by Rhys Bowen
“I don’t know who that could be,” I said. “Everyone thought he was on his yacht or in Nice.”
“So it probably wasn’t planned then. Someone showed up, found him alone and took their chance. Or someone followed him here. Do you have any ideas about suspects?”
“Well,” I began, looking around to see how far away the others were, “my money would be on his mistress. A flamboyant Russian who left in a huff and swore vengeance.”
Granddad smiled. “That type is usually all bark and no bite. Who else?”
“There is Sir Toby’s wife. She wanted to divorce him, from what I overheard, but he was threatening to expose her liaison with someone important. And there’s his son, who didn’t want his father to find out—”
I broke off as Lady Groper herself swept into the room. She looked around in annoyance.
“What on earth is going on here now? Surely you men have done everything there is to be done here!”
“I’ve brought in art experts to examine your husband’s possessions, Madame,” Lafite said. “It appears that someone may recently have substituted one of your husband’s paintings with a forgery.”
“Good God. Which one?”
“This one, Madame. The painting of the chair.”
“That awful thing? Who’d possibly want it? I was going to have the lot of them thrown on a bonfire.”
“But no, Madame,” Germain said. “The impressionist painters are becoming more desirable for collectors every day. Mark my words—these paintings will be worth a fortune, given time.”
“Really? So it would seem that my husband was killed while someone switched the real painting for a forgery? How extraordinary.”
“You left your bag in the car, Mama.” Bobby Groper ambled into the room, wearing an open-necked check shirt and white flannels. He started visibly at finding the drawing room full of people. “Oh, hello,” he said. “What’s going on here? A party?”
“This is my son, Bobby,” Lady Groper said. “He arrived on this morning’s train. Came straight from England as soon as he heard the news. He’s devastated, poor boy. Worshipped his father.”
Bobby looked around and caught my eye. I saw him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down, then he shot me a warning glance—presumably to keep quiet.
“I’ll go and find somewhere to put our bags,” he said.
I followed him into the hallway.
“For God’s sake don’t tell them I’ve been here a while, will you?” he whispered to me.
“Why not? Why are you lying?”
He glanced in at the open doorway, then put his lips close to my ear. “Because it wouldn’t look good for me, would it? Son gets sent down from Oxford in disgrace. Skips off to Riviera. Tries to keep disgrace from father for as long as possible.”
“But surely people don’t kill their fathers because they’ve been sent down from university?”
“I’ve also accumulated a large pile of debts,” he said. “It’s actually quite convenient that the old man is out of the way. Now I inherit the money and the title. Ergo, the slate wiped clean. You could say that’s a pretty good motive for bumping someone off.”
“You aren’t sad your father’s been killed?”
He shrugged. “I expect I will be, when I’ve had time to think about it,” he said. “At present my only thoughts are about saving my own skin. Not very honorable and all that, but then I’m not the honorable type. Take after him too much, I suppose. He didn’t care whom he walked over. I don’t want to walk over people, but I do tend to put myself first.”
“Did you hear that the necklace that was stolen from me showed up last night?” I asked.
“No—did it? That’s a stroke of luck, isn’t it?”
“Only it was a forgery. A clever duplicate. And it appears that one of your father’s paintings has been substituted with a forgery.” I watched his face as I said this. He was, after all, the only person who helped me up and then slipped out of the room before the police searched everyone at the casino. But did he have the skill or the contacts to create a perfect replica of the necklace so quickly? And as for the painting . . .
Bobby grinned. “I can tell what you’re thinking. But I’d hardly be likely to steal one of my father’s paintings, would I? Especially since I’ve now inherited the whole bally lot.” He picked up a bag he’d left in the foyer. “I don’t know why you suspect me of anything,” he said, looking back over his shoulder as he made his way down the hall. “I’m a perfectly nice chap, actually.”
Chapter 31
January 28, 1933
We made our way back up the drive again, leaving Lafite with the Gropers.
“So that painting really was a forgery?” Vera asked. “You didn’t just say that?”
“No. I’ve actually had quite a lot of experience with art forgery,” Germain said, “and one can still smell the odor of fresh paint on that one. Maybe I am wrong. Only a true expert could tell if the brushwork was not that of Van Gogh, but I am not usually wrong.”
“Then we must find the girl who posed as me,” I said.
“I agree,” Germain said. “But do we have any other suspects in this case?”
“Georgie suggests his mistress, who left in a bit of a two and eight,” Granddad said.
“A what?” the others said in unison.
“Sorry.” Granddad chuckled. “A two and eight—that’s rhyming slang for ‘a state.’ She left in a bit of a state.”
“And this mistress might be found where?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “Her name is Olga and she was a dancer.”
“Easy enough to locate, then. And who else?”
“His wife and son both had reasons for wanting him out of the way,” I said, “and his son just lied about arriving on this morning’s train. He’s been here a few days.”
“Interesting.” Germain nodded. “So we have enough to keep us busy.”
“Apart from his family, who do not seem to be mourning his death,” I said, “everything one heard about Sir Toby suggested that he was a man who was ruthless, who didn’t play by the rules and who made enemies.”
