Surprised, I said, “Well…let’s see…she must be in her late forties by now.”
Almost to herself, Mme. Denise said, “I see. Not one of the little ones. Sylvie…no, madame, I fear I cannot place her.” She paused, and then said, “She worked in the shop, you say?”
“That’s right. Selling hats.”
Mme. Denise drained her drink and stood up. She looked furious, as though I had mocked or insulted her. “I am sorry, madame. I cannot help you. You will not be requiring the address I mentioned?”
“Thank you, no. I was looking for a hat shop, you see. Not a hairdresser.”
She shot me a look full of suspicion and distrust, but all she said was, “I hope you are successful in locating your friend, madame, but since you do not know her name…”
I felt I should have replied “Touché” —but I did not. Instead, I escaped thankfully from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the boutique and hurried to the café, where Henry was drinking coffee and reading Le Monde from a roller stick.
“Well?” he demanded.
I reported my strange conversation with Mme. Denise. “It was really creepy, Henry. Heaven knows what went on—the shop must have been a front for something pretty nasty. At first I thought it was probably a place where married women could meet their lovers—you know the sort of thing. You say to your husband, ‘I’m just going to buy a new hat, darling’—and there’s the boyfriend waiting in a back room. But then she made that sinister remark about the little ones. Should I have bought that address for a thousand francs—not that I have that much French money.”
Henry shook his head. “No, no. Let the French police clear up their own cess pits. It’s nothing to do with us, and we don’t want to make people suspicious, Of course, it could all be perfectly innocent…”
“Innocent?” I echoed. “Very special personal service, and a thousand francs for the address? Don’t be silly, Henry.”
“What I meant was,” he explained, “that Sylvie’s connection with the shop may have been innocent. According to Gaby Labelle, she was just a salesgirl. She may not have known what was going on—and for all we know, the racket may not have started up until after her time there. On the other hand, why did Giselle bring it up?”
“Pure mischief-making, I should think,” I said. “Remember Sylvie’s position as Pierre’s wife. Even if her connection with the place was innocent, there’s obviously a nasty smell attached to Frivolités, and she wouldn’t want it known that she worked there.”
“Well,” said Henry, “the next thing is to find out more about the story. Mme. Denise said it was discreetly hushed up, but somebody must know.”
“Jules Renoir?” I suggested. “Gaby Labelle?”
Henry considered. “Very likely,” he said. “Renoir was on tenterhooks last night. But he’d never talk. No—I have it. The very person. Pierre Claudet.”
“What! Henry, you can’t—”
Henry laughed. “The International League of Women in action again? Darling, give me credit for a little tact. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of mentioning to M. Claudet that his wife had been involved in any way.”
“But—”
“Look, Emmy—the very fact that Sylvie is so sensitive about Frivolités shows in itself that her husband doesn’t know her previous connection with the place. She’s afraid he may find out. Right—I certainly don’t intend to tell him. But if there was a scandal which involved people in high places—and it almost certainly did, if it was hushed up—then Pierre Claudet is just the man to know about it. Finish your coffee, and we’ll set about contacting him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
OF COURSE, it was no easy matter arranging an interview with a government minister, especially as we had never met him before. A telephone call to the ministry produced, predictably, no result at all, except a cold official voice advising us to submit our request in writing, when it would be considered. Fortunately, however, Jane had given us the private, ex-directory telephone number of Sylvie’s Paris apartment, and this was more fruitful. The phone was answered by a maid, who told Henry that Monsieur was expected home for lunch. He was entertaining a small party of political colleagues. Madame was still away in Switzerland.
Henry said, “I shall call around in a few minutes and leave a note for M. Claudet. Will you make sure that he reads it when he comes home to lunch?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
We found a stationer’s shop, and bought writing paper and envelopes. Then we went into a café, ordered more coffee, and Henry laid a sheet of paper on the table and brought out his fountain pen.
“What are you going to say?” I asked.
