never dare take the offensive. And you wouldn’t be able to make her testify at anyone’s trial—that would reveal her little amour, and she’s far too frightened of her husband to ever admit anything. She’d willingly risk prison first.”
Brasseur grunted and extracted six letters from the packet before handing it back to Aristide. “We’ll keep back a few of them, then, just in case. You can always give them to her later.” Aristide nodded, thrust the packet in his coat, and went outside.
#
“ You!” Sidonie Beaumontel gasped, stopping short in the glover’s doorway. “How did you find me?”
“You gave me your address, if you remember,” said Aristide. “I simply followed you here when I saw you leave the house. I have something of yours that you’ll be glad to get back.” He reached into his coat but she thrust her hands in front of her, palms outward, her glance darting anxiously from side to side.
“Stop! Not here. Someone might see me.” She hurried out to the busy Rue du Faubourg Honoré, Aristide following a few paces behind. Three streets farther on, she paused and turned. He passed the letters to her and she swiftly crammed them into her reticule. “How can I thank you?”
“My pleasure, citizeness. I suggest you burn those as soon as you can.”
She nodded. “I won’t be such a fool a second time.”
“Good day, citizeness.” He tipped his hat and turned, pausing as she spoke again.
“Citizen—have they found who—who did it?”
“The murders? Not yet.”
“Do you—have you any idea … ?”
Her cheeks were flushed and her hands moved in nervous birdlike little jerks. She knows something, Aristide thought. And she did have reason to wish him dead … .
“We’re looking for a man in his twenties, long, dark hair, slender.” He watched her, unsurprised by her tiny gasp as he repeated the description of the stranger. “Do you know such a man? Have you seen him at Saint-Ange’s apartment?”
“No …”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She glanced at him, clutching at her reticule. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “I wish I could help you.”
Aristide wondered suddenly if the dark-haired young man could have been her illicit lover. Frederic—no, Fernand, that was the name; though she had been careful not to mention his surname. Fernand, in penning letters to his mistress, had taken care to sign them only “Your friend” or simply “F.” Here, perhaps, in fearing for her safety should her husband learn of their affair, was a man with cause to murder Saint-Ange… .
“Citizeness,” he said, “I must speak with your friend.”
“My friend?”
“You know who I mean. The man whose Christian name is Fernand.”
She paled and shrank back. “Must you?”
“It’s essential. I need his name and address.” She hesitated and he continued, merciless. “I don’t like forcing you to this, but we have to pursue every angle. The police still have six of his letters to you. Once we’ve investigated your friend and cleared him of suspicion, we’ll return them to you, but not before.”
“But—you don’t think he —he looks nothing like the man you described—”
“Can you sleep easily, knowing that an innocent young woman may have died in order to conceal your love affair? Wouldn’t you rather know he had nothing to do with it?”
She swallowed and nodded. “All right. Fernand Lafontaine, number twelve, Chaussée d’Antin. But you’ll find him at the Ministry of Justice; he’s one of the chief clerks. Please, I beg you—give me back those letters as soon as you’re able; and whatever you do, just don’t let my husband know of any of this… .”
She scurried away. Aristide gazed after her, frowning.
What is it she’s not saying?
#
He pondered Sidonie Beaumontel’s behavior as he strolled back eastward along Rue Honoré, dodging smart carriages on their way outside the city to the parklands of Monceau or the Bois de Boulogne. Was she
Brasseur grunted and extracted six letters from the packet before handing it back to Aristide. “We’ll keep back a few of them, then, just in case. You can always give them to her later.” Aristide nodded, thrust the packet in his coat, and went outside.
#
“ You!” Sidonie Beaumontel gasped, stopping short in the glover’s doorway. “How did you find me?”
“You gave me your address, if you remember,” said Aristide. “I simply followed you here when I saw you leave the house. I have something of yours that you’ll be glad to get back.” He reached into his coat but she thrust her hands in front of her, palms outward, her glance darting anxiously from side to side.
“Stop! Not here. Someone might see me.” She hurried out to the busy Rue du Faubourg Honoré, Aristide following a few paces behind. Three streets farther on, she paused and turned. He passed the letters to her and she swiftly crammed them into her reticule. “How can I thank you?”
“My pleasure, citizeness. I suggest you burn those as soon as you can.”
She nodded. “I won’t be such a fool a second time.”
“Good day, citizeness.” He tipped his hat and turned, pausing as she spoke again.
“Citizen—have they found who—who did it?”
“The murders? Not yet.”
“Do you—have you any idea … ?”
Her cheeks were flushed and her hands moved in nervous birdlike little jerks. She knows something, Aristide thought. And she did have reason to wish him dead … .
“We’re looking for a man in his twenties, long, dark hair, slender.” He watched her, unsurprised by her tiny gasp as he repeated the description of the stranger. “Do you know such a man? Have you seen him at Saint-Ange’s apartment?”
“No …”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She glanced at him, clutching at her reticule. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “I wish I could help you.”
Aristide wondered suddenly if the dark-haired young man could have been her illicit lover. Frederic—no, Fernand, that was the name; though she had been careful not to mention his surname. Fernand, in penning letters to his mistress, had taken care to sign them only “Your friend” or simply “F.” Here, perhaps, in fearing for her safety should her husband learn of their affair, was a man with cause to murder Saint-Ange… .
“Citizeness,” he said, “I must speak with your friend.”
“My friend?”
“You know who I mean. The man whose Christian name is Fernand.”
She paled and shrank back. “Must you?”
“It’s essential. I need his name and address.” She hesitated and he continued, merciless. “I don’t like forcing you to this, but we have to pursue every angle. The police still have six of his letters to you. Once we’ve investigated your friend and cleared him of suspicion, we’ll return them to you, but not before.”
“But—you don’t think he —he looks nothing like the man you described—”
“Can you sleep easily, knowing that an innocent young woman may have died in order to conceal your love affair? Wouldn’t you rather know he had nothing to do with it?”
She swallowed and nodded. “All right. Fernand Lafontaine, number twelve, Chaussée d’Antin. But you’ll find him at the Ministry of Justice; he’s one of the chief clerks. Please, I beg you—give me back those letters as soon as you’re able; and whatever you do, just don’t let my husband know of any of this… .”
She scurried away. Aristide gazed after her, frowning.
What is it she’s not saying?
#
He pondered Sidonie Beaumontel’s behavior as he strolled back eastward along Rue Honoré, dodging smart carriages on their way outside the city to the parklands of Monceau or the Bois de Boulogne. Was she
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