Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

  “It upset her?” I asked.

  “No—that’s what Jane is so bothered about. Giselle seemed—not exactly delighted, but terribly excited at the news. She was fairly sparkling, Jane says—but in a malicious sort of way. She jumped up, kissed Jane, said that would put the cat among the pigeons—and rushed off in that great car of hers, back to the Chalet Perce-neige at a hundred miles an hour. Now, of course, Jane bitterly regrets having told her, and is afraid she’s put her foot in things properly. That’s why she was crying.”

  “Oh dear. But I don’t see why we have to rush off to Paris.”

  “Because, my dear Emmy,” Henry explained, “if we want to follow up any leads there before they’re tampered with, we’ve got to do it at once. We may be too late already.”

  So I packed our bags, we said good-bye to a subdued and still red-eyed Jane, and by suppertime we were in the dining car, eating our way across the broad plains of central France. We arrived in Paris at eleven o’clock, and checked into our favorite small hotel. I was tired after the journey, and I was appalled when Henry calmly announced that we were going out to a nightclub.

  “Oh, Henry—not now. I’m whacked.”

  “We must, love—there’s no time to waste.”

  “You mean, this is a business call?”

  “It is,” said Henry. “We’re going to Le Fromage Sauvage—where Michel Veron was appearing in April.”

  Le Fromage Sauvage was very small, very dark, very crowded, and very expensive. The cabaret was about to begin, and as we groped our way through the gloom to a table, the already inadequate lights dimmed still further, as a brilliant spotlight made a fiery circle of the center of the small dance floor. There was a crash on the timpani, and a small man in evening dress stepped into the spotlight. He flashed a toothy smile around the audience, and announced dramatically, “Mesdames et messieurs…I have the great honor to present to you…Gaby Labelle!”

  The small man then disappeared into the darkness like an eel into the mud, and from behind a black velvet curtain a woman in a glittering dress made entirely of blue sequins stepped into the limelight. There was a big wave of applause, and the woman, her beautiful face haggard beneath her glinting hair, blew kisses right and left. Then she grasped the microphone as if it had been a lover—or a lifebelt—and began belting out a sad song of the Paris streets in a powerful, husky, low-register voice, while the pianist and guitarist thrummed unobtrusively in the shadows.

  “She still looks marvelous, doesn’t she?” I whispered to Henry. “She must be over fifty. I never thought I’d see her in the flesh.”

  Henry was not listening, either to me or to Gaby Labelle. He was looking to the left, straining his eyes to see in the darkness; and as I looked too, I was able to make out the figure of the small, toothy man. He was making his way slowly between the tables, exchanging a smile here, a whispered word there. He gave us a brief glance, dismissed us as nonentities, and would have passed our table if Henry had not stopped him.

  “May I have a word with you?” Henry said quietly. Gaby Labelle had sobbed out the last phrase of her song, and was now acknowledging the warm applause.

  The small man looked displeased and said, “After the cabaret, if you please, monsieur.” He prepared to move on.

  Rather unfairly, Henry whipped out his police identity card. “I’m from the English police. Scotland Yard. I must speak to you.”

  The small man looked distinctly alarmed. He glanced around nervously and then said, “I will come to your table when the cabaret ends.” He turned his back on us, flashed a smile at a bejeweled woman sitting at a nearby table, and moved off.

  Gaby Labelle sang two more songs, and followed them up by one of her old hit numbers, the first note of which was greeted by a storm of clapping. She then disappeared behind the curtain, allowed herself to be recalled, did two encores, and finally vanished definitely. The subdued pink lights came up to the point where it was just possible to see the bottles in the champagne buckets, the piano-guitar combination resumed its insistent beat, and conversation swelled up. I wondered if the small man would keep his promise. I had a distinct feeling that if he had not seen Henry’s identity card, we would not have seen him again, but, as it was, he came.

  “Well, now, Chief Superintendent…Tibbett, is it?…what can we do for you?” He favored us with his lighthouse-beam smile. Without waiting for an answer, he poured himself a glass of champagne from our bottle, hailed a passing waiter, and ordered another.

