The Painted Face

by Jean Stubbs

  ‘We have no proof of that, Inspector,’ said Carradine keeping a straight face, ‘but from long observation of the French I would agree with Madame Picard.’

  ‘Don’t the wife suspect?’ asked Lintott, astounded.

  ‘But she knows!’ cried Natalie, enchanted. ‘Pff! What matter? She has his name, his home, his protection, his children perhaps. When he dies she has his money, all but a little gift to the mistress. If he wishes to make love with another woman, what of that? They are all content. They accept. They are honest. They enjoy their dinner with good appetite.’

  And she applied herself to hers, with zest.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Inspector,’ said Carradine gravely, ‘but the French act upon your own principles. They face up to life!’

  Outwitted and outraged, Lintott tackled the steak which had been ordered for him. After a few delectable mouthfuls he said sturdily, ‘Oh, well. We live and we learn, sir,’ and tried the wine. Keep your feet on the floor, lad, he advised himself. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. You might find something out that way.

  ‘And what do you know of the little sister?’ Natalie asked, cleaning up her sauce with half a bread roll and wiping her fingers on the napkin.

  The guillotine would never have drawn a word from Lintott, but Carradine had no such professional inhibitions and expressed himself with a baldness that surprised the Inspector.

  ‘It appears that Odette was kidnapped by my stepmother’s French lover.’

  Natalie was greatly intrigued. ‘So your goddess is thrown down, my dear Nicholas? How many more idols will fall, I wonder?’

  ‘I’m endeavouring to live without any idols at all,’ he replied lightly, but Lintott saw his face change momentarily.

  Claire said, touching his wrist, ‘Women are not idols, Nicholas. We like that you treat us as women.’ Mocking and serious at once.

  ‘Nicholas knows well how to make love, though he have not make love to me,’ said Natalie, expert in such matters. ‘Perhaps he make love to you?’

  So that’s the way the wind blows, Lintott thought. Not Eve, my foot! And the other one egging her on like a blessed serpent. He’d better watch out or he’ll be caught. Madame here has her eye on a good match as well as the grub.

  ‘How long is he her lover?’ Natalie demanded of the Inspector.

  ‘About five years,’ said Lintott reluctantly.

  ‘An affair of passion — I shall have Crème Chantilly. I understand all. She is his life. He wishes her to elopement with him so they are happy always. She is this way and that way. She cannot decide,’ acting out every expression, to Lintott’s acute discomfort. ‘So? Pff! He steal the little one and say to meet on the train. The message come too late! She is to depart the house when the train accidents itself...’

  By Jove! Lintott thought, though mentally discarding this dramatic theory. I must be getting a regular old dummy. How did she know the child was on that particular train?

  ‘She lose her lover, her child. She dies. Ah! We Frenchwomen. We die for love very easy.’

  She really believes that, thought Lintott. And it’s sharpened her appetite. Observing the busy spoon, even though her eyes were full of tears. Aloud, he said, ‘If the lady will excuse me mentioning it, Mrs Carradine was very happy with the arrangement she had. Why should she give up a good home and a good husband for the sake of a fly-by-night love affair as had gone on for years?’

  ‘Fly-by-night?’ Natalie and Claire said together. Their English was agreeably inaccurate rather than idiomatic.

  ‘A shot in the dark,’ Lintott explained. ‘Catch-as-catch-can. Here today and gone tomorrow.’

  ‘A dilettante,’ Carradine said.

  Their black eyes focussed flatteringly on Lintott’s plain countenance.

  ‘Ah!’ they comprehended.

  ‘Besides, the gentleman hadn’t any money,’ Lintott continued. ‘He was an old flame who wanted to marry the lady years before, and the family wouldn’t let him...’

  Carradine translated ‘old flame’ for the ladies and thought of Émile Roche. Still, no D. in his name!

  ‘An old flame,’ Lintott repeated heavily, ‘as couldn’t provide for the lady, let alone the little girl, in the manner to which she was accustomed. Now if you value money — I’m not saying I think it’s right — you don’t throw it up in a hurry.’

  Natalie looked on him with new respect.

  ‘You have right, m’sieu! Why shall she throw herself on a rubbish person? Unless she is a mad.’

  Avaricious foreigner, Lintott thought, and was comforted.

