The Man Upon the Stair Read online

  Adele rested in the shade of a plane tree on the esplanade bordering Lake Bourget. A mild breeze came down from the surrounding mountains, rippling the waters, stirring the tree branches, and fluttering furbelows around the hemline of her dark-blue walking suit. The calm, multicolored surface of the Alpine lake reminded her of a turquoise brooch Achille had given her for their last anniversary. She wished he were there beside her to share this moment of natural beauty and tranquility.

  Adele fixed her gaze on the Dent du Chat, its massive purple form rising high above the water, the peak half-hidden in a white haze beneath a dazzling blue, almost cloudless sky. A high-pitched cry drew her attention from the mountain to the azure prospect above the lake. Shading her eyes with her hand, she observed a hawk circling the water in search of its prey.

  “Good morning, Madame Lefebvre.”

  Startled, Adele gave a little “Oh!” then turned in the direction of the greeting.

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Madame. It’s a lovely vantage point, is it not? You have a perfect view of the Cat’s Tooth, and the abbey as well.”

  “Good morning, Madame de Livet. I apologize; my mind was far away. But yes, it is a beautiful view. I didn’t want to leave this place without coming here.” Adele had planned the sight-seeing excursion, but she had not been completely honest with her mother. The baroness’s maidservant had delivered her mistress’s cryptic note earlier that morning; Adele had accepted a request for a brief meeting on the esplanade.

  The baroness’s thin, rouged lips formed an ingratiating smile. Her piercing gray eyes narrowed. “I’m so pleased you agreed to see me. I didn’t want you to leave without my offering a sincere apology, both for myself and on behalf of my husband.”

  Adele frowned. She did not want this rendezvous; it smacked of intrigue. Achille would not have approved, and she had kept it from her mother; that nettled her conscience. On the other hand, to refuse the woman’s request would have seemed impolite. The baroness might have considered the refusal an affront and harbored a grudge. Moreover, Adele rationalized that they could have met there by chance. So perhaps there was no harm in it after all. “I don’t understand, Madame de Livet. Neither you nor your husband owe me an apology.”

  “You are very kind to say that, Madame Lefebvre, but we most certainly do. It was an unpardonable liberty to invite you to dinner followed by an evening at the casino without your husband’s permission. I told the baron so, but he insisted. I’ll be frank, my dear. My husband is a vulgar man. He made his fortune in the South African mines, and it shows. He simply cannot appreciate the niceties. He isn’t even French. His name is Schwarz, but he changed it to Le Noir before we were married. Then he took de Livet from my father’s estate and became a self-styled baron. So now you understand why I feel the need to apologize.”

  The baroness’s revelation hardly came as a surprise; it simply confirmed Mme Berthier’s suspicion. The baron was a parvenu, though a very wealthy and ostensibly well-connected one. However, this information, coupled with an apology, made Adele more sympathetic to Mme de Livet. She was familiar with the plight of young women from noble but impoverished families forced to marry for advantage. She returned the baroness’s smile.

  “I accept your apology, Madame, though I repeat it’s unnecessary. And you may convey my regards to your husband.” She glanced around as if expecting the baron to appear suddenly. Adele ought to have cut things short and returned to the hotel, but curiosity got the better of her. “By the way, if you don’t mind my asking, where is the baron?”

  The baroness raised a gloved hand to her lips and gave a light, little laugh. “Oh, him, he’s still playing cards at a private party given by a Russian prince who owns a villa hereabouts. As though the baron hadn’t had enough play at the baccarat table. By early this morning, I had had enough. I returned to our suite at the hotel, and he went off with the prince and his crowd. I haven’t heard from my husband since. I expect I’ll receive a message from him presently. These things can go on for days, you know.”

  Adele regretted asking. She consulted the small gold watch pinned to her jacket. “Oh my, I had no idea of the time. I beg your pardon; my family will worry about me. I must return directly.”

