Allegro 5
Rated PG
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and others
Finch leaned back in his chair and finished his glass of scotch. He eyed the bottle. Was it worth the effort of leaning forward, stretching out his arm and bringing the bottle closer for another? No. I'm too tired to even pour another glass. Yet I can't sleep. Dominic is on his way to Geneva. Massey probably is too. Dominic won't be able to shoot. Will he? Left handed? Dominic is good with a gun. Even left-handed. I have seen his shooting trophies. But Massey is good with a knife. He'll stick Dominic in the kidneys just like that. Come up behind him on the street. Finch saw it again in his mind. He saw the knife glint in the lamplight, saw it slide into Dominic's back. He saw his partner collapse into the snow, his red blood freezing to the pavement.
He rubbed his face. Then he rubbed it harder until he could feel it. The bristles on his cheeks reminded him that he had been sitting in this chair a long time. He lifted one leg and carefully placed his shoe on the low table in front of him. Then the other. I could just sleep here. In this chair. I wouldn't have to get up. Finch was so bone-weary even moving his eyes was an effort. But sleep would not come. I will have to do something about Massey. I have warned Dominic. And now, this crisis in Ireland.
Ireland was quarantined yesterday morning; all ports closed. No boats, no planes. Was it yesterday? Seems like a week. He closed his eyes. Sleep for ten minutes, then. Then you can get up. He took a deep breath. If I don't sleep, I won't be able to think.
But he feared that was the point. Part of him did not want to sleep. To sleep invited the dreams, and the dreams would show him the horrors in Ireland. They will show me Massey's big knife. Those kinds of dreams. The kind that he had never mentioned to anyone. Not to Cynthia. Not to Delia. Especially not to Delia. She used to ask him, "How did you know that?" He could not tell her. Would not. She was a scientist. She would not understand. Now he heard the dreams calling to him. They wanted to show him. They wanted him to know. Ireland. Dominic. I know already. Leave me alone tonight. Just let me rest. Alcohol dulled their visions, made the dreams go away. Maybe another drink? He eyed the bottle. Yes. Worth the effort. He leaned forward and stretched out his arm.
XXX
Dominic took out his note pad and set it on the low table, then reached into his overcoat to pull out his pencil. The maid waited patiently for him to get ready. Slowly he bent down and braced his left hand against the table. His right hand he kept hidden beneath his overcoat, tucked against his chest, where it felt protected. The bandages from his recent surgery needed to be changed. I will have to do that later. Tonight when I am alone. Writing was still a struggle. He glanced at the young woman as he flipped open the note pad's leather cover with his thumb. "Please. State your name again?" The hotel manager had promised his people would be agreeable to the investigation.
"Monique Gillette, Monsieur."
"And Miss Gillette, you say you were working this room for how long?"
"A week. Six days actually." The pretty maid spoke perfect English with a charming touch of her native French. Dominic wrote down what she said.
"And your duties were?"
"I brought Madam Abernathy her meals. I changed her linens and brought her fresh towels, Monsieur. I also did the light dusting and straightening, but not the heavy cleaning."
"Yes," Dominic wrote that down, then looked around at the suite that Eve had stayed in. It was large and airy. The prominent picture window let in an enormous amount of winter sunshine. He imagined her sitting in the big stuffed chairs, turned his head and imagined her sleeping in the huge double bed visible through another doorway, her body dwarfed by the four posts and the high mattress. He saw her curled around the white pillows in her grief. Dominic swallowed, thinking of her tears and turned back to the maid. "So she took all her meals here? She didn't go down to the restaurant? She didn't go out?"
"No, Monsieur. She took all her meals here."
"Did she eat well? Was she ill?" Dominic pretended to be deeply absorbed in writing on the pad. He could not meet her eyes, worried that they would betray his unease in a way that would expose him. I am not exactly a disinterested investigator.
"It was very unusual, Monsieur."
Dominic looked up, concerned. "Unusual?" He kept his voice steady; aware he had just betrayed himself with his eyes.
