Notes: FenellaG - So glad you loved the last chapter! :D x
Enjoy! x
CITY OF LIGHTS
Chapter 15
Inspector Beaubier stood in the drawing room of 2 Square la Bruyère with a grimace on his elven face. The seriousness of the matter in hand was etched upon his features, and would've impressed itself onto anyone gathered in the room before him, if nothing else had beforehand.
This night he felt his job as an enforcer of law and order very keenly… but more so he felt his more specific role – that of an investigator – even more so. Whether the murderer of Obergruppenführer Karl Wagner was in this very room was a still to be ascertained – for now, each one of those faces turned so raptly to his belonged to a witness, nothing more, nothing less. Ducks to be lined up in a row, and eliminated or elevated, depending on what they told him – or did not.
He took each and every one in. The lady of the house, Madame Collins, looking staid and solemn in her housecoat. Her young protégé, Marceaux, smoking by the grand piano, his expression as blank as it always was. The general's chauffer, Robert Lefournour, agitatedly picking at his fingernails and running his hands through thinning hair. The general's companion, Fraulein Darkhölme, sitting in a chair with her elbows on her knees, a cigarette perched between still-bloody, shaking fingers.
Behind them was an array of household staff that he knew not the names of yet – but he would, and soon.
What was foremost in his mind, in the immediate moment, was the establishment of a timeline.
"You say you were out on the pavement with the general, Monsieur Lefournour," the inspector addressed the chauffeur, "when the shot rang out. From which direction did you hear the shot?"
Lefournour hesitated, his brows creasing.
"I am not sure… there was an echo, because of the fog…"
"Did it come from outdoors, or from within the house?" the inspector cut in. Lefournour looked surprised at the question.
"From outside, of course." He paused, frowned, remembering something. "There was a light. A flashlight, I suppose. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but it might have been the killer trying to see through the fog."
The inspector's gaze went sharp, shrewd.
"A light, you say? Where was it?"
"Up the street." Lefournour pointed in the vague direction. "Perhaps, oh, I'd say a hundred yards or so away."
The inspector considered this, brow furrowed. After a moment, he began his questioning again.
"And when you saw this light… when the shooting happened, you were waiting for Fraulein Darkhölme, correct?"
"Yes, sir. The general said she had forgotten her gloves."
The inspector glanced over at her. She was still in the same position, the cigarette sleeping in her hand, her eyes focused on some indeterminable point in space.
"And you were in the cloakroom," he prompted her gently. "Searching for your gloves. Is that not so?"
Her eyes moved to his, a vivid green against her now pale cheeks.
"Yes, Inspector," she replied quietly. He sensed she would say no more. He turned his attention to Madame Collins.
"And you, Madame. You were…?"
"In my room, with my maid, changing out of my evening clothes."
"And your maid is?"
"Véronique Maréchal." She indicated to a petite and very scared-looking young woman gathered with the rest of the household staff.
"Mademoiselle Maréchal," the inspector said with a tight though kindly smile. "Is this correct?"
"Yes, sir," the girl stammered.
"And how long would you say you were helping your mistress, before you heard the shot?"
"I should say it was no more than five, no, ten minutes, sir."
She seemed uncertain. He pressed her as gently as he could.
"Could you be more precise, Mademoiselle?"
This was no doubt the singular most eventful night of this woman's life, and she strove to play her part, be of inestimable assistance, and be as accurate in her recollections as she could.
"I would say it could not have been more than eight minutes, sir. But I would not be surprised if it was as little as five or six."
"As soon as the general left," Madame Collins spoke, "I retired to my room. I was eager to change. My old feet are no longer so tolerant of these fashionable heels, as I'm sure you can appreciate, Inspector. Véronie is quick and efficient. I would say about six or seven minutes passed before we both heard the shot."
The inspector inclined his head, acknowledging Madame's self-assured comment. His next target was the young man, Marceaux, whose expression seemed sober, yet unruffled. This interested the inspector greatly.
"And where were you, in the meantime?"
"Well, I was not outside shooting the general, I can assure you of that," Marceaux replied glibly. It was a somehow calculated answer, one that surprised the Inspector. He had marked Madame Collins' protégé as someone who was handsome yet vacuous, said little because he had nothing to say. Now he was not so sure.
"Your exact location will do, Monsieur Marceaux," he said stiffly.
"As the general left," he responded without hesitation, "I would've been in the kitchen, talking with the staff there. We gossiped a bit. Madame Guichard – the cook – saved me some cake. I asked her to have it sent up to my room. I headed back upstairs, intending to get myself a whiskey. I was almost in the hallway, when I heard the shot."
"So you were alone, at that moment?"
"Oui."