Granddad nodded. “I remember his name now. I was wondering where I’d come across it before and it’s just come to me. It was that big trial.”
“He was involved in criminal activity?” Germain asked.
Granddad shook his head. “No. It was a civil suit. Made all the headlines.”
“What was it about?”
“If I remember right it was a motorcar engine,” Granddad said. “Some bloke took Sir Toby to court, claiming that they had designed a motorcar engine together and then Sir Toby had claimed the whole thing as his own and cut the other bloke out. Sir Toby hired a top-notch barrister who proved that the other bloke had been driven off his rocker by being in the trenches and had delusions. Might have been true, of course. The war did strange things to a lot of blokes. Anyway, this bloke lost the case and hanged himself.”
“Do you remember what his name was?” I asked.
Granddad sucked through his teeth as he did when he was thinking. “Some German type of name. That’s why there was little sympathy for him, even though he’d been in the trenches like all the other poor blokes. Sherman? That’s what it was. Johann Sherman. He was a Jew, I believe, who’d left Germany as a young man.”
“Then that’s it. The man who was threatening Sir Toby. I think his name was Schumann,” I said. “That’s close enough, isn’t it?”
“Which man was this?” Germain asked sharply.
I told them about what I had overheard and how Johnson had said it was some kind of business deal gone wrong.
“Again he should be easy enough to locate—businessman or crook, perhaps. I will have a private word with the commissioner down here and maybe put some of my men from the Sûreté on to tracking this Schumann.”
“Hang on a minute,” Granddad said, making us all pause in our tracks. “When that necklace was stolen—you said t
he flashbulbs went off, right?”
I nodded.
“Before or after you fell?”
“Both, I think.”
“If someone took a picture of you being helped up, then it’s possible that one of the cameras caught the robbery.”
“Excellent,” Germain said. “Why don’t you and Lady Georgiana make a tour of the newspapers and press services here, while I confer with my colleagues and decide how best to intervene here without it looking like intervention.”
“I’m anxious to find the girl who impersonated me,” I said. “Don’t you think that should come first?”
“I will take your charming grandfather,” Coco said. “It will help to have a person like me who is used to dealing with these photographers. I know many of them and I am known to them all.”
“Bob’s yer uncle,” Granddad said.
“What has my uncle got to do with this?” Coco asked, looking bewildered.
He laughed. “Sorry. Another bit of Cockney slipped out. It means that it’s all right with me.” Granddad blushed as Madame Chanel slipped her arm through his. “I never thought the day would come when I’d be escorting a charming French lady around the Riviera. Me, of all people.”
“I am delighted to have such a debonair Englishman to protect me,” Coco said gallantly. “Let us go and ask Claire if we may borrow the car and the delightful Franz.”
Mummy had just surfaced as we entered the house and she looked decidedly the worse for wear.
“Remind me not to drink gin,” she said. “It doesn’t agree with me. I should stick with champagne.” She frowned to focus on the men in our party. “Good heavens, Daddy. You came.”
“Wasn’t going to let my little girl get into trouble now, was I?” he said. “And now that I’m here, I can’t say that France looks as bad as I thought it would. Quite nice, in fact, especially after gray old England.”
Mummy gave me a knowing smile. “So what’s the plan then?”
We told her.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll bow out of this morning’s activities. I’m really not at my best. Maybe after a few cups of coffee I’ll feel human again. So run along and play, children.”
Franz brought around the motor and we all piled in. This time there were no police guarding our villa and the gendarme at Sir Toby’s gate saluted as we drove past. At least it seemed I’d been removed from the role of number one suspect. When we reached the center of Nice I asked Franz to drop me where I could ride the bus up the hill to Cimiez.
“I don’t know if I like you going alone,” Granddad said. “You’re looking for someone who might have committed two murders. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way. Come with us to the newspapers first and then we’ll all go with you up to this place.”
“No, that wouldn’t work at all,” I said. “I want to see if anyone mistakes me for this girl. I’m going to try to borrow a bicycle and wheel it around the neighborhood. At least I might be able to find out where she lives.”
“Well, be careful, then,” Granddad said. “And let’s arrange to meet back here at a certain time. That way, if you’re not there, we’ll come looking.”
We arranged to meet at noon, which gave me an hour and a half to begin my search. I joined the other passengers on the bus and we bumped our way up the windy road, the little bus belching out smoke and groaning as the hill became steeper. We saw glimpses of the bay as the town spread out below us. Then we were in an area of impressive villas. A great white curved building loomed over us. So that was the Hotel Regina, where my esteemed great-grandmother had stayed with her retinue of one hundred. I didn’t think somehow that they would rent bicycles.
I got off with the other English tourists, who made straight for a ruined Roman amphitheater, their cameras at the ready. I asked for directions to the street where Neville’s aunt’s villa was situated. It was actually not far below that great hotel. Since I could find no businesses here that might be willing to rent me a bicycle, I set off on foot, surveying the area. To one side was an olive grove and a monastery and beyond them the terrain fell away sharply, down to a river below. There was no way down that I could see. So I had to think. If this girl had been riding, not wheeling her bicycle, she could not have come from down below. The climb was simply too steep and she would have been wheeling it and out of breath. And above us seemed to be vineyards and small farms. Which must mean that I had to find a road that wound around the hill.
