‘I’m talking to someone with a keen eye for fashion then? Someone acquainted with the work of the top designers of Paris?’ he said, raising an admiring eyebrow.
‘I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk fashion,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but – yes – you could say that. I could have been a mannequin if I’d been three inches taller. If I’d been five inches taller I could have been a dancer. But I’m not really interested in “could have been”. I’m a going-to-be,’ she said with emphasis. ‘Successful. Rich. I haven’t found my niche quite yet. But I will.’ And, angrily: ‘It won’t, of course, be in the professions or politics or any of the areas men reserve for themselves. We can’t vote . . . we can’t even buy contraceptives,’ she added, deliberately to embarrass him.
‘But some girls have the knack of attracting money and don’t hesitate to flaunt it . . . Does it annoy you – in the course of your work – to be seen in rusty black uniform dresses when the clientele are peacocking about in haute couture?’
‘No. Why would it? The black makes me faceless, invisible. The work is badly paid – no more than a starvation wage – but the tips are good. Men are so used to being greeted by old harridans with scarlet claws whining for their petit bénéfice, they are rather more generous to me than they ought to be. Sometimes, I flirt with the older ones,’ she said with a challenge in her look. ‘And, before you ask – no, I don’t take it any further. But they toy with the illusion that it might develop into an extra item on the programme and tip accordingly. No man wants to be perceived as a tight-wad.’
‘A five franc tip?’ he reminded her.
The eyes rolled again. ‘I pitied that girl!’
‘Ah yes. Now tell me . . . the dress she was wearing . . .’
She put her hand over her mouth and stared at him over it. ‘Ah! So you really did come here to talk fashion! Well, I talked myself into that, didn’t I?’
‘You did rather,’ he agreed. ‘So, come on! Expert that you are – I think we’ve established that much – tell me all. You divulged almost nothing to the Chief Inspector. What was it now . . .? Under twenty-five and fair? Oh, yes? Bit sketchy, I thought. Huh! Your poor old ten franc tip with his rheumy old eyes gave a fuller description of the disappearing blonde from thirty yards away! A seam by seam account of her gown! And he wouldn’t know his Poiret from his Poincaré . . . I want to know everything about her appearance and – perhaps more importantly – why you chose to pull the wool over Inspector Acid Drop’s eyes.’
She went to sit at the bottom of her bed, demurely adjusting the belt of her Chinese gown, tucking up her bare feet under her. Joe swallowed. ‘Man Ray, where are you? You should be here with your camera, fixing this moment,’ he was thinking, seized and dazzled by the theatricality of the scene. This girl with her high cheekbones, sleek black hair, snub nose and huge, intelligent eyes made Kiki of Montparnasse look ordinary. He reined in his thoughts. She was also deliberately distracting him, making time to weigh his question, possibly to plan a deceitful answer. After a further diverting shrug of the shoulder, she began her account.
‘Well, for a start, it was expensive – eight hundred francs at least, probably more. That shot silk fabric – there’s not a great deal of it about yet and the designer who’s been using it this season is Lanvin. Her shoes were Chanel T-straps. Blue satin. Her opera cloak was silk. Midnight blue. She shopped about a bit, this girl, but it was all well put together. She was carrying it under her arm – the cloak. When she came up the stairs. Her escort hung it up at the back of the booth. They often do that. Sometimes it’s to avoid tipping at the vestiaire but with the box clientele it’s usually to avoid the queue to pick it up at the end.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘The gentlemen don’t like to be kept waiting at this stage of their evening. Now I did manage to catch a glimpse of the label on her cape. It was a Cresson. Rue de la Paix.’
‘Are you able to give me a description of this garment – an idea of the fabric?’ he asked unemphatically, pencil poised.
She thought for a moment, and deciding apparently that the information was routine and could not harm her in any way, chose to co-operate. He noted the details. In a show of helpfulness which told him he was almost certainly heading down a cul-de-sac, she even got up and walked to a basket overflowing with fabric remnants. Stirring them about, she finally produced, with an exclamation of triumph, a piece of heavy silk. Dark blue silk.
‘Not this exact fabric but – very nearly. Her cloak was made of some stuff like this.’
He thanked her and put it away in his pocket.
‘And – Cresson . . . Lanvin . . . Chanel . . . you say. These are all impressive names you mention, I think?’
‘The very best.’
‘With a distinguished client list?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if I were to traipse along the rue de la Paix to the boutiques of those you’ve mentioned and apply a little pressure or charm or cunning I might find the same name coming up?’
‘If you choose to waste your time like that . . . I wouldn’t bother. Some of these houses are hysterical about piracy. And they’re always wary of having their clients snatched by a rival. The vendeuses are well trained and they have a nose for wealth.’ She looked at him critically then smiled. ‘You’re an impressive man but you don’t look like the kind who’d spend a fortune indulging his girl!’
Joe regretted his meagre half-dozen roses.
‘Far too clever. I think you’d have considerable trouble extracting the information.’
‘So – you’re going to point out a short-cut?’
‘Why should I? The girl had nothing to do with the murder. And this answers your second question. It wasn’t her I found covered in blood. She was working for a living. If she’d been willing to give evidence she’d have hung about, wouldn’t she? But she had the sense to leg it. I’m not going to make her life difficult for her by involving her with the flics. They’re shits! And they have a hard way with filles de joie. There but for the grace of God and all that . . . If things don’t go so well for me – well, that might be the next step. Who knows? Cosying up to old farts like the five franc tip isn’t my idea of a career but I’m not stupid. I see lots of girls making a lot of money that way. I’ve had my propositions! And I see it sometimes as an easy option. A good deal of unpleasantness for a short time but the rewards are good.’
‘Francine, don’t think of it!’ Too late to snatch back the instinctive exclamation.
While he looked at his feet in confusion and she smiled in – was it triumph or understanding? – the attention of both was caught by plodding footsteps on the stairs. The concierge’s peremptory voice called out: ‘La porte!’ and Francine went to open it. Joe got to his feet, fearing that his interview was about to be cut short, ready to repel the intrusion, but instead he hurried forward to take the tray she was carrying from the old woman’s hands. He carefully balanced the weight of the silver coffee pot, two china mugs, a jug of milk and a plate of Breton biscuits, adding his own thanks to those of Francine: ‘Oh, Tante Geneviève, you shouldn’t have!’
The dragon looked around and, apparently happy with what she saw or didn’t see, cleared the top of the table to make way for the tray, gathering up the dirty cups and wrappers, grunted, and went out.
‘I don’t have much experience of concierges,’ said Joe, ‘but I’d have thought room service of this kind is a bit out of the ordinary? Did I hear you claim that lady as a relative?’
‘I call her “Aunty” and I’ve known her forever, but she’s my godmother. Her husband was wounded in the war. Has never worked since. They scrape a living. My mother would only agree to my continuing to live alone in the wicked city if I was under someone’s wing.’ She smiled and added thoughtfully: ‘And she was quite right. It’s not always convenient to have a mother hen clucking after you, but the advantages are considerable. My rent is fair, not extortionate as it can be for most young girls trying to live by themselves. No spirit stove
s allowed in the rooms, of course.’ She looked around at the quantities of fabrics festooning the room. ‘And this would be a fire hazard if I attempted to use one. So – occasionally, she brings me coffee. Inspector Bonnefoye rated one too.’ Francine sniffed the coffee as she poured it out. ‘But not as good as this! Mmm! Moka? And no chicory!’ She looked at him with fresh speculation. ‘The old thing’s brought out her best for the English policeman. Now what on earth did you do to provoke this attention?’
They sipped the coffee appreciatively for a moment or two and then Joe said mildly: ‘So – your attempt to pervert the course of justice by withholding vital information (six months in La Santé if Acid Drop were to find out) was occasioned by a feeling of solidarity for a fellow working girl? No more than that? Am I expected to believe this?’ He left a space in which she was meant to reflect on her predicament and assess his power to carry out his threats, veiled, as they were, by a charming smile and delivered in a pleasantly husky voice. ‘But loyalty is something I can understand. It is my motivation also in pursuing this case,’ he confided. ‘The suspect, Sir George Jardine, is an old friend of mine, a distinguished public servant, a much-decorated soldier and a man of impeccable honour. He is not a man to sink a dagger into the throat of a fellow officer, to hear his death rattle, to soak up his blood.’
Fearing he was raising George’s virtue to an unbelievable height, he paused.
‘Are you telling me such a man never killed before?’ she said, cynically. ‘Come on! A politician and a soldier? To me that combination shrieks power and violence. I saw him – you forget. He is a man capable of killing.’ She surprised him further by looking him in the eye and adding: ‘Like you.’
Joe was alarmed by the accuracy of the girl’s insight. ‘He’s a competent man. Such a messy killing is not his style at all. Completely implausible. If circumstances ever forced a man like Jardine to contrive the death of a fellow man – and I can’t imagine what they might conceivably be –’ he lied, ‘he would do it from afar . . . He would not do it before an audience of two thousand. And – I can tell you – he would not be discovered floundering about with blood on his own hands.’
‘Exactly! You’re getting there! From afar – you’ve said it! Perhaps the victim was no pushover? A soldier might be expected to fight back? Your elderly friend not too keen to get close enough to sink a blade in him? I wonder how much your Sir George laid out for the distancing? Money can take you anywhere in this city, Inspector. If you know where to go. The right address. A thousand francs will buy you a night of passion you never dreamed of . . . If your desires are of a more sinister nature, the