Verity had never been to a film studio but she had a vague idea that it would be glamorous. She imagined she would see beautiful women and handsome men being ordered about by tyrannical directors like the Austrian-born Eric von Stroheim. A photograph she had seen of von Stroheim dressed in leather boots and riding breeches had made a considerable impression on her as dictators like Benito Mussolini had adopted the same style of dress.
The Victorine studios on the eastern outskirts of Nice were very different from what she had imagined. They consisted of several large hangars which reminded her more of Croydon Aerodrome than anything else. When she nonchalantly announced to the uniformed security guard at the gate that she had an appointment with Natalie Sarrault, she had half-expected him to bow and scrape before escorting her to some palatial dressing-room. In the event, he was singularly unimpressed and made her repeat the name before admitting he knew whom she was talking about. Then, in a bored gesture, he directed her across a swathe of tarmac to an ugly office building. There, an elderly woman, who seemed to be some sort of secretary, took her through a warren of passages to one of the hangars she had noticed earlier.
Here there was some activity. A simple wooden set representing a bedroom was raised on a platform. Several large and unwieldy-looking cameras were standing idle while a man, who she assumed must be the film’s director, was brushing Natalie’s hair. This was a very different Natalie to the beautifully dressed, shimmering girl with whom she had dined the night before. She was dressed in a flimsy cotton frock, rather dirty and torn near her breasts. She caught sight of Verity and gave her a little wave. Verity responded before perching herself on a broken-backed chair and making herself as inconspicuous as possible.
At first, she was interested and looked about her, planning in her mind an informed, light-hearted article on the French film industry. There were three or four men sitting on upturned crates playing cards, each with a cigarette in his mouth, who she thought might be cameramen. She was now inclined to think that the man brushing Natalie’s hair was not the director but to do with make-up as, having finished her hair, he began to dab at her cheeks with a powder puff. After twenty minutes nothing had happened and she began to get bored. Her chair was uncomfortable and she thought she might go for a walk. At that moment, the director did appear with a lanky youth who, Verity assumed, must be Natalie’s ‘lover’. At the director’s urging, the youth took Natalie in his arms and said something. Verity could not quite hear what it was but the director obviously thought he could say it better. For the next half an hour this scene was repeated until Verity, glancing at her watch, realized she would soon have to return to the hotel if she was to pack and catch the train.
Unexpectedly, a break was called and Natalie, seeming a little shy, made her way over to Verity. She spoke rapidly and, although Verity’s French was good, she had to concentrate to understand what she was saying.
‘That silly boy!’
‘Who?’
‘Henri. He can act but he is so scared of Jean, he is paralysed.’
‘Jean?’
‘Oh, I am sorry. I forget you do not know these people. That is Jean Marceau. He is very good but he does not know how to treat people to get the best out of them.’
‘What’s the film about?’
‘It’s about a young man devoured by jealousy. Every day when he leaves for work he believes his wife goes off to have an affair. It kills him in the end.’
‘And you play his wife?’
‘Yes. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. It takes so long. We have to make the film in two languages.’
‘Two languages at the same time?’
‘Yes, in French for our country and in German for UFA.’
‘UFA?’
‘They are a big German film company. Have you got time to eat? The canteen is just next door. It is not good food, you understand, but we can talk there.’
When they were seated at a trestle table with two bowls of cold soup in front of them, Natalie asked, ‘Is it true you are a Communist?’
‘Yes, it’s true. Who told you? I mean, it’s not a secret but . . .’
‘Simon told me.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yes, I am his mistress – une femme de trente ans, as we say. Does that shock you?’
‘No, but his wife is a friend of mine.’
‘He does not love me,’ she said with a shrug. ‘And I do not love him but it is amusing. We like each other and I am saving up to be married.’
‘To be married?’
‘To Henri, the young man in the picture.’
‘Simon pays you?’
‘Now you are shocked! He does not pay me but there are cadeaux. It is capitalism, is it not? He wants to be entertained and to have sex and I enjoy going out to smart places and meeting important people. It is fair, I think.’
‘You have known him for a long time?’
‘Since three years he has been coming here.’
‘Not on holiday?’
‘No. He says his wife does not like the sun.’
‘Then why does he come?’
‘Because of l’institut – the Institute of Beauty, of course. You know about it?’
‘I have heard of it. In fact my friend who you met last night, Lord Edward . . .’ Verity tried to sound casual and failed. ‘He is there now . . . to look around.’
‘He is very good-looking.’ Natalie looked sly. ‘Simon says he is rich. A rich, English milord,’ she repeated dreamily.
‘Yes, well. Tell me more about Simon Castlewood. Have you met his friend, Mr Montillo? He’s a doctor.’
‘Of course! He is often here.’ She seemed to take offence, perhaps because Verity had not confided in her about her English lord. ‘Why all these questions, Miss Browne?’ Suddenly alarmed, she said, ‘His wife . . . she does not want evidence for a divorce?’
‘No, no,’ Verity said hurriedly. ‘Nothing like that. It is just . . . This Institute . . . who goes there?’
