by Rhys Bowen
“I’m so sorry. Are they all right?” I asked.
Vera was on her knees, staring down at the floor where the largest of the diamonds had shattered into a hundred pieces.
“Oh, no.” I joined her on my knees. “Vera. I’m so awfully sorry. I know I’m clumsy. I’ve ruined it.”
She looked up at me, grim faced. “Diamonds don’t shatter, Georgie.”
“But—” I looked down at the floor then back at her face. “You mean it wasn’t a real diamond?”
She nodded.
“So the queen didn’t lend us her real jewels after all.” Vera looked around the room at the faces now staring down at us. “It appears that the person who stole the necklace has replaced it with a clever fake. If Georgie hadn’t dropped it, we might not have found out for ages, if ever.”
“Damned clever,” one of the men muttered. “Should we call for the police?”
“Not tonight,” Vera said. “I don’t think I could handle another round of Inspector Lafite. Besides, if the thief is that clever, I doubt the police will have any chance of catching him.” She started to pick up the remains of the necklace. “You have to admit it was slickly done, and obviously planned. It’s unlikely that such a necklace could be created in a couple of days.”
“So the thief went to the fashion show with the intent of stealing the necklace,” I said. Somehow that made me feel a little better. It wasn’t only my clumsiness that had caused the theft. I was intended to fall.
“But how did it get into your bedroom?” the same man asked. “The thief must have climbed in through your window.”
“Or been among us,” Vera said.
“One of us? That’s ridiculous,” the man said. “Implying that somebody English is a thief. Some damned Frenchie, you mark my words. Slippery chap who crept in through the window and then out again—while we were watching the fireworks, probably.”
I decided to keep quiet about Darcy. One thing I knew about him with absolute certainty—he was not a thief. If he had brought the necklace back, it was because he believed he had recovered the real one for us.
“We should take a look at your room,” the man insisted. “See if the blighter left any clues, don’t you know?” He stomped upstairs before I could stop him and flung open my bedroom door.
The room was empty. The window was wide open and the net curtains flapped in the breeze.
“There you are. What did I say?” the man said, nodding at us triumphantly. “Some damned Frenchie or Italian crook climbed in this way. You should take a look at the flower bed in the morning, see if the blighter left telltale footprints. Not that the French police will be much use. Useless bunch.”
I just prayed that Darcy hadn’t left a footprint in the flower bed. I didn’t know why I wanted to protect him so much, but I did. You can’t just shut off love, I suppose, and he did come to warn me, which was rather sweet. “If only,” I found myself muttering. Did he still love this woman who was the mother of his child? He clearly adored the child. Did his appearance tonight mean that he still loved me? It was all so complicated and so hard to handle.
“There’s still a policeman stationed outside the villa,” Vera said. “We can ask him if he noticed anyone suspicious slinking in and out.”
The guests were now caught up in the excitement of the hunt. They streamed out the front door. I followed, rapidly trying to decide how I could vouch for Darcy should the occasion arise. But the weary policeman at the gate just shrugged. “You have a party,” he said. “That means many people come and go. Am I supposed to recognize if one of them is a thief?”
As the noisy revelers streamed back into the house I managed to slip away and went to my room. I checked the wardrobe and under the bed just in case Darcy was still there, but he wasn’t. I closed the shutters. Tiredness overcame me and I fell into bed.
Chapter 30
Villa Marguerite and later at Sir Toby’s
January 28, 1933
Wonderful news for once. Feeling much happier.
Queenie had clearly forgotten to bring my morning tea, because I awoke to brilliant sunlight streaming through the slats in my shutters. Down below I could hear animated men’s voices. Oh, no, please don’t say that the inspector is here, I prayed silently. I opened the shutters and peeked out cautiously. What I saw was a taxi and beside it an attractive gray-haired man in an immaculately cut dark suit and next to him a shorter man in a scruffy old raincoat—a man with a bald head who was saying, “What ’ave they done with my little girl? Where is she? I told her not to go gallivanting abroad. No good ever comes of it.”
I gave a great whoop of joy and rushed down the stairs, not even aware that I was still in my nightgown. “Granddad,” I cried and flung myself into his arms. “You came! I’m so happy to see you.”
“Oh, there you are, my love. You’re safe. You’re all right,” he said, his voice choking as he spoke. He hugged me tightly in a display of affection that was not considered seemly in the circles I normally moved in. There was no way Fig would ever have hugged anybody—even if they’d wanted to hug her, which wasn’t likely.
Then he released me and stood there, holding my hands with a look of concern on his face. “Ever since I got that telegram I’ve been worried sick. They said you’d been arrested for murder. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but—”
“I have,” I cut in. “I’ve only been released on bail. The French police inspector is horrid and won’t listen. But now that you’re here—you’ll know what to do.”
“I don’t know what I can do,” he said, “never having had no experience of foreign courts, but this bloke what came with me, well, he’s the cat’s whisker.”
I looked up to observe the elegant gentleman standing beside him. “Who is that?” I whispered.
Before I could answer, there was an exclamation of delight and Madame Chanel came flying out the front door. “Jacques!” she said. “You came. I knew you would.”