Inspector Beaubier glanced at the servants. Not one of them was objecting to his assertions, and he had to assume that several of them had interacted with him in the short space of time between the general leaving and his murder. Of course, he was well aware that the servants downstairs would have had little idea as to the exact time the general had left. Marceaux could've shifted his time in the kitchen a little earlier and they would be none the wiser. These were all details he would have to confirm with each of them. For now he had more pressing matters on his mind.
He looked back over at Fraulein Darkhölme.
"Did you find your gloves?" he asked her, in a cooler tone than the gentle one he had used before. She seemed confused by the question. She looked at her hands, still red with dried blood.
"I… No. I didn't."
"How long would you say you were in the cloakroom then, Fraulein?" he quizzed her. "How long were you looking for them?"
She stared. The cigarette shook between her fingers.
"I… I'm really not sure, I…"
"Do you think you could have been in the cloakroom for, say, six minutes, looking for your gloves?"
She stared at him, stricken, then down at her trembling hands.
"I… I need to clean my hands," she murmured.
"Fraulein Darkhölme—" Inspector Beaubier began sternly, but Madame Collins cut him off.
"Is this necessary, Inspector? The poor woman has had an awful shock tonight. She could do with some rest. Perhaps you could interview her again, in the morning."
"Forgive me, Madame," he replied dourly. "But in circumstances such as these, it is of the utmost importance to establish what we call a timeline. To ascertain who was where and doing what in the lead-up to the crime." He glanced back over at Fraulein Darkhölme, who was still staring at her stained hands. "You say there was a window of roughly six to seven minutes between you leaving the general on the pavement and hearing the shot. Perhaps five to six of those minutes, the lady was in the cloakroom searching for her gloves. The cloakroom is a small space, and where it had been full before, it was far less so at the time she was in there. Whether she found them or no, I find it inconceivable that she should have been in there for so long."
"It was a long time," Lefournour piped up nervously. "She had just left when I arrived in the car. The general commented on how long she was taking."
"No doubt," Inspector Beaubier said dryly. He looked down on her, the gears in his head turning. Anna Darkhölme was a face he kept crossing. A woman of hidden and secret depths. Her prominence in the general's affairs over the past few weeks was swiftly becoming suspicious to him.
"What were you doing in that cloakroom, Fraulein?" he asked her softly. "Perhaps waiting, buying the murderer enough time to do the deed?"
Her gaze snapped up to his at the mere suggestion, fierce and indignant.
"No."
"Then please enlighten us, Fraulein, as to what it was you were doing in those few minutes."
She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Whatever fire he'd seen in her eyes died, and she dropped her gaze back to her hands.
"Do you have no answer, Fraulein?" he probed her.
"I cannot give you an answer that will satisfy you," she murmured dejectedly in reply.
A silence followed, tense and unforgiving. Then—
"She was with me," Etienne Marceaux spoke.
The Inspector looked over at him sharply.
"With you?"
"Oui." A mirthless little smile touched the side of his mouth. "Or, to put it more accurately, I was with her. In the cloakroom."
He sucked on his cigarette, blew smoke. Fraulein Darkhölme was staring at him, the colour slowly returning to her cheeks.
"And what were you doing there?" the inspector asked. Marceaux quirked an eyebrow at him.
"You would make me say it, Monsieur Inspecteur? What else do men and women do in cloakrooms when alone together?"
The inspector frowned. The more he heard from the normally taciturn Marceaux, the less he believed he liked him.
"You don't believe me," Marceaux stated, knowing instinctively the inspector's newfound distrust of him. He dipped into his jacket pocket, brought out a pair of pale gold satin opera gloves. "I took them from her purse when she wasn't looking. I knew she'd come back in to look for them. As I came up from the kitchen I saw her go into the cloakroom. I slipped inside after her."
He held out the gloves to the inspector, who took them. He could tell, from the colour and the fabric, that they were a match for the evening gown Fraulein Darkhölme was currently wearing.
"These are yours?" he asked her.
She looked at them, dazed.
"Yes," she said at last.
He held them out to her, and she took them, put them in her purse with still-trembling hands. He watched her every move carefully. He believed her… but his suspicions were still raised. Now her and Marceaux were alibis – for one another. He wasn't sure how that sat with him.
The gloves safely stowed away, she took a final pull on her cigarette and stubbed it out on a nearby ashtray, before rising from her chair.
"I must wash my hands," she said quietly.
The inspector nodded, and she moved to the door, as if in a dream. When she left, the inspector turned to Madame Collins.
"Have someone go with her," he ordered in a manner that made it seem more like a suggestion.
Madame glanced over at her maid.
"Véronie. If you please."
