She heard the noise at the front door with anger and
relief. At least Claire hadn’t left yet. With her characteristic silence she rose from the kitchen table, moved to the door, and pushed it open a crack. She had a perfect view of the living room, of Grand-mère’s sleeping figure. It would be interesting to hear what the two women had to say to each other when they thought Nicole wasn’t around.
She hadn’t been able to hear a word yesterday, but Grand-mère’s maid Genevieve had been there, watching her to make sure she didn’t eavesdrop. Nicole was alone in the apartment now, with no one to stop her from snooping.
She pushed the door open a little more. She couldn’t see Claire yet—she was still in the hall. Grand-mère was waking up, foggy, befuddled, staring at her visitor in sleepy amazement.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” she demanded in a sleepy croak. In French. The visitor wasn’t Claire.
Nicole started to let the door swing shut in silent disappointment. Perhaps she’d left Paris after all.
Then she heard the last voice she would ever have expected. Her stepfather’s soft, beguiling tones.
“What do you think I’m doing, Harriette?” he replied gently. “I’m here to fulfill your fantasies.” And as he moved into the room, Nicole saw that he held a knife.
CHAPTER 14
Harriette blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to clear her brain of the mists of sleep and pain-killers that had fogged it. Surely she must be dreaming. It couldn’t be her hated son-in-law standing there, a small, charming smile on his too-handsome face, contemplating her with a knife in his hand.
She struggled to sit up, her body protesting. “What fantasies?” she said calmly, as behind her impassive face her brain suddenly began working. How long had she slept? Surely Nicole had left by now, was safely home with Claire. Did she dare say anything to the man standing in front of her? Or would she be signing Nicole’s death warrant by doing so?
Marc made no sound at all as he advanced into the room, his every movement a graceful, exaggerated gesture. She half expected him to be in whiteface, but of course he wasn’t. That same, exaggerated grief wreathed his face, mocking her, as he sank down on the chintz-covered sofa beside her, the knife clasped loosely in his hand.
Harriette looked down at the knife, trying not to be squeamish. It was long, with a thin blade, and there was no discernible trace of dried blood on it. It looked very sharp, and more than effective, and Marc handled it as if he was quite used to it.
“Harriette, don’t fence with me,” he said softly, his voice a surprise after the thick silence. “You’ve been very clumsy. While I admit your plan was ingenious, you weren’t aware of a few basic flaws.”
He couldn’t know. But then, if he didn’t, what was he doing here with a knife? “What plan?”
“Don’t be childish, it irritates me. You wanted to frame me for the murders that have been plaguing Paris, and you were willing to die in order to do so. Your dedication is admirable, but it won’t work.”
“Why not?” She sounded icy calm, as, indeed, she was. She wasn’t afraid of dying, and there was a certain savage satisfaction at doing so by his hands. He would be caught. He had killed her daughter, now he would kill her, and with any luck at all he would make a mistake, enough of a mistake to get caught. Claire had been warned—she wouldn’t just sit by and ignore the possibilities.
“Because they will not catch me.”
“You may have been able to cover up Isabelle’s murder,” she said, “but a second one will prove harder.”
“Harriette, my dear, the police will simply consider you to be one more in a string of senseless murders, with nothing whatsoever to tie you to me. I’m in the south of France right now, visiting friends. I will be saddened and distressed to hear about your unfortunate end, and I will rush back to Paris to comfort my grieving, much wealthier stepdaughter.”
“Pig.”
Marc’s smile broadened. “And you’re mistaken about something, dear Harriette. You won’t be my second murder. You’ll be my fourteenth. You get your wish, darling. You will be killed by one of Paris’s serial killers, one who’s had a great deal of practice getting away with it.”
She didn’t move. She looked into Marc’s flat black eyes and saw calm, implacable madness lurking there. Madness and death. Slowly she nodded, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa. “Very well,” she said with calm, icy contempt. “I’ll have to hope your luck won’t hold out. At least I know that sooner or later you’ll be caught. You’ll pay for killing Isabelle.”
“I doubt it, Belle-mère. I expect to … what was that?”
Harriette didn’t even blink. She’d heard it too, the quiet, almost imperceptible thump from the kitchen, and she realized with dawning horror that Nicole was still there, in the apartment, listening to every word.
“I heard nothing,” she said in a flat voice. If only there was some way she could draw him out of the apartment, away from Nicole. It would be impossible. He was only inches away from her—if she tried to run he would catch her before she even left the couch. And she couldn’t bear the thought of an undignified struggle. She could scarcely stand the thought of his hands on her at all.
“Of course you heard nothing,” Marc said. “You’re old.”
Distract him, she thought desperately. Make him forget that noise. “Tell me, Marc,” she said in a voice suited to infuriate him. “Your slovenly friend who was here yesterday. The one who must have told you about our little arrangement. Does he kill the old ladies too?”
“Very astute, Harriette. Fortunately I have a certain power over him. Otherwise he might have insisted on taking care of you himself. You’re a popular woman. If the others were still alive I have no doubt they would have wanted to have a go at you. I would have loved to have left you to Gilles’s tender mercies, but alas …”
“The others?” Some of her icy calm slipped. “What in God’s name have you been doing?”