“Is that wise?”
“Probably not. But we all have to take risks sometimes, and this is one I can’t resist. We can put this one to good use, though. The police have had their suspicions of you, am I right?”
Rocco nodded. For some reason he felt thirteen again, listening to his leader with mingled resentment and respect. He sat very still, waiting for Marc to make his plans, to give him his orders.
“Well, we must make sure that Madame Langlois meets her fate at a time when you are very well, and publicly accounted for. It should make the police livid.” Bonnard laughed softly, and the sound ran like a razor across Rocco’s backbone.
“The man in charge of the investigation is Louis Malgreave,” Rocco mumbled, despising himself. “He’s a fool, of course, but not as big a fool as most.”
“He hasn’t caught us yet,” Marc pointed out gently. He looked upward, at the gray, drizzling sky. “We’re due for more rain, are we not?”
“Something more than this stupid gray piss?” Rocco said. “So I hear. Tomorrow and the day after.”
“All right. The first rainy day. At five-thirty in the afternoon, I think. By that time my darling little stepdaughter will be home, and Harriette will be all alone. I’ll take care of the old lady, making enough noise when I leave so that she’ll be found immediately. In the meantime, you might choose that time to make a little visit to Malgreave. Take your lawyer with you, and demand he stop harassing you. It should be very effective.” Bonnard’s beautiful face shone with delicious anticipation.
“How can you be sure the old bitch won’t leave something incriminating? She thinks she’ll be able to frame you.”
“She never was a match for me, and she never will be. It was stupid of her to even think she could attempt it. Never fear, old friend. By the end of the next rainy day Harriette Langlois will be dead and we will both have perfect alibis.”
And without hesitation Rocco had believed him.
He sat in the café, staring into the coffee cup. The rain was supposed to start later that morning. Today would be the day—Bonnard had never been one for procrastinating. It would serve them both well, Rocco had to admit it, and it would drive Malgreave utterly crazy.
Still and all, old habits died hard. The moment he came within his sphere he was an underling once more, a skinny pickpocket from the streets of Paris in awe of the upper classes. And he didn’t like that feeling, not one tiny bit.
With any luck at all he’d never have to meet with him again. Once more he had to admit that Marc had been right, and the rules he had laid down twenty years ago had been wise ones. They should never meet. Better to go their own ways, without having any contact with each other, any the police could trace.
For Rocco’s sense of well-being, he was more than happy to keep that covenant from now on. As far as he was concerned he would be happy never to see Marc again. He hadn’t deferred to anyone for years, and now he was feeling like an adolescent again, awed by a boy younger and weaker than he was. Not anymore. He didn’t like the feeling, and he had no intention of letting Marc gain power over him again. He’d kill him first, and break the chain of dependence.
The more he thought about it the calmer he felt. That was exactly what he would do. As long as Bonnard kept away from him things would be fine. Otherwise Bonnard would simply join Achilles and the Spaniard in the limitless repository of the Seine.
Twenty-four hours for a new American Express card. Three to five days for a new passport. Claire was back out on the damp streets in less than an hour, her pleas and anguished demands going for nothing. Finally she gave up, accepting defeat at the hands of the State Department and James Donner for the time being. At least the wheels had started turning. Maybe there was some way it could be expedited, some way she hadn’t yet discovered. There was no way on earth she could sit in that apartment for three days, waiting for Marc to come back.
It was raining again. According to Donner’s secretary it was going to rain for the rest of the week. And Claire knew if she didn’t get out soon she’d go absolutely mad.
At least she’d arranged for Nicole to stay longer with her grandmother today. While the old lady might have paranoid delusions, anything was better than the haunted apartment. She would go pick Nicole up herself after six today, and they’d eat dinner at a bistro instead of cooking. She might even drag Nicole to an English-language movie on the pretext of improving her vocabulary. That is, if she could find one suitable for a nine-year-old.
One more night in the apartment. Tomorrow she’d have the new American Express card, and they’d start making the rounds of hotels, moving every couple of days so Marc wouldn’t be able to find them.
Tomorrow, when Claire felt more able to face it, she would tell Madame Langlois what she had planned. The old woman might even have Nicole’s passport. If she didn’t, she would know how to get a new one. With the number of bureaucrats working in Paris they would doubtless be able to get it faster than Claire’s.
One more night. Surely they could all survive that long?
CHAPTER 13
Typewriter keyboards were made for smaller fingers, Tom thought, staring down at the X’ed-out mess in front of him. How in the hell did Hemingway, not to mention Thomas Wolfe, manage to control one of these tiny keyboards without his fingers getting stuck?
Maybe he didn’t. Tom pushed back from the table in disgust. The room was dark and gloomy on such a rainy day, and he couldn’t concentrate. It was no wonder. Bonnard’s apartment had been deserted—no ghostly images at either the second- or third-floor windows, no answer to his insistent pounding on the doors on both floors, no answers to his telephone calls when he gave up and went back to his apartment. For a moment he allowed himself the macabre fantasy of Claire lying bruised and bleeding behind one of those heavy doors, and then he dismissed the notion. Claire was right—Bonnard wasn’t the violent type. Was he?
Tom shook his head, trying to wipe the grisly image from his mind. The sooner he faced life and his own limitations, the sooner he returned to New York and reality, the better. He’d take with him the memory of two years spent chasing rainbows, a time when he’d indulged every creative whim that had passed his way. That memory should help him through a life devoted to more prosaic matters.
Of course he could take something else back from Paris besides memories and uncomfortable self-knowledge. He could take Claire MacIntyre. And he had every intention of doing his damnedest to ensure that happened.
He got up and crossed the room, restless, edgy, uncertain, ending up by the rain-streaked skylight. It was no wonder he was going nuts. This constant rain was enough to drive anyone crazy.
Where the hell was Claire? Why didn’t she answer the goddamned telephone, why didn’t she show up at his doorstep and sleep in his bed again? Damn it, had he scared her off so badly with that simple kiss?
He didn’t think so. Despite her confusion, despite her anxiety and uncertainty, he had the suspicion that she didn’t scare easily. If she didn’t want him to kiss her again she’d simply tell him.