Magic Mirror (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Book 1) Page 6

  I was startled. Was the name a wild coincidence, or were some of the Bellefroides still around? I could only say “Yes?” again.

  “I saw you on television, and today I read in the newspaper your account of the incident at the Musée Bellefroide. The museum was once my family’s home.”

  I varied my response to “Oh, yes?”

  “There is something I would like to discuss with you. Could we meet? As soon as possible?”

  I was amazed, but agreed to come to her apartment. She gave me the address, in the seventh arrondissement off the Avenue de Suffren. An elegant part of Paris.

  I had just hung up when Kitty, flushed with champagne, finally came back from lunch. “I wonder if that was a joke,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I just got a call from a woman who said she was Madeleine Bellefroide. Is there such a person?”

  Kitty was carrying a glossy-looking press kit and a sand-colored velvet bag with a gold drawstring. She put these on her desk and hung her deep lilac coat, which resembled a maternity outfit for a woman expecting triplets, on our rickety stand. “Madeleine Bellefroide? Sure. The last of the Bellefroides. She’s pretty old now, and lives quietly, but you hear about her now and again.”

  “What’s her connection to the museum? And what’s that weird smell?”

  “I don’t think she has a connection to the museum. I seem to remember that she broke with the family years ago. She was the black sheep, or something. And the smell is Sphinx. If the Sphinx people have anything to do with it, next year we’ll all be smelling like this.” She reached into the velvet bag and pulled out a large bottle of eau de toilette. The cap was a gold sphinx head. “Sphinx” was written on the bottle in gold, hieroglyphic-style letters. She handed it to me. “Might as well start now.”

  I unscrewed the cap and smelled. “Good Lord. Is that musk? Aren’t sphinxes supposed to be inscrutable? This is like being hit with a truckload of patchouli.”

  “You laugh. Wait till I tell you about the lunch. They picked us all up by helicopter—”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “They’d hired a fleet of them. And flew us to some place out of town where they had a big tent set up. At the entrance were two large plaster sphinxes, one on either side. And inside, lots of models dressed up as sphinxes. And every table had an ice sculpture in the shape of guess what.”

  “But why Sphinx?”

  “The only answer I can give is: why not?”

  I smelled it again. My eyes watered. I coughed.

  “Go ahead. Dab some on your pulse points.”

  “If I did, and there were camels in Paris, I’d be trampled to death in three seconds.”

  “That’s exactly the story line of one of the commercials they showed us.”

  Some other time I might have tried it, but I didn’t want to asphyxiate Madeleine Bellefroide. I picked up my notebook and took off. I was dying to find out what was on her mind.

  Madeleine Bellefroide

  Madeleine Bellefroide may have been the black sheep of the family, but she wasn’t living in poverty. Her address was a handsome apartment building of pale stone on a street that ran between the Avenue de Suffren and the Champ de Mars. The Eiffel Tower, at the far end of the Champ de Mars, shone dully in the waning sun. I buzzed the apartment on the intercom in the marble-floored lobby, and she told me to come to the fourth floor. I rode up in one of the curlicued wrought-iron birdcages, big enough for two people if one is on a diet, that the French use for elevators.

  She was standing at her open door. At first glance I thought she was in her mid-fifties. When I looked again, I realized she must be at least twenty years older. She wore her dark hair in a sleek, earlobe-length bob, with bangs to the eyebrows. It was dyed all right, but the dye job was subtle. Her slightly hooked nose gave her face a fierce look. She wore a black turtleneck and loose gray slacks that looked so soft they had to be cashmere. The luminosity of the three strands of pearls around her neck proclaimed them to be the real thing.

  She was splendid, and the apartment matched her perfectly. It was all polished wood, velvet upholstery, silk pillows, bronze figurines, flowing draperies framing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. I was impressed, and not a little cowed, and wished I’d polished my shoes before I’d come over.

  She offered coffee, and when I accepted rang for a maid, who brought in an espresso pot and china cups. After the coffee was poured she said, “I’m grateful to you for coming.”

  I nodded. She had me tongue-tied.

  “Naturally, I was interested in yesterday’s tragedy. I read all the newspaper accounts, including yours. As I mentioned, I also saw you on television last night. I have the impression that you are a sympathetic person.”