  ‘It’s all to be looked into, anyway,’ he said firmly. ‘We shan’t find anything out by talking.’

  His tone silenced them, and might have made a hole in the conversation but for a timely interruption.

  A young man had entered and hung up his shabby cloak, which had once belonged to a larger and stouter man. He emerged in a second-hand dress-suit and frilled shirt. The suit was too small, the frills too tattered, but he lent an innate elegance to the outfit. He stood at his ease, assessing his audience. A head of tight brown curls, mournful eyes, an air of arrogance which could only be based on self-belief. Conversation faltered and ceased as the diners observed him. While they turned and craned he found the right face to address. Placing both brown hands on Carradine’s table, he leaned forward and recited softly but distinctly to Claire. Suddenly vulnerable, she flushed and looked down as he declaimed earnestly and reverently into the listening silence. When he had finished there was a spatter of handclaps. Carradine gave him money, which he accepted with serene indifference.

  ‘What was that about then, sir?’ asked Lintott, bemused.

  ‘The young man is a poet who calls himself Le Jallu. I have seen him before. I dare say, since he is a student and poor, he ekes out a living this way. Possibly he will be given a meal in Mère Catherine’s kitchen, as well as the tips he earns, for lending an ambiance to the restaurant.’

  ‘He recited one of his poems to the young lady, did he?’

  ‘Can you remember it, Claire?’ Carradine asked, smiling.

  ‘A little bit.’ She had recovered her composure, and spoke in her usual low measured tone. ‘He speaks of the passing of love and beauty, and that we shall live this moment as if the next moment does not come.’

  ‘Oh well, each to his own taste,’ said Lintott expansively. ‘The food’s solid enough, anyway.’

  ‘But also transitory, Inspector. You have just devoured it!’

  ‘So we live and love?’ Natalie remarked, selecting cheeses. ‘That is not a poetry. That is the common-sense.’

  The boy was jealous of his craft and would only bestow it where his fancy lay. No use for that stout French matron, this rich American widow, to preen and glance. He would not court them. As he passed their table again, Carradine laid a hand on his sleeve and asked a question. Le Jallu bowed, and brought up a wooden chair.

  ‘Is he going to say another poem, sir?’ Lintott enquired, patient and polite with his host’s whims.

  ‘No, Inspector. The young man needs to find work for the Easter vacation. I am about to persuade him to accompany you, as paid guide and translator, to Brittany, to find Berthe.’

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ Lintott murmured, and applied himself to the wine. ‘But he don’t speak English, sir.’

  ‘I speak excellent English,’ said Le Jallu, remote but courteous.

  ‘And he needs the money, m’sieu,’ Natalie added, regarding the poet’s beauty with a maternal and acquisitive eye. ‘And he is famish, Nicholas.’

  The whole affair was beyond Lintott. The evening swam round him. Five of them, elbow to elbow, at a table meant for four. Carradine drinking cognac and talking art. Le Jallu eating enormously and talking poetry. Natalie devouring a second helping of Crème Chantilly to keep him company, and talking of love. A jumble of French and English, the English for the Inspector’s benefit and none of it appearing to connect. The sheen of Natalie’s ene
rgetic arms and rising bosom, far too close. Claire flinging caution to whatever winds might carry it away, kissing Carradine on both cheeks and then on the mouth, calling him her good friend. The restaurant emptying gradually. God knew what o’clock it was. Claire in fiery argument, first with Carradine, then with Natalie. Silent, half an hour later, under the influence of Le Jallu reciting Rimbaud: her arms round Carradine’s neck, her face against his, gentle and quiescent.

  Like a blooming weathercock! thought Lintott fuzzily, and covered his eyes.

  When he opened them he was being helped into a cab. They jolted along in a heady crush of feminine flesh and perfume until the ladies were deposited. At some stage, too, the poet disappeared. Much later, Carradine pushed black bitter coffee into Lintott’s hands.

  ‘I seem to have made a fool of myself,’ the Inspector said, disconcerted. ‘I’m used to English beer and a quiet life, sir.’

  ‘Your behaviour was impeccable, if a little blurred at times, Inspector, I assure you.’

  The smile on Carradine’s face was the smile on the face of the evening: enigmatic.

