The Dress Thief

by Natalie Meg Evans

  Verrian clamped his arms around Alix to stop her running forward. He whispered, ‘We’re backing off. Not a sound.’

  He drew her on to the walkway that led to hers and Mémé’s living quarters. There he held her, their hearts beating in confederacy. After a minute or two, the downstairs door clashed. They saw a figure in overalls squeeze past Verrian’s car and stump towards the coach house, swearing as he went. Verrian pulled Alix back inside.

  ‘You heard –’ she sputtered. ‘Oh God – Bonnet. He’s—’

  ‘Blackmailing the Comte de Charembourg.’

  She tried to get free. ‘Mémé’s in the flat. I have to be with her.’

  ‘She’s in no more danger now than she was yesterday. But yes, go to her. Try to act normally. I’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see the comte. I rang him from the News Monitor office the other day and arranged a meeting between us all – including his wife.’

  ‘Are you mad?’

  Verrian gave a ‘possibly’ shrug. ‘It’s a chance for the comte to explain his lies to you. You won’t be happy till you’ve heard his side of the story. His wife’s coming because … well, I thought she might like to be included. I mean, all this secrecy must have affected her too, don’t you think? It’ll be good to clear the air.’

  ‘It’ll be unbearable.’

  ‘Actually, Alix, very few things are, once you face up to them. Go to your flat, sit with Mémé. I’m going to Boulevard Racan, to bring this meeting forward. I won’t be long.’

  But Alix clung. ‘Don’t go! You heard Bonnet making those accusations. That voice … it’s the same as the man who attacked me, at Place du Tertre and at St-Sulpice. Bonnet – oh, Verrian, it can’t be!’

  Verrian pulled her towards him. ‘I’ll take you to your grandmother and make sure you’re locked in.’

  ‘You’ll spend the night with us?’

  ‘No. I’ll spend it with Bonnet. If he goes anywhere near your stairs, I’ll break his neck.’

  Alix went back into her office to fetch her handbag and house keys. A smell tainted the air, redolent of old animal skins. ‘Rabbit-skin glue. He always buys the cheap stuff. Pretends it’s the supplier cheating him.’

  Verrian was close behind her. ‘There are levels to Bonnet. A hint of the sublime, but mostly base notes.’

  Sunday, 6th November

  Her sleeve felt kid-soft under his hand, and because this was Alix, it was more than just a grey town suit. It had a green cross-thread which caught the light every few paces, just enough to intrigue. And she wasn’t wearing the suit, she was dipped in it. How could wool be so sexy? Her hat was emerald green, slanted to cover one eye. His knowledge of women told him she was dressed for combat. He wasn’t taking chances either. As they passed the telephone exchange on Rue du Louvre, he felt in his pocket for the navaja – the hunting knife he’d taken off a dead Fascist. He didn’t expect to use it – but he liked to be prepared.

  On Rue du Sentier, evening sun glazed the cobbles. ‘Do you know which building?’ he asked. They were meeting at the comte’s place of business. ‘I know it’s an upstairs office and I think it’s –’

  Alix pointed. ‘By the fabric warehouse. Who else are we meeting?’

  ‘Be patient.’

  As they entered the unremarkable premises of Fabrication Textile Mulhouse, a woman stepped out of a side office, saying, in a voice of relief, ‘Mr Haviland, thank goodness. I don’t mind being hired as a temporary receptionist, but I do like at least some instruction.’ It was Beryl Theakston. Seeing Alix’s confusion, she explained, ‘Mr Haviland telephoned me yesterday, saying he needed an unflappable presence at the door.’

  ‘Are we the first, Beryl?’ Verrian asked.

  ‘A gentleman and lady have already gone upstairs.’

  ‘The comte and comtesse?’

  ‘Erm, yes.’ Beryl Theakston was peering at Alix’s jacket. She bit her lip. ‘Mme de Charembourg is wearing a very similar outfit to yours, Miss Gower. Very similar.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Alix said. ‘This is my own design and I made only one sample, this one.’ She tugged Verrian’s arm. ‘I don’t want to see the comtesse. She insults me.’