  “Uh— I hope so.”

  “I wonder— do you intend to follow the case? Write more about it, perhaps?”

  “Well, I had thought about doing that.”

  She nodded. “It seemed to me that under the circumstances you might. As a means of… exorcism? Coming to terms?”

  The woman was perceptive. “Something like that.”

  “I see.” She looked down at her coffee, which she was stirring round and round, round and round, with a tiny silver spoon. She had large, knobby-knuckled hands. “I will tell you what I want,” she said. “I want the mirror.”

  She wanted the mirror. Had she somehow misunderstood or misinterpreted so wildly that she thought I’d stolen it myself? Before I could speak, she said, “Yes, of course I know you don’t have it. But I want you to help me get it.”

  What could she be suggesting? I said, “I think the police—”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “The police wouldn’t approve of what I want to do. I want to offer a ransom— a reward for the return of the mirror. I’m willing to pay a great deal of money for it.”

  I still didn’t understand. “Why would the police disapprove?”

  “This is difficult to say,” she continued slowly. “Two things happened yesterday. The mirror was stolen. And a man was killed. I am not offering a reward for bringing the murderers to justice. I am offering to ransom the mirror. Do you see the difference?”

  I did see. She was saying she would pay for the mirror and let Pierre Legrand’s murderers go free. I thought she was right to assume the police wouldn’t approve. I wasn’t sure I approved, either.

  I was shaking my head when she said, “Perhaps I should explain why.”

  Good idea. “Please.”

  She smiled a melancholy smile. Despite everything, I was in danger of being entranced by this woman. “I hope you’ll be patient. I’m afraid the story begins many years ago. I was a young girl, living with my family in the house which is now the Musée Bellefroide. At that time the mirror, which we always called ‘Nostradamus’s Mirror,’ was displayed in a glass-fronted case in the library. It was an object of great fascination for my brother and me. Although we weren’t allowed to handle it, we would stand and gaze at it. Do you have any idea what it looks like?”

  “I know it’s black, polished obsidian.”

  “Yes, it’s black, a brilliant black circular surface. We would crane our necks to try to see into it and catch glimpses of shadowy, mysterious movements. Whatever you may believe about such things, I assure you it is an object of tremendous attractive power.”

  I was getting chills. Up to now, I hadn’t thought much about the mirror itself. It had been an element in the story, and that was all. Now, it was taking on weight and reality in my mind.

  She continued, “When I was twelve or thirteen, there was a terrible influenza epidemic. Thousands of people died. I became very ill and wasn’t expected to live. I lay on my bed, alternately freezing and burning, weakening daily, often delirious. Then one night, I came to consciousness. My head was perfectly clear, although my sensations seemed intensified. The smell of medicine, the feeling of the crushed lace of my nightgown around my neck, the shadow cast on the wall by a china pitcher, all seemed overwhe
lming to me. I realized then, with the same intensity, that in all likelihood I was going to die. I lay there, pondering this thought.

  “By the light of the lamp, I could see that my nurse had fallen asleep. And the notion came to me, as clearly as if I’d been ordered to do it, that I must go downstairs and look in the mirror.”

  Madeleine Bellefroide’s eyes were clouded. I was gripping my notebook, but hadn’t written a word.

  She went on. “You must understand that I was desperately ill. I was hardly able to walk two steps unassisted. Yet I got out of my bed and silently, easily, left my room and went downstairs to the library. As I said, my brother and I had never been allowed to touch the mirror, and I don’t believe we were ever told where the key to the cabinet was kept. Nevertheless, I found it immediately, in the drawer of the desk. I unlocked the cabinet and took out the mirror. It was cold to the touch, and surprisingly heavy in my hands.

  “No lights were burning in the library. The only illumination came from the hall. I crouched in the doorway, balanced the mirror on my knees, and bent over it.

  “At first I saw nothing. Nothing at all, not even a dim reflection of my face. The mirror was empty. I felt an indescribable despair, believing this meant I would surely die. But as I continued to gaze, immobilized with horror, I saw something move in those black depths. At first it was just a flicker of white, almost indiscernible, but as I watched it grew. It was a white-clad figure walking toward me, and as she approached I saw it was myself.