“My angel. As if I could resist you,” the man said and there followed an embrace that only the French can do well.
When they had broken apart, both a little breathless, Coco turned to us. “He has come. All will now be well. This is my dear friend Commissaire Jacques Germain of the Sûreté in Paris. I pleaded with him to come, as a little favor to me.” She was beaming as if she had just produced a rabbit out of a hat. “I could see that something needed to be done and Jacques is the man to do it.”
“I thought Inspector Lafite made it quite clear that the Sûreté would not be allowed to step on his toes,” I reminded her.
“But naturally,” Jacques Germain said in cultured English with only a slight French accent. “I have decided to take a little holiday. And if I happened to take a small interest in a case that was in progress down here—well, that would be quite understandable, no?”
He smiled, the most charming, sexy smile. I could see that Frenchmen had earned their reputation. “And with my dear friend from Scotland Yard here, we will make a formidable team.”
“How did you meet?” I asked Granddad. They seemed a most unlikely pair.
“I met this delightful gentleman on the train,” Jacques Germain said. “He needed assistance in finding the dining car and then in ordering. We dined together, and when I discovered that he had worked for the famous Scotland Yard and he actually knew men I had long admired, we became instant friends.”
Granddad was beaming. “I didn’t say I’d actually worked for Scotland Yard,” he muttered to me. “At least not like that. Just an ordinary copper. But he’s a good bloke, and, what’s more, he speaks English.”
“So all is well,” Coco said. She took Jacques’ hand. “Come. Let us go and have breakfast. And you, ma petite,” she said in an aside, “you should probably put on something a little more suitable before you join us at the breakfast table.”
“Oh, yes.” I realized for the first time that I was in a flimsy nightdress. I caught Jacques’ amused look. Like any Frenchman he was appraisi
ng me, enjoying the sight of my bare legs.
We walked together into the cool marble entrance hall. Granddad looked around him. “And this place belongs to your mum?”
“Yes, it does. Her French racing driver gave it to her.”
“Blimey, she ain’t done badly for herself, I’ll say that for her—not that I approve of her morals, as you know. So where is she?”
“Sleeping off a hangover, I suspect. We had a rather wild party here last night. You go through to the breakfast room and I’d better change.”
I went upstairs to find Queenie standing in my room with a tea tray.
“The one time I remember to take you up your tea, you’re not blooming well there,” she said and plonked it down on the side table.
For once I wasn’t in a mood to reprimand her.
“Do you want me to run you a bath?” she asked as if this might be a huge imposition.
“No time for a bath,” I said. “My grandfather has just arrived. Help me into the new linen suit.”
A few minutes later, smartly dressed for company, I went downstairs to join them. I found that Vera was also at the table. There was no sign of Mummy, but plenty of evidence of the previous night’s party—empty glasses and full ashtrays all over the terrace, streamers, masks. The local women were bustling about clearing up and sweeping, chattering to each other in their shrill voices.
“Now, tell them everything,” Coco said. “About the necklace and the murder. Every detail.”
I tried to tell the whole thing logically. They listened, asking the occasional question.
“I don’t know about you, old friend,” Germain said to my grandfather, “but when two crimes occur so soon in an otherwise peaceful area, I have to wonder whether there is a connection between them. This stolen necklace—was the murder of the neighbor also during an attempted robbery? You say that Sir Toby went out on his yacht, therefore the thief would not expect to find him at home. The thief is startled and reacts by hitting Sir Toby over the head.”
“The only thing against that is that there was no sign of any disturbance in the house,” I said. “And Sir Toby’s servant and wife noticed nothing obvious missing. There were valuable objects all over the place. If Sir Toby was lying dead, why didn’t the thief help himself before he got away?”
As I said this I realized that I was using the pronoun “he” when the person seen slinking toward the house had been someone who looked like me. Not only that, I realized, someone who had taken the trouble to dress like me, to pin any crime on me, essentially. I explained this and the men listened.
“But a young woman like you—would she have the strength to kill a big man like Sir Toby?”
“If she caught him unawares,” I said. “What if he came home, changed into his bathing costume and went out for a swim? She was startled to see him so she grabbed a heavy object, crept up behind him and hit him over the head?”
“You know what I’m thinking?” Granddad said. “I’m wondering if we’re not looking at this the wrong way round. You say this bloke’s house is chockablock full of valuable things. He’s a real collector, you say. What if he’s the one what’s been nicking the stuff himself—or at least had other people working for him to nick the stuff?”
“But then how do you explain the necklace, or at least a fake version of it, being returned to me after he was dead?” I asked.
“Because whoever was working for him got cold feet, or decided to make off with the real necklace themselves?”
“It’s possible,” I agreed.
“On the other hand,” Commissaire Germain said, “if a fake necklace has been substituted for a real one, it is possible that Sir Toby had similarly been a victim of such a switch. You say the young woman was seen carrying something beneath her jacket, no? What if she was replacing a stolen object with a replica, so that nobody would ever know?”
He looked at us and we nodded agreement.
