“Wingate was not content to learn this lesson. Perhaps he could not afford the loss he sustained in the Caribbean. In any case, he wished to revenge himself upon me. And he wished certain people to know he had taken that revenge. To this end, he set about trying to hurt me as deeply as possible. This is not so easy as it might sound. I have no family in the ordinary sense. No hostages to fortune. I’m a businessman, a citizen of the world. Not a vulnerable man. So Wingate had to look hard for a weakness.”
“I think I know where this is going,” John says.
“You wish me to continue?”
“Please,” I tell him, giving John a look that tells him not to interrupt again.
“Wingate knew about more than painting. He knew photography. When he was here, he naturally noticed my Vietnam photos. He encouraged me to tell stories. I confess, I am fond of doing so, especially after a few bottles of wine. I know when to keep my mouth shut, but some stories seem harmless enough.”
He sighs with regret. “I always kept pictures of you and your sister, for Jonathan’s sake. I showed them to him sometimes. I had a newer picture of you because you are famous. Anyway, Wingate knew your story. He knew who your father was, and that I cared about you.”
“Cared about us?”
“On one of your father’s better days, he asked me to look after you. This was near the end of his life. You were almost grown then, and I didn’t know you were in financial difficulty. Had I known… well, what are words worth now? After Jonathan’s death I learned that you were doing all right but that Jane needed money for university. I made sure she got it.”
I shake my head in wonder. “I never knew how she stopped depending on me. I thought she had scholarships or something. Pell grants.”
“She did, I’m sure.” De Becque smiles. “But she also had help from Uncle Marcel.”
“You’re telling us Wingate chose Jane Lacour as a victim to hurt you,” John says, unable to contain himself. “Right?”
“I believe it happened this way. Wingate never knew Roger Wheaton’s identity, but I think he knew where the victims were coming from. I believe he had close ties with an associate of Wheaton’s.”
“Conrad Hoffman,” says John.
“Perhaps,” says the Frenchman. “In any case, by this time, I too had surmised that the girls in the paintings were being taken in New Orleans.”
“You told us you had no idea-”
“No
“Jane was victim number five,” John says in a cold voice. “You suspected all the way back then?”
De Becque suddenly looks very serious. “Do you wish to waste time with another useless philosophical debate? I assure you, a Frenchman likes nothing better.”
“No,” I cut in. “Just tell us what you know.”
“All right. I think it happened this way. Wingate was casting about for a way to revenge himself upon me. One day, as he searched his memory, he remembered the story I’d told him of the famous Jonathan Glass, and of the lovely twin girls I watched from a distance: the world traveler, and the southern belle of St. Charles Avenue.”
My mouth falls open.
“A simple matter of mental association. In any case, once he hit upon it, the mechanics were simple. He sent a photograph and an address to Wheaton’s associate, made a request, possibly promised a bounty, and the thing was done.”
John and I sit in stunned silence.
“So,” says de Becque. “Jane Lacour, nee Glass, became the only Sleeping Woman chosen by someone other than Wheaton or his associate. At least that is my guess.”
“It’s a good guess,” John says. “Jane Lacour died because she knew you. How did that make you feel? No big deal, I suppose?”
De Becque’s lips flatten to a thin line. “You are near to offending me, young man. I do not advise it.” A tight smile now. “Because I was watching New Orleans for other disappearances, I learned very quickly of Jane’s disappearance. I owed my dead friend. I could not let this thing pass without taking steps.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I sent an emissary to discuss the matter with Wingate.”
“Who did you send?” asks John.
“A retired military man. A friend from my Indochina days. Perhaps you’ve met the sort of man I mean.”
“A persuasive man?”
De Becque gives a single firm nod. “Just so. He made clear to Wingate that the death of Jane Lacour would mean not only the death of Christopher Wingate, but the death of his line. His women, children, parents-”
“Stop,” I plead. “I don’t think I want to know this.”
De Becque makes a gesture of apology. “I merely wished you to be aware that I spared no effort.”
“But you didn’t do much good, did you?” says John.
De Becque sighs. “Some things, once set in motion, are difficult to stop. Wingate understood the stakes, and he used all his influence to get Wheaton’s associate to release Jane. The associate agreed to try.”
“He may have tried,” I tell them, recalling what Wheaton told me of Jane’s death. “Wheaton said Jane tried to escape and almost succeeded. Hoffman only caught her in the yard, and he – he ended it there. Wheaton finished painting Jane from a photograph.”
“I know that upset you very much.”
John is staring at de Becque with open hostility, but de Becque ignores him. The Frenchman reaches out and takes my hand.
“Prepare yourself,
“What?”
“Your sister lives.”
My hand jerks out of his as though of its own accord.
“Jane Glass is alive.”
“What the hell is this?” asks John. “You’re saying Hoffman didn’t kill her?”
“If Jane Lacour is alive,” says John, “where has she been for the past eighteen months?”
“Thailand.” De Becque shrugs. “I still have a plantation there.”
“You’re lying. Even you wouldn’t-”
“Save your indignation,” scoffs de Becque. “I found myself in a very difficult position. A woman had been kidnapped. Several women, to be exact. I knew more than I should about those events, in a legal sense. Normally, I would not have interfered. But this woman was special. I had no choice.”
“If this is true, you could have solved the case! You could have saved-”
De Becque nods. “I am.”
“The phone call?” I say softly. “The phone call from Thailand?”
“That was your sister. She was drinking at the time, a bit confused. She had recently learned the truth about your father, and it upset her.”
“I want to go to Thailand,” I tell him. “Right now.”
The Frenchman stands and claps his hands twice. Li appears in the far doorway like a brown-skinned princess conjured from thin air. De Becque nods once, and she vanishes.
“Will you take me?” I ask. “I won’t believe she’s alive until I see her.”
“There are other things you must know first.”
