The Motion of Puppets(16)

“Please, take your time, get dressed. Foucault, will you do the honors? A cup for you, Mr. Harper?”

He was halfway to the bedroom and nodded over his shoulder. Behind the door, as he dressed, he eavesdropped as the two policeman talked to each other in French.

“First impressions?”

“He seems nervous,” Foucault said from the kitchen. “Avoir l’air coupable.”

“Il a tué sa femme?”

“It’s often the husband. Or the boyfriend.” Foucault was pouring the third cup when Theo emerged, and they sat at the dining table cluttered with his papers.

“Excuse the mess,” Theo said.

“Are you a writer, Mr. Harper?” Thompson asked.

“A translator.” He watched their faces for any sign of embarrassment, but they might as well have been stones. “I am working on a translation from French to English of the life of Eadweard Muybridge. Do you know him?”

“No,” Thompson said. “But you are here to translate a book? I thought you were American.”

“Oui, je sais parler fran?ais. My publisher is here in the city, but I can work anywhere. We live in New York, where I teach college, but my wife was fortunate enough to land a role with the cirque for the summer. She is an acrobat, a performer.”

Foucault was scrutinizing him while Thompson asked the questions. He began to feel like a man under the lamp. Thompson added a cube of sugar to his tea and stirred it casually. “And how do you find Québec?”

“We love it here. Until she went missing.”

“You were having no problems? Between the two of you? It must be a challenge to have a spouse in the theater, always being watched, admired.”

“Inspector,” Theo said, “I know this is the routine, but I assure you, we are fine. I told all this to the desk officer when I filed my report.”

“And her family? Why have they not come to join in the search?”

“She only has her mother left, back in Vermont,” Theo said. “And Dolores is in a wheelchair these past five years. Doesn’t get about very well. But we are on the phone every day.”

“Too hot.” Thompson blew across the surface of his tea. He set down the cup and held up both hands to put a stop to Theo’s objections. “No offense, Mr. Harper. Just some details, minor things to clear up to help us with the investigation.” He nodded to his partner.

Foucault took out a small memo pad and flipped to the page he desired. “Tell me what you remember about the last time you saw your wife. Anything you may have forgotten to mention to the desk officer that you can remember now?”

“It was the afternoon, right? One day like any other. We had slept in, and she had to go to the warehouse where they prepare for the show. But they perform outside, a few blocks away. She left, and I sat down to do a little work.”

“You weren’t fighting? Arguing?”

“Of course not. What makes you think so?”

“Can you tell me what she was wearing when she left the flat?”

He screwed his politeness back into place. “Blue jeans. Gray canvas shoes? A simple blouse, white I think. I don’t remember exactly. What she always wore on her way to the show.”

“The show.” Foucault frowned. “And you said in your report she went to dinner with others from the cast? Did she come back to the flat to change her clothes?”

“No, I would have seen her.”

“You were here the whole time?”

“No, I went out to eat. At the Brigands on the rue Saint-Paul, I’m sure they will remember me. Give me an alibi.”

With a clatter, Thompson set down his cup into the saucer. “Alibi? There is no need to talk of alibis. You went to eat, you came home. Okay. Does she keep any clothes down at this theater? Perhaps a change of something nicer to wear. A sundress, perhaps?”

“I suppose—”

“You suppose,” Foucault said. “We went down there and checked, monsieur, and that’s exactly what we supposed. Her jeans and shoes and blouse were still in her locker, so if she went out, it was either in costume from the cirque or she had a change of clothes.”

“Okay, so she changed her outfit before going to dinner. What difference does that make?”

Foucault pressed forward. “So you have no idea what she was wearing the night of her disappearance?”

His face reddened. “How could I?”

Thompson pushed back his chair and stood, defusing the tension for the moment. “I apologize, Mr. Harper. As I say, we have to ask these questions first, and thing is, I’m sorry to say, but we may have some bad news. There is a body, a woman drowned, washed up on the shore of the Saint Lawrence, and we have no way of identifying her at the moment. She is young, fits the general description of your wife—”

“Kay?” Theo covered his mouth and tried not to cry out.

“But”—Thompson held up his hand—“she was wearing a dress, no shoes, and we thought it couldn’t be her. Until we went down to the warehouse and met the caretaker.”

“Egon Picard,” said Foucault.

“Monsieur Picard told us that the actors often leave clothes in their locker, so we thought to come talk with you to see if you remember. It was a simple yellow sundress. Perhaps you could come with us to the medical examiner, if you please, and we can take a look.”