"Oui. She did not order her meals. The Chef told me someone had ordered her meals in advance. Mr. Abernathy, I think. Different things. Wonderful things. Very expensive, very fine. Evey day I had to carry something for her. And sometimes fresh flowers, though Ralf often carried those up instead."
"And did she eat?" Dominic set his mouth. He suspected that Evey was not recovering from the Fifth. The short time he had spent with her, on the train, in the tunnels, in the kitchen of the Gallery, she had been in a daze. She needs to eat. Finch had told him about his efforts to comfort her. Dominic looked back at the pad. Oh Evey.
"Yes, she ate a little. Some days. Other times…" The maid let the sentence drift off and shook her head sadly. She smoothed back a strand of hair from her face.
Dominic felt a tightening in his throat. He prompted the maid with difficulty. He could see Evey sitting in that chair. Staring. "Some days?"
"Oui. Some days she ate what I brought up. Chocolates, some Crème Brule. Beef Wellington and, pardon, some British food I am not familiar with."
"And other days?"
"Oh, it was very sad one day. One day I was happy to bring Madam some very special pate with truffles. When I lifted the silver cover, Madame burst into tears. It was very bad, Monsieur. She ran to the bedroom and slammed the door. I am sorry to report she did not eat for two days after that."
"Oh no." Dominic scratched something illegible on his pad.
"Yes. And in the mornings…" The maid shifted uncomfortably.
"Yes?" Dominic held his pencil poised over the paper.
"Monsieur. She was ill in the mornings. I brought her dry toast and some tea. She didn't always eat it."
Dominic straightened up. He tucked the pad into his inner pocket. He kept his voice firm and authoritative only with great effort. "And she checked out three days ago?"
"Oui."
"Did she by chance happen to tell you where she was going?" Dominic could only hope.
"To the south of France. I recommended a very nice place to stay near Nice. My aunt has a, what do you call it in English, Monsieur? A 'Bed and Breakfast'?"
"Ha," Dominic exhaled slowly, to control his delight, then held his breath to control his chagrin as the initial excitement was replaced by a terrible feeling of dread. When he was certain he could speak without wavering, he said, "Miss Gillette. The Manager told me that two other men had been here to question the staff about Madam Abernathy. Did you," he kept himself calm, "did you tell them about Nice?"
"No, Monsieur."
Relief. Disbelief. "Did they not ask?" Dominic was incredulous. Can I be this lucky?
"Oh, oui, they did ask, but I did not tell them."
"Why not?" Dominic asked, puzzled.
"Because they had hard eyes, Monsieur." The young woman looked up at him, met his eyes with a determined face. "I liked Madam. I felt sorry for her. She was very kind to me and very generous. She did not speak to me as though I were a servant. These English men who came…they had hard eyes and they spoke to me as though I were a …" she appeared to be searching for the right word, "a 'guttersnipe', as you English say. I did not tell them where she went. I did not want them to find her."
His voice was almost a whisper, "Yet you told me."
"Ah, Monsieur, you have soft eyes and you are the only one with a badge," she nodded toward his pocket where he had put his badge and the other ID he had shown her. "But more importantly, when I told you that Madam was ill in the mornings, you did not write that down in your book. When I told the other men about her being ill, they looked at me with hard eyes and wrote in their little black books. But you, Monsieur, you did not write it down. Because you already knew. I saw your eyes. You knew. You knew Madam was…delicate. You have lonely eyes, Monsieur. I think I want you to find her. You must find her."
