Serafina told him about the maid from another apartment.
“So you had quite a busy night.”
“Are Elena’s clothes still there?”
Valois shrugged. “Her wardrobe seemed barren for a woman of fashion. Just a few garments hanging in a closet in her bedroom. Heavy winter clothing, a cape, some heavy brocade evening gowns. But either the apartment’s manager or the Busacca family will have much to clean up, not the least of which is the amount of blood in one of the beds-”
“The bed where the maid gave birth,” Serafina said.
Valois smoothed his coat. “And your blood spilled all over an Aubusson carpet in the ladies’ parlor. You know how to leave tracks.”
“And you’ve uncovered what?”
“Nothing yet. Arcangelo and Teo are sifting through the papers.”
“What about the kitten?”
“For now, I’ve given him a home.”
“The maid said she had an arrangement with Elena to take care of the kitten while she was gone,” Serafina said.
“When was the last time she saw her? When did she say she’d return?” Rosa asked.
“The maid was in labor,” Serafina said. “Hard to get straight answers.” A euphemism for she didn’t remember the maid’s answer. Last week, maybe. She’d expected to hear something else from Valois, a stiff scolding at least, and marveled at his transformation, at least in her mind. She told Rosa to go through the pockets of her dress and bring her the contents.
“I’m afraid your dress is unusable, I think the hospital disposed of it.”
Serafina tried to sit, but couldn’t manage it. “But I stuffed papers in the pocket, Elena’s little book filled with writing, perhaps a diary or journal, along with many addresses. It contained information about her friends, I think-I only glanced at a few of the pages. And I also found envelopes bearing an address in… Arles, I believe. Loffredo would know. Her husband has information. If she’s alive, he shouldn’t languish in prison, surely.” She felt the madam’s pinch.
“That hurt!”
Rosa’s eyes dug into hers. “Valois and I are taking care of Loffredo. He’s the least of your worries.”
A brother brought in some chairs. “Ten minutes more. She needs rest.”
“She needs a good scolding,” Carmela said. “She’s messed up this investigation.”
Valois took the brother aside and spoke to him.
“What about Loffredo?” Serafina asked again. “Please. He may have information we need.”
Rosa said something and Valois nodded, but the madam spoke so softly that she had trouble hearing.
In a while Serafina awoke. Carmela and Rosa stood by the bed.
“You’ve slept almost twenty-four hours.”
Her tongue felt like sawdust. With help, she sat up and ate a bowl of soup, hot and delicious. She had to hand it to the French. Even their hospital cuisine was inventive. Her head reeled, but she kept the broth down and in a few minutes, felt much better.
“Why did you pinch me?” Serafina asked.
“You started mumbling about Loffredo and weren’t yourself. I was afraid you would say too much in front of Valois.”
Serafina nodded.
“I showed the cafe owner’s statement to Valois who had trouble believing him-you know how men are when they don’t do something themselves. But he did give me access to Loffredo. He’s in Prison de Mazas and I saw him two days ago and told him not to worry. He should be out soon. I told him you were up to your old tricks.” Rosa dried her eyes with a linen. “He sends you his love.”
A nurse poked her head into the room, and in a moment reappeared with two doctors who jabbed around doing their doctorly thing and grunting in unintelligible French. In the end they told her she was “ bon.”
Giulia brought her a change of clothes, fresh undergarments and several silk blouses created in a strange design, but one she could wear over the bandages which held her back stiff and her left arm in place.
“I’m leaving today?”
“Yes, but you must agree to stay in the hotel. The care there will be much better. We’ve arranged for policemen to guard your room so you can’t go off on your own again. This evening Inspector Valois will return to the hotel and the investigation can resume.”
“I can’t leave looking like this. Bad enough Valois saw me.”
“And don’t forget the two magnificent looking men who guard your door,” Rosa said.
“My hair is a snarled nightmare. I need someone to work miracles.”
A nun came in wagging her cornette. She produced a scissors and waved it in the air. Menacing shadows crossed her face. “I’ll cut it all off, shall I? And lend you a headdress?”
Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois
The hospital retrieved the book and papers found in Serafina’s pockets, bloody but readable. They were written in the bitten-off Italian they spoke in Oltramari, she told him. She doubted that Valois’ translators would make sense of it, but she promised to share any useful information.
Gesuzza rouged and powdered Serafina’s face and combed out her knots while Rosa threatened her if she made a fuss during the ordeal. When she looked in the glass, she saw a remarkable transformation, her complexion not quite so pale, her coiffure not exactly in the latest French style, but presentable, and she was released from the hospital, expressing her gratitude to the staff for their care. She arrived at the hotel in time to see the sun bathe Paris in crimson and gold.
After the evening meal, waiters set up a large round table in Serafina’s suite. A chambermaid fluffed the pillows, lit the jets and lamps, and opened some of the windows leading out to the balcony. The staff seemed glad she had returned, sound and in good spirits.
“Here I sit in Paris and I’m too ill or too busy to enjoy its magnificence.”
“You sound like Nicchia,” Rosa said. “Your disposition is a horror when you’re well, even worse when you’re sick. No one feels sorry for you. You’ve brought this on yourself, so grow up.” The madam patted her black curls.
Serafina smiled.
“Who is Nicchia?” Teo asked.
“The Countess of Castiglione, mistress to many, including Napoleon III. A beauty in her day, but she lost her looks by debauching herself all over Europe. Now she sits alone in her apartment off the Place Vendome like spoiled fruit. She’s draped all the mirrors in black and admits no one except for photographers, of course.”
Carmela played with a pencil. “Sounds like Elena. I wouldn’t be surprised if she arranged her own death.”
“It fits,” Serafina said. She glared at Rosa. “She could have hired the shadows who follow us. She could have arranged for her reticule to be stolen and the woman shot.”
“How does one arrange for a purse to be stolen?” Rosa asked.
“I wouldn’t know for sure. The wealthy have their ways.”
“Your fantasy runs away with you,” Rosa said.
“Perhaps, but let’s not reject it out of hand.”
“The most plausible explanation is that Elena was the woman in the Rue Cassette,” Rosa said.
Serafina’s shoulder throbbed. “Not true. We have it from her latest lover’s lips-Elena was not the dead woman in the Rue Cassette.” She must keep an open mind, she told herself.
“No, really. I know you’ve doubted her death from the beginning. Tell me why,” Rosa said, turning to face Serafina. “Truly. Let’s think it through to the end and slay this dragon.” The madam looked like a stuffed owl. “Is it that you don’t believe in the God of happy endings?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Or do you think she planned it? So here it is, Elena disappears by staging her death as a murder so that the main suspect is Loffredo, a coup de grace to undo the fetters from her past and at the same time get rid of her husband to say nothing of squelching your love affair with him since he’ll either be guillotined or languish in prison.”