Page 23 of The Midnight Carousel

In Paris, it is a simple matter of notifying one of the constables to release a suspect, or bribing a fellow detective, perhaps with tickets to the Folies Bergères, to hasten the process.

Chicago is not very different, it transpires.

But without clout here, Laurent had to resort to the latter approach.

He had been informed within an hour of departing the interview room that suspicion had fallen on someone else.

Still, there was some dragging of the feet on the part of the Bureau in releasing Miss Marlowe.

Laurent cannot blame his American colleagues– sometimes it is simpler to detain a person than risk needing to rearrest them at a later date.

But his instincts tell him that the woman he spoke to in lock-up was not capable of being caught up in the disappearances in either country.

That, and the fact he offered her his reassurances compelled Laurent to slip a bottle of Merlot to Agent O’Connell on the understanding that Miss Marlowe would be freed within the day.

‘It’s not rum, but it’ll do,’ the man jested. ‘I’ll try a drop in my coffee later.’

It was unexpected, therefore, to receive her telephone call requesting assistance.

On the way to visit her, Laurent stops at the Chicago Public Library, keen to learn every detail about the latest suspect, Beau Armitage, specifically to find any links that he might have to France.

A rich industrialist with influence and connections, the man has employed the services of a lawyer who is like a rabid dog, not only keeping Laurent at bay but ensuring that his client gives one-word answers to the interrogators at the Bureau.

The lawyer has also blocked any attempt at a line-up on the grounds that Mr Armitage’s face regularly appears in the gossip columns.

All that is confirmed thus far is that he is the jilted ex-lover of Mary Pickford, involved in a furious argument with the actress in which he threatened her family, and several eyewitnesses have reported seeing a man matching his description at the amusement park that day.

Time flies as Laurent studies old newspapers with the assistance of the obliging librarian, a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones and a flair for sifting through information.

Over the next few hours, it becomes apparent that Mr Armitage is a bad-tempered show-off who enjoys wild parties and flashy automobiles.

Finding no mention of France, or Victor Cloutier, or carousels, Laurent calls it a day.

After so many hours of concentration, he is flagging by the time he arrives by cab at the amusement park.

Visitors are leaving at the end of the day. People stream past, weary but in high spirits, heading for the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate. He tips his hat at a group of giggling young women, and returns the smile of a particularly pretty brunette.

The house is pleasantly large, set within spacious grounds that reek of money. No wonder the proceeds from the sale of the carousel were double what Laurent had expected.

He trudges up the driveway, past rows of verdant trees.

This mansion is obviously not the home of the dishevelled individual that he encountered in the lock-up, but the address he was given was no more specific than this.

As Laurent is deciding whether to wander around to the back and enquire at the servants’ entrance or search for Miss Marlowe amongst the labourers in the amusement park, a round-faced young woman opens the front door.

‘Who is that, Clara?’ a man shouts from inside the house.

Clara steps aside and Laurent spots a stout gentleman with large eyebrows glaring at him from the hallway.

‘I am looking for a Miss Marlowe,’ he explains. The gentleman eyes Laurent with some suspicion. ‘She sent for me. I am Detective Laurent Bisset.’

‘Sir Malcolm Randolph, Maisie’s guardian,’ he bellows. ‘And what exactly is it that you want with her?’

Laurent gives a small bow. ‘Merely to help.’

Sir Malcolm grunts. ‘Indeed.’ After a long pause, he adds, ‘She will be that way,’ and points ahead before he disappears down a corridor to the left.

Astonished to be entering by the front entrance, Laurent follows Clara to a modest-sized room filled with antique couches.

A young woman wearing a mauve dress, and with her dark brown hair arranged elegantly in a coiled bun, is pacing in front of a bank of windows.

He hardly recognizes her as the same person from the lock-up, but this is indeed Miss Marlowe.

Without the filth of incarceration, she is surprisingly lovely, although her light brown eyes are wrought with worry.

‘I appreciate you coming, Detective,’ she says. ‘Clara, that will be all.’

The maid exits the room, and Miss Marlowe takes a seat. She indicates the couch opposite and Laurent sits.

‘And thank you. I don’t know if it was your efforts or the police finding another suspect that led to my release, but I’m very grateful to be out. I couldn’t have borne another second in that dreadful place,’ she says.