  “Of course, my dear. Family obligations take precedence over all. Au revoir.”

  Adele nodded. “Good-bye, Madame de Livet.” She turned without another word and walked rapidly up the pathway in the direction of the hotel.

  The baroness watched Adele for a moment, then turned her attention to the hawk circling the lake.

  “Mama’s back!” Jeanne sprang from her great-uncle’s lap and ran to her mother. Adele smiled warmly, lifted the girl, and gave her a hug. “Have you been good while I was gone?”

  “Oh yes, very good. Suzanne took us to the park. I met a little boy and girl from Algiers. Their father’s an officer, like Papa. We played and had such fun until the baby threw up. Why does he always throw up like that?”

  Adele sighed, put Jeanne down, and held her hand. “I hope she wasn’t a bother, Uncle Octave?”

  “No trouble at all,” the old gentleman replied. “You liked my story about a trip to the moon, didn’t you, Jeanne?”

  “Oh yes, Uncle, very much,” the child replied. “Will you tell me another?”

  “Of course, my dear, if you like.”

  Adele gazed affectionately at the retired magistrate. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed, with thinning white hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and weak blue eyes peering through a gold-rimmed pince-nez, he seemed to prefigure her husband as he might appear thirty years hence. “That’s very kind of you, Uncle. Are my mother and Suzanne still packing?”

  “Yes, they are. That is to say, Suzanne is packing and your mother is supervising.”

  “I’d better go see if I can help. Would you mind watching Jeanne a little longer?”

  “I would be delighted.” He smiled, crooked his finger, and beckoned to the child. “Come here, little one, and I’ll tell you a story about my first trip to Paris. That was before they extended the railway, and we went most of the way by coach.”

  “I love riding on the train,” Jeanne said. “Look, I’m a choo-choo.” She began chugging and tooting in a circle, her little arms imitating a locomotive’s pistons.

  Adele left the child with Uncle Octave and entered the bedroom where Suzanne had just finished packing for the journey. Mme Berthier cocked an eyebrow at her daughter and gave her a wry greeting:

  “Your timing is perfect, my dear. We’re done packing.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. The walk took a bit longer than I expected.” She glanced at the baby sleeping quietly in his portable crib. “Is he all right? Jeanne said he was sick.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about, Madame,” Suzanne replied. “He’s just getting used to his pap.”

  Mme Berthier broke in: “Suzanne, now that you’re finished here, you may go and see to your own things.”

  Suzanne said, “Yes, Madame,” and left, closing the sliding door behind her.

  Mme Berthier eyed her daughter suspiciously before asking, “Did you enjoy your little sightseeing excursion?”

  Adele glanced down sheepishly. “Yes, Mother, it was fine, but—”

  “But what, my dear?”

  “I had a brief encounter with Mme de Livet.”

  “An encounter, you say? Are you quite certain it wasn’t a rendezvous?”

  “All right, Mother, it was by appointment,” she replied with a hint of exasperation. “But her purpose was perfectly respectable. She wanted to apologize for inviting me out without Achille’s permission. I accepted her apology, and that’s an end to it.”

  Mme Berthier smiled. “I see; she’s a woman of delicate sensibilities, no doubt. She accosts you as soon as you set foot in the hotel and, on behalf of her husband, invites you to a private dinner followed by an evening at the baccarat tables. Can you imagine the gossip that would stir up, especially when the Paris newspapers got wind of it? A nic
e item for the scandalmongers: The wife of the newly appointed chief of detectives has been seen gadding about a fashionable spa in the company of notorious arrivistes.”

  “For goodness sake, Mother, I refused the invitation and she apologized. I do not intend to pursue the acquaintance. Why must you keep harping on about it?”

  “Why, my girl?” Mme Berthier said heatedly. “Because it’s as plain as day they want something from Achille, and you’re the quickest and surest way to him. People like the de Livets ruined your father’s career.”