  “You are Jules Renoir, the owner of this boîte?’

  The man gave a little affirmative bow. “At your service. You are making official inquiries in Paris, Superintendent?”

  Henry sidestepped this. “I am investigating a crime which occurred last April. On Wednesday the fourteenth, to be exact.”

  Renoir frowned. “That is a long time ago,” he said reproachfully. “It is not easy to remember.”

  “Nevertheless, I am sure you can help me,” Henry said. “It was the week when Michel Veron was appearing here.”

  “Ah, yes. What a talented young man! Of course, we engage only the top names.”

  “I realize that,” said Henry. “I imagine some stars are temperamental, aren’t they?”

  “Very few. Very few. Temperament is the resort of the second-rate. The top artistes are true professionals.”

  “Michel Veron?”

  “A case in point,” said Renoir. “He rehearsed every tiny detail of his act with our stage manager and electrician. A perfectionist. But I am sure you did not come here to discuss Michel Veron.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Henry, “I did.”

  “You did?” Renoir was amazed. “But—”

  “What time are the cabaret appearances here? Are they the same each week?”

  “Yes, yes. Always at the same times. First at eleven, and then a second appearance at one o’clock. The one you have just seen.”

  “Michel Veron did not miss a performance?”

  “Dear me, no. The reverse, if anything.” Jules Renoir laughed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I told you how thoroughly he rehearsed. All Monday afternoon he was here, running through lighting effects, checking the mike and so on. All well and good. We expect that before a first performance on Monday night. But, if you’ll believe it, on the Wednesday—that’s the day you are interested in, isn’t it?—yes, I remember now that on the Wednesday he turned up again after lunch. He had decided to introduce a new song into his act, and he insisted on rehearsing it, with lighting effects. I had quite a business getting hold of the stage manager and electrician.”

  “So Veron was here all the afternoon?”

  “That’s right. From three until—well, after six, anyway.”

  “And these other men could confirm that?”

  Renoir laughed. “I should say so. They were far from pleased at being called out in the afternoon, but Veron insisted.”

  Well, that certainly seemed to be that. Apart from the fact that Veron was far too tall to impersonate Anne-Marie, he could hardly have been simultaneously at Le Fromage Sauvage and in Montarraz. All the same, it did seem almost too good to be true that he had decided on extra rehearsal on that particular day, just at the crucial time. Establishing an alibi? If so, he had certainly succeeded.

  Henry was thanking Renoir, and assuring him that there was no more help he could give. Renoir, looking bewildered, was on the point of departure. And then two things happened. The fresh bottle of champagne arrived, and, close on its heels, Gaby Labelle.

  She had changed out of her sequined dress into an elegant silk trouser suit, and she had a magnificent mutation mink stole slung carelessly around her shoulders. She looked older but no less striking at close quarters. She sank gracefully into a chair and said, “Give me some champagne, Jules. I’m parched. And introduce me.” Her voice sounded like a purring cat with a sore throat.

  There was nothing Renoir could do but accept the situation,
for many eyes had now turned to our table. He said, “This is Mr. Tibbett from London, my dear. And Mme.…?” he added on a note of inquiry.

  Henry quickly confirmed that I was, indeed, his wife. Gaby Labelle smiled ravishingly at us, and hoped we had enjoyed her performance. We made appropriate noises of appreciation.

  “From London?” Gaby Labelle regarded us gravely over the rim of her champagne glass. “You are in Paris on business?”

  “Not entirely,” said Henry carefully. “As a matter of fact, we are on our way home from a holiday in Montarraz.”

  “Montarraz? Oh, that is where Sylvie Claudet has an apartment. Do you know Sylvie? She is an old friend of mine.”

  “We certainly do,” I said. “We were actually staying in her apartment.”

