Page 38 of The Midnight Carousel
It is a relief to be back on dry land. The return voyage across the ocean was worse than the journey there. This time a storm midway across the Atlantic tossed the boat for an entire night and extended the crossing time from the expected six days to eight and one quarter. Laurent was counting.
Weary, he winds through the disembarking passengers.
It is strange to be surrounded by his mother tongue again.
A mad scramble for the station and Laurent catches the next train from Le Havre to Paris.
The familiar sights of the French countryside stream past– endless fields of lavender, peasants tending crops, lines of laundry pegged between lime trees.
By the time he arrives in the city, Laurent has feasted on liver paté and Camembert washed down by a fine Bordeaux in the buffet carriage.
Hailing a carriage from the station, he watches Paris clatter past. The majesty of the Eiffel Tower.
Montmartre like a giant molehill. When they reach the Jardin du Luxembourg, he knows that it is only a matter of minutes until they enter the street that he has called home for the last thirteen years.
The apartment building is just as he left it four weeks ago.
Painted a graceful mint green with vermillion shutters and turquoise wrought-iron balconies, the place would have the appearance of a bohemian duchess if it were a person.
Trudging up the stairs, Laurent passes the familiar smell of b?uf bourguignon mingled with lemon meringue emanating from Madame Gauthier’s first-floor apartment, and continues on to the second floor.
He stills himself for several seconds. His state of upset is not the fault of his family. He will make an effort. He will be a better husband and a better father.
Before he can find his keys, the front door is flung open.
‘Papa!’
Amélie throws her small arms around his legs.
It is then that he remembers that he was so caught up with saying goodbye to Maisie that he entirely forgot to acquire a replacement Silver Kingdom flyer for his daughter.
Shuffling into the apartment with Amélie still clinging, Laurent deposits his suitcase by the umbrella stand.
‘How I’ve missed you,’ he says, patting the crown of her curly brown hair.
Odette enters the hallway, looking gladder to see him than he had expected.
Perhaps this could hail a fresh start for the marriage?
Before they have a chance to greet one another, Amélie pulls both parents into the living room.
A chocolate-and-cherry gateau– his favourite– sits triumphantly on the coffee table.
‘Absolutely wonderful!’ he exclaims, touched by the thoughtfulness.
‘I chose it, Papa,’ Amélie says, bouncing with excitement. ‘The best gateau in the world for the best papa.’
‘From the best daughter,’ he responds and tickles her until she squeals for him to stop.
Odette cuts the cake, with the largest slice reserved for Laurent.
As she passes him the plate, her fingers linger on his hand.
Without thinking, he pulls back from her touch.
A quizzical expression appears in her eyes.
Concern mixed with scrutiny. He looks away and reaches for a napkin.
Remembering his decision to make an effort, he squeezes her hand, then drops it. ‘Later,’ he promises her quietly.
That next morning, the usual noises accompany Laurent along the corridors of the 6th Arrondissement precinct: typewriters clacking, screams from the interrogation rooms, ribald laughter in the constables’ mess.
Constable Segal is lounging in Laurent’s office, eating a pain aux raisins with his feet up on the desk.
‘I see you’ve made yourself comfortable in my absence,’ Laurent comments.
The constable splutters and jumps up.
‘And an absence that was all for nothing.’ He points to a postcard-sized piece of paper on the desk. ‘A telegram came yesterday from that agent I put you in touch with. The actress’s ex-lover has retracted his statement.’
Laurent scans the brief message with a sinking feeling– it appears that Beau Armitage has a new lawyer who is accusing the Bureau of roughing up their suspect.
Not just that: the man has found an alibi for his client.
Forcing a false confession is always a risk if the heavy-handed techniques that Laurent suspects were employed are too heavy.
Perhaps the Bureau were pressured into concluding the case.
After his conversations with Sir Malcolm– in particular the one on his last night in Chicago, in which he was offered a brown envelope for ensuring the matter progressed in the right direction for everyone – it would not surprise Laurent if the Randolph brothers had bribed the American authorities in order to save their business.
In any event, Laurent considers that his trip was not wasted.
The discovery of a link between the victims and the fudge-coloured horse has thrown up the existence of an accomplice who, by the looks of it, is still out there somewhere.
Quietly and without the knowledge of his superiors, he intends to reinvestigate by digging through Victor’s history and identifying his associates in France.
‘On the contrary, Segal,’ he says eventually. ‘It has given me much to follow up on.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ the constable replies. He looks his superior up and down, and up and down again, and bursts into uncontrolled laughter. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’
Laurent examines his attire. He had completely forgotten that he is dressed in the casual suit he acquired from the American department store.
He takes a deep breath, his hand moving to rest on the breast pocket, where the sandpiper feather is stored.
While he knows he should try to forget about Maisie both for her sake and in fairness to his wife, Laurent feels a need to make up for his behaviour first. If he can find the current location of Maisie’s parents and broker a reconciliation, perhaps she will forgive him. Perhaps he will forgive himself.