  ‘The comte is looking forward to seeing you though. Go on up.’ Verrian stepped aside to let Alix go ahead of him. He said quietly to Beryl, ‘I’m expecting three more visitors. One may give trouble, so shout if you—’ He was going to say, ‘need me,’ but a banshee scream from above made him take to the stairs. Fearing Alix was being attacked, he flung himself into the small boardroom and got in front of her, only to hear her threatening to pull Rhona de Charembourg’s suit off head first.

  Beryl had tried to warn them, he realised. The Comtesse de Charembourg was tailored identically to Alix, even to the green hat crowning her blonde hair. Alix fully intended to follow through with her threat, Verrian could see, so he seized her, swearing as he took kicks to his shins. Rage lent Alix primitive strength. Had she been wearing something she could actually move in, she’d have been lethal. She vented frustration by throwing whatever she could reach – her bag, an ashtray. The comte, roused from static astonishment, came over and put his hand to Alix’s cheek.

  ‘Child, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, but you will have explanations. As for you, Madame –’ he turned to his shaking wife – ‘at least take off the hat.’

  Alix shouted, ‘She stole that design – from my autumn– winter collection.’

  Rhona, who was clearly fearful of Alix breaking loose again, said with a stab at disdain, ‘You habitually stole what was not yours, Alix Gower. Now you know how it feels. I confess, I hadn’t imagined we’d be wearing the same ensemble. So very droll.’

  ‘You stole an evening gown too,’ Alix hurled at her. ‘You were behind the police raid. You’re in bed with Adèle Charboneau as well.’

  ‘Charboneau?’ The comte frowned. ‘Didn’t somebody of that name come to Boulevard Racan?’ He waited for Rhona to answer, and when she rolled her eyes in theatrical boredom, said through his teeth, ‘Didn’t you employ an unemployed actress called Charboneau to write out the invitations for Christine’s wedding?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t remember.’

  When he persisted, ‘Did you send the police to Alix’s atelier?’ she merely raised her brows. ‘No,’ he frowned as if the truth were an inch away, ready to fall into his palm with the right question. ‘You don’t wield that kind of influence. But you know those who do …’ Comprehension flooded him. ‘Maurice Ralsberg – a man wealthy enough to buy favours anywhere. He bought you a police raid, and that’s how you got hold of Alix’s designs. I wouldn’t call it droll; rather, unprincipled.’

  Rhona looked away, flushing.

  The comte turned to Verrian. ‘Mr Haviland, it’s good to meet you again. One day I hope we can sit and talk man to man. Your despatches from Spain were among the few that treated readers as adults. When you called on me yesterday, you promised an end to my troubles. An end to blackmail and deception. Deliver, and I will be in your debt.’

  ‘What can this man possibly know of your affairs?’ Rhona had recovered her voice if not her poise. ‘If he has any opinion at all, it will be an impudence.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, but then Mr Haviland is a journalist,’ her husband agreed. ‘Do sit down, Rhona. Alix –’ he drew a chair forward – ‘you sit this side of me.’

  Verrian judged it safe to go down and check that Beryl was all right. He threw Alix a warning. Stay calm. Her chest still heaved as though she’d run two furlongs. He was downstairs in time to see Beryl opening the door to Celestia and Danielle, who was in her best coat and hat. The old lady looked about in pleasure. ‘So long since I went shopping. What sort of shop is this?’ She peered at Verrian. ‘Ah, Mr Haviland, how do you do?’

  Verrian told Celestia to come back in an hour and asked Beryl to take Mme Lutzman upstairs. He felt his first qualms. No escape from that windowless boardroom. He hoped he wasn�
�t throwing rabbits in with dogs.

  He checked his watch. Two minutes to six. He went out on to the street and looked both ways … one person still to come. And here he came, dressed in his usual overalls, boots streaked with cigarette ash, beret pulled low.

  As Raphael Bonnet hesitated on the threshold of Fabrication Textile Mulhouse, scanning the doorway as if he expected to find something, Verrian pushed him inside. He’d shut the door before the other man knew what was happening.

  ‘Walk straight up, my friend. Not the smallest chance of getting away, so you may like to hang on to your dignity.’

  *

  Mémé was the most relaxed of them, Alix realised. That Mémé could sit among strangers without showing any of her former fretful responses showed how her injuries had changed her. For her part, when Verrian pitched a sweating Bonnet into the room, she’d wanted to be sick.

