“Her address on the Rue de Passy. Different from the one on her passport,” Valois said.
“Does she have future appointments?”
“Twice a month until November.”
Serafina composed an advertisement for the prominent daily newspapers- Le Figaro, Le Gaulois, Le Petit Journa l, La Presse, Le Siecle, Le Temps, et L’Univers. It offered a reward for information that led to the present location of Elena Loffredo nee Busacca. While Serafina was convinced that one or two of Elena’s closest friends knew where she was hiding, pinning them down had proven impossible.
At the risk of disturbing Dr. Tarnier again, Loffredo wished to speak with him. He returned within the hour.
“There can be no doubt. Elena Loffredo is with child and alive, at least she was alive on the afternoon of the 16 ^ th,” he said. “The signature is unmistakably hers. She signed documents on April 9 and on April 16.”
“And did you find out why she chose to see a doctor instead of a midwife?” Rosa asked.
Loffredo looked at his feet. “I’d rather not say.”
They were silent and Rosa rang for cafe and sweets.
Chapter 25: A Visit with Sophie de Masson
They sat in the parlor, Serafina next to the fringed lamp, Loffredo closer to Valois, Rosa on his other side. An overstuffed wing chair on the other side of the fringed lamp stood empty, waiting for Sophie de Masson to arrive.
Serafina stared at a square of sunlight on the slightly worn carpet beneath her feet and slid her eyes to Loffredo who sat still and at peace. He must have felt her eyes on him for he smiled, glancing quickly at Valois who cleared his throat. Serafina curled her toes, warming them. Her boots creaked and Rosa shot her a look. The madam folded her hands in her lap, her face inscrutable, her hat slightly forward and angled to one side, the way Carmela had placed it on her head that morning.
As on their previous visit, the butler entered and apologized for the delay, slicking the side of his pomaded hair and glancing at Rosa. He was followed by a maid who poured tea from a porcelain pot, offering them dainty tarts and chocolate bits arranged just so in that stiff way of the French-some of them, Serafina corrected herself. Steam rose from china cups, swirling in rays of sun. She occupied her mind with the play of dark and light. While they ate their tarts, the others talked of the weather. It was warm for April, Valois assured them. His remark was followed by silence except for the jingle of spoons and the distant sounds of the street. Serafina wiped her mouth with stark white linen.
“Jesse James was married Friday, I read in Le Figaro,” Valois said, and put down his cup, rattling it against the saucer.
“Who?” Rosa asked.
“A North American. He robs trains and banks,” Valois said. “Notorious but well-loved by the people.”
“Many in our town leave for the new world, and I fear for them,” Loffredo said.
Serafina wished she spoke French as well as he. “I think it’s a mistake, their going to the Americas, the North, especially-such a lawless land.”
“Not all,” Valois said. “New York is safe, and one can make a good living there. It is the west that is full of bandits, like your country. The James gang, for instance. But now the Pinkerton Agency is after them. They learned detecting from us, you know.” He beamed.
“Everyone learned detecting from you,” Serafina said. She smiled. And as for New York, she wasn’t about to disabuse Valois of his misconception, but she knew otherwise. The immigrant neighborhoods were ripe grounds for the picking, and men like the don were at the ready.
“Mark me, they’ll find him.”
“No doubt. And we’ll get to the bottom of this mystery,” Serafina said, looking at a tear in the wallpaper. Her tea was untouched, her stomach doing somersaults. She suspected Sophie kept them waiting on purpose, and her mind left the conversation about the bank robber and the Americas, focusing instead on Elena and where she could be and who was helping to hide her. Would Sophie reject their claims as preposterous or be contrite and admit her folly in identifying the dead woman as her niece? Was it a mistake on her part or willful obfuscation to identify that poor prostitute as her niece, and if so, why?
The patch of sun had moved to another spot in the carpet when Sophie entered the room, this time in black bombazine and on the arm of her lady’s maid. Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances while the men rose. Instead of greeting each one of her guests, she nodded around the room while she moved her mouth from one side to the other as if chewing her thoughts.
After the servants departed, Valois began to speak. Serafina watched Sophie’s face for her reaction.
“New evidence has arisen concerning the woman slain on the Rue Cassette,” the inspector said. “We think she was a woman of the streets, not your niece. The proof is strong enough to warrant exhumation of the body.”
Sophie let out an involuntary shudder and moved in her seat, looking not at Valois or anyone else in the room. Her right hand began to tremble and she quickly grabbed the arm of her chair.
“This cannot be. My eyes fail me, that is true. There is a hole in the center of my vision and it grows, but with this loss, my other senses have been heightened. I know my niece. I touched her face. It was Elena I identified in the morgue, and I stand by it.”
“How did you know it was she?” Loffredo asked.
“I know my niece. I keep in contact with her. Unlike you, I care for her. I give her the support of a family who loves her, despite her unusual behavior. It was the shape of her head, the side of her face, the color of hair, the scent she wore, that above all, her perfume. I’d recognize it anywhere, even in that pathetic morgue.”
Loffredo squared his shoulders. “Elena has a reaction to perfume. She doesn’t use it, never has.”
Flustered, Sophie lashed out at him. “You’re a poor excuse for a husband. It was because you couldn’t fulfill your duty that she traveled to Paris and sought the company of other men. And when you decided, finally, that you wanted her home, when you could no longer have the young women you so desire, you came to Paris to bring her back. And when she wouldn’t return to that sordid country of yours, you killed her.”
Loffredo sat unmoving. He stared at Sophie, his gaze unwavering. Serafina wanted to get up and slap her, and she could have, too. She wanted to rip her elaborate coiffure to shreds, but gathering strength from Loffredo’s reaction, she stirred once and stole a glance at Rosa whose face was flushed as she looked down.
“Elena has a birthmark beneath her right ear. Did you see it?”
Sophie turned to Valois. “Why do you persist in this folly?”
The inspector was calm. “Because we have proof that Elena Loffredo was alive some twelve hours after the woman you identified as your niece was murdered in the Rue Cassette, and I suggest you do not fight the order of exhumation. It will look like you have something to hide.”
“You, sir, are not my attorney.” She rang the bell.
“A valid point.” Valois ran a hand down his lapel. “But I suggest you consult with him. Right now you have four witnesses to your defamatory remarks. Persist, Madame, and I will take you in for questioning.”
When the butler arrived, Loffredo took his top hat and gloves from the servant.
Valois grabbed his chapeau melon. He nodded to Rosa and Serafina. “For now we are finished.”
Chapter 26: Brasserie Bofinger
“I can smell Bofinger from here.” Rosa turned to Valois. “Dine with us as our guest.”
Serafina felt Loffredo’s hand on her back, warming her as he helped her across the street, guiding her to the small Alsatian brasserie. She smiled up at Loffredo and for a second, wrapped her good arm around his waist. “We need to talk,” Serafina said. “Will it be private enough for us?
“I think so, it’s a small bistro, but the food is excellent and they serve all kinds of sausage and meats, fish, seafood, sauerkraut,” Valois said, “and they have the best beer in the city. We need a break from that horrid woman.”