  “I was dressed in my white nightgown, walking through a tempestuous, relentless wind, my hair and my gown whipping violently around me. But as my image drew nearer, I was able to see that inside my chest a flame was burning, undisturbed by the gales outside. I was overcome with joy, for then I knew I would live.”

  The light from the windows had dimmed, and we sat in half-darkness. Madeleine Bellefroide leaned back against the pillows. “And so,” she said lightly, “as you see, I survived. I replaced the mirror, went back to my bed, and told no one. I grew up, fell in love with an unsuitable man, quarreled with my family because of it. My father, the least forgiving person who ever lived, disinherited me. To make certain I never acquired any of the family possessions, he created the Musée Bellefroide. Despite my father’s hateful behavior, the man I loved and I lived together happily and productively and, in time, with plenty of money as well. Ironically, I am the last of the Bellefroides. My brother is dead, and neither he nor I had children.”

  She put down her cup. “And now, at last, I come to the point of my long story. Once again, I am desperately ill. The doctors tell me I am dying. I am old, perhaps I should accept it, but I can’t. Or, I can’t without looking into the mirror once again.”

  I was completely at a loss. She didn’t look sick, she looked wonderful. And yet, I believed what she had told me. And I could understand why she wanted the mirror.

  “In a funny way, the theft makes it easier,” she was saying. “At least now it is out of the museum, where I would never be allowed even to touch it.”

  That seemed incredible. “You mean… Did you ask Bernard Mallet? Surely he would have been willing to—”

  “He was not. I not only asked him, I begged him. The moment I received the diagnosis, six weeks or so ago, I contacted him. He would not allow me to borrow, or even see the mirror, claiming it was prohibited under the terms of the trust. Legally, I’m sure he is correct. Morally—” She gave an eloquent shrug.

  Thin lines radiated from the corners of her eyes and bracketed her mouth. Her face looked deeply sad. “What happened to the man you fell in love with?” I asked. “The one you lived with all those years?”

  “He’s dead.”

  I must have looked surprised. She smiled, briefly. “You’re wondering what I have left to live for. Why is it so important to see my flame burning? I can’t say why. But it is.”

  “I’m still not sure what you want me to do.”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “Nothing very much. I don’t want to advertise the fact that I’m willing to pay for the mirror’s return. But you will be talking with people, you can mention discreetly, can’t you, that such a thing might be possible? And then we will see whether there is a response.”

  I hemmed and hawed. Of course it went against my better judgment. But what was better judgment in the face of a plea from a woman of such elegance who was probably dying? I have strong whims. If my decision to help Madeleine Bellefroide wasn’t a whim, exactly, neither was it any more rational than my decision to come to Paris in the first place.

  Besides, I didn’t think it could do much harm. If I got a chance to mention the ransom, I would. That was all.

  She saw me to the door, and gripped my hand tightly when we said good-bye. “You will call me when you have word,” she said, without a hint of interrogation.

  “Yes.”

  The light was even dimmer now. She blended with the shadows behind her, seeming to have materialized out of them. I turned away and heard the door close.

  Outside, a blue-gold dusk had descended. I walked half a block to stand at the edge of the Champ de Mars. To my left, the Eiffel Tower hovered like a sentinel. Evening strollers passed, chatting in quiet voices, some linked arm in arm. Across the way, under low, spreading trees, children playing the last game of the day swarmed back and forth, screaming. Each of them sheltered a burning flame. I wondered if they could feel their flames, as I now felt mine.

  Mon Petit Café

  My philosophical mood was broken when I realized I was ravenous. A cup of yoghurt wasn’t enough sustenance to get me through a conversation with Madeleine Bellefroide. I went back to the Avenue de Suffren and caught a number eighty-two bus.

  Clinging to a pole, crammed cheek by jowl with home-going workers, my thoughts were divided approximately evenly between food and Madeleine Bellefroide’s ransom. How much did she plan to offer? Should I stop for a cheese crêpe from the sidewalk stand on the Boulevard Montparnasse? I hadn’t even asked her a figure. Or would I rather have a slice of take-away pizza? And what, for God’s sake, would be the procedure if somebody did bite? Or maybe some madeleines from La Duchesse Anne. Madeleines. Madeleine.

