The Painted Face

by Jean Stubbs

  Neither of them apparently noticed the other’s appearance. One does not compliment the enemy on his uniform. Carradine’s opening remark was delivered in an offhand drawl best done by the English at their most offensive.

  ‘What an extremely appropriate place to meet, mam’selle. Your countrymen, Marat, Robespierre and Danton used to dine here.’

  She replied, ‘I have always admired the courage of Charlotte Corday, m’sieu. She wasted no time on words.’

  They ordered escargots, and sopped the garlic-and-parsley-butter sauce up with torn fragments of bread. They argued as to fair shares of a Chateaubriand steak. She insisted on dressing the salad herself. They drank a bottle of Chateau Margaux between them. They ate lemon sorbet with Pompadour wafers. They could not decide on the cheese, and the waiter wheeled up a terrifying array, named every one of them and extolled their separate properties and origins. He persuaded them to try just a sliver of four different kinds. Carradine said that nothing beat Bath Oliver biscuits for crispness and flavour. She disagreed at once, never having tried them. They drank Benedictine with their coffee, and she poured cream up to the brim of her cup. She smoked a Russian cigarette and blew rings into the air to annoy him.

  Replete, they sauntered into the sunshine.

  ‘Are your shoes too tight, or your skirt too narrow for walking, mam’selle?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Her feet, unable to voice protest, would punish her later.

  They whiled the afternoon away, peering into the cages of small birds who cheeped singly and in pairs, tier upon tier. They examined books and pictures on the stalls. He bought her a spray of lilies-of-the-valley from a child who sold flowers on the pavement. A horse-driven omnibus rolled past them, full of girl communicants. The driver seemed a drab charioteer for his cargo of maidens, miniature brides of Christ, in their veils and white dresses. The flowers in their hands spelled purity, their faces registered nothing but the little hour of importance.

  Claire stopped and watched, remembering, perhaps regretting. But Carradine, seeing an analogy between these truly innocent ones and the donned innocence of Claire, smiled involuntarily. She caught the smile, was momentarily shocked, connected it with the humour of yesterday’s farce, and started to laugh. They both laughed.

  She cried, ‘I can walk no further. My shoes pinch!’

  He said, ‘I knew damned well they did, and I was extremely delighted!’

  She raised an admonishing pochette. He held out his arm. She shrugged, smiled, accepted it.

  ‘I have a mind to be extraordinarily foolish,’ said Carradine, though the arm beneath her fingers shook slightly. She reassured him with a slight pressure. ‘After all, I can always run away. I am adept at that, as you remarked.’ He twirled his cane thoughtfully. ‘Shall we be married, and damn ourselves for good, Claire?’

  Only her elegance gave her the strength not to weep, to cling, to thank God. She summoned up sangfroid to match the outfit.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I think so! Better to marry than to burn. But I shall not be a respectable English wife, if that is what you wish.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Carradine. ‘It is only your total lack of respectability that makes me offer!’

  Afterwards they went back to the studio, and she complained that the bed was too narrow.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ said Carradine, ‘unless you prefer the floor.’

  PART FOUR: KNOWN FULLY

  ‘Tomorrow the gipsy wagon will roll again, to be stuck at the next turning.’

  Georges Rouault

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The journey from Orange to Paris was long, warm and weary. By the time Lintott set foot on familiar pavements he was so far gone as to cry, ‘Home at last!’ though it was not home in the least. Some weeks had elapsed since he and Le Jallu set out on the last lap of the case, travelling and waiting, travelling and tracking.

  ‘And all for an hour’s interview!’ Lintott mourned, trying to find his quarter of Brooke Bond Tea in Carradine’s studio cupboard. ‘It must have cost our friend a small fortune in expenses. Bless me, if he hasn’t used my tea! Well, I’ll be blowed! He didn’t ought to have done that.’

  A spoonful in the crumpled packet. Lintott shook out every grain into a mug and poured boiling water on it. No milk, of course. Three damp lumps of sugar.

