French Silk(45)

"I suppose I should have told you about that," she admitted contritely. "But it wasn't significant. It wasn't!" she emphasized after he gave her a sharp look. "I wanted to meet my adversary face to face. That's all there was to it."

"I seriously doubt that. If that's all there was to it, you wouldn't have lied about it."

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed. It was silly and immature, but I enjoyed having Wilde at a disadvantage. I knew him, but he didn't know me. He thought he'd won my soul. It was a kick to think of how he'd feel if he knew he was welcoming one of his so-called smut peddlers into his flock."

"Okay. I'll buy that."

"Good."

"If only it weren't for the other."

"Other?"

"You also lied about being in the Fairmont that night."

Claire had a dozen denials poised on the tip of her tongue, but one look at his face stopped her from vocalizing any of them. He seemed too confident that he had trapped her. Until she knew what she was up against, it would be safer to say nothing. Otherwise, she might only dig herself into a deeper pit.

As soon as there was an opening in the traffic, he drove through the intersection, turning left toward Canal Street. Steering with his left hand, he used his right to remove something from the breast pocket of his trench coat. He inserted a cassette into the tape player and adjusted the volume.

Claire's heart jumped to her throat when she heard her voice say, "Bonsoir, Andre." She stared straight ahead through the rain-splattered windshield. As they drove up Canal, she listened to a recording of a recent telephone conversation she'd had with Andre Philippi.

When it was over, Cassidy ejected the tape and returned it to his pocket. He concentrated on getting around Lee Circle before continuing out St. Charles Avenue. "I didn't know you spoke French."

"Fluently."

"That threw me off. I didn't recognize the voice as yours. Not until your old pal Andre identified you for me."

"Andre would never betray a friend."

"He assumed I already knew it was you."

"In other words, you tricked him." Cassidy shrugged an admission. "Why did you tap his telephone?"

"I knew he was holding something back and needed to know what it was. It's done all the time."

"That doesn't excuse it. It's a gross invasion of privacy. Does Andre know you trapped him?"

"I didn't trap him. He got trapped in his own deception."

Claire sighed, knowing how devastated he must be feeling. "Poor Andre."

"That's exactly what he said about you. Poor Claire. You two certainly have a cozy relationship, always thinking of each other, looking out for each other. How nice it is that you can go to the penitentiary together. Maybe we can arrange neighboring cells."

She gave him a sharp glance, which he responded to with an abrupt bob of his head. "Well, hallelujah. I finally got your attention. Are you getting the picture now? Murder two carries a mandatory life sentence in Louisiana. Now how do you feel about being a prime suspect?"

To Claire Louise Laurent, threats had never been an effective deterrent. They didn't make her quail or concede; they only made her more determined to stand her ground. "Prove that I'm guilty of murder, Mr. Cassidy. Prove it."

He held her stare a dangerously long time. Claire turned her head away as the car approached the hotel. "Just let me out at the curb. I won't be a minute."

"Uh-uh. We're going in together."

"I was only thinking of you. You're already drenched."

"I won't dissolve."

He turned on his emergency blinkers and got out of the car. After helping Claire alight, they ducked for cover beneath the canopy extending over the sidewalk. The doorman tipped his hat to Claire.

"Evenin', Miss Laurent."

"Hello, Gregory."

"It sure is wet out tonight. But don't worry none. She got here before it started coming down too bad."

Claire preceded Cassidy into the landmark hotel where suites were named for the celebrities who had resided in them. The narrow lobby was gracious and very European, furnished with antiques and oriental rugs, redolent of courtly charm and southern hospitality.

Mary Catherine Laurent was seated against the marble wall in a striped chair with gilded swans for arms. Her printed voile dress was dotted with water spots that hadn't quite dried. The brim of her pink straw hat drooped from having absorbed too much moisture. Wearing a pair of snowy white gloves, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her legs pressed together from instep to groin, feet flat on the floor. She looked like a young girl on her way to confirmation who'd been caught in an unexpected downpour. A suitcase stood within easy reach near her feet.

The clerk on duty was a woman with a straight bob hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses. She rounded the concierge's desk at the rear of the lobby. "I called as soon as she got here, Miss Laurent."

"Thank you very much." Claire removed her rain hat and squatted down in front of her mother. "Hi, Mama. It's me, Claire."

"He'll be here soon." Mary Catherine spoke in a thin, faraway voice. Her eyes were looking into another time and place that no one else could see. "He said to meet him here this afternoon."