Lovers and Liars Trilogy by Sally Beauman
She dropped the syringe. Neither Rowland nor Gini spoke.
“And I don’t know where he is. I swear to you—somewhere in Paris, but I don’t know where. I saw him last night. He told me he was alone, but he—he lies a lot, and if that girl is with him, he’ll hide her. That’s what he does. You don’t need to worry too much. She’s probably okay. He’ll just give her some grass, talk to her—maybe a few pills. That’s okay—he always has good stuff. He won’t fuck her or rape her, you don’t need to worry about that…” She gave a low laugh, then stopped and opened her eyes. She was focusing now, better than before; she raised her hand to her cheek.
“Only—you’d better know this, because what she said—” She gestured at Gini. “She was right. He can get angry. He gets these bad angers, really bad, like trips. And last night—I got him a gun. He wanted a gun, he’s been wanting one for months, and he had the money and I had the contacts, so I fixed it for him. He collected it last night, just before you came knocking at the door.” She turned her face toward Gini. “It was you, right?”
“Yes, it was.” She felt Rowland tense, as she did. “What kind of gun, Chantal?”
“I don’t know. Just a gun. He told me he wanted it—I got it. He showed me some pictures, made me write down the name.”
“A handgun?” Rowland said.
“Yes. Small. Some special ammunition stuff. It’s no use looking. I wrote the name down on a piece of paper. I threw it away weeks ago. It was German—no, maybe Italian.”
“Why would he want a gun?” Rowland moved toward her. Her eyes had closed again.
“I don’t know. He likes guns. Always did. He gets off on them, just looking at pictures of them. It was expensive—I know that. Nearly four thousand francs… Serious. That’s what he said. It was a serious gun. Only then”—she swayed again—“only then—I don’t know. The TV was on in the corner while we talked—and then he suddenly got this look on his face. There’s a look he gets—in the eyes. He had it before he did this to me…” She touched the scar on her face. “So maybe, it’s not so good for that girl. I don’t know. Look—I have to lie down.”
She stumbled across the room to the bed and lay down, eyes tightly shut. Rowland looked at Gini, then bent over the bed.
“Chantal. Just try to stay awake. Can you hear me? Does he have a name, a name other than Star? What was he called when you first met him?”
He broke off and stepped back. There was the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, then the door was thrown back. The woman Gini had spoken to the previous evening came into the room, her face pale with fear. She stopped, looked at them both, then pushed past them and knelt down by the bed.
She took Chantal in her arms and began to stroke her hair, talking to her all the while in a low, crooning voice. When she swung back to look at them, there was no mistaking the love and the anger in her face. “How long did they keep her there? Those animals?”
She spoke in French, and Rowland answered her in the same language: “About an hour, maybe more,” he said.
The woman burst into a stream of angry accusations, directed at the police, them, the world.
“Jeanne, wait.” Chantal attempted to sit up, then fell back. “He’s okay. He helped me. I can’t talk. They need to know about Star. Just tell them his name, explain, all right?”
She closed her eyes again and seemed to drift off into some state close to sleep. The woman called Jeanne rose. In heavily accented English she spat out her explanation.
Star was to blame for all this. It was he who first got Chantal on to heroin, he who ruined her face. And Star was just one of his names—the latest he’d selected and the one he now liked the best. He had numerous surnames she could offer them, she said with scorn in her voice: Lamont, Lacroix, Newman, D’Amico, Rivière, Adams, Dumas—they could take their pick. When it came to first names they had a choice of two. He occasionally used the English version of his name, but he preferred the French. This past year he’d been claiming it was his true name, the name on his birth certificate—she doubted he had such a thing, but for what it was worth, the name was Christophe.
Chapter 17
OUTSIDE, IN THE DAMP air and the gathering dusk, standing in the doorway of the St. Séverin church with the gargoyles arching above their heads, Rowland said, “I need a drink. You need a drink. Don’t argue.”
He walked her, fast, toward the Sorbonne, then turned off the boulevard St. Michel into a quiet street and into a small, old-fashioned bistro, almost empty; they were given a booth with high-backed seats, so they were enclosed as if in the cabin of a ship. There was a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, with a white paper one placed diagonally over it: two knives and forks, two ordinary glasses for wine. Rowland ordered brandies, and when Gini hesitated, made her drink. He watched her; for the first time that day, some of the tension left her body, and faint color returned to her face.
Her face seemed so lovely to him, he found he had to turn away, study the menu, consult with her, with the short, plump patron, anything to wrench his attention away from her mouth, from the mauve bruising across her cheekbone, and from the flare of her eyes, her wide-spaced, expressive, and very beautiful eyes which seemed to him to ask an unspoken question yet fear his possible response.
He ordered the food. Work, he thought: if he could just keep the conversation on their work. He began speaking, and she began speaking—both at once.
Rowland smiled, hesitated, then leaned back.
“You first.”
“Nothing—I was just going to say—you were very good with Chantal. She liked you—insofar as she’s capable of liking a man. Did you realize that?”
“No.” Rowland shrugged. “It seemed to me I was getting nowhere with her. Every question blocked.”