  ‘No milk, puss. Pardon!’ he said to the mewling cat, who recognised him and hoped for substantial proof of friendship. ‘I shall have to eat out tonight and shop tomorrow. How ever shall I go about that? Oh, well, it’ll be something of an adventure. I wonder what the French is for mutton chops? Now where are we with these here blessed letters?’

  Two pushed under the door were from himself to Carradine. So the man must have left for England some time ago. Another was addressed to Lintott in a feminine hand, postmarked in Paris. A fourth was propped where he could find it, against a jug of dead flowers on the table. He recognised Carradine’s strident script and opened this one first.

  My dear Lintott, I am forced to return to London, and for this I apologise, since I should have preferred to greet and thank you on your return. Yet, by now I have no fear that you will find your own way home, seasoned traveller as you are!

  Oh, never mind the twaddle! Let’s get on with it, sir!

  I trust that the money I sent was more than sufficient to bring you and your poetic guide safely back to Paris, but I have left some with Madame Picard to cover further expenses.

  More fool you, you’ll never see a franc of change, sir!

  I enclose Madame Picard’s address, and instructions how to contact her, and I should be obliged if you would call on her at your own convenience and hers. May I suggest that you speak simply and slowly, since her command of English — though good — is not perfect?

  Oh, my Gawd!

  I hope that you will find it in your heart to enjoy a few days’ holiday in Paris, and to allow me to provide the means for doing so.

  Not on your dear life, sir. I’m off to England, home and Bessie!

  Whatever the results of your exhaustive and skilled inquiries, I thank you for your efforts. My circumstances have changed, but we shall speak of this when we meet in London. I look forward to remunerating you for these past months of hard work, and to shaking you by the hand. God bless you, Nicholas Carradine.

  Well, that’s handsome. Very open, very gentlemanly.

  The second letter was written on pale pink paper with a spray of painted carnations starting coyly from the top left-hand corner. Lintott sniffed for perfume, and sniffed again in contempt as he discovered it.

  ‘One guess as to who wrote this!’ he commented aloud, and was correct in his assumption.

  Dear Inspecteur, M. Carradine has tell me that you are sometime in Paris by yourself. He leaves me much money for you.

  She crossed out the much but I can read it through the ink. Well done, madame. Don’t get greedy, Lintott!

  Please to call on me when you are arrive and we shall see how much you get.

  That wasn’t exactly what the lady intended to say, but it is what she means!

  Please to carry your accompte with you and I look at it. M. Carradine tells you the road to my house. I give you good wishes. Madame Natalie Picard.

  She wouldn’t give me a farthing in a tin plate if I was blind and legless. My accompte, eh? I can guess what that means. Where’s that notebook of mine? It’s Greek to me. I shan’t have to let on that I can’t make head nor tail of it. How many centimes to the franc? Where’s my book? For he had dutifully entered every expense, under the instruction of Le Jallu. He spent half an hour totting up the two columns, and pencilled the outcome in good round figures.

  ‘And now for supper!’ he said, with satisfaction.

  After considerable use of eyes, ears and nose, he hunted out a humble café in Montmartre, and found a small table in a dark corner. Heart hammering, palms sweating, he reached for the menu which was written by hand. He hoped he had enough money on him. The girl sm
acked down a carafe of rough red wine without being asked and demanded his order. Panic-stricken, he scanned the oblong of cardboard.

  ‘What’s pottage?’ he asked himself.

  His desperation, and the two words of English, conveyed their own message. The girl bent over him, grinning, curious, maternal. Man was in difficulties. She spoke slowly, loudly. He could not comprehend. She summoned the patronne, who swept up to the table, scarlet with her exertions, wiping fat hands on a greasy white apron. She smelled of sweat, garlic and bitter coffee.

  ‘You don’t understand a word we say, do you, m’sieu?’ she condoled, taking the menu from him. ‘You are English or American. I can tell. We’ll find something you like. If you can’t read the menu then I’ll read out the names of the dishes, one by one. It’s no trouble, my friend. They are all very good. I cook them myself.’

  He sat, head bent under this hail of warmth, and reached surreptitiously for his hat. Better to go hungry. She stayed him with an emphatic gesture, and, hand on hip, began to read very clearly, enunciating each syllable. The diners applauded her and nodded reassurance at Lintott.

