Chapter Text
”He’s here again,” announces Kroto.
“Who?” Ronald asks idly, leaning towards the mirror of the vanity to touch up his highlighter. It’s pretense, of course, a certain necessary coyness- rendered a travesty, really, from the way Kroto sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. Her face pulls taut, and she shuts the door behind her with a sharp click.
“That detective,” she says without missing a beat, even though she knows Ronald well enough to know that he knows. She pulls one of his spare chairs up to the vanity and sits at his shoulder, far too comfortable invading his space. “He’s awfully stubborn.”
“That he is.” Fortunately for Kroto, Ronald’s more fond of her than he’d admit; he tolerates her hovering with poise. Brushing over his eyelid with matte gold, he uses his thumb to swipe away the excess powder and adds, “He’s like a hound dog.”
Kroto steals a sideways glance at him and crosses her left leg over her right. “You did know him, didn’t you?”
“Once.” Ronald plays with his eyeliner pencil, unbothered. He knew from the first moment the detective entered the theatre that the gossip would begin to spread soon enough. He twirls the liner between his fingers and pushes it back and forth over the wooden tabletop. It clatters to a stop at the base of the mirror, in the groove between the wood and the glass, but he makes no motion to retrieve it. “Not well, and not anymore.”
A half-truth followed by a lie, but Ronald has never been one to worry himself over such petty affairs. Their situation in the military was complicated, to say the least, and he still hesitates to assign a real feeling to it, much less a name. But he can tell, if only from the way Inference carries himself, that the detective hasn’t changed a bit, not in any way that matters.
“Hmm.” Kroto seems dubious, but that’s alright; she isn’t the one who needs convincing. Ronald smiles at her through the mirror, lifts one corner of his lips to show canine and molars. “Besides,” he prods, capping a tube of unused lipstick and placing it into a drawer at the front of the vanity, “what’s the difference?”
“Nothing, no difference… only,” Kroto shakes her head and rises from her seat with a huff, “don’t try anything funny with him.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Ronald shrugs on his jacket and plucks his hat from the coat-rack as he steps over to the door.
But Kroto is insistent. She picks her way after him. “What’s the makeup for, then?”
Ronald pauses by the door. “Maybe I felt like it, that’s all.”
“Rehearsals are over. We’d all be home by now if not for him.” Kroto gestures to herself, wrapped in a silk robe with blonde hair loose over her shoulders. “You’ve been acting funny ever since he first showed up.”
“And I’m surprised you haven’t,” Ronald answers tersely, letting some of his building irritation slip through into his voice. “You know that-“
“Yes! Yes, of course I know.” Kroto pauses and takes a moment to lower her voice. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t draw his attention too much. Behave normally, let him pass by, and he’ll be none the wiser.”
Ronald pretends to consider her words. Then he reaches for the door and yanks it open, knuckles white around the metal. “Good night,” he invites.
Kroto throws him one last, long look before stalking out of the room. Ronald watches her go up the hall and disappear from sight before he exits the room himself, heading the opposite way just to be safe. He crosses down the row of dressing-rooms, past the small window opening out into the courtyard below. It isn’t night yet, not technically; the vestiges of a late afternoon are still clinging to the sky in wisps of pink and azure, and sunlight streams through the misted clouds and paints the garden amber. It’s a beautiful day, nearly enough so to distract Ronald from his troubles, until he finds himself at the door to the auditorium.
He pauses and peeks through the grated window. As expected, there’s no sign of his peers, hasn’t been ever since their rehearsal was dismissed nearly a half hour before; all were surely eager to hurry home for an early evening of retirement. Yes, the room is empty, save for the figure stationed in the aisle of the top row of seats, unmoving and immutable, watchful as a falcon. Ronald sucks in a breath and pulls his waistcoat, smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric, before taking the door by its left handle and slipping through.
He can feel eyes on him, prodding him to hasten his way up the stairs, and he wonders if that’s part of Inference’s mind games, to discomfit him and watch him struggle. He doubts it, but just in case, he takes his time with it, dragging his right hand over the cool metal of the railing and keeping his left shoved into the pocket of his trousers. Still, by the time he mounts the full set of steps, he feels slightly out of breath and therefore rather foolish when faced with such clean dignity.
“Detective,” he greets anyway, thrusting out a hand, because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to act. “A pleasure. I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”
“Spare me the pleasantries.” Inference does accept the handshake, though it’s only for a split second before he pulls away. “I was hoping to catch Miss Zelle, too, but it seems she’s already taken her leave.”
“…. Yes, I’d say so,” Ronald hedges. “Rehearsals did end early today. You should have dropped by yesterday- or tomorrow, that would work.”
“But you’re still here.” Inference watches him steadily over a puff of smoke from the pipe cradled in the leather of his palm.
“I’m in no hurry.” Ronald shifts his weight before he can think to stop himself. “Was there something you wanted to ask me?”
