The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [113]
One more step and he was on the landing opposite the door. Holding his breath, he cocked his head toward the basement. Still he heard nothing. His eyes went to the door to the street, then back to the darkness below it. He could feel the blood begin to pulsate around the knife in his hand. Soon the shock would wear off and the pain would begin. Shifting his weight, he took a step down. He had no idea how far the stairs went before they reached the cellar floor or what was down there. Stopping, he listened again, hoping he could hear the tall man breathe.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the scream of a car’s engine and the shriek of tires on the street outside. In an instant Osborn had pushed off with his good leg and was at the door. Headlights raked his face as he came through it. Throwing up an arm, he fired blindly at a green blur as the car swept past. Then, tires squealing, it rounded the corner at the end of the block, flashed under a streetlight and was gone.
The automatic fell to his side and Osborn watched after it, not hearing the door as it slowly opened behind him. Suddenly he did. Terrified, he swung around, bringing the gun up to fire.
“Paul!” Vera was in the doorway.
Osborn saw her just in time. “Jesus God!”
Somewhere off came the singsong of sirens. Taking his arm, Vera pulled him back inside and closed the door.
“The police. They were waiting outside.”
Osborn wavered, as if he were disoriented. Then she saw the knife sticking in his hand.
“Paul!” She started.
Above them a door opened. Footsteps followed. “Mademoiselle Monneray!” Barras’ voice echoed down the staircase.
The reality of the police brought Osborn back. Tucking the gun under his arm, he reached down, grasped the hilt of the knife and pulled it out of his hand. A splattering of blood hit the floor.
“Mademoiselle!” Barras’ voice was closer. By the sound of it, there was more than one man coming down the stairs.
Pulling a silk scarf from her neck, Vera wrapped it tightly around Osborn’s hand. “Give me the gun,” she said. “Then go to the basement and stay there.” The footsteps were louder. The inspectors had reached the floor above and were starting down.
Osborn hesitated, then handed her the gun. He started to say something, then their eyes met and for a moment he was afraid he would never see her again.
“Go on!” she whispered, and he turned and hobbled out of sight around the curve of darkened stairs, vanishing into the black of the basement below. A second and a half later, Barras and Maitrot reached the landing. “Mademoiselle, are you all right?”
Henri Kanarack’s gun in her hand, Vera turned to face them.
59
* * *
IT WAS 9:20 before McVey heard anything about it. His sojourn to the Brasserie Stella on rue St.-Antoine two hours earlier had started off as a flop, nearly became a fiasco, then ended with a jackpot.
Arriving at 7:15, he found the place packed. The waiters were running around like ants. The maitre d’, seemingly the only one who spoke even a hint of English, informed him the wait for a table was at least an hour, maybe more. When McVey had tried to explain he didn’t want a table but only to speak to the manager, the maitre d’ had rolled his eyes, thrown up his hands saying that tonight even the manager couldn’t get him a table, because the owner was giving a party and taking up the entire main room—and with that he’d rushed off.
So McVey simply stood there with Lebrun’s police sketch of Albert Merriman in his pocket and tried to figure out another approach. He must have looked lonely or lost or both because the next thing he knew a short, slightly inebriated Frenchwoman in a bright red dress took him by the arm and led him to a table in the main room where the party was and began introducing him as her “American friend.” While he was trying to extricate himself politely, somebody asked him