  Verrian pushed Bonnet down on a chair and stood against the door. He shot Alix a look saying, I’m here. Don’t worry. Silence fell.

  Verrian broke it. ‘Monsieur le Comte, I promised to present your blackmailer to you, and here he is. Say what you want.’

  The comte said nothing for a long while. Just stared across the table at Bonnet, his hands clasping and unclasping. At last he sighed. ‘I am very sorry. Sorry that my tormentor should be a man of my own soil, whom I knew and liked. An artist … yes, that’s a shock. One expects artists to be above such vices as extortion, though I can’t think why. Perhaps because we assume they’re closer to the angels. Raphael –’ he reached under the table for a satchel, which he slid across – ‘you hoped I would fill this with thousand-franc notes. Even though I assured you I was at the end of my resources you came back for one last try. As an artist, you are inspiring. As a blackmailer, you have neither mercy nor intelligence. I cannot forgive you for carrying out your threat to hurt this girl.’

  He reached and squeezed Alix’s hand.

  Alix smelled the fear seeping through the yarn of Bonnet’s sweater. That scratchy jersey had a roll neck which could be pulled up over the beard, over the mouth. She’d felt that wool against her face, against the back of her neck as its owner cut her hair. Her eyes sought Verrian’s, searching for his reassuring nod.

  Bonnet pushed the satchel aside. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  The comte said affably, ‘I think, my dear fellow, we’ll leap over the bluster and denials. The room is growing a little airless. You first telephoned me at home in March 1937 threatening to harm those I loved. I assumed you meant somebody in my household. How could I know you meant Alix?’ He turned to her. ‘Whatever else I’m guilty of, I never ignored the threat to you once I understood it. I made two substantial payments to this man, to buy him off.’

  Bonnet said furiously, ‘I got a note through my door this morning promising something valuable would be left for me outside this building. I was to come at six.’ He turned angrily to Verrian. ‘Did you write it? Did you get me here on false pretences?’

  Verrian shrugged. ‘I merely implied that somebody would leave a bagful of francs in the doorway. It was your greed that brought you here.’

  The comte spoke over Bonnet’s explosion of outrage. ‘The sad irony is that I admire you, Bonnet. Had you asked me for help, I’d have been delighted to become your patron. As for your latest threats to brand me a violent felon …’ he glanced at Mémé, who was occupied with a swatch of silk samples, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room, ‘the sort that beats old ladies, that smacks of such desperation I presume you’ve run through the money I gave you.’

  Trapped in a small room, ringed by accusing faces, Bonnet abruptly dropped his charade. His voice was sullen as he said, ‘You did beat Mme Lutzman. I can prove it.’

  ‘My shortcomings are many,’ said the comte, ‘but attacking females, no.’

  ‘Fernand Rey saw you go into her flat –’ Bonnet responded to Alix’s protest with a sour smile, then peered at Danielle, who remained oblivious. ‘I run into Rey all the time on Rue Mouffetard. He has a stall, selling game. He was visiting St-Sulpice the night Mme Lutzman was attacked and swears he saw you going up the stairs.’

  The comte nodded, adding, ‘In the evening, not at night. I visited Mme Lutzman briefly, escorted her downstairs and left.’

  ‘He’ll make a sworn statement you went back later. You waited for her to return.’

  ‘Untrue,’ said the comte. ‘If he says such a thing to the police, he’ll be making false statements.’

  ‘Fernand used to steal the light bulbs on our landing.’ Everyone stared at Danielle, who laid down the swatch of silks. ‘He would put them in when the landlord was there, then take them out and sell them. He stole our coal too. Fernand Rey won’t go anywhere near the police. And he did not see anybody that night. He was in his mother’s rooms filling his cheeks with ragout of hare.’

  ‘You don’t remember, Danielle,’ Bonnet said contemptuously. ‘You told me your mind was blank.’

  ‘I told you much, Raphael. But just as much I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ Verrian said from the doorway, ‘I suggest you go back to the beginning of this evil. Blackmail is a symptom. We need to know the cause.’

  ‘Need?’

  ‘Alix needs to know. She was terrorised by this man.’ Verrian jerked a thumb at Bonnet.