  By the time I got off the bus I was weak from hunger, but I had reached a decision. I would stop at Mon Petit Cafe for a Croque Monsieur.

  Mon Petit Cafe was on the corner of the Rue Delacôte and the Rue de Vaugirard. Undistinguished but cozy, it had a curving metal bar, formica tables and bentwood chairs, a “Hollywood Heat” pinball machine, and hanging lamps fringed with yellow plastic beads. The Croques Monsieur, the open-faced toasted ham and cheese sandwiches ubiquitous in Paris cafes, were pretty good there. I was getting to be a regular and had struck up an acquaintance with Monsieur Franceschi, the effusive owner, and his dog, a haughty and refined German shepherd named Cesar.

  This evening, Cesar barely woke from his nap under the pinball machine to acknowledge my arrival, but Monsieur Franceschi, who was bald, mustachioed, dimpled, and adorable, made up for his dog’s indifference by bustling around me with even more fervor than usual. It turned out that he’d seen me on television the night before. “Right there!” he said, gesturing at the set above the bar. “It was only a split second, but I recognized you, Madame. I said, ‘My God, how dreadful she looks. She must have been terribly frightened, to look as bad as that’.”

  I thanked him very much for his comment, and eventually, he went off to shower attention on other customers. I settled down to my food, trying to digest the events of the day.

  I had been deeply affected by my meeting with Madeleine Bellefroide. Something she had said about the mirror kept running through my mind: I assure you it is an object of tremendous attractive power. The record proved that she was right. The Speculatori wanted the mirror; Madeleine Bellefroide wanted the mirror; the thieves, whoever they were, wanted the mirror; the person who asked Pierre Legrand to steal it wanted the mirror. No matter how many overlaps there were in the group, it still added up
to a lot of coveting.

  Combined with that was Bernard Mallet’s almost frenzied protectiveness of an object he claimed had little value. I could understand why he wouldn’t sell the mirror to the Speculatori, but his refusal to let Madeleine Bellefroide see it struck me as almost sadistic. Maybe he had to toe the line for some board of trustees, but I couldn’t believe that even the most stringent overseers would have begrudged her that favor.

  Actually, I was beginning to feel extremely interested in the mirror myself and excited by the possibility, admittedly slight, that I could be instrumental in getting it back. I could almost see it in my mind, as Madeleine Bellefroide had described it: a cold, brilliant black surface with shadowy movements in its depths. I didn’t want to look into it, certainly not. I had always been terrified to have my fortune told. Yet, if the mirror were available to me, could I resist? I wasn’t sure I could.

  I wondered if Madeleine Bellefroide had really looked into the mirror and seen the vision she described. She had been a sick, delirious child. The episode could have been a hallucination, or a dream.

  Or, if you wanted to look at it that way, the episode could have been a lie, and Madeleine Bellefroide was in some way making use of me. I hated the thought but felt more worldly for having had it.

  Monsieur Franceschi insisted I have dessert so, over a bowl of chocolate ice cream, I thought about my next move. I had to contact the Speculatori. I wanted to find out, if I could, which of them had called me and bad-mouthed Bernard Mallet. And the Speculatori would be fertile ground for a mention of Madeleine Bellefroide’s ransom offer.

  I dug out the paper Mallet’s secretary had given me: Bruno Blanc, on the Rue Jacob. I was still disinclined to call and make an appointment, since that struck me as a perfect way to get turned down flat. I would follow journalistic tradition and show up unexpectedly, making sure I got my foot inside when the door opened.

  With that settled, the last of the ice cream eaten, and Monsieur Franceschi’s urgings about coffee fended off, I left Mon Petit Cafe and walked the half-block home. I buzzed myself into the building and crossed the lobby, past the deserted apartment of the concierge, who was a member of the laissez-faire school of caretaking. In the months I had lived there I’d barely seen her and wasn’t even sure of her name. Since the elevator had been known to stop between floors for long and nerve-racking intervals, I had gotten into the habit of climbing the three flights to my apartment. I arrived puffing, as always, and was so involved in greeting and feeding Twinkie that it was probably ten minutes before I noticed the envelope, which had apparently been slipped under the door with enough force to sail it beneath the coat stand.