The Coral Thief by Rebecca Stott

Author:Rebecca Stott [Stott, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 978-0-385-53147-4
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2009-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

15

HEN I KNOCKED at the locksmith’s atelier two days later, answering a note she had sent, Lucienne came to the door wearing her workman’s trousers, her shirt undone and her feet bare. She seemed tired and her face was swollen. When I looked more closely, I could see that it was also bruised.

“What happened?” I asked, alarmed. “Somebody did this to you, didn’t they? Somebody attacked you … When … where? Was it just one man or several? I’ll find them—the cowards.”

“In the alleyway, down there, last night. Just one man. But for God’s sake, Daniel, I told you before, I don’t need rescuing. I can look after myself.” She turned away coldly.

At the other end of the workroom, through the frame of the half-open door, a woman and a man sat at a table in conversation, their attention focused on the table itself, where they appeared to be playing cards. Manon Laforge and Alain Saint-Vincent, surrounded by corals and shells and packing cases. As I stepped into the atelier, Lucienne, seeing the direction of my gaze, walked back toward that room and pulled the door closed.

“What kind of miserable coward would attack a woman in an alleyway?” I asked. “Did he rob you? Did he touch you? Was it …? Was it a man, a boy tall, short, fat, thin? Did you see his face?”

“Yes, I saw his face.”

“Then you must make a report. Someone must find him.”

“Make a report? Yes, of course. Go to the police, yes. Daniel, you know I can’t do that. Be quiet. I need you to listen.”

Through the closed door I could hear the others talking in French; I could hear fragments of speech now and again. Lucienne ran her hand through her hair and looked at me as if she was trying to frame a question. A single strand of hair stuck to her face.

“Everything is good for you again at the Jardin, yes? Cuvier trusts you. You are doing well there.” I wasn’t sure what frightened me more, the coldness of her manner or the menacing implications of this night attack.

“Yes,” I said, lowering my voice. “What is this, Lucienne? Somebody has attacked you and you won’t tell me who or why. And now you want to talk about my work at the museum. You never tell me anything. You don’t trust me. You treat me as if I am a boy, as if I am useless. What am I to you, Lucienne?”

She didn’t answer. She seemed to be struggling with herself, walking up and down the room, about to speak and then not. I opened the front door and walked toward the top of the staircase, looking down through its curves and angles to the floor below. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just leave. I kicked the wall and then turned back.

When I came back in to the room, Lucienne was looking toward the door. I slumped into a low chair in a corner, defeated.

She shrugged. “You think such bad things of me,” she said.

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