  Adele was about to reply when she heard the baby stirring in his crib. She raised a finger to her lips. “Please, Mother,” she half-whispered, “you’ll wake the baby. I don’t dispute what you say, and I’ll certainly discuss the matter with Achille.”

  Mme Berthier nodded and spoke softly. “Very well, Adele.” She glanced at her pendant watch. “I think it’s time M. Lefebvre notified the front desk to fetch our baggage. The diligence to the railway station leaves in a half hour.”

  3

  THE BARON VANISHES

  Chief Inspector Lefebvre sat behind the desk in his new office. He took a break from the day’s paperwork to enjoy a typical lunch consisting of a croque monsieur and a beer brought in from the local brasserie. His appetite satisfied for the moment, he put down the remains of his sandwich and scanned the surroundings. I still expect the old chief to walk through the door and ask what I’m doing in his place, he thought.

  His eyes darted from a manila envelope on his desktop to an empty space on the wall and back again. The envelope contained Morgue photographs of Moreau’s head posed on a slab.

  It had been a week since the execution, and Lefebvre had made a decision concerning the Rogue’s Gallery. He would display Moreau’s identification portraits taken shortly after the murderer’s arrest, but the postmortem photographs would remain in the closed file. This change in procedure would honor Chief Féraud while subtly hinting at the new chief’s different views concerning capital punishment and gruesome wall trophies. Lefebvre smiled with satisfaction at his Solomonic judgment; a knock on the door interrupted his musing.

  A clerk entered and handed a visiting card to the chief. Lefebvre immediately recognized the name.

  “The lady insists upon seeing you, M. Lefebvre. She says it’s urgent, and she seems quite agitated.”

  “Very well,” Lefebvre replied. He made a sweeping gesture at his half-eaten lunch. “Get rid of this. Tell the lady I’ll see her presently. Then give me a few minutes before you bring her in.”

  Lefebvre wiped his hands on a handkerchief, put on his frock coat, glanced in a mirror, and brushed a few crumbs from his beard and moustache. He popped a peppermint pastille in his mouth. Then he removed his holstered revolver from the coatrack and placed it in a desk drawer, thinking the sight of the weapon might disturb his visitor. He took his place behind the desk just as the clerk knocked and entered with the lady.

  Lefebvre rose, bowed politely, and smiled. “Good day, Mme de Livet. Please tell me how I may be of service?”

  “Oh, M. Lefebvre—” She gulped and dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  He glared at the clerk and gestured toward the door. The clerk made a hasty exit.

  Lefebvre approached the baroness and helped her to a seat. “I trust you’ll find this armchair comfortable, Madame. May I get you some refreshment—coffee or tea? Or perhaps something stronger?”

  The baroness took a couple of deep breaths before answering. “Have you any liqueur?”

  He remembered the bottle in the locked drawer. He and Féraud had consumed most of it, but there might be enough left for the baroness. “I have some prunelle. Will that do?”

  “Yes, thank you, Monsieur.”

  Lefebvre fetched the bottle and brought out what appeared to be the cleaner of the two glasses. He handed the drink to the baroness. She took a sip, licked her lips, then downed the rest and handed him the empty glass.

  He returned to his chair, sat, and regarded the baroness with a reassuring smile. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now please tell me the reason for your visit.”

  She remained silent for a moment before replying: “An awful thing has occurred, Monsieur. My husband’s disappeared.”

  A lost millionaire. What a way to begin my tenure as chief, he thought. Adele had already told him about her encounter with the baroness at Aix-les-Bains. This did not bode well.

  “Please, Mme de Livet, I will need to ask you some questions, and I’ll take notes.” He grabbed a pencil and writing pad before continuing. “You say your husband is missing. Have you reported this to the police?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. I notified the police commissary in Chambéry.”

  “Can you provide me with the commissary’s name?”

  “Inspector Forestier.”

  “And when did you contact M. Forestier?”

  “Two days ago, the same day I returned to Paris on the evening train.”