Henry didn’t answer. He wrote quickly on the paper, and then passed it to me to read.
Dear M. Claudet,
I have just come from Montarraz, where I have been staying in your apartment, thanks to the hospitality of Jane Weston and your wife, Sylvie. I would very much appreciate an opportunity of talking to you privately.
You can reach me at the Hotel Ste. Jeanne anytime this afternoon. I shall be leaving Paris tomorrow.
Yours sincerely,
Henry Tibbett, Chief Superintendent, C.I.D.,
London.
“You think that will get him?” I asked.
“I think it will intrigue him,” said Henry.
“So what do we do now?”
“We deliver the note,” said Henry, “and we wait. Not, I hope, for too long.”
Henry was right. It was not yet one o’clock, and we had just arrived back in our hotel room with the rolls, cold ham, and wine which we had bought as a snack lunch, when our telephone rang, and the hall porter informed Henry that a gentleman wished to speak to him. The gentleman had not given his name.
Henry took the telephone, and said, “Hello…yes, Tibbett speaking…good afternoon, M. Claudet…it’s very kind of you…yes, yes , I quite understand how busy you are…three o’clock? Yes, that will suit us very well…oh, my wife…didn’t I mention…? Yes, she is with me… No, I wouldn’t exactly describe it as official…you know how such matters are arranged, I am sure…until three, then…goodbye…”
“Well?” I said as he rang off.
Henry grinned at me. “Smooth as silk,” he said, “but he’s dead scared. He wants us to go to his apartment this afternoon at three. He says he can spare us half an hour after his lunch guests have gone.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “that gives us two hours to burn.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Henry. “It gives me less than two hours to get hold of a whole lot of information.”
Henry was lucky. Considering that it was lunchtime, he could hardly have expected success in tracking down a French journalist friend in a matter of minutes—but fortunately the man’s secretary knew at which café he was lunching. Henry rang the restaurant, and lured his friend away from his meal to the telephone. After ten minutes of conversation, to which Henry’s contributions were little more than the occasional “Yes?… Really?… And then what?… Ah, I see,” he rang off and turned to me with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Good old Georges,” he said. He sat down on the bed and took a bite of buttered roll.
“All the lowdown on Claudet?” I asked.
“Not all of it, of course—but Georges is as well informed as anybody.”
“Well?”
“No scandal,” said Henry. “Not a breath. Never has been. Brilliant academic record, qualified as a lawyer, went briefly into practice, and then took to politics. Not rich himself, but married a girl of immense wealth and powerful family—”
“But Sylvie—” I began.
“No, no.” Henry took another mouthful, and spoke indistinctly through it. “First wife. Married her thirty years ago, when he was a young man. Her money and family connections launched him on his political career. They had two children, a boy and a girl—now both grown up and married, of course. Six years ago Mme. Claudet was killed in a motor smash. Two months later Pierre Cla
udet married Sylvie.”
“Still no scandal?”
“No…but quite a lot of criticism, especially from his first wife’s family and friends. He’d inherited all her money, of course. Nobody knew anything about Sylvie. Pierre Claudet just produced her from nowhere. Of course, snobbery is officially out these days, especially in politics—however powerful a force it may actually be. Claudet made a public virtue of the fact that his new wife had been a simple, hard-working woman, and nobody could challenge the moral rectitude of that. In fact, it did him some good at the polls, I gather. And then, Sylvie turned out not to be vulgar and gauche, but elegant and charming, which pleased everybody. Also, she at once became tremendously active in good causes and women’s organizations and so on—a model minister’s wife. She was soon accepted by everybody.”
“Everybody?”
“Well.” Henry grinned. “I daresay there are some people who wouldn’t be heartbroken if she slipped up publicly—but it’s generally agreed that she’s doing a good job. At least, she’s not doing anything to hinder Claudet’s ambitions.”
“His ambitions being…?”