Laurent acknowledges her gratitude with a smile.

‘We can call it a little of both. It was an easier task once you were replaced as the chief suspect,’ he explains, trying to sound modest.

Her eyes pinch at the corners. ‘But are you sure it’s him? Absolutely sure?’

He holds up his hands.

‘I cannot say that, no. And it would not be my place to do so, since I am not from the Bureau.’

She looks to her lap, wringing her hands.

‘But you can say that you’re here because of the carousel. You think whoever did this followed it from France?’

So it is the photograph that disturbed her. Members of the public drawing their own conclusions is the exact reason that Laurent is usually so careful about the information he discloses.

‘At this stage, we do not know if the American and French cases are connected. I am here to explore the possibility, that is all.’

She falls silent, staring out of the window. He follows her gaze to the view of the amusement park. It is bright and gaudy even in twilight, just as he would have expected from such a place.

As she turns her face back to the room, she straightens her spine.

‘But, while there’s still a possibility, don’t you think the carousel should be closed to the public? Sir Malcolm won’t hear of it, but I thought he might listen to a detective. You could tell him about your suspicions.’

He is put on the spot by this request. Perhaps if this was Paris, he might have ordered that the ride be halted until there was no doubt whatsoever that the perpetrator was caught. Without any jurisdiction on these shores, Laurent’s hands are tied.

‘Your upset is understandable, mademoiselle.’ He makes sure to keep his voice calm and reassuring. ‘It is not pleasant to become entangled in these matters. Perhaps it is best to push these thoughts from your mind, and let the American authorities do the worrying.’

Her hands flutter to her swanlike neck. ‘I wish I could, Detective.’ Her voice has dropped to a whisper. ‘But sometimes when I close my eyes, I can picture Billy crying as he circled past. It was the last anyone ever saw of him.’

‘Did you notice someone near him? Or see who or what he appeared to be frightened of?’ he asks.

Miss Marlowe screws up her face, seeming to find thinking about the details an ordeal.

‘The only other people around him were the other children on the ride. And I don’t have any idea what might have frightened him, to be honest.’

‘So you were not well acquainted with the boy, then,’ he states.

Shaking her head, she slumps against the back of the couch like a collapsed soufflé.

‘Not very, no. But I was the one who told him that riding the carousel would be fun. Every time I saw the flash of the golden saddle coming into view, I made sure to notice his reaction.’

A peculiar sensation thrums over Laurent’s skin as he recalls a small detail from the witness statement provided by the fiancée of Gérard le Blanc, one of the victims in France.

‘Show me which horse he rode, please,’ he requests.

It is five years since Laurent has faced the magnificence of the carousel, and pride surges at this fine example of French craftsmanship.

He had almost forgotten the intricacy of the carving and the vivid colours that made this ride like nothing else on earth.

His eyes travel over the horses, each a magnificent beast in its own right.

Miss Marlowe is already pointing to one on the inner row.

Laurent feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The golden saddle is immediately obvious, as mentioned in the Le Blanc file, since the saddles of the other horses are varying shades of red, blue and green.

But there are other identifying features that he is beginning to fit together: the caramel coat he now remembers Chloé Fourtou’s grandmother describing; the flaming auburn mane that Nathalie Moulland’s best friend spoke of.

It was as if they were talking about different mounts.

But it was, in fact, one and the same horse.

Strangely, it is also the horse with the raised blue diamond on its forehead that he rode himself that day in the evidence warehouse.

‘That is the horse Billy was last seen on?’ he asks, drawing closer with Miss Marlowe in tow.

‘Yes. It’s always given me a strange feeling. Perhaps it’s because the eyes make it look alive,’ she comments.

‘Not just Billy,’ he says in a quiet voice.

She looks at him with an expression that is as astounded as he feels. ‘The French children too?’

‘The eldest was a thirty-two-year-old male,’ he corrects her, lost in thought.

What are the odds now that this is all down to chance? If only the prosecution team had thought to re-enact the last moments of every victim, however patchy the details, Laurent might have discovered sooner that this horse is a common thread.

‘Did Clementine Pickford also ride this horse?’ he asks Miss Marlowe.