  ‘She knows!’ they cried. ‘Madame Jeanne knows!’

  ‘Pot-au-feu!’

  ‘Pot-o-fer, madame. I like that. Pot-o-fer, if you please.’ Light broke. The café was full of friends.

  ‘Pot-au-feu for m’sieu!’ she bawled. ‘First the broth, with a baguette — my brother bakes our bread. He is the best baker in Paris. Then the dish. I shall choose the richest pieces for you, m’sieu. Have no fear. The fowls were killed only this morning in my sister’s yard. I chose the different cuts of meat from the butcher myself. He is my cousin — the best butcher in Paris. Oh, you have come to the right place to eat. You show discernment, m’sieu. You are a gourmet!’

  Her audience agreed, their mouths full. They thumped their fists on the tables in appreciation, toasted her in the rough wine. Several shouted, ‘Bon appetit!’ to Lintott. He understood that, lifted his bowler hat in acknowledgement, and said ‘Bon swah!’ several times. Some of them laughed.

  ‘Silence!’ yelled Madame Jeanne.

  They winked, and subsided. One fellow waylaid her amorously as she swayed back to her kitchen. Hardly pausing, she knocked him down with one casual swing of her round arm. His friends picked him up, none the worse, bearing no malice.

  Lintott shook his head in admiration and addressed himself to the meal, napkin tucked into his collar like all the rest. From time to time the patronne sailed in to enquire tenderly as to his appetite, to press second helpings, to urge him to try her specialities. He was amazed, taking the watch from his waistcoat pocket, to see its plain dial record eleven o’clock.

  ‘I must have been sitting here above two hours. Getting into a regular Frenchman over my food! No, no, Madame. Lord love you, I couldn’t eat nor drink another morsel or drop. Now what’s the damage?’ Taking out a handful of notes.

  Several pairs of eyes gleamed. The big woman stared them down dreadfully. Then, loud and cheerful, she subtracted her bill and counted out his change.

  ‘Have you taken your tip?’ he asked. ‘Tip?’ He recollected Le Jallu’s explanation — for to drink. For to drink? His museum of a memory did not fail him now, relaxed and replete. ‘Poor bwah!’ said Lintott, beaming.

  ‘Pourboire!’ she cried, demanding her customers’ congratulations. ‘He is a good Frenchman, this m’sieu!’

  Lintott smiled and nodded as they toasted him. He pushed a note towards her, at random. ‘Poor bwah!’ he repeated.

  She patted his shoulder, counted out more change. Her meticulousness touched Lintott.

  ‘You’re an honest lass,’ he said.

  He would have liked to thank her as Carradine thanked people. Fluently, generously, with polish and perception. But that could never be his way. So he raised his bowler in acknowledgement, slapped his stomach humorously to indicate utter contentment, and bowed. He left in an uproar of good fellowship, feeling particularly proud of himself.

  Suddenly, as he trod the breakneck streets he realised that he would never go there again. Night after night Madame Jeanne would pour out her cornucopia of simple, excellent food. Night after night her clientele would gobble, swill and be noisy. And he would not join them. That little space of time had fled him, leaving a companionable imprint and sadness.

  Sturdily, he began to whistle ‘God Save the King’ to lift up his spirits, though to him it was still ‘God Save the Queen’. For she had died only the previous year, and he was born in her reign and had grown used to her.

  His interview with Natalie Picard was arduous. She donned her role of financier seriously, using a lorgnette to peer at the figures, checking items one by one, exclaiming over costs, giving advice which was now useless, A stranger to interrogation, usually being on the other side of the inquiry, Lintott showed signs of impatience. She raised one plump ringed hand.

  ‘I do not ask for myself, m’sieu, but for my friend M. Carradine.’

  ‘Well, you’re making a spanking good job of it, madame, I’ll say that. You should have been in the Force, you should. You’d have been a star turn, without a word of a lie!’

  Natalie caught the gist of his remarks. ‘You are very genteel, m’sieu!’ And returned to the fray. ‘When M. Jallu pays this bill in Orange does he not say rude to the patronne?’