  “Well, well.” Gaby Labelle relaxed, apparently delighted to find herself among friends. “So you are friends of Sylvie’s. You must know Giselle and Michel, too.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Henry. “We spent several evenings at the Chalet Perce-neige.”

  Renoir was a study in bewilderment and apprehension. He laid a hand on Gaby Labelle’s arm. “Gaby, chérie, I am sure you must be—”

  She shook it off impatiently. “No, no, Jules. I want to hear news of my friends. How is Sylvie?”

  Henry hesitated. Then he said, “Very well, I think. Perhaps a little worried.”

  Gaby Labelle nodded seriously. “Yes. I felt the same thing.” There was a little pause, and then she said, “Why did she have to go to Montarraz? Do you know?”

  Henry said, “I don’t think she had to go there. She and her husband had been cruising in the Mediterranean—you know M. Claudet, of course?”

  “Do you know, it is strange, but I have never met him. He is always away on important government business, and then Sylvie and I get together and talk of old times.”

  “Well,” said Henry, “I gathered that Pierre Claudet had to cut short their holiday because of, as you say, important government business, and so Sylvie decided to come down to Montarraz instead.”

  Gaby Labelle looked puzzled, and shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “She had arranged to come and dine with me, but she telephoned the evening before, saying that she had had a message from Montarraz—something about the apartment—and must go down there next day. I thought she sounded upset.”

  Henry said easily, “Oh, well, perhaps I misunderstood. Anyhow, I don’t know what took her down there. You’re an old friend of hers, I gather?”

  “Oh, yes.” Gaby Labelle encompassed us both with the sad, sweet smile which has enchanted audiences all over the world. “I have known Sylvie for many years.” She laughed throatily. “Oh, now we are both femmes du monde —jewels and furs and champagne—but it was not always so, you know. It is not so long ago that I was singing for my supper in cheap little cabarets, and Sylvie was selling hats at Frivolités.”

  “Frivolités?” Henry repeated the word casually, but I could not stop myself reacting, and I was pretty certain that the man Renoir noticed. Anyhow, he stood up, and said, almost roughly, “Come along, Gaby. You know you must sleep if you are to do good work.”

  “But Jules—”

  “Superintendent Tibbett is a busy policeman from England,” said Renoir, with a lack of subtlety which must have been born of desperation. “He is in the middle of an investigation, and must be tired.”

  Gaby Labelle’s thin, painted eyebrows went up. “A policeman? How fascinating. Sit down, Jules. I am intrigued to talk to a policeman who is a friend of Sylvie and Giselle.”

  “My dear Gaby, I must insist.” Renoir was almost dancing with nervousness.

  “Frivolités is the name of a hat shop, is it?” said Henry.

  “Gaby…” I really felt sorry for Renoir. However, luck was on his side. Suddenly, with immense relief and in a different tone, he said, “Look, my dear, there is the Marquis d’Avenet, with Cyrus G. Kloppenheimer, the American impresario. They are inviting us to join their table.” He waved and smiled toward a dark corner of the nightclub.

  Slowly, Gaby Labelle turned her head to look. Sure enough, two smoothly opulent middle-aged men were raising their glasses to her across the room. She sighed, and stood up gracefully. “It seems I must go. I am still a working girl, you see. I hope we meet again, M. le Gendarme.” She held her hand out to Henry, and as he took it, she added softly, “Rue des Lapins, twenty-one. It’s disappeared now, of course.” And she turned and followed Renoir across the room to the other table.

  We were in the Rue des Lapins by nine o’clock the next morning. It was a small street in the Eighth Arrondissement, between the Rue de Rivoli and the Madeleine, narrow and very chic. It reminded me of Beauchamp Place in London. There were a couple of small, trendy restaurants and a spattering of obviously expensive boutiques, as well as a few discreet and desirable private houses. The whole district exuded an aroma of wealth and luxury, which pervaded the street like perfume.

