The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [129]
The door of the cab opened. The woman stepped out. What did she look like?
Six foot two and ebony-black, a halo of dark hair around her head. Strong cheekbones, pronounced. Her arms were naked and muscled, and there was a thick gold bracelet encircling her left arm. She wore trousers, some sort of black leather, and that might have been shocking, but the first, and then only, thing you noticed about her was the gun.
She wore it in a shoulder holster. A Colt Peacemaker, though there was little that was peaceful about the woman. When the people of the Rue Morgue discussed it, later, they decided it was a coin toss, whether she would shoot you or merely batter you to death with that gun, using it as a bludgeon. They decided it would have depended on her mood.
The crowd moved back a pace, without being asked. The woman smiled.
You could not see her eyes. They were hidden behind dark shades. She stepped toward the gate of the house. The two gendarmes snapped to attention. "Milady."
She barely acknowledged them. She turned, facing the crowd. "Go home," she said.
She watched the crowd. The crowd, collectively, took another step back. She said, "I'll count to three," then smiled. She had very white teeth. "One."
Her hand was stroking the butt of the gun. She looked momentarily disappointed when the crowd, in something of a hurry, dispersed. Soon the street was quiet, though she could feel the eyes staring from every window. Well, let them stare.
She turned back and, ignoring the two gendarmes, went through the gate into the house.
The apartment was on the fourth floor. She climbed up the stairs. When she arrived the door was open. A photographer was taking pictures inside, the flash going off like miniature explosions. She went inside. The corpse was on the floor.
"Milady!"
She smiled, without affection.
FLASH.
The Gascon was lithe and scarred and he still carried a sword on his hip as if a sword was any use at all. He said, "We are perfectly capable of solving this murder without interference."
She arched an eyebrow. It seemed to sum up her opinion of the gendarmes and their investigative abilities. The Gascon said, "Why are you here, Milady?"
She smiled. He took a step back and, perhaps unconsciously, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. She said, "I have no interest in who – or what – killed him." "Oh?" was it relief in his voice – or suspicion?
"The why, though," she said. "That's a different matter."
FLASH.
The light was blinding. She said, "Give me the camera."
The Gascon nodded at the man. The photographer began to protest, then looked at the woman and decided that, perhaps, he should do as he was told after all. She took the camera from him and smashed it against the wall. The photographer cried out. "Get out," the woman said.
The photographer looked at her, helpless, then at his boss. The Gascon was not looking at him. The photographer opened his mouth to voice a protest, caught sight of the woman's gun, and made a wise decision. He left. There were just the two of them in the apartment now. "Who owns the place?" she said, though she already knew.
"A Madame L'Espanaye," the Gascon said. "And her daughter."
"Where are they now?"
"My men are trying to find them as we speak."
She said, "Your men." There was no intonation in her voice, but somehow it made his face turn red. Again he said, "You have no need to be here."
She said, "Oh?" She still hadn't looked at the corpse. She moved to the window now, stared out at the night. The window was open, and the ground was four stories below.
"I understand the door was locked from the inside?" she said.
The Gascon said, "Yes. The gendarmes had to break it open."
"And yet no one could have climbed in through the window," she said.
He said, "Perhaps…" and there was the faint hint of a smile on his face.
"You have a theory," she said. It was not