  ‘You needn’t worry about Le Jallu, Inspector. He’s far too proud to be dishonest. You’ll be in charge, and he won’t be paid until he delivers you safely back. I’m not totally irresponsible.’

  ‘That’s all right then, sir,’ said Lintott, faintly relieved, ‘but I seem to have got myself into queer company, and no mistake!’

  ‘A remark you made frequently during the course of the evening.’

  ‘No offence meant, sir, and none taken I hope?’

  ‘None whatsoever, Inspector. We cherished your judgement of us as we would cherish truth itself. We enjoy our frivolities, but respect your more durable quality. As Le Jallu would put it, very roughly translated, “The mayfly dances for a day. But how long has the sun shone?’”

  Feeling obscurely complimented, Lintott murmured, ‘So long as I didn’t spoil the party.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Though Lintott had not carried his wine as well as Carradine had, he was first up and spruced before setting water to boil. Nicholas found him standing in front of the canvas, studying Claire.

  ‘A serious young lady,’ Lintott observed. ‘Not like her sister, sir. You can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her. She’s seen and known more than she liked — and more than she should.’ He eyed Carradine’s brown velvet dressing-gown. ‘Do you mind me speaking out, sir? With no disrespect intended to any party.’

  ‘Speak on, Inspector.’

  ‘Mrs Picard is a lady with an eye to the main chance. I take it she isn’t a married lady in the usual sense of the word, sir?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. She has a protector.’

  Lintott snorted. ‘I wonder who protects him?’ he said. ‘And has this here sister of Mrs Picard got a protector, too? Because, if she hasn’t, I think they might have marked you down for the job.’ He raised one blunt hand as Carradine opened his mouth in protest. ‘It’s not for me to judge whether that’s right or wrong, sir, but a gentleman is known by the company he keeps.’

  ‘Not in my profession, Inspector. I keep all kinds of company.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Point taken. But if you’re keeping company with those two ladies you’d do well not to mix money with sentiment. Else you might find yourself permanently landed with that young sister, and that wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all.’

  ‘I’ve avoided permanent attachments so far, Inspector.’

  ‘Ah yes, sir. Thank’ee — there’s nothing like a cup of English tea when you’re in foreign parts. Yes, sir, but then you’ve taken up so far with ladies as know the score and don’t fuss when it comes to a goodbye, or with ladies of good family whose family can take care of them. This Miss Claire Picard is something of a lame dog, and you’re partial to lame dogs, sir. You might be caught by feeling sorry for her — as I do, sir, I admit it. I feel, given a fair chance, she’d have made a worthwhile woman. But she’s been soiled, sir, and that’s a fact not to be overlooked before you leap.’

  ‘I don’t particularly care for the word soiled,’ said Carradine stiffly.

  ‘I’m sorry for that, sir, but I speak as I find.’

  ‘Her background is tawdry, I agree. But she has put up considerable resistance to her sister’s plans for her. I believe there was an engagement of some kind which fell through and occasioned her suffering...’

  ‘Oh, be your age, sir!’ Lintott chided. ‘That girl’s been on the French merry-go-round, as God’s my judge. You ain’t the first. I’m surprised at you, sir, I really am.’

  ‘Are you assuming she’s my mistress?’ Carradine cried, furious.

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, sir. No, no, no,’ and Lintott shook his head sagely from side to side in a most infuriating manner. ‘She was all over you last night. I wasn’t so stupid that I couldn’t use my eyes. And what about those drawings?’ and he flourished towards the sheaf of sketches.

  ‘I see you haven’t wasted your time in the detection of my private affairs!’

  ‘If I did wrong to look about me, and draw the obvious conclusions, then I beg your pardon, sir. I wasn’t prying. You was the one that said an artist gave himself away more in his paintings than he did in real life — or something of that sort. I applied the principle.’

  Carradine’s wrath ebbed. Lintott stirred his tea industriously, hurt.

  ‘Only your assumption was wrong, Inspector. Miss Claire poses for me. I haven’t seduced her. I respect lame dogs, as well as caring about them.’

  ‘She’s pretty fond of you, sir.’

  ‘Another good reason for leaving her strictly alone. I’m not a scoundrel.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Lintott, only partly satisfied, ‘so long as you’ve got the situation clear and don’t make more trouble for yourself. I’m only speaking for your own good.’