‘It is very popular. All the rich ladies of a certain age go there to stay beautiful.’ She giggled. ‘You have heard of monkey gland injections? That was why Monsieur Voronoff was there last night. The Duchess . . . you understand? But that is – what do you say? – “old hat”. There is something new now . . . very secret. There are experiments . . . He can take away your wrinkles comme ça.’ In a brief but highly graphic gesture, Natalie ran a finger beneath her eyes as though it were a knife. ‘But you are a newspaper reporter, are you not? Simon . . . he says I must tell no one. You promise you will not betray me?’
She looked upset and scared. Verity reassured her. ‘I am a war correspondent, you understand. I do not report on beauty for my newspaper. I promise I will say nothing.’
Natalie relaxed. ‘A war correspondent! Then you must be very busy. There is so much war and there will be more. But why are you here? There is no war on the Côte d’Azur.’
‘Not yet,’ Verity agreed, ‘but I fear there will be soon . . . in a year or two.’
‘The Boches!’ Natalie almost spat the word. ‘They spoil everything.’
‘But no one seems to care down here. The hotels are full. All the rich and famous are still coming to Cannes and Monte Carlo.’
‘That is so,’ she agreed.
Verity thought for a moment. ‘Natalie, are you sure there is nothing odd going on at the Institute? I mean, apart from the new operation, or whatever it is, to remove wrinkles?’
Natalie looked worried. ‘Maybe, I do not know but . . . perhaps at the hospital . . . There is a private clinic . . . it belongs to the Institute. Very sick people go there . . . to die, I think. They lie in chairs in the sun and wait to die. I have seen them.’
‘I see . . . a sanatorium for the terminally ill?’
‘And they look after people who have deformities. I think I have heard Simon say people who have been burned . . . who have scars or who are born with seven fingers . . . that sort of thing.’
‘That sounds very
good.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what, Natalie?’
‘I do not know but sometimes the operations . . . I used to know a nurse who worked there for a little and she left because she did not like the operations.’
‘What sort of operations?’ Verity demanded.
Natalie looked frightened. ‘I know nothing. Please forget what I have said. It is nothing.’
‘Can I speak to the nurse . . . your friend?’
‘No, she died.’
‘She died?’
‘In a car accident. It was very sad.’ Natalie wiped her eyes.
‘Are you crying?’
‘No, the bright lights when I am filming . . . they hurt the eyes. Jean says I am to marry a rich man before I go blind.’
‘And will you?’ Verity inquired.
‘No, I will marry Henri and stop making films and have babies.’
Verity wondered what Natalie would make of her decision to do exactly the opposite.
The Institute of Beauty was a long low building of white stone with a superb view of the Golfe de St Tropez. Edward had hired a car from the hotel and was glad that he had left immediately after breakfast as the road proved slow – narrow and twisting but certainly picturesque. It seemed odd to site the Institute here rather than in Cannes or Nice because it was hard to reach, even by train. There was only a light railway from Hyères. Further-more, the mistral which blew down from the Esterels would, he thought, make it unbearable for winter visitors.
However, all was explained when he arrived. He found the place without too much difficulty although the Institute clearly did not feel the need to advertise itself. There was a simple brass plate at the entrance with the name in three languages. This was a retreat – a secret place for rich women to get away from their husbands and lovers and rejuvenate themselves in private. Out of sight of prying eyes, they could be waxed, manicured, caked in mud, exfoliated and injected with excretions from exotic plants and unfortunate animals sacrificed in the cause of female vanity. The receptionist asked him to wait but confirmed that he was expected. He took a brochure – which featured a photograph of a wise but youthful-looking Dominic Montillo – and began to read. It laid out in detail the many treatments available. He was particularly interested in the courses of injections for which great claims were made. These seemed to involve introducing into the bloodstream a nightmare concoction of liquids derived from exotic animals including baboons and turtles as well as pigs, cats and even goats. His stomach revolted and he was glad to turn to the plant-based treatments which used a wide variety of oils and unguents from all over the world.
A door opened as he was reading a cheery little paragraph on varicose veins, and an efficient-looking woman in her late thirties came forward and grasped his hand.
‘I see you have been studying our brochure, Lord Edward. I hope you found it interesting?’
She introduced herself as Monique Guillet, the Institute’s chief administrator. He was sure she was French but her English was faultless and must have been learnt in England. In her crisp, starched uniform one would have taken her for the matron at some smart London hospital. She had obviously been briefed by Sir Simon to give him a guided tour and she was determined he would see everything. Rather to his embarrassment, he was urged to look into every hot room, cold room and water massage room as well as the sauna, the ‘dip’ pools, the indoor and outdoor pools, and the solarium. Everwhere he went, he met ladies in white gowns with towels round their heads, usually accompanied by a ‘nurse’ – or at least a member of staff dressed as a nurse – who ignored him. He dreaded running into someone he knew although most of the women were unrecognizable in their ‘half-cooked’ state, as he described it later to Verity.