“Mm?” Inference’s eyes snap from one side of his face to the other, as if seized from deep thought. “Oh. Yes- yes, a few things in fact, if you’ve got the time.”
“As I said, there’s no rush.” Contrary to his words, Ronald feels an itch under his skin, an urge to move. The animalistic impulse to flee. “How can I help you?”
Inference takes another good, long look at him. “You don’t look too well,” he observes.
Ronald puts a hand unconsciously to his cheek. When he pulls it away, it comes back brown with unblended powder. “Excuse me.” He smiles, embarrassed, and digs in his breast pocket for a handkerchief. “I’ve been terribly tired recently. We’ve been practicing nearly non-stop.”
“I see.” Inference waits for him to scruff at his cheek with the square of cotton until he’s satisfied. “Walk with me, then, will you?”
“Pardon?” Ronald pauses with the kerchief halfway on its journey back to his pocket.
“Walk with me,” Inference repeats, impassive. “Perhaps the fresh air will help clear your mind.”
Ronald has half a mind to go scrounging for the opportunity to make a joke about going on a date, but he decides that Inference wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. “Very well,” he accepts, “if you insist.”
“I do.” Inference turns on his heel and makes his way the last few feet to the front doors of the auditorium. Ronald moves to hold them open, but retreats under the dark look it earns him. He follows Inference out through the front lobby, past the embossed doors of the theatre, and out into the light of day.
It’s colder than it looked from inside; even though the sun casts hot light over the rooftops and trees, Ronald feels his ears and nose sting at the crisp bite of the wind. Inference is steady at his side, cane clicking against the sidewalk over and over in a steady rhythm. They walk quietly for several minutes. Ronald feels himself growing more and more antsy, but he reminds himself that this, too, is part of the game.
Indeed, Inference is the first to crack the silence, once they’ve gained a respectable distance from the theatre. “I trust you know that I expect only honest answers from you.”
“If I were going to lie, why would I tell you so?” Ronald intends to tell the truth, he does… wherever it doesn’t inconvenience him to do so.
Inference only sighs and rests his full weight against his cane. They’ve come to the crest of the Pont Alexandre III, overlooking the gentle froth of the Seine. “Campbell-”
“Ronald,” he corrects, graceful and without one missed beat.
Inference pauses. Ronald holds out a hand and laughs. “Forgive me. Please, continue,” he invites.
Inference looks at him sideways a little, head tilted. Ronald is sure he’s unaware of his own movement. “How long have you been working here, Ronald?”
“How long have I been working?” Ronald tips his hat forwards and pretends to think. “Or how long have I had a leading role?”
“Whatever you think would be more helpful.” Inference’s voice is low and bitingly dry. “Perhaps I should rather put it this way: how long have you known Bella?”
“Oh, now you could’ve just asked that from the start.” Ronald leans against the gilded steel of the railing and looks out across the Seine. “A few years, I suppose.”
“Suppose isn’t enough to cut it, Ness.” Inference scuffs the bottom of his shoe over the surface of the bridge. It makes a squeaking sound; Ronald winces.
“Alright, fine. Five years,” he says at last, “give or take, that is. I really can’t give you an exact timeframe.”
“That’s fine.” Inference takes out his stupid little notepad, unhooks the pen from his breast pocket, and scrawls something down; Ronald resists the urge to swat it out of his hands into the waters below. “And what did you think of her?”
“What did I think?” Ronald breathes out into the wind and keeps his shoulders still. “Well, in what way?”
“You’re asking too many questions. You’re supposed to only give me answers.” Inference snaps his notepad shut. “In any way.”
Ronald laughs for a moment, barely a chuckle, and lowers his head between his arms. “To tell you the truth, then, detective, I wasn’t very fond of her.”
“No?”
“No.” He picks at his manicured nails. A bit of dry skin is peeling off at the corner of his index finger; he frowns and resists the urge to bite it off. “She was arrogant. Spent a lot of time around rich patrons who could’ve bought the whole place out if they wanted to. A real Parisian diva.”
“From what I’ve heard, that’s how some of your other peers would describe you.”
Ronald turns around. Inference is watching him with a bland, unreadable expression. A heavier wind picks up, and Ronald feels the chill of it through his suit. “You have been asking after me, detective,” he observes with a smile.
“I’ve been asking after everyone at the theatre. It’s my job.” Inference’s eyes are so blue. Too blue. Ronald wishes he would blink, but he only keeps staring, watching, until Ronald feels perspiration crawl down the back of his neck.
“I’m sure,” he says. “You’re being very thorough with all this.”
“It’s my job,” Inference says again. He puts a hand to his lips and finally scowls, seeming to remember that he left his pipe at the theatre. Ronald exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding and turns away again, casting his eyes up this time. The Eiffel Tower is visible further down the river. He counts the number of places the sun shines on the metal; two, four, six, eight.
Inference pauses; for a moment, Ronald thinks he’s done, until he starts talking again, and by god he hates how much he likes the sound of Inference’s voice. “When was the last time you spoke with Bella?”