  Number 21 was not a hat shop, but a boutique selling handmade jewelry, silk shirts, and avant-garde beach wear. The window display consisted of a single, shapeless garment, a few glittering jeweled belts, and a rose, tastefully arranged around an abstract plastic sculpture, which appeared to represent, if anything, a series of naked female breasts. The name of the establishment was Denise.

  Henry looked at me and grinned. “Go on,” he said. “Be brave.”

  “It’s not my sort of place at all,” I protested.

  “Still less mine,” said Henry. “In you go. I’ll wait for you in that café on the corner.”

  “But—what am I to say?”

  “Play it by ear—there’s nothing else you can do.”

  “You won’t come in with me?”

  “Of course not. I’d spoil everything.”

  Henry gave me an encouraging grin, and walked off down the street. Timidly, I pushed open the door and went into the shop.

  I was greeted at once by a formidable lady of uncertain age, skeletally thin and heavily made up. Her hair was dyed lilac-pink, and she clanked as she moved from the weight of assorted junk jewelry she wore. Her sharp black eyes assessed me—not, I thought, in very flattering terms. She said, as tersely as a schoolmistress, “Madame?”

  I said hesitantly, “I…I think perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I was given this address…”

  “Yes, madame?” Her voice was even sharper.

  “You see, I was hoping to…to buy a hat. I understood this was a hat shop.”

  “You can see that it is not, madame.”

  “A hat shop called Frivolités…”

  It seemed to me that there was a subtle change in the woman’s attitude. Not exactly a softening, but a heightened awareness, almost a feeling of conspiracy. I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it. She said, “There was a shop of that name here, madame, but it closed down some years ago. However, I think we may be able to show you some interesting merchandise. Will you step into the salon? This way…”

  She led the way to the back of the shop, and through a doorway draped with curtains. I found myself in a small room, furnished with several imitation Louis XV sofas, a few gilt chairs, and many long mirrors. There was also a gramophone turntable and a cocktail cabinet. Mme. Denise went first to the turntable and flooded the room with a discreet but blanketing swell of soft music. Then she opened the cocktail cabinet and offered me a drink.

  At that hour in the morning, I wanted a drink about as much as I wanted a hole in the head, but something prompted me to say yes. Mme. Denise poured out two large brandies, gave one to me, and then put a beringed hand on my arm and guided me to one of the chaise-longues. She sat down beside me.

  “There, my dear,” she said. “Now we can talk. You are interested in Frivolités?”

  “Yes. You see, I once had a friend who—”

  “I quite understand. Unfortunately, you are several years too late. You had not heard?”

  I shook my head.

  “You do not live in Paris, perhaps?” There wa
s a note of suspicion.

  “No, no. I’m English. I come from London.”

  “Ah. That would explain it.” Mme. Denise raised her glass. “Your health, my dear. Well, I won’t go into details, but Frivolités ran into—certain difficulties. It was all managed discreetly, but the shop was forced to close. Now, we do not provide the same…facilities. Obviously, on these premises, it would be unwise. However, occasionally I get a visit from an old client of Frivolités like yourself, who wishes for the same sort of…service…and I have an address which I can give you. It is a hairdressing establishment, and I am sure that it will give you every satisfaction.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said, “but I don’t—”

  “You will not find it cheap, but then, extra special service always has to be paid for, hasn’t it?” She smiled at me, like a snake. “The address will cost you a thousand francs,” she added on a business-like note.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I’m not really inquiring for myself.”

  At once she became suspicious. “In that case, madame, I fear I have been wasting your time. This is a very personal service—”

  “I’m trying,” I said, “to trace a friend. A girl who used to work at Frivolités. Her name was Sylvie.”

  “Why do you wish to trace her?” demanded Mme. Denise sharply.

  “Oh—just that I haven’t seen her for years, and I’m visiting Paris from England…”

  “What was her surname?”

  This was a poser. I had no idea of Sylvie’s maiden name. Lamely, I said, “It sounds silly, but I never knew her second name. I just knew her as Sylvie.”

  For some reason this answer seemed to please Mme. Denise. She nodded slowly, and then said, “How old is she?”