There were a few areas into which, to his relief but Mme Guillet’s regret, he was not permitted to venture. He had no wish to be caught peering at women naked except for an olive oil dressing or disturb those being scraped and kneaded in the massage rooms. It was all so transparently ‘above board’ that the hairs on the back of his neck bristled. Edward chided himself for his cynicism. He must not jump to conclusions just because he knew Montillo and did not like him. What was it to him if these women were being relieved of their money with amazing rapidity? There was nothing illegal in that if they or their husbands thought it money well spent.
Mme Guillet seemed not in the least surprised that Edward should be so interested in the Institute. Perhaps she thought that – as a friend of Sir Simon’s – he was being asked to invest in the business or perhaps she was simply not interested in what was not her affair. At the end of the tour when they were sitting in her cool office at the back of the building, Edward congratulated her. ‘It is all very impressive and spotlessly clean. I am most impressed. By the way, are your staff medically qualified or is that not necessary?’
‘They are all qualified for the work they do – massages and beauty treatments – but they are not medically qualified.’ Edward thought he detected a hint of froideur in her voice.
‘I see that of course, but I gather you also offer courses of rejuvenation treatments which involve injections and so on. Are these overseen by a doctor?’
‘Yes, Mr Montillo, or an associate doctor, would be present when any injection is given.’
‘But he spends a lot of time in England?’
‘There are two doctors in Nice and one in Cannes who visit the Institute on a regular basis.’
‘But Mr Montillo is the head of the Institute?’ Edward smiled, trying to look genial but failing.
‘That is correct.’ She seemed about to say something else but in the end kept her lips firmly closed.
‘Some of these courses use monkey glands . . .’ He was looking at the brochure, ‘beeswax, civet – that’s cat, isn’t it? They must be tested and approved by some medical authority, surely?’
‘I am afraid, if you have medical questions, you must address them to Mr Montillo. I am not qualified to answer them but every treatment we give is proven to be safe and effective.’
‘Oh, so you are not a nurse? I thought in that uniform . . .’
‘I am not a nurse and do not pretend to be medically trained. I wear this uniform because cleanliness is a priority here, as you have observed. It would not do for me, or any of the staff, to wear their ordinary clothes in the Institute.’
‘No, of course. May I ask – your English is so good, Mme Guillet – have you lived in England?’
‘I have. The Institute is international. Our clientele come from all over Europe and America. Most of the staff speak at least one other language. I also speak German and Italian.’
‘I see. Well, I must not take up any more of your valuable time. You have been very kind. I am most grateful to you for showing me round. It is all – as I say – most impressive.’
She allowed a smile to unfreeze her face. ‘I am glad to be of help, Lord Edward. I will show you out.’
As he was shaking her hand at the main entrance, Edward said casually, ‘I think Sir Simon mentioned that Mr Montillo also ran a laboratory near here?’
‘There is a laboratory attached to a small private hospital – we call it the Clinic – a few miles away in the hills above St Tropez. It is where Mr Montillo carries out complicated medical procedures and where some of the beauty preparations we use are made. You know, of course, that he is a respected plastic surgeon. He has done much to pioneer treatment for physical deformities. His work in the field is, I understand, very much admired.’
‘Would he carry out surgery to improve a person’s appearance?’ he asked innocently.
‘Cosmetic surgery?’
‘That’s right. You see, I have a friend who has a bad burn scar which has spoilt her looks. Would he be able to help her, do you think?’
‘I could not possibly say, Lord Edward, but Mr Montillo is a very remarkable man. If anyone can help your friend, I am sure he can.’
Mme Guillet sounded a little too enthusiasti
c, he thought, but it was understandable that she should want to speak well of her employer. She might suspect that anything she said would get back to him. She was obviously relieved when Edward said, ‘Next time I come, I must ask Mr Montillo to show me round the Clinic. Not today though as I am returning to London.’
She gave him a look which he could not quite interpret. It was not that she appeared apprehensive but she was certainly not quite at her ease and she closed the door after him with almost tangible relief.
9
As they recrossed the Channel, which this time was choppy and uncomfortable, Verity seemed more than usually agitated. Edward asked her what the matter was and she confessed that she was unhappy at having to conceal from Virginia that her husband had a mistress in Cannes. She had nothing against Natalie herself – in fact, she liked her – but she had naively thought Sir Simon was happily married to her friend. Mrs Cardew had hinted that he had an ‘eye for the girls’ and she should have known when he put his hand on her knee at dinner that he was not to be trusted, but it still came as a shock. She herself did not believe in marriage but she expected those who did to abide by the rules.
‘I agree,’ Edward said, glad to find something they could agree on. ‘And what’s more he and Montillo have this Beauty Institute which I think is a cover for something else.’
‘But you looked round it and saw nothing except a gaggle of women with more money than sense being pampered.’
‘Yes, but I did not go to the Clinic. I’m beginning to think I ought to have stayed another night in Cannes and paid it a visit.’
‘We promised Jebb we would be back in England today.’
‘I’m not worried about Jebb. Any detective work we can do in France will benefit him. Still, you are right. I did want to get back.’
‘To report to Joe – or is it Churchill?’ Verity said sourly. ‘What were you talking to the Duke of Windsor about in the conservatory?’
A Grave Man Page 18