“On stage, during the performance,” Ronald says, just to be petty about it.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say Inference’s eye twitches. As it is, he receives another prolonged sigh for his efforts. “Before the performance.”
“Outside her dressing room.” It’s not a lie. “I bumped into her and apologized.”
“I see.” Inference looks at him over the rim of his monocle for a long moment. “Fine. That’s all I needed to know. For now.”
“Glad to be of service.” Ronald holds out his arm. Inference stares at it quizzically before those blue eyes drag back up to his face. Ronald shrugs and flashes a disarming smile. “Let me walk you back.”
Inference brushes past him without a word. Ronald drops his arm to his side and follows at his heels. “Have a list of suspects yet?” he asks. A part of his mind screams at him to take a step back, stop pressing, he knows better than this; another tells him that he’ll need more than the usual tricks to fool Inference.
“No.” Inference sets his shoulders and walks a little faster despite his limp. “Though I’ve got a few ideas brewing. And before you ask-“ He casts a sharp glance over his shoulder- “it’s all confidential.”
“I supposed as much.” Ronald hesitates. “Look, I didn’t like Bella, I’ll be the first to admit. But I think what happened, it’s awful. She didn’t deserve that.”
Inference looks at him a little funny again, and Ronald nearly stumbles over his words, certainly would if not for the years of eloquence training he’s put himself through. “All I’m saying,” he hastens on, “is that if there’s anything else you need, I’ll be more than willing. I’ve got a lot of pull around here, you know.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Inference averts his gaze and braces himself on his cane. Ronald pauses next to him, though Inference waves him off. “I’m fine,” he says irritably, “just my knee.”
Ronald offers his arm again wordlessly. Inference pauses for a good five seconds before taking it with a begrudging air. Their shoulders brush. He’s solid and warm, even when his hand is too tight at Ronald’s elbow, and his cologne smells good. Ronald tries not to think too much about it.
It takes longer to return to the theatre than it did to the bridge; the sky has darkened to a purplish-periwinkle by the time they make their way back to the doors, though the wind has let up and it’s less cold. Ronald holds the doors open for Inference and follows him back to the auditorium.
It’s still empty, filled only with rows and rows of velvet seats leading down to the platform so far below. Ronald wonders if it really looks that small from up here, even when the lights are dimmed save for the white-hot beam of the stage.
Beside him, Inference draws a match and puffs on his pipe, reunited at short last. He gusts out a great big cloud of smoke, casting a sharp eye to and fro. “You’ve certainly moved up.”
“So have you.” Ronald leans against the back of one of the seats and grimaces at the ache in his shoulders. He’s been too tight recently. “World-class private detective, really, who’d have guessed?”
But Inference is already shaking his head, ducking it down till the brim of his deerstalker shades his eyes. “It’s not all that.”
Ronald waits for a beat, but it’s clear that Inference isn’t interested in elaborating any further. “Well,” he acquiesces, “if you say so.”
Inference draws himself up. His posture is stiff, though that may be due to his leg. Still, though, he doesn’t quite meet Ronald’s gaze, which gives Ronald plenty of time to look at him. On the field, he never realized how short Inference really was; he always exuded confidence and stoic authority. Now, when it’s quiet and lonely and not nearly as dangerous, Ronald is painfully aware of the fact that the detective just barely reaches his neck.
“I’ll be off, then,” and Ronald’s focus is broken. He shuffles to stand upright, extending a hand more out of courtesy than anything else. Inference eyes it warily before taking it and shaking twice. His skin is warm and rough. Ronald shivers and smiles. “Yes, you’d best. Staying at the Ritz Paris? I hear the last detective who visited us quite enjoyed his time there.”
“No. I think you know I’m not one for such luxuries.” Inference scans him over once, but offers nothing further; Ronald burns with frustration. Inference clearly knows more about him than vice versa. They aren’t on an even standing at all, and really, that won’t do one bit.
“However,” Inference continues, reaching for his pen and notepad again, “you may find there’s something you’ve forgotten to tell me, or perhaps something I forgot to ask about. If so, you can reach me here.”
He passes over a piece of paper with a telephone number scribbled onto it. Ronald takes it, even as he insists, “I haven’t forgotten anything-”
“Be that as it may,” Inference interjects, “I’d like to be safe rather than sorry. Good evening, Ronald.”
Ronald stares after him, more than troubled by those ending remarks. It’s fine, he reminds himself, tucking the paper into his pocket as he watches Inference exit the way they came not five minutes earlier. He doesn’t suspect. How could he?
Only slightly reassured, Ronald pulls at the brim of his hat and goes back down the auditorium steps, back to the side door, back past the dressing-rooms, taking the rear exit of the building. Even though it’s only been a few minutes since he was last outside, it’s become much darker, as if a veil’s been thrown over the sky in mourning. He shudders violently and coughs into his sleeve as a gust of wind chills his skin. Overhead, grey broils just over the horizon.