“Oh, President of the Republic, without a doubt, according to Georges. Meanwhile, he has already achieved junior ministerial rank, and his immediate objective is to be transferred from his present rather insignificant ministry to something really powerful, like Foreign Affairs. There’s rumored to be a cabinet reshuffle in the offing, and Claudet’s name is being mentioned for a big job.”
“He must have enemies,” I said.
“Of course he has. Georges says there’s an influential group who are fighting tooth and nail to keep him out. A juicy scandal, whether it affected him personally or just Sylvie, would be exactly what they want to discredit him.”
“I see,” I said. “No wonder Sylvie is frightened. Did the Drivaz murder case affect Claudet’s reputation, by the way?”
“Not really. Georges says his enemies tried to make something of it—but Sylvie’s part in it was so patently innocent, and she made such a good impression in the witness box, that it left them with no ammunition. Anyhow, the whole thing took place in another country. By now, it’s dead and buried as far as the French press is concerned.”
“And Frivolités?” I asked.
Henry hesitated. “It didn’t seem to register at all with him at first,” he said. “I had to repeat the name several times, and give him a few hints. Then he remembered. He’s a journalist, with a filing-cabinet mind. Oh, he said, a very minor affair. A hat shop used as a front for a brothel, as far as he remembered. The sort of thing that was bound to crop up after the closing of the official maisons de tolérance. He couldn’t imagine why I should be interested in it.”
“Sounds like a skillful piece of hushing up,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Henry. “Or perhaps it really was unimportant. Oh, well. I hope we shall find out more from Pierre Claudet.”
The Claudets’ apartment was a penthouse suite, on the top floor of an old-fashioned apartment building not far from the Champs Elysées. As we stepped out of the slow-moving, ornate lift, we could see through the corridor window an impressive panorama over the gray rooftops of Paris. Typically, the hallways and corridors of the building were bleak and almost shabby, but when the very correct manservant opened the apartment door in answer to our ring, we stepped into a world of extraordinary luxury and opulence, which—even if it was somewhat conventional—proclaimed wealth and good taste at the top of its voice.
The furniture was Louis XV, and it never occurred to me to doubt that it was genuine. The curtains were pure silk, the carpets handmade in grand point. An ormolu clock ticked majestically on its marble plinth, and a few pieces of exquisite Sèvres porcelain were carefully displayed to their best advantage. The flower arrangements were obviously professional, and all the visible books were leather-bound and gold-tooled. Standing in the Claudets’ Paris apartment, I suddenly realized that, to them, the Montarraz flat was, indeed, just a simple country retreat. It’s all relative.
The butler said, “Monsieur requested that you should wait in the study, M. le Superintendent. He will be with you in a few minutes.”
He ushered us into a book-lined room, furnished with a huge leather-topped desk and a beautiful antique revolving globe of the world. After a minute or so, we heard a door opening onto the corridor outside, and a rich spate of masculine voices spilled out, accompanied by the aroma of Havana cigars. The luncheon guests were on their way. There was more talk and laughter as coats were donned and farewells said; then the front door closed definitively, and there was a momentary silence. Then came rapid, heavy footsteps in the corridor, the study door opened, and Pierre Claudet came in, his hand extended and his face smiling welcome.
“Superintendent Tibbett? And madame? Enchanté, madame. Forgive me for having kept you waiting—an official luncheon, I’m afraid. The sort of thing which I have to endure, and which Sylvie finds so boring—so she wisely escapes to Montarraz. I only wish I could do the same. May I offer you a cognac? A cigar?”
When we had accepted brandy and Henry had refused a cigar, Pierre Claudet settled us comfortably into two leather armchairs, sat down behind the desk himself, and said, “And now you must tell me how I can help you, monsieur. I understand you have been staying with Sylvie in Montarraz. Is it…is it about Sylvie that you wish to speak?” His voice was as smooth as oiled silk, and he was still smiling, but I thought I caught an undertone of uneasiness.
