Spectacle(91)

“He owns the building I live in as well,” said Louis. Nathalie imagined him giving an amiable smile to go with his tone. “I do odd jobs for him every now and then.”

Silence followed. The kind of silence that sends your imagination to a dozen places in the span of two blinks.

“You must have the wrong apartment,” Mme. la Tuerie said.

Was it fear or memory that made Nathalie think she’d heard that voice before?

Louis tittered. “I have to say, he wasn’t entirely sober when he gave me the key.” His voice faded further away as he spoke.

Mme. la Teurie’s response was too muffled for Nathalie to make out. Louis responded; again she couldn’t hear it.

Nathalie patted the side of the building to get Simone’s attention. “Let’s go,” she mouthed.

“I can’t leave him,” Simone whispered. She looked at Nathalie and then back toward the window, as if Louis were going to come out of it and join them on the balcony. Her hands were balled up into fists.

The voices inside continued. Muffled, unintelligible, and in a normal register. No shouting, nothing to indicate an altercation. Why was Louis still in there?

Nathalie spoke in a firm whisper. “We are going to Christophe, then I’m going Notre-Dame. My mother might still be there. You wait for Louis at the morgue.”

Simone pushed her shoulders against the wall. “I feel like a cat who can’t get out of a tree,” she said quietly as she tugged at her sleeves. “He’s in there with a crazy woman. I don’t know what to do.”

“Trust him. And me. We have to go,” said Nathalie, trying very hard to keep her voice calm. “Now.”

Simone met Nathalie’s gaze and nodded.

They climbed over the window balcony and dropped onto the running balcony below. They hurried along until they reached a tree branch, gripping it for balance as they slid down an awning. Nathalie, being much taller, jumped onto the sidewalk and helped Simone make a soft landing.

“Ready?” Nathalie gave Simone’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Ready.”

They ran as fast as they could.



* * *



Christophe listened to their account, with his customary balance of acumen and concern, and hastily escorted them to the nearby Préfecture de police. Louis’s sly methods of apartment entry aside, the police appreciated the gloves and bottles. Nathalie and Simone were questioned separately, then thanked and dismissed. Louis was in the waiting area.

“Gagnon sent me straight here,” he said, standing up. Simone nearly jumped into his arms for an embrace.

“I was so worried!” said Simone. She buried her face in his shoulder. “I was ready to stand out on that balcony until I knew you were safely outside.”

Louis took her hands in his and kissed them. “Everything is fine. I made polite conversation with her, went upstairs to pretend to check another apartment, and after a few minutes, left.”

Simone embraced him again.

A policeman emerged from one of the rooms. “Louis Carre? The inspector will see you now.”

“I’ll wait for you,” said Simone as she sat on the bench.

“Thank you, Louis,” said Nathalie. “I can’t believe I’m thanking you for this wild adventure, but I am.”

“Louis Carre Detective Agency, at your service.” He winked and followed the official through the door.

Nathalie turned to Simone, who was much more settled now. “I’m going over to Notre-Dame. Thank you, too, for being such an incredible friend.”

Simone blew her a kiss and grinned as Nathalie left.

The cathedral was less than five minutes away, and Nathalie’s quick pace brought her to the entrance in far less than that. She went inside the middle door, the portal of the Last Judgment.

Fading light poured in through the stained glass windows, over the wooden pews and around the colossal stone pillars. The South Rose window, still catching the late-day sun, glimmered in every hue. There was no priest bellowing the Divine Office, no cluster of worshippers following along in their prayer books. Vespers had already finished. Maman was gone.

Gothic arches paraded up the nave of the church on either side toward the altar, where a small choir rehearsed. She heard the voices of men and women, young and old.

Was that the choral group to which Agnès had belonged?

The thought pinched her soul.

Nathalie decided to stay. Coming to Notre-Dame for Mass or to pray wasn’t something she did as often as she meant to, but today she felt drawn to reflection. To calm down. To think and to tend to her spirit.

She lit a candle in one of the vigil alcoves near the back, the Chapel of Saint Charles, because she’d always been struck by the harrowing picture of Saint Paul blinding a false prophet. As she extinguished the match, a short, bald priest ambled up the aisle toward her.

“Abbé,” she addressed him. “I have a question about a saint.”

“Oui, Mademoiselle?” He turned to her with a civil nod.

“Saint Lon…” Nathalie struggled to remember the name. Something unusual and certainly not French. “Longinus. I think that’s it. With the sword.”

“Oh yes! The Roman soldier.” His thin lips stretched into a smile. “He put a lance into the side of Jesus Christ on the Cross, to make sure he was dead. Blood and water poured out; the blood that spilled on him cured his eye disease. He converted to Christianity and, as you know, is honored as a saint.”