  A few moments of silence closed the subject.

  He’s only told me a half-truth, Lintott thought.

  ‘Inspector, I met Madame Picard’s friend, Émile Roche, one evening, and I have been indulging in a little speculation. He told me he had once fallen in love with a girl of eighteen, whose parents refused to let them marry because of his financial circumstances. She then married a man far older and richer than himself, but he holds a sentimental recollection of her.’

  ‘Plenty of men like that, I reckon, sir — if you’re thinking he might be our suspect.’

  ‘Oh yes. But Madame Picard revealed even more about him, in the course of several conversations. And I think you will agree that he fits the bill to a surprising extent. He is now sixty. His romance occurred around 1873, the year before Gabrielle married my father. M. Roche speaks as though it were a brief affair, conducted at a distance. But Madame Picard tells me it was carried on in a far more intimate capacity for about ten years. Not until he found the situation hopeless did he marry, in 1883, just before Gabrielle died.’ As Lintott remained unimpressed, Carradine emphasised, ‘Madame Picard said he almost wrecked his career with a scandal in 1882. He told her he had escaped ruin by a hairbreadth. But he didn’t say what the scandal was, or how he had escaped it.’

  ‘A good thing, too, if she chatters like that to everybody she meets.’

  ‘Oh, he is highly judicious. He gives away no hard facts. He said the past was safely buried. Buried, mark you!’

  Lintott considered his empty mug. ‘Well, if you can find some way for me to question him, go ahead, sir. I take it he’s in some high position, to keep Mrs Picard in diamonds? A Minister, eh? Forget it, sir. He’s too fly to be tapped. His name ain’t a D. neither.’

  ‘He could have changed it.’

  ‘I doubt it. Sixty now and forty then. You don’t drop into a Minister’s post without being checked. They’d want to know why he changed his name, wouldn’t they? Besides, he’ll have worked his way up the ladder from twenty, not forty.’

  ‘Gabrielle could have referred to him by a nickname, beginning with D, couldn’t she?’ Persisten
t.

  ‘Yes sir, she could. And it could be this Mr Roach. But you don’t leap to conclusions of that sort without a mort of questions. I want the answer to a few points as escape me. Such as, how did he get out of that carriage and in what condition? Was he perhaps so badly burned and disfigured that he stayed in hospital several months? And how did your stepmother know that the little girl was on that train? Perhaps he sent her a letter, to say when they’d gone, and where to follow him? Whatever it was, she thought he was dead. And he never showed up again.’

  Impatient, obsessed, Carradine strode the studio, rumpling his hair.

  ‘Bertha’s our best bet,’ said Lintott. ‘But if you can find out anything about Mr Roach while I’m away, it all helps.’

  ‘Do you know what else worries me about the inquest, Inspector? Odette was only identified by a bracelet. God, what a fearful thought! Suppose, in the shock of that identification, Gabrielle mistook the bracelet? Suppose they were not on that train at all, but on another? Suppose he took her away, and then hearing about the consequence of his action, he stayed away?’

  ‘Saddled with a little girl for life, sir? Besides, Mrs Carradine didn’t die for twenty months after.’

  ‘She never returned to France, though.’

  ‘He could have written,’ said Lintott sensibly. ‘He must have known her address, even if he never used it. No sir, you’re talking wild.’

  ‘Two things remain in my mind. The identity bracelet, and his escape. If he escaped scot free I shall find him. I shall find him and confront him.’

  ‘Oh, we’re on the vengeance tack now, are we?’ said Lintott drily. ‘If you’re thinking you could clap him in prison on this lot — you’re mistaken, sir. It’d never even get into court. Besides, I don’t see how he could have got off scot free.’ He felt inside his breast pocket. ‘I wasn’t going to show you this, sir, unless it seemed needful. I just want you to understand what I mean.’

  He produced a little packet, an envelope folded over and over, that he had found tucked in a far corner of Walter Carradine’s desk. Something that had been thrust away as though it burned the fingers that had handled it. Slowly, Carradine unfolded the envelope and shook out its contents. A chain bracelet, whose links were jammed and distorted with heat. And from the chain hung a misshapen heart. Lintott handed him a penknife.