XXX
Evey touched her toe to her satchel. Still there. It was under the seat in front of her, but its bulk was near enough for her toe, and that was all she needed. She was in First Class, for the first time in her life. She had no idea how nice a trip by air could be. She had only been on a plane once before, in coach, and that had been when Patricia needed her to travel with her on business one week. Now she could sink back into thick leather seats and stretch her legs out completely. Far enough to touch the satchel with a toe. Still there. She closed her eyes. No more Switzerland. No more snow. No more nosey bell boys and conciliatory concierges. The bell boy, Ralf, had made her uncomfortable; always looking at her, then popping open his mobile. But the maid had been pleasant. Evey sighed. The maid, Monique, had been the one who enabled her to stay in the whole week. I never had to call a cab or take a tram. I could just sit. And wait. Eve opened her eyes for a moment and stared out the window at the moon. I was waiting, wasn't I. The moon looked back at her. I was thinking he would come to me. Eve remembered unlatching the bathroom window before she went to bed. The other windows did not open. The one in the bathroom was pitifully small. Too small for V to climb in. I really thought he would come. No. I was delusional. But the flowers, the meals, the room… She closed her eyes again. I put him on that train. I did. Dominic and Finch and me. We put him on that train. I pulled the lever.
He is dead.
But maybe not. Maybe he was acting. He is an actor. This would have been his greatest role. The blood. It could have been stage blood. Yes. No. Stage blood smells sweet. Like candy. His blood smelled metallic. And it was warm. Stage blood is always cold. No. It was real.
But he could have used real blood. It would have been just like him to do a quality performance. Keep it as real as possible. But his voice. He was in such pain. I heard it. The shaking, the convulsions. No. He is dead. He is dead. But he is such a good actor. He could have been testing me, to see if I would keep my promise and put him on the train. He asked me, begged me. "I need to be on my train," he said to me. "Promise you will put me on my train," he said. I did. I passed that test. So where is my reward? Flowers? Pate? No. He needs to come see me. I need to hold him again. Food and flowers will not do.
Maybe he jumped off the train. He could be somewhere healing. When he gets better he will come find me. Then I had better go back to the Gallery. She opened her eyes. No. I saw him die. I heard his last breath. I kissed his lips as he died. I held his head. I had his hand. I felt his neck; I put my ear to his heart.
He is dead.
He made me sign his papers. I am his beneficiary. He knew. It wasn't a mistake. He meant to die. He told me, didn't he? He did. I wouldn't listen. Denial. I am in denial.
The flight attendant bent over her seat. "Mrs. Abernathy? Would you like something to drink? Some wine perhaps? Cabernet?" Evey turned to her, made an effort to keep her face impassive.
"No. Thank you. I am fine now." The flight attendant gave her a professional smile and moved to the seat in front of her. I am not fine. I am a mess.
He knew. Why didn't he tell me? He gave me hints, but he didn't just come out and tell me. Damn you, V. You should have told me. Evey looked out the window. No. He couldn't have told me because I would have stopped him, and he knew it. I would have locked him in that cell on the Fourth and tossed the key. Evey's lip trembled a little, imagining what would really have happened if she had gotten V in there and locked the door. There would have been an explosion of black silk in that cell. That's what would have happened. He would have gone ballistic. I would have opened the door and let him out within minutes. I would not have been able to bear it. Listening to him. He would have been clawing at the walls. Shouting. Roaring. The door would not have held him. The hinges would have given way. She sighed. I would have let him out. And then he would have been so angry, so angry. I would have been cursed in French. Probably in Latin too. She smiled a little sad smile, remembering. Nothing would have stopped him. Not me. No one. Nothing.
No wonder he went catatonic. That seemed so long ago. He knew then. He knew the day would come, the Fifth would come. He knew what he would be doing to me. That's why he lost it. Evey felt a wave of sympathy for him. She glanced down at her satchel. Should I read another letter? Not on a plane. The last letter did me in for almost a week. I can't cry here. When I get to France. I will read it then.
She felt a flutter inside her; she put her hand over the seatbelt. She had felt it earlier, in the hotel. For two days she lay in bed on her back, staring at the ceiling. She felt it for the first time then. Like a little butterfly beneath her bellybutton. At that moment…that magic moment…she truly did not feel alone. I am not alone. The little butterfly chased away her dark thoughts. She had lain there, breathless, waiting to feel it again. And she did. After the second time she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed at the phone. Room service had sent up her supper within minutes. I must eat. Now I have to eat. Evey shifted in her seat and pressed the button for the flight attendant.
"I would like a salad, please," she said to the young woman who came to her. "And some pate and a baguette."