Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [9]
Pitt felt a sinking in his stomach.
“Would you like to go to the morgue and see if this man is Bonnard, and be certain in your own mind?” he offered.
“The morgue!”
“Yes. It is the only way you will satisfy yourself.”
“I . . . I suppose it is necessary?”
“Not to me. Monsieur Meissonier has said Bonnard is not missing. I have to accept that. Therefore it cannot be him.”
“Of course. I will come. How long will it take?”
“In a hansom we can be there and back in less than an hour.”
“Very well. Let us make haste.”
Ashen-faced and deeply unhappy, Villeroche stared at the face of the dead man and said it was not Henri Bonnard.
“It is most like him.” He coughed and held his handkerchief to his face. “But I do not know this man. I am sorry for having taken your time. You have been most civil. Please, in no circumstances mention to Monsieur Meissonier, or anyone else, that I came here.” He turned and all but ran out of the morgue and scrambled up into the hansom again, directing it back to the embassy so hastily Pitt had to jump after him not to be left on the pavement.
“Where does he live?” he asked, flinging himself into the seat as the cab pulled away.
“He has rooms in Portman Square,” Villeroche replied. “But he isn’t there. . . .”
“More precisely?” Pitt persisted. “And names of one or two other friends or associates who might know more?”
“Second floor of number fourteen. And I suppose you could ask Charles Renaud or Jean-Claud Aubusson. I’ll give you their addresses. They . . . they don’t work at the embassy. And of course there are Englishmen also. There is George Strickland, and Mr. O’Halloran.” He fumbled in his pocket and did not find what he wanted.
Pitt habitually carried all sorts of things. It had been the despair of his superiors when they saw him more frequently, and even now Commissioner Cornwallis, who had been in the navy before taking up his present appointment, found Pitt’s untidiness hard to tolerate. Now he pulled out string, a pocketknife, sealing wax, a pencil, three shillings and sevenpence in coins, two used French postage stamps he was saving for Daniel, a receipt for a pair of socks, a note to remind himself to get his boots mended and buy some butter, two mint humbugs covered in fluff, and a small pad of paper. He handed the pencil and paper to Villeroche, and put the rest back.
Villeroche wrote the names and addresses for him, and when they reached the corner nearest the embassy, he stopped the cab, said good-bye and then ran across the road and disappeared up the steps.
Pitt called upon all of the men Villeroche had named. He found two of them at home and willing to talk to him.
“Ah, but he’s a fine man,” O’Halloran said with a smile. “But I haven’t seen him in a week or more, which is surely a shame. I expected him at Wylie’s party last Saturday night, and I would have bet my shirt he’d have been at the theatre on Monday. Wilde was there himself, and what a night we had of it, for sure.” He shrugged. “Not that I’d swear I can remember everything of it myself, mind.”
“But Henri Bonnard was not there?” Pitt pressed him.
“That I do know,” O’Halloran said with certainty. He looked at Pitt narrowly out of vivid blue eyes. “Police, you said you are? Is there something wrong? Why are you asking about Bonnard?”
“Because at least one of his other friends believes he is missing,” Pitt replied.
“And they’re sending a superintendent to look for him?” O’Halloran asked wryly.
“No. There was a body found in the Thames at Horseferry Stairs this morning. There was a question it might be him, but two men from the French Embassy have both said it is not.”
“Thank God for that!” O’Halloran said with feeling. “Although it’s some poor devil. Surely you don’t think Bonnard is responsible? Can’t imagine it. Harmless sort of fellow, he is. A bit wild in his tastes, maybe, all for enjoying himself, but no malice in him, none at all.”
“That was never in question,” Pitt assured him.
O’Halloran relaxed, but he could say nothing more of use, and Pitt thanked him and left.
The other