“No, no,” said Henry quickly. “I’m afraid I rather unscrupulously used your wife’s name as an introduction to you, sir. We are old friends of Jane Weston’s, you see, and we have been staying with her in your apartment…”
“In my apartment?” Claudet was clearly puzzled. “I am sorry, I do not quite follow. Mme. Weston lives in the little chalet, surely?”
I said lightly, “Oh, didn’t Sylvie tell you? She very kindly lent the apartment to Jane while you were both away for the summer.”
Pierre Claudet’s mouth set in a hard line of displeasure. He said, “No, she did not tell me. But Sylvie is in Montarraz now—she went down there nearly a week ago. There can hardly have been room for all of you in the Panoralpes apartment.”
The last words were spoken on a definite note of interrogation, and I suppose my hesitation in replying was absolutely explicit, because Claudet went on at once, “I see. Sylvie is staying at the Chalet Perce-neige, I suppose.”
“Well,” I said fumblingly, “now that we’ve left, I’m sure she’ll—”
“I understand the situation perfectly, madame.” It was obvious that he also disapproved of it. Then, with an abrupt change of tone, he turned to Henry and said, “Now, let us get to business, M. le Superintendent. I fear my time is short. What do you want with me?”
It was all pretty daunting, but Henry did not intend to be bullied. I recognized the way in which he deliberately settled back in his chair and sipped his drink, before he said, “It’s only a small matter, M. Claudet, and it won’t take long. I expect you would first like to see my credentials.” He pulled out his wallet, extracted his official identity card, and laid it on the desk.
Pierre Claudet did not even glance at it. “Any friend of Mme. Weston’s…”
“Ah, but I want to ask you for information which you might not wish to divulge to an ordinary member of the public, M. Claudet. I am conducting an inquiry into the affair of the hat shop in the Rue des Lapins known as Frivolités. The police closed it down six years ago.”
There was a moment of dead silence. Pierre Claudet leaned forward very deliberately and picked up Henry’s identity card from the desk. He studied it for a moment, then flicked it almost contemptuously with his right forefinger, and laid it down again. In the stillness, the small noise of his fingernail against the cardboard sounded unnaturally loud. He said, “An official inquiry, on behalf of Scotland Yard?”
“No,” said Henry. “That is why I have come to you in this unorthodox way, instead of
going to your police. I believe that you can tell me more than appears in the official reports.”
“Indeed? What makes you think that?”
Henry smiled. “The fact that so little is officially recorded about the affair. And yet, some people near the top of the pile clearly know more than they are prepared to say. So I have come to the very summit for information.”
There was another pause. Then Claudet said, “What is your interest in Frivolités? It is ancient history.”
“I can assure you,” said Henry blandly, “that I have no intention of raking up old scandals. On the contrary, I am concerned above all with discretion, and with making sure that unsavory facts are not published—perhaps in another country.”
That obviously made Claudet think. Without saying anything definite, Henry had sown in his mind the possibility that scandalous revelations might be made outside France, and that the very fact that our visit was unofficial was something to be thankful for. Henry can be quite wicked when he wants to be, and it’s a mistake to underestimate him—as people have often found to their cost.
Claudet said, “As a matter of fact, I was slightly concerned with the case—I was at the Ministry of Justice at the time. But—”
“Good,” said Henry. “That means we can talk. I will tell you all I know, and you can correct me, or elaborate, as you like.” Before Claudet could protest, he went on. “Frivolités was, on the face of it, a small, chic hat shop in the Rue des Lapins. Actually, it was a front for a number of illicit goings-on. The most innocent of these was to provide an opportunity for society ladies to meet their lovers, under the pretext of a shopping expedition. They paid highly for the service, and I do not believe that they were blackmailed. Is that correct?”
“Of course.” Claudet was expressionless. “You must know that it was on these grounds—allowing the premises to be used for immoral purposes—that the shop was closed.”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “But, as I said, this was merely the most innocent of the vices. A double front, if you like. Behind this relatively charming and romantic illegality, there was a darker picture. It concerned the little ones.”
Season of Snows and Sins Page 16