the window, showcasing it, you might say. Difficult one to clean.”
“He passes by here often?”
She nodded. “Good customer. Fastidious man. Stained pretty bad and unfortunately it was on the front of the jacket. We had to work hard on it, especially since the fabric’s so delicate, quilted and all, and a pure gold thread runs through it.”
Serafina looked at the jacket and shook her head. “I don’t see any discoloration. What made it?”