I hurried like a fugitive evading apprehension, and yet I lingered at street corners because I wanted to be caught. Talley did not come after me. When I reached my hotel, breathless and upset, I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Marino or returning to my room.
I got a taxi because I had one more thing to do. I would do it alone and at night because I felt reckless and desperate.
“Yes?” the driver said, turning around to look at me. “Madame?”
I felt pieces of me had been rearranged and I didn’t know where to put them because I couldn’t remember where they’d been before.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know much about the city? Could you tell me about what I’m seeing?”
“Seeing? You mean now?”
“Seeing as we drive,” I said.
“Am I tour guide?” He thought I was very funny. “No, but I live here. Where would you like to go?”
“Do you know where the morgue is? On the Seine near the Gare de Lyon?”
“You want to go there?” He turned around again and frowned at me as he waited to insert himself in traffic.
“I will want to go there. But first I want to go to the Ile Saint-Louis,” I said, scanning, looking .for Talley as hope got dark like the street.
“What?” My driver laughed as if I were the premier crazy. “You want to go to the morgue and he Saint-Louis? What connection is that? Someone rich die?”
I was getting annoyed with him.
“Please,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Okay, sure. If that’s what you want.”
Tires over cobblestone sounded like kettle drums, and lamplight flashing off the Seine looked like schools of silver fish. I rubbed fog off my window and opened it enough so I could see better as we crossed the Pont Louis-Philippe and entered the island. I instantly recognized the seventeenth-century homes that once had been the private hotels of the noblesse. I had been here before with Benton.
We had walked these narrow cobblestone streets and browsed the historic plaques on some of the walls that told who once had lived here. We had stopped in outdoor cafés, and across the way bought ice cream at Berthillon. I told my driver to circle the island.
It was solid with gorgeous homes of limestone pitted by the years, and balconies were black wrought iron. Windows were lit up, and through them were glimpses of exposed beams, bookcases and fine paintings, but I saw no one. It was as if the elitist people who lived here were invisible to the rest of us.
“Have you ever heard of the Chandonne family?” I asked my driver.
“But of course,” he said. “Would you like to see where they live?”
“Please,” I said with great misgivings.
He drove -to the Quai d’Orléans, past the residence where Pompidou died on the second floor, the blinds still drawn, and onto the Quai de Béthune toward the eastern tip of the island. I dug in my satchel and got out a bottle of Advil.
The taxi stopped. I sensed my driver didn’t care to get any closer to the Chandonne home.
“Turn the corner there,” he pointed, “and walk to Quai d’Anjou. You will see doors carved with chamois. That is the Chandonne crest, I guess you would call it. Even the drainpipes are chamois. It is really something. You can’t miss it. And stay away from the bridge over there on the right bank,” he said. “Underneath it, that is where the homeless and homosexuals are. It is dangerous.”
The hotel particulier where the Chandonne family had lived for hundreds of years was a four-story town house with multiple dormer windows, chimneys and an 0eil de Boeuf, or beef’s eye, which was a round window at the roof. The front doors were dark wood ornately carved with chamois, and fleet-footed goats held on tooth and tail to form gilded drainpipes:
The hair pricked up on my flesh. I tucked myself in shadows and stared across the street at the lair that had spawned this monster who called himself the Loup-Garou. Through windows, chandeliers sparkled and bookcases were crowded with hundreds of books. I was startled when a woman suddenly appeared in the glass. She was enormously fat. She wore a dark red robe with deep sleeves, the material rich like satin or silk. I stared, transfixed.