“No. You’re wrong. You were patient, and quiet—and polite. She was grateful for that. Maybe it doesn’t happen to her too often. Maybe—” Her eyes flickered up to his face.
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe she liked your appearance. I imagine you’re used to that.”
Rowland leaned forward.
“Shall I tell you what made her decide to talk? It wasn’t me or what I said. It wasn’t even because she needed a fix desperately. I was watching her, and I know precisely the second when she decided.”
“When we showed her the photographs?”
“No.” Rowland looked at her, touched that she did not realize. “No. You used a particular phrase. It touched an immediate chord. Maybe you hit on something Star had actually said to her, maybe not—either way, it went straight to the heart.” He paused. “You asked her if she believed she was the constant in his life.”
Color washed into her cheeks. “Are you sure?”
“I’m absolutely sure. In any interview, any conversation like that, there’s always one moment when the questioner breaks through. That was it. What made you hit on that phrase?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me. We knew she was different from the other girls—she was older, for one thing. She’d known Star for some time, Mitchell said that. And I just began to wonder—if that was how she saw her role in Star’s life. It’s something women like…”
“Is it?”
“Of course.” She looked away. “Women are more monogamous than men. So they find ways of excusing their men when they stray. Being told they’re somehow in a different category, believing they’re in a different category, a more permanent, a more serious category—that’s one of women’s protective mechanisms. I’ve seen it often enough.” She hesitated, and a reticence Rowland was beginning to realize was very characteristic of her masked her face.
“Anyway”—she took a sip of her brandy—“I’m sure of one thing.”
“Anneke was not writing to Star care of Chantal? I agree. I also thought that.”
“In which case—we’re back to the beginning again. We have a clutch of false surnames, a first name that may or may not be genuine. We know Star has a gun, which makes t
“No. We know more than that. We know something interesting, and curious too…” Rowland fell silent as the owner of the restaurant returned and began to ply them with food: freshly baked bread, salads, pommes frites, and two omelettes the man said were made with wild mushrooms, and his own hens’ freshly laid eggs.
Rowland smiled at this very French perfectionism; he waited until the proprietor left them, then leaned forward. As if trying to appear hungry, Gini began to eat.
“We know more than we thought,” Rowland went on. “This was staring us in the face yesterday. Think. Maria Cazarès died yesterday afternoon, at the apartment of her retired maid. Right?”
“The apartment in the Faubourg St. Germain area, sure. We discussed that. I know the district. I even know the street…”
“You do?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Pascal Lamartine’s ex-wife lives on that street now. It’s her new husband’s apartment. I went there twice, last year, to pick up Pascal’s daughter, Marianne. It’s a very fashionable neighborhood.”
She looked away, then continued to eat. She had set herself a test, Rowland thought, to see whether she could mention Lamartine’s name without any show of emotion—and she had almost succeeded, though not quite. Better not to inquire, he thought, better to let it pass, although he noted the fact that while Lamartine’s ex-wife had remarried, Lamartine had not.
“We also know,” he went on, “that it was close to that apartment, yesterday afternoon, that there was a sighting of Mina Landis and Star.”
“Yes. At about two P.M. We also discussed that.”
“But what we didn’t discuss was whether that was coincidence—or something more. At that point, we got—distracted, as I remember.”
“Rowland—”
“Very well. But we did.” He looked at her seriously. “In fact, the maid’s name wasn’t mentioned on those TV news bulletins. It was mentioned in the newspapers this morning, however. Her name is Mathilde Duval. Does that help? Now do you begin to see?”
“Oh my God.” She dropped her fork with a little clatter, and stared at him. “Anneke’s address book. Those seven girls’ names I wrote out. There was a Mathilde.”
“Exactly. A Mathilde Duval, at the address, the same address, where Maria Cazarès died yesterday afternoon. I think that’s where Anneke was writing to Star, not care of Chantal. Maybe he also gave her Chantal’s address, as a backup, a failsafe, I don’t know—but there’s definitely a connection between Star and Mathilde Duval.”
“Who isn’t a girl at all. Who’s an elderly woman—damn, how stupid I am.”
“—And since the conversation with Chantal, I’m certain there’s a connection. I brought Anneke’s address book with me. Look at this.”
He drew it out of his overcoat pocket, then passed it across the table. Gini turned to the entry for Mathilde Duval. The entire page was scattered with little hieroglyphs and scribbles. Very faint, next to Mathilde’s name, was a tiny crucifix shape.
“Christopher,” Rowland said. “Christophe. It means Christ-bearing. Anneke knew Star’s other name, which might be his real name, and she made a little sign for it, next to the address to which she wrote to him. I’m certain of it, Gini. And you see what this suggests?”
“That if Star knew Maria Cazarès’s maid, he could also have known Maria Cazarès herself? Rowland—you think so?”