  “And when and where was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Three days ago at around one in the morning in the casino at Aix-les-Bains.”

  The morning of the execution, he thought. Not that he could make any connection between the two events, but it helped him establish a reference point for a timeline. “Did you leave the casino together?”

  “No; I went to the hotel. My husband went on to a private party at Prince Papkov’s villa.”

  “Was there gambling at the prince’s party?”

  “Of course, Monsieur, and for very high stakes. That’s why my husband went.”

  “Did your husband carry a large amount of cash or valuables?”

  The baroness stared at Lefebvre for a moment before answering: “When he is gaming, he always carries a Gladstone bag filled with thousand-franc notes.”

  “You said ‘filled with’ thousand-franc notes. Do you know approximately how many?”

  “Several hundred, I should think.”

  “Did your husband make a large bank withdrawal recently?”

  “I believe he did.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last week. Just before we left for Aix-les-Bains.”

  “And he took the Gladstone bag to the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you describe the bag?”

  “It was ox-hide with brass fittings and was embossed with the de Livet coat of arms. My husband purchased it from J. G. Beard in London.”

  “I assume the coat of arms is the same as that on your card?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Have you had any communication with your husband since you left the casino?”

  “Only once, by way of his manservant.”

  “The manservant’s name?”

  “Eugene Bonnet.”

  “Is Bonnet a member of your household staff in Paris?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Did he accompany your husband to Prince Papkov’s party?”

  “Pardon me, M. Lefebvre, I already provided this information to the police in Chambéry.”

  Lefebvre put down his pencil. He maintained his patient, professional demeanor. “I appreciate that, Madame. However, it’s a long way from Savoie to Paris. We can wire M. Forestier for information, but it may take a day or two to obtain a copy of the report. The information you provide me now can save time. Please bear with me. May I continue?”

  “I beg your pardon, M. Lefebvre. I’ll answer as best I can. You asked about Bonnet. Yes, he accompanied my husband to the prince’s villa.”

  “Thank you, Madame. Did Bonnet carry the bag for the baron?”

  “No, my husband never lets anyone touch that bag, including me.”

  “I see.” He paused a moment and glanced at his notes before continuing. “You said Bonnet gave you a message from the baron. Was the communication in writing or by word of mouth, and what did it convey?”

  “There was no writing, Monsieur. Bonnet told me the baron had taken the train to Paris.
He also said that my husband would contact me by wire immediately upon arrival.”

  “When did Bonnet tell you that?”

  “Last week, the twenty-fifth.”

  “Did he see his master board the train? Did he say what station and the time of departure?”

  The baroness shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall. Oh, M. Lefebvre, I’ve been so confused and distraught.” She choked back a sob and reached for her handkerchief.

  Bravo, Mme Bernhardt! he thought. “Very well, Madame. We’ll try to get the information from Inspector Forestier. In the meantime, I’m going to have my detectives question Bonnet. I trust you’ll make him available for the interview?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you, Madame. Did any other servants accompany you and the baron to Aix-les-Bains?”

  “Just one, Manuela Otero, my maid.”

  “Is she a citizen?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. Her father is Spanish, her mother French. She was born in Paris.”

  “We’ll need to interview her, too, and the rest of the household staff as well.”

  “Is that necessary, Monsieur?”

  “I’m afraid so. Servants see and hear things they don’t share with their employers, unless pressed.”

  The baroness nodded her understanding but said nothing.

  “I believe in addition to your Paris residence you also have a mansion in Saint-Germain-en-Laye?”

  “Yes, Monsieur. That is my ancestral home. My husband now holds the title to the property, but my elderly father, the Count de Livet, resides there.”

  “You said your husband holds the title. Did he purchase the mansion from the count?”

  The baroness frowned. “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “And when, may I ask, did the transfer of ownership occur?”

  Her face reddened, and there was a slight tremor in her voice. “Shortly before our marriage.”