Serafina’s shoulder had stopped its drumming. Teo’s face was red. Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves and Carmela hid a smile. Gesuzza looked down at her sewing and Tessa looked at them all, a thick blush on her cheeks.
Rosa continued. “It’s balderdash, this theory of yours that Elena contrived her own death. If so, to what end? How long do you think she can stay away from the Paris she loves? And if the case comes to court, as eventually it must, the details of her sordid life will be aired in public to the delight of the press.”
“You’ve got a point,” Carmela said.
“And who helped her-the aging Sophie who can barely move? Her nephews?”
Serafina shook her head. “Perhaps, but not Ricci.”
“Because you fancy him?”
“Nonsense!”
The madam continued with her theory. “And as for Loffredo languishing in prison, we’re working on his release.”
Arcangelo and Teo nodded.
“So there goes part of your theory,” the madam persisted. “Face it, Elena’s dead. She was slumming-always a danger, even in the respectable part of Paris-and someone killed her.”
“What’s slumming?” Teo asked.
“I knew it,” Serafina said. “Explain yourself.”
While Rosa talked, Serafina half listened. She didn’t have the strength to stop her. But she was beginning to get a sense of the real instigator. She was about to offer another explanation when a knock interrupted them.
Valois entered, dapper as ever and with a sharpened glint in his eye. Probably had his ear to the door for the last five minutes.
After they greeted him, Rosa pulled the cord and ordered more coffee and sweets.
Serafina opened her notebook and began. “Let’s start with what we know.”
Everyone was silent until Teo spoke. “Two men have been following Donna Fina ever since she met with Levi Busacca in Oltramari. They followed us to Marseille and they follow us in Paris. When we corner them, they tell us it’s for our own good-they protect us.”
Valois wrote in his notebook. “They agreed to speak with you? How so?”
They told Valois about the incident in front of the Gare-St. Charles in Marseille, describing the men’s appearance and speech.
“This afternoon we talked to them on the Boulevard des Capucines,” Tessa said. “Again they refused to tell us why they follow us, only that it’s for our protection.”
“What else do we know about them?” Serafina asked, her shoulder beginning to feel like the raw meat it was. Shooting stars appeared in her vision. She had refused all palliatives at the hospital, afraid of their addictive nature ever since Loffredo had explained the danger of opium and its derivatives to her.
“I think I may have recognized one today. He works for the don in Oltramari.”
Valois frowned, but said nothing.
“They stole the photos from Inspector Valois and shot Donna Fina,” Arcangelo said.
“Careful,” Valois said and shook his head. “We know photos and plates are missing. We don’t know who stole them. But there probably is a connection between the theft, the shooting of the woman in the Rue Cassette, and the shooting in Elena’s apartment, and these two men might be responsible. At least it’s worth questioning them.” He scribbled in his black book.
Serafina listened, but made no comment.
Valois continued. “We found a cartridge a few meters from the body on the Rue Cassette. A careful killer would have destroyed it, however we believe this killer was smart but inexperienced. He had enough cunning to place the gun in the slain woman’s hand, but not enough wit to know that she was right-handed and would not have attempted to shoot herself in the left temple with her left hand.”
“But we can speculate that the thefts and shootings are connected,” Arcangelo said.
“Precisely. Right now, we are dealing only with the knowns, but since you drew it to my attention, questioning these men is something I’ve added to my list,” Valois said, writing in his book. “Good work.”
Serafina saw the satisfaction on Arcangelo’s face. Alphonse Valois had taken both young men under his wing. She nodded slowly to herself, wondering what had caused the inspector to change.
Their meeting went on like this, labored, slow. Her body was stiff. Her temples throbbed, but she sat expressionless and still during the exercise, uncomplaining, writing in and consulting her notebook. She made a list of all the knowns surrounding the murder in the Rue Cassette. The murder itself, the attack in Elena’s apartment, being followed, and the theft of the photos and plates. More important, Serafina and Valois together would decide the course of action they’d take in order to solve the mystery of the woman’s death and bring whoever was responsible to justice.
Once again they covered what they knew of the murder, autopsy, and burial.
“Is there a way to determine the dead woman’s identity, other than through exhumation?” Serafina said. Before Valois replied, Carmela asked, “Was the dead woman with child?” She explained the reason for her question.
“The doctor said nothing to me about the condition of the body’s internal organs, but I have re-opened the case based on the attempt to kill Madame Florio two nights ago.”
“Why did her friends say she was pregnant?” Rosa asked.
“Elena told her so.”
“Could be Elena’s fantasy, nothing more.”
Serafina said nothing.
“We know the woman, given to fabrication.”
Valois seemed uncomfortable. “If and when I feel it necessary to request an order of exhumation, I will tell you.”
“But we’d like to work with you,” Serafina said.
He nodded. “Of course.”
She doubted it. “I know you think we’re a nuisance.”
Valois stroked his lapel. “Not at all. But we’re not finished with the knowns, are we?”
“Almost finished. Just the attack in Elena’s apartment the other night. We’ve covered the theft of the photographs and plates.”
There was a knock on the door and waiters brought two carts, one with tea and coffee, the other with a tray of profiteroles, a silver bowl of lemon sorbet, individual apple tarts, marron glace, and gateau chocolat, and a bowl of creme fraiche.
Rosa served while Serafina talked. “I’ll have the marron glace with creme fraiche, a profiterole, and a latte, please.”
“Feeling better?”
Serafina nodded.
“Someone summarize the attack?” Valois asked.
“I was shot two nights ago in Elena’s apartment. Approximate time, eleven-thirty. It was dark, one or two gas jets on low. I had taken an address book and some envelopes from the middle drawer of the desk in the ladies’ parlor. The bullet, lodged in my trapezius, was recovered during the operation.”
Arcangelo handed Tessa a tart and smiled. He took three profiteroles for himself. Teo chose some of everything, and Carmela declined dessert, but accepted a latte.
Valois held up a piece of metal. “The surgeon gave me this bullet from Madame Florio’s shoulder. Please observe, it is similar to the one found in the dead woman’s mouth.”
“Shot from the same gun?” Teo asked. His mouth was ringed with chocolate cake and creme fraiche.
Valois shook his head, taking the last bite of sorbet and swallowing his tea. “Our expert in firearms compared the two. He said they came from the same type of gun, perhaps from a matched pair although he couldn’t say for sure, just that the markings on the two bullets are similar and definitely from the same model, a Remington 95. It’s a Derringer double-barreled pistol, small enough to be concealed in a man’s pocket. Might I try the gateau?” he asked.
“Or in a woman’s purse,” Rosa said, cutting a piece of cake for the inspector.
Serafina felt privileged to be working with the French. They were experts in ballistic investigation going back to the beginning of the century
“That reminds me,” she said, turning to Valois, “I didn’t tell you about my visit to the Rue Cassette late Wednesday afternoon.” She told him about meeting the policeman who found the dead woman. “And I spent an hour interviewing Elena’s latest lover, Etienne Gaston.” She gave Valois his address and related Etienne’s account of the evening he and Elena spent together after the opening April 15, telling Valois that Gaston saw the dead woman in the street shortly after she was shot and claimed she had a much smaller frame than Elena. “He said it most certainly was not Elena.”