The young woman gave a quick nod and followed Fraulein Darkhölme out of the door.
"She will stay in this house tonight," the inspector told Madame. "I will have a gendarme posted outside to make sure she does not leave. I wish to question her again in the morning."
"Inspector Beaubier," Madame Collins responded in a matronly tone. "I really think you are barking up the wrong tree. That poor girl had nothing to do with this. The killer was on the outside. She was indoors."
"Oh, undoubtedly," the inspector agreed. "But there are things I wish to ask her about the general's affairs. Besides, the general's apartments are being searched as we speak, for any clues as to who the killer might be. I don't believe she would appreciate returning there as things now stand."
He glanced over at Marceaux, who was still leaning against the piano, smoking, taking in everything.
"You will not speak to her," he said.
"As you wish," Marceaux replied.
"Then my business here is concluded," Inspector Beaubier said, reaching for his hat. "I will return first thing tomorrow morning, Madame Collins. If you would draw me up a list of your household, I would be most obliged. I will of course, need to question each of your staff."
"Naturally," she replied wryly. "Goodnight, Inspector."
He placed the hat on his head.
"Goodnight, Madame Collins."
x
As soon as he had left, the tension left the air palpably. Like a pricked balloon, it was as if a collection exhalation of breath filled the room. Slowly, and muttering amongst themselves, the servants left the room. Soon, only Remy and Millicent were left.
"This is quite the circus," she declared. "And an unexpected turn of events. The poor general."
Remy merely grunted. Something was troubling him – apart from the obvious, of course – and he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.
"You seem very preoccupied, my dear."
He shook his head, lifting the cigarette to his lips and pulling on it thoughtfully.
"Who could've done dis?" he murmured.
"No one in our unit, that's for certain."
"Then who else?"
"The general had enemies. I am sure the list of potential candidates could not be a short one."
Remy thought about it. Of course he knew the general had enemies – why else employ a bodyguard like Rogue, one who was invulnerable, and wielded such power? He was not a man too overly given to guilt over the death of such a man, but… the irony of the situation couldn't fail to catch his notice. Had Rogue been beside the general, he would probably still be alive now. But for her dalliance with him… …
"The only question now is how Operation X continues without him," Millicent was saying.
"Someone will replace him," Remy replied quietly.
"No doubt." She eyed him critically. "I advised you to tread lightly, Remy. Yet you insisted on bringing your business with Fraulein Darkhölme into this house. Now the inspector distrusts you. Why draw such attention to yourself?"
"The inspector was suspicious of her."
"What of it? Let him angle his suspicions at her. Far better than to have them angled at any of us!"
He frowned. This line of conversation was one he did not like.
"Dat femme had not'ing t'do wit' dis."
"Whether she did or not is beside the point. You have put far too much of a spotlight on yourself."
Remy sighed, crushing out his cigarette.
"We have enough of a spotlight on us as is. I can only assume our operations are gonna haveta be temporarily halted, what wit' all de scrutiny dis household's gonna be gettin' over de next few days."
Millicent grunted her response.
"Quite." She moved to the door, done with the conversation. "I'm afraid I don't have the energy for more of this tonight," she announced with finality. "And I assume you don't either. Get some rest – we'll talk more on this in the morning." She paused, added: "Don't you dare go anywhere near that woman."
He didn't deign to speak, merely nodded.
For a moment she looked at him; then, with a sigh and a shake of the head, knowing her admonishments were useless, she left.
-oOo-
Rogue sat on the bed in Madame Collins' tastefully furnished guest room, dressed in a nightgown and robe that her host had kindly lent to her.
In between her now-clean fingers, she rolled the general's old trench lighter, still stained with dried blood.
She had failed. Failed in her duty. Failed in what she had sworn to protect.
No more blood. Not at her hands. Not on her account. Not if she could help it.
The general had been complex and unforgiving, and staunchly loyal to his Fuhrer. But he had also been kind to her, and she had leant towards that kindness as a flower to the sun.
And now he was dead.
If only she hadn't allowed the Cajun to distract her, if only she hadn't put desire over duty! If only… And he would still be alive now.
And then what?
She thought of Kurt, the only thing she really had left. His name was etched into the old bullet casing, and she ran her finger over the name, trying to remember his face.
Why was it so hard to remember his face?
Please don't be dead, she thought in her head. She couldn't say it aloud, as Véronie was still in the room, busy laying out fresh towels for the en-suite. The thought seemed so lonely and helpless, futile even. If he was not dead, then he was dying. She knew this for certain.
A shadow hovered in the open doorway, breaking her morose thoughts; and when she looked up she saw Remy standing there, his expression even.