  ‘He had a bit of an argy-bargy with her. Yes. But he paid.’

  ‘What is this argy-bargy?’

  ‘He shouted at her, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘He does not shout much. I shall speak with him. When you pay this carriage to M. Cluny’s house do you also give a — a —’

  ‘Poor bwah? Yes, we did.’

  ‘Monstrous! When you are in...’ and so on, until he wrung the brim of his hat and prayed to be let out.

  Finally she was satisfied as to his honesty, if not to the amount that had been spent, and handed over an envelope full of francs.

  ‘M. Carradine does not know when you arrive so he does not buy tickets. You know how to buy them? Where to buy them?’

  ‘No, madame, but I’ll find out somehow.’

  ‘When do you wish to leave, m’sieu?’

  ‘As soon as possible if you please.’

  ‘I shall buy them for you. No, no, it does not trouble in the smallest, m’sieu.’ She retrieved the envelope, extracted a sizeable sum. ‘Where do you eat while you stay in Paris?’

  ‘I took myself off to dinner in Montmartre last night, madame,’ said Lintott with quiet pride.

  ‘So? You will eat there tonight also?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Lintott. ‘I can eat there tonight. So I can. Bless my boots!’

  She cut across his exultance. ‘You eat all times in restaurants?’

  ‘No, no, madame. I’m hoping to do a bit of shopping on my way back.’

  ‘You speak French well, now, m’sieu?’ with amusement.

  ‘No, madame, but we seem to understand one another,’ with dignity.

  ‘I shall send Valentine with you, yes?’

  ‘No, thank’ee,’ said Lintott firmly. ‘I’d sooner manage on my own.’

  ‘Then that is all, m’sieu.’

  She held out her hand. He shook it. She sighed for his bad manners.

  ‘My best regards to you and Miss Picard, madame.’

  Natalie laughed. ‘Does M. Carradine not say? Ah! He is a sly one. My sister is in London with him. He wishes to marry with her.’

  Not a muscle of Lintott’s face moved. He would not have given her the satisfaction of his surprise.

  ‘In that case,’ he said steadily, ‘I look forward to the honour of meeting Miss Picard in London, when I see Mr Carradine.’

  Natalie weighed him shrewdly.

  ‘You think much of M. Carradine and little of my sister, m’sieu. But you need not fear for him — as I fear for her.’

  ‘It’s not my business,’ said Lintott, unmoved. ‘I expect they both know what they’re about by this tim
e. When shall I have the tickets, if you please, madame?’

  ‘You cannot leave before Friday, m’sieu, but I send Valentine with them tomorrow.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to pop them in the post?’ asked Lintott, fearing the girl might lose them and herself on the way to Montmartre.

  ‘As you wish, m’sieu. But if she post them then you must go Sa-tur-day.’

  ‘Why, I’ll be here four days, at that rate!’

  She shrugged.

  ‘M. Carradine is generous. He wishes you a little holiday. You shall see Paris — the Folies Bergère, perhaps?’ with a twinkle.

  ‘No follying for me. I’m a married man, madame. No. But I’d like to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I would. And I’ll walk my blessed boots off, I will. If I’m here I may as well make the best of it.’

  It won’t cost him a ha’penny more than my keep, he reflected. I’ll write to Bessie this afternoon and tell her to expect me for Saturday supper-time. Else Sunday breakfast. My old girl! I’ll go to Madame Jeanne’s again tonight, and look up the lingo so’s I can thank her properly. Pot-o-fer and van rouge. What a regular lark!

  Natalie watched him stow away the envelope in the breast of his coat.

  ‘Take care, m’sieu, that they do not pick your pocket!’

  ‘You can’t tell me, madame,’ said Lintott, on home ground here. ‘Pickpockets are the same all the world over. I’d like to see any of ’em, French or English, as’d pull a fast one on me!’

  ‘So that’s that,’ he remarked to himself, mellowed by the evening and two cognacs shared with Madame Jeanne.

  He managed to light the oil lamp without setting fire to the studio. The cat was waiting for him, winding round his trouser legs.