I started from Neville’s villa and continued westward as the road hugged the hillside. At times I glimpsed a spectacular view of the city and the Baie des Anges sparkling in the sunshine. There was no traffic and the only person I saw was an occasional gardener, working outside one of the villas. I sang out gaily, “Bonjour,” in the hope of seeing recognition on their faces, but a polite “Bonjour” was all I received in return. So the girl was not known in this quarter. Which made me wonder why she had ridden her bike here. It certainly wasn’t a shortcut to anywhere. Which must mean that she had wanted members of the English community to see her and to notice her—to think that she was I. It was all so horribly and thoroughly well planned, and the worrying thought came to me that she had known exactly what I was wearing that day, when I had only bought the outfit hours before. Someone had been spying on all my movements.
There was something else that was worrying me, and I tried to think what it was as I stared at the spring flowers growing in those gardens. Something to do with flowers. Something I had heard that morning—at Sir Toby’s villa. Suddenly I stood stock-still in the middle of the road. The two paintings, one of which had been forged. The sunflowers and the chair. And I remembered where I had heard those words spoken together before, in French. It was in the bar on the Channel steamer and the speaker had been Jean-Paul. Not the tournesols, he had said. Much simpler. The chair.
I found it hard to breathe. With this realization more things became obvious. Jean-Paul knew what I was wearing and had kept me nicely occupied all afternoon while someone dressed like me entered Sir Toby’s house, put in a forged painting, presumably taking the real one, and killed him. I shook my head, trying to shake out the thoughts that whirled around it. Stupid. Impossible. He was a fabulously rich French aristocrat. Why would he want to steal a painting when he could buy what he wanted? I started to walk, faster and faster. I examined his reactions to me. At first anger, surprise at seeing me. Then appraising, curious, pleasant; then flirtatious. He thought he recognized me, but he must have seen the resemblance to someone he knew—and realized what an opportunity he had.
So he had used me. The flirtation had been an act. He hadn’t been in the least interested in me, as he had demonstrated the night before, when he had probably gone off with Belinda because I was no longer any use to him. I recalled his frank appraisal of my dismal dress. A man in love does not notice the cut of a dress, but rather the face of a beloved. I felt hot tears of anger and embarrassment welling up in my eyes. The angry blare of a motorcar Klaxon brought me to an abrupt halt. I had reached a wider road, on the other side of which was a more ordinary neighborhood with shops, apartment blocks and smaller houses. I crossed the street, now absolutely determined to find this woman and turn her over to the police. I pictured my triumph when I brought Lafite to her. You didn’t believe me. There she is. She was the one who killed Sir Toby and do you know who made her do it?
I choked back a sob as the truth sank in. Jean-Paul. Beautiful, wonderful Jean-Paul had used and betrayed me. No wonder he had been so eager to find me a lawyer. He probably hadn’t counted on murder. At least he had a speck of conscience.
“How could you?” I said out loud.
“Eh, Jeanine. Toujours la blonde?” a voice called as a young man sped past me on a bicycle. It meant “Still a blonde?”
“Attendez! Wait!” I called and started to run after him but he was moving fast and was gone. But at least I knew something now. The name was Jeanine and she was known around here. I wished I hadn’t promised to meet Granddad
and Coco at noon. I had no time to search properly now. But I’d come back as soon as I’d checked in with them and I could tell them exactly where I’d be. Maybe they could tail me at a distance, just in case. Or better still, maybe Commmissaire Germain could tail me. Thus reassured, I made my way back to the bus and came down the hill.
Granddad and Coco jumped up excitedly as they saw me.
“You’ve found the thief?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Coco said. “But we’ve established one thing. Look at this.” She held out a glossy photograph. It showed my back, being led away from the stage, with the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Simpson muttering something to each other in the foreground. And around my neck . . .
“The necklace is still there,” I said.
“Precisely,” Coco replied. “Which means it was taken when you were helped to a seat. But I thought your mother and I helped you to the seat.”
“And the marquis,” I said flatly. “Remember he got me a brandy and he put his arm around my shoulder as he handed it to me. And that’s when he took my necklace.”
“The marquis? Jean-Paul?” Chanel laughed incredulously. “But that is absurd. Why would he steal a necklace?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but the more I’ve thought about it, it all points to him. He orchestrated everything—the necklace and Sir Toby’s villa the next afternoon, sending someone who looked like me to pin everything on me.” I could feel a lump in my throat and swallowed it back hastily.
“You are trying to tell us that Jean-Paul killed Sir Toby?”
I shook my head violently. “He was with me. By the time he drove me home, Sir Toby must have been already dead. It was the young woman who must have killed him—or maybe they had a third coconspirator we don’t even know about.”
“This is absurd,” Chanel said. “Jean-Paul is fabulously rich. Everyone knows that. And he comes from an old family. Why would he want to rob people?”
“For the fun of it, maybe?” I was trying to stay calm and detached. “Look, I have no idea why. But someone must be told. Can you go and find your friend Jacques Germain? He will know what to do.”