“I do. I think he was visiting the maid yesterday, and that’s when he and Mina were seen—probably when they were leaving. And within two hours of his leaving, Maria Cazarès was there too. There’s some connection here between Star and Maria Cazarès, between Star and Jean Lazare. First, Star is obtaining White Doves from the same source as Lazare. Second, he chooses to be in Paris, where they are both based. Third, he has some connection with a maid to whom Cazarès was devoted, whom she visited frequently. And that connection is of some duration, Gini. If we’re correct, and Anneke was writing to Star care of Mathilde, we can even date it. Their connection must go back to last March at least.” He paused. “Now, all these details could just be coincidences, but I think not.”
Gini was watching him and listening intently. He could see her mind start to race.
“Rowland—you don’t think? It couldn’t be—”
“That Star is the missing child in Lindsay’s New Orleans story? I’m ashamed to say it did occur to me, yes. Almost as soon as Lindsay told me the story. So, for what it’s worth, I got in touch with the Correspondent’s Miami stringer yesterday. He’s gone to New Orleans to do some checking. It’s also why I wanted you to ask Anneke’s mother if Star could have been American, or had American connections.”
“And has the stringer come up with anything?”
“Not so far, no. He’s in search of a last name, mainly. He was going to try that convent, and the Grants. But it’s nearly thirty years ago, and I’m not optimistic that he’ll have much success.”
“You said—ashamed? Rowland, there is some connection, you admit that. And Star is around the right age. He’s black-haired, like Cazarès and Lazare. He has the right kind of past history—foster homes, children’s homes—or so Chantal said.”
“I know. He has vaguely the right qualifications—and so have thousands of other men. No, Gini. It’s too neatly convenient, and it’s too damn far-fetched.”
“Far-fetched things do happen. Open any newspaper any day of the week—they’re full of far-fetched stories. Besides, is it that unlikely? Suppose Star was their child, and suppose he was fostered out or put in a home shortly after birth—he would have the right to be given his parents’ names when he reached a certain age. He could have tried to trace them.” She paused, then shook her head. “No. You’re right. It doesn’t stand up. How could he have traced them? Lazare and Cazarès have been very careful to cover their tracks.”
“I agree.” Rowland shrugged. “Even so—I thought it was at least worth instigating some inquiries. But I don’t seriously believe that is the connection between Lazare and Cazarès and Star. I wouldn’t even have considered it, but at the time—I’d had two nights with very little sleep. I was thinking of Cassandra, and I couldn’t forget the way I found her, how she looked…” He glanced away. “For that, and other reasons, my judgment was impaired, and I’m well aware of that.”
“What other reasons?”
“Work. Pressures of work. I’m still coming to terms with a relatively new job—a desk job, which is something I’ve never done before, something Max talked me into.” He hesitated, then turned back to face her. “Coming to terms with other changes in my life. And resisting them, of course.”
For a moment he thought she had picked up his inference; then he realized she had not. But something he had said had made her suddenly thoughtful. She picked up her fork again, then put it down. She had eaten only half her food. She pushed it aside with a gesture of apology, then seemed to forget it. She raised her eyes to his.
“Do people resist change? You think they do? Why, Rowland? Because they’re afraid?”
“Perhaps it’s fear. Change can be for the bad as well as the good,” he said in a guarded way. “So they cling to the known. Avoid the possible abyss.”
“Do you think—do people resist change in others, or just in themselves?”
He could see the importance of this question to her: “Yes, I do,” he said quietly. “In themselves, and in others. Both.”
“Why? Why do they do that?”
“Gini, for a hundred reasons—you know that. Because of the unpredictability of change. Because change can seem like betrayal, a treachery to people’s former selves.” He broke off, and Gini could see that he had suddenly brought himself up close to some experience painful to him. She saw the decision not to discuss it, or impart it, mask his face. “It’s pointless to resist,” he went on, after a while, in a quiet voice. “If the change involved is deep—not frivolous, superficial—I?
There was a silence. She bent her head. She moved her knife one inch, then moved it back.
“And you think it can be rapid?” she said.
“Oh, I think it can be astonishingly fast. I think it can happen in the middle of a sentence, halfway through a meal, walking along a street. I think it can happen between falling asleep and waking the next morning.” His voice became dry. “No doubt it’s been approaching for some while, creeping up on you in a stealthy way—until finally you permit yourself to admit capture. Then it’s irremediable, of course.”
“You’re sure?”
Rowland could see that she was following a train of thought separate from his own. He had just spoken to her with a frankness he had not used in six years, and yet she had missed his meaning. He wondered if that was intentional, then saw it was not. He considered being more overt, then rejected that option as a form of trespass.
“Is it? Is it irremediable?” She was now leaning toward him, her eyes bright, her face tense with entreaty.
Rowland sighed: “I would say so,” he replied. “Gini—that particular clock can’t be wound back.”
He sensed her draw away; he saw her begin to reach for her scarf and her coat. He signaled for the bill. She had recovered her composure and was trying to appear businesslike. Rowland watched her tie the shamrock-green scarf around her throat. He reached across the table, touched her hand, then withdrew his.
“So what do you want to do now, Gini? Go on? Stop? Rest?”
“Go on.” She picked up her bag. “We’ll go to Mathilde’s next. Okay?”
“It’s what I would suggest. If you’d prefer to go back to the hotel—they did find a room for you… I could go to Mathilde’s. You look tired, Gini.”