Cinderella Six Feet Under(57)

“No matter. Grant’s just over there.” Ophelia gestured with her chin.

Grant stood across the lobby, wearing evening clothes. His black hair and pointy beard shone with pomade. The shoulders of his greatcoat glittered with raindrops, and he held a top hat.

“He’s just arrived from out of doors,” Ophelia said.

“Yes, and looking quite as much like a hearse driver as the last time we saw him. That looks like the greatcoat in which we found his notebook.”

“He seems nervy.” Ophelia frowned. “And so does Madame Babin on his arm.”

Grant and Madame Babin had their heads bent together in urgent conversation. Grant looked angry, but Madame Babin seemed frightened. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes flicked about. She, too, had just come in from out of doors; her purple cloak and ribboned hat were wet.

“Let’s go eavesdrop,” Ophelia said.

“Miss Flax, I really don’t—”

“No time to dillydally. Mr. Grant might be a murderer.”

The crowd was dense, so they were able to position themselves just behind Grant and Madame Babin without being noticed. They strained their ears.

*

If pressed, Gabriel would have had to admit that Miss Flax’s innocent face was convincing. He knew better now. Although she didn’t seem entirely experienced in, say, the ways of the birds and the bees, she was a first-class trickster.

Grant and Madame Babin were still murmuring to each other, but the hubbub was too thick to make out a single word. It appeared that a crinkly envelope, held by Madame Babin, was at issue. She gesticulated with the envelope. Grant made a swipe at it. Then Madame Babin stuffed it in her reticule.

Miss Flax tugged Gabriel’s sleeve.

“Yes?”

She threw a significant look towards the reticule. The crinkly envelope protruded halfway.

Gabriel whispered, “You cannot even begin to think that you are going to steal that from—”

In one liquid motion, Miss Flax plucked the envelope from the reticule and swayed off.

Grant and Madame Babin hadn’t noticed a thing.

Gabriel shouldered into the throng after Miss Flax.

“How did you learn to do that?” he asked.

She stopped behind a pillar and pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. “Played a pickpocket on the stage once.”

“Once? It looked as though you’ve done that a thousand times.”

“It was a long-running show.” Her eyes were on the sheet of paper. “Are you suggesting I’ve withheld choice morsels regarding my past? I can’t read this. It’s in French.”

Gabriel’s neck was itchy and hot beneath his collar. Each and every time he managed to convince himself that Miss Flax was a naturally demure young lady who’d simply had a trying time of it, she proved otherwise. She wasn’t demure. She was downright audacious. And the very idea of that perishing Count de Griffe looking at her like—like—

Penrose snatched up the paper. There were only a few lines, which said in French:

Meet me in the wardrobe between La Sylphide and Le Papillon at nine o’clock, or you will pay for the stomacher with your life.

Gabriel translated it for Miss Flax.

“By golly, it’s a death threat!”

“That does appear to be the case,” Gabriel said. “Garde-robe—wardrobe—well, I cannot fathom how it is they intend to kill someone inside a piece of furniture.”

“Who’s it for? Who’s it from?”

“There is no indication.”

“But it was in Madame Babin’s reticule.”

“The envelope was already opened.”

“Not exactly—it had never been sealed.” Miss Flax held up the envelope.

“Therefore, we do not know if the note was coming or going.”

“But look.” Miss Flax poked the page. “That is a lady’s handwriting, isn’t it?”

Was it his fancy, or did Miss Flax pronounce lady with a touch of sourness?

“It is a markedly feminine hand,” Gabriel said.

“Which means that Madame Babin wrote it, and she’s on her way to deliver it to whomever it is she plans to top off.” Miss Flax, on tiptoe, scanned the crowd. “Look! There they go, both of them. We must hurry! It’s near nine o’clock now!”

Gabriel looked over just in time to see Grant and Madame Babin duck out of sight around a corner.