  Alix stared down at her hands. When she’d sat naked for Bonnet, trusting him, confiding, he’d been planning to attack her. Her darling, lawless Bonnet was a beast who – and this was the hardest part – had nearly killed Mémé.

  ‘I will tell my story,’ said the comte, ‘on the understanding that nobody attaches the word “confession” to it. Confession is between me and the Almighty. To my fellow man and woman, I will give an explanation. And yes, I’ll start at the beginning which means a trek into the last century.’

  Rhona spoke for the first time since Bonnet had stumbled into the room. ‘Shall you wash our linen in public?’

  ‘My linen, Rhona. I shall leave yours out of it. Alix –’ he turned an earnest gaze on her – ‘it’s time you knew the facts.’

  *

  ‘It was the year 1890. I was nine, home from school and acutely attuned to the state of affairs between my mother and father. They did not enjoy a happy marriage. One day, after a particularly tense quarrel, I saw my father strike my mother to the floor. I was behind a curtain, afraid to move. My father saw me and sent a look which said, You next. I can do this. This is my right. It made me grow up fast. But, strangely, when I got to the age and size where I might have fought back and defended my mother, my father took care never to hurt her in my presence. He died shortly before my twenty-first birthday. I felt no sorrow. At last, my mother and I could live without fear.

  ‘Let us jump to Christmas 1903. I took it into my head to surprise my mother with a portrait of myself, choosing a local artist who worked in the loose, modern style my father had considered degenerate. I chose Alfred Lutzman. There was power in this choice, because it was my choice.’

  Alix fancied the comte was looking for water, usually always supplied in this room. Verrian was keeping them dry. Turning up the temperature.

  The comte cleared his throat. ‘At our last sitting, I extracted a promise from Alfred Lutzman that the painting would be finished for Christmas. My plan was to hang it in the dining room. There it would be on Christmas Eve to delight my mother. Our symbol of freedom. Three days beforehand, I went to the artist’s house, driving as far as I could in the snow, walking the rest through the Jewish quarter.’

  Danielle glanced up. ‘You came to see my husband.’

  ‘Exactly, Madame.’

  ‘I let you in. You thought I was the maid.’

  ‘My belated apologies.’

  ‘Ah, well, I was an untidy schlump. You went upstairs and I hoped you had money to pay for the painting. We had no food. Our rent was due and I thought, He’ll get the money back in rent anyway.’

  ‘Only Alfred Lutzman had a sh
ock waiting,’ Verrian said.

  ‘Stop it,’ Alix shot at him. ‘You don’t know everything.’

  Verrian said straight back, ‘I know that, like Bonnet here, Lutzman wouldn’t finish his work.’

  ‘Finishing isn’t the point.’ Bonnet turned a sneer on Verrian. ‘It takes an artist to understand that.’

  ‘And a wife to despair of it,’ said Danielle. ‘All very well being an artist, as I tell you often enough, Bonnet. But when your house is so cold the coffee pot freezes, and your child goes to school in the snow without breakfast, then “being an artist” is as much use as farting in the coal shed.’

  A moment of shock met this remark. Danielle continued, ‘I was hit over the head. Now I say the things I used only to think.’

  ‘You were angry with Lutzman that evening?’ Verrian asked the comte.

  ‘Naturally. He’d sabotaged a moment I had been planning for weeks. Actually for years because – did I say this? – commissioning the portrait was my first real adult decision. He ruined it and didn’t grasp it.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ agreed Danielle.

  ‘He blinked at me as if I were a species of fool he could not hope to enlighten. I saw a gloating in his expression that I couldn’t stomach … I went for him.’

  ‘Attacked him?’ Alix gasped.

  The comte patted her arm. ‘Verbally. I told him he was a letdown, a charlatan and worse. Much worse, I’m ashamed to say. He simply blinked. I would have gone then, but Mme Lutzman came into the studio. She brought in the coal scuttle.’

  ‘Always letting his stove go out,’ Mémé sighed. ‘He would blame me. In front of my girl, Mathilda, calling me a bad wife. I was coming upstairs when I heard the comte shouting and I knew again my husband had failed. Anger bled to the soles of my feet and I don’t remember what I said.’

  The comte did. ‘You told Lutzman he was afraid of finishing a painting because by so doing, he would see that he was nothing but a copyist. A man who absorbed the genius of others and excreted sluggish homage.’