Tatiana de Rosnay - A Secret Kept

“What did she look like, this American?” I ask, my pulse quickening.

“She was in her forties, long blond hair that was almost white, tall, the sporty type.”

“And then what happened?”

“Your grandmother told her that if she did not leave at once, she would call the police. Then she ordered me to show the lady out. She left the room, and I was alone with the American lady. She said something in English that sounded horrible, and she slammed the door without once looking at me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this the other day?”

He blushed. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you anything until your grandmother was no longer here. This is a good job, Monsieur Antoine. I have been doing it all my life. The pay is decent. I respect your family. I didn’t want any trouble.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“Yes, there is.” He nods eagerly. “When the American lady talked about the detective following her, I suddenly remembered a couple of phone calls for your grandmother from an agency. I don’t have a curious nature, and I hadn’t found those calls strange, but with the quarrel, it all came back to me. And then I found something-er-helpful in your grandmother’s wastepaper basket the day after the American lady came.”

His face goes even redder. “I hope you don’t think-”

I smile.

“No, of course I don’t think you were doing anything wrong, Gaspard. You were just emptying her trash can, right?”

He looks so relieved I almost chuckle.

“I have kept this for all these years,” he whispers, and hands me a crumpled piece of paper.

“Why did you keep this, Gaspard?”

He draws himself up to his full height. “For your mother’s sake. Because I revered her. Because I want to help you, Monsieur Antoine.”

“Help me?”

His voice remains steady. His eyes are very solemn.

“To help you understand what happened. The day she died.”

I smooth the paper out slowly. It is an invoice, addressed to my grandmother from the Viaris Agency, Private Investigators, on rue d’Amsterdam, in the ninth arrondissement. Quite a hefty sum, I note.

“Your mother was a lovely person, Monsieur Antoine.”

“Thank you, Gaspard,” I say. I shake his hand. It is a clumsy moment, but he seems content.

I watch him go into the building, his twisted back, his skinny legs. I drive home as swiftly as I can.

A quick check on the Internet confirms what I feared. The Viaris Agency no longer exists. It merged with a larger group called Rubis Détective: Professional Investigation Services, “surveillance, shadowing, undercover operations, activity checks, credit standing.” I had no idea this sort of business still existed. And theirs is flourishing, according to the stylish, modern website with ingenious plug-ins. Their offices are near the Opéra. I notice an e-mail address. I decide to write to them, to explain the situation. That I would need the results of the investigation my grandmother, Blanche Rey, commissioned in 1973. I include the invoice number on my grandmother’s bill. Could they get back to me as soon as possible? Urgent, thank you. I include my mobile number.

I want to call Mélanie about all this, and nearly do, but it is getting on for one o’clock in the morning. I lie in bed for a long time, tossing and turning, before sleep finally sinks in.

My father’s cancer. My grandmother’s upcoming funeral. The tall, blond American.

You better tell me how Clarisse died, right now.

The next morning, when I get to the office, I look up Laurence Dardel’s number. She is Dr. Dardel’s daughter, probably in her mid-fifties now, I presume. Her father was the close friend, the family doctor who signed my mother’s death certificate as, according to Gaspard, he was the first to arrive at the avenue Henri-Martin on that fateful day in February 1974. Laurence became a doctor herself, taking on most of her father’s clientele and their families. I hadn’t seen her in years. We were not particularly friendly. When I call her office, I am told that she is tending to patients at the hospital where she works. The only thing to do, it appears, is to book an appointment. The next possible slot with Dr. Dardel is in a week. I say thank you and hang up.

I remember that her father lived on the rue Spontini, not far from the rue de Longchamp. He had his medical office there. Hers is on the avenue Mozart, but I am quite certain she still lives in the rue Spontini apartment, which she inherited from her father. I remember going there as a boy, after my mother’s death, to have tea with Laurence and her husband. There were children, much younger than we were. I have little recollection of them. Laurence Dardel married a man whose name I cannot recall. She kept her maiden name for work purposes. There is no way I can check if she still lives on the rue Spontini without going there myself.

After a morning of steady work I call my father at lunchtime. I get Régine on the phone, and she tells me he is with his sister, organizing Blanche’s funeral, which will take place at Saint-Pierre de Chaillot church, as expected. I inform her that I will call back tonight, not too late. In the late afternoon I have a meeting, one of the last ones, with Parimbert at his office. The Think Dome is in the process of being installed, and minor details need to be ironed out.

When I arrive, I note with alarm that Rabagny, his insufferable son-in-law, is also there. I am even more astounded when the man scrambles up to shake my hand with a smile, one I have never seen him use, exposing an unappetizing expanse of gum, telling me what a fantastic job I did on the Think Dome. Parimbert looks on with his customary self-satisfied smirk, and I can almost hear him purr. Rabagny is all worked up; his face is sweaty, just about puce. To my astonishment, he actually stutters. He is convinced that the Think Dome and its structure of light panels changing color is a revolutionary concept of the utmost artistic and psychological significance, and he wants to develop it, with my permission. “This could be huge,” he breathes. “This could go worldwide.” He’s got it all planned out, he’s been giving a lot of thought to it. I need to sign a contract, get my lawyer to look at it of course, but this should be moving fast, and if all goes well, I will soon be a billionaire. He too. There is nothing much else to do but wait till he stops to draw breath, which he does eventually, spluttering and purple around the gills. I remain aloof, pocket the proffered contract, and tell him frostily that I will give it some thought. The colder I am, the more he grovels. After a terrifying moment when he hovers near me like an over-affectionate puppy and I fear he is actually going to kiss me, he finally leaves.

Parimbert and I get to work. He is not wholly satisfied with the sitting areas, which are too comfortable in his opinion, not suitable for the immense intellectual exertion that will take place within the dome. He would prefer hard, ascetic seating in which one is forced to sit bolt upright, as if in the classroom of an inflexible teacher. No subsiding into tantalizing indolence.

No matter how soft-voiced he is, Parimbert is a demanding client, and I leave his office much later than I had anticipated, feeling bludgeoned. I decide to drive straight to the rue Spontini. The traffic at this hour is slow, but it shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to get there. I park the car near the avenue Victor-Hugo and go into a café to wait a little while more. I still have not heard from the Rubis agency. I toy with the idea of calling my sister and telling her what I plan to do, but as I take out my phone, it starts ringing. Angèle. My heart leaps, as always, whenever she calls. I am on the verge of telling her about my visit to Laurence Dardel’s home, but at the last minute I hold back. I want to keep this to myself, this quest, or whatever it is. This mission for the truth. I talk about something else, about our next weekend together, which is coming up.