“Then the first thing to do is to try to find this mystery girl,” Vera said. “Someone who looks remarkably like Georgie.”
“It may not be so easy. She will surely have been in disguise—wearing a wig and maybe having made up her face to look different too,” Germain said.
“I know that she was seen on a bicycle in a particular section of Nice so I thought I might find myself a bicycle and wheel it around the neighborhood. If she lives nearby, then maybe someone will recognize me.”
“Capital idea,” Germain said, “and you know what I would wish to do first? I would like to take a look for myself at the crime scene. Can you show me the way?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There are police stationed outside the house to guard it. But perhaps they would let you in if you told them who you were.”
“I would prefer that they not know at this moment,” he said. “Let us gain entry with a little subterfuge.”
“Breaking and entering, you mean?” Granddad asked. “I don’t know about that. Not with the Frenchie police.”
“We will think of something,” Germain said. “Perhaps—” But before he could finish the sentence there were raised voices in the hallway and a flustered maid announced the arrival of Inspector Lafite. The little man swept in, looking around like a bloodhound on a scent.
“You English—is it your wish to keep me on the toes, as you say? First the necklace is stolen and now it is returned, but no—it is not the same necklace, it is a forgery.”
“That is correct,” Vera said coldly.
“And how do I know that the first necklace was not an imitation?” he said. “And you English try to fool Lafite so that you can collect insurance money?” He tapped his nose. “I know the English are not rich anymore. They wish to pull the wool over the eyes of Lafite. But they will not succeed.”
Vera stood up, staring at him eye to eye. “I can tell you that the first necklace was real because it came from Buckingham Palace from the Queen of England, and Her Majesty does not wear glass and paste,” she said.
She stared at him so hard and fiercely that in the end he shrugged. “So maybe the clever switch has been accomplished. Maybe not.” He seemed to realize for the first time that he was speaking in front of two men he didn’t know. “And these two gentlemen?” he said. “They are your friends? Your guests?”
“Art experts,” Coco said smoothly. “Art experts from London and Paris we summoned to examine the necklace.”
“And we wonder if maybe a similar robbery and subsequent replacement took place at the home of Sir Toby,” Germain said in French. “And that maybe this was the cause of his death.”
“The young woman you thought was me was carrying something under her jacket,” I said. “Perhaps it was a forgery she was bringing to replace a piece of art or an antique.”
Lafite seemed to be considering this as if it might make sense to him. “If there was indeed another young woman who was not yourself, then perhaps yes, perhaps no,” he agreed.
“So we wondered if you would like us to take a look at the house of Sir Toby and give you our expert opinion on his art and antiques,” Germain said, getting to his feet. “You would be welcome to accompany us, of course, because I realize that you are still working to unravel the mysteries of a complicated crime scene.”
Lafite looked noticeably puffed up by this. “The crime scene, it is not so complicated, monsieur. A simple blow to the head and, poof, the poor man falls into the swimming pool and drowns. But I would appreciate the impressions of an art expert like yourself.”
Granddad shot me a quick glance and tried to look like a distinguished art expert. “Blimey,” he whispered as we came closer together. “I never thought it would come to this. I thought your mum was the only ruddy actress in the family.”
“Just play along and nod occasionally,” I said.
We walked together to the Gropers’ villa. Johnson opened the door. By now he was looking decidedly white-faced and ill at ease.
“Your mistress is here?” Lafite asked.
&nb
sp; “No, sir. She hasn’t shown up today yet. It’s just me. I’m all alone here and frankly I don’t like it. Can you tell me when I can leave? I’d just as soon go back to England.”
“Soon, my boy. Courage. You are doing a splendid job,” Lafite said. “These gentlemen are art experts. I asked you before whether anything had been stolen from this house and you said you noticed nothing missing. Now it seems possible that something was replaced with a forgery. These two men will look around and you will assist them.”
“Very good, sir,” Johnson said, “although, as I say, Sir Toby might have kept the most valuable stuff locked away.”
“We shall see,” Lafite said. He indicated that Germain and my grandfather were at liberty to look around.
“He appreciates the modern art, I can see,” Germain said. “Matisse, Renoir and two Van Goghs. He was an astute man. These paintings are growing in value daily.” He paused beside one of the paintings, put his face close to it and sniffed. “Interesting,” he said. “The paint on this one appears to be fresh, but that is not possible because Van Gogh has been dead for forty years.”
We gathered around to look. It was a very ordinary sort of painting, not something I’d have wanted in my own drawing room—a crudely executed kitchen chair. That was all. Just one chair done in bold, uneven strokes. Next to it the painting of some sunflowers was a little better—more cheerful if not more skillfully done. I couldn’t see why anyone would want to steal or forge such a painting when there were some exquisite classical landscapes on other walls. I walked away and joined Granddad, who was staring out through the French doors at the pool.
“Anyone could have clambered down that cliff and clobbered him,” he muttered. “Or come up from the beach. And you say nothing was touched in the house?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Then I don’t know why we’re wasting our time looking at pictures. It obviously wasn’t a burglary in progress. It was someone who wanted him dead and knew he’d be alone.”