"The inspector told me not to speak to you," he spoke quietly. "But I wanted to tell you. I'm sorry. For your loss."
Her fingers closed over the lighter in her hand. She held it tight.
"Thank you," she answered.
He lingered there, uncertain, knowing full well that, although she was pretending otherwise, Véronie was listening intently to every word they said.
"Well," he said at last. "Bon nuit, Mademoiselle."
"Bon nuit, Monsieur."
He turned and left; and it was all she could do to stop herself from getting to her feet and crossing the room to him, putting her arms round him and holding him to her fiercely, covetously. To have him simply hold her in that moment… she desired nothing more. But he was gone; and so was the feeling inside her.
"There we are, Mademoiselle," Véronie spoke. "Is there anything else I can get you, before I leave?"
"You are very kind," Rogue answered quietly. "But no. Thank you."
The maid bobbed her head and left.
And now she was as it had always been intended. Alone.
Rogue placed the lighter into the nightstand along with her bracelet. She got into bed and turned out the lamp. She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. She was exhausted, her mind blank, yet all a-whirl.
Tears would not come.
Neither would sleep.
-oOo-
The inspector arrived early the next morning, bringing a case of clothes for Fraulein Darkhölme from the general's apartments. After questioning her to his satisfaction, he allowed her to leave, instructing her to stay in a hotel until the general's home was cleared and she could retrieve the rest of her belongings.
He would station a couple of officers to watch her, in the meantime. That part she didn't need to know.
She left without a goodbye, without a glance back. The day she left, the inspector questioned each and every one of the staff. His curiosity was satisfied, his suspicions appeased. When he left that evening, the business of the general's death left also. The servants chattered for a few days. Then all fell back into the comfortable rhythm of banality that it had done before.
Remy, of course, dared to wander to past the Rue de la Rochefoucauld once or twice, though he dared not loiter. He knew, of course, that he was a fool for doing so; and an even greater fool for hoping she would happen to spy him through a window, and know that she was not forgotten.
Fool that may have made him – but he wasn't fool enough to stay and be recognised by the gendarmes posted outside the building. He never stopped walking. He never slowed down. He knew better than to arouse any undue suspicions.
He didn't know better than to leave her and her mess well enough alone. Not even in the moment when he'd reached out and felt for her pulse when Clan Akkaba's stronghold had toppled in all over them. She'd been the one to walk away from him in the aftermath.
And here he was. Drawn to her yet again, despite his better judgement.
The intoxicating seductress, seducing him from beyond brick walls and all sanity.
x
The third day was the day the fog finally lifted.
He wandered down the Champs Elysée aimlessly, marking nameless faces, not knowing what he was here for, if not for Operation X and his haul.
And what was that worth now, he wondered? Perhaps he didn't care about his haul at all; perhaps it was time to leave. Carver could do what he liked with it. No haul was worth this, being tied to this war-torn country, to the humiliation of being a person he was not, to the shame of wanting a woman who tore down everything he had ever held dear.
Yes – perhaps it was time to leave.
He entered a store, only to almost bump into Frau Gruber, who was on her way out.
"Oh! Monsieur Marceaux, pardon me."
Her tone was harried, anxious. He reached out, grasping her arm to steady her.
"Frau Gruber. My apologies – the fault is mine. I was distracted."
She looked up at him, and for a moment her eyes flickered with a warmth that left too soon.
"That's quite all right, monsieur," she responded primly. "I suppose we all are, what with the sad news."
She seemed… cold. Especially after all the careless flirtation they had engaged in the past few months.
"It is a blow," he agreed quietly.
"Yes," she nodded. "My husband is quite upset. He looked up to the general no end. It's almost as if he's lost a father. I can barely console him."
He didn't know what to say. She looked at him for several moments, before saying stiffly, almost accusingly: "They say that the general's whore murdered him. I dare say you've heard the rumours too."
He stared at her, wondering at her hardness.
"Oui," he responded, after a moment. He didn't elaborate.
"They say you were sleeping with her," she ploughed on, disdain now open in her voice. "The general's whore, that is." She gave an icy little laugh. "I knew, of course."
He made no reply. He'd expected word to get out, and fast. He just hadn't expected it to smart this much.
"Monsieur Marceaux," she told him, with a dignity she had never mustered before, "if there is anything that slut told you about the general's murder, anything at all, I beg you to relay it to the inspector. It would be… a great relief to me, to see my husband back to his normal self."
His hand was still on her arm, and she shook it off, gently but firmly.
"Good day, Monsieur Marceaux," she finished, before marching staidly off. He stared after her, wordless. He knew he wouldn't see her again.
Yes, he thought grimly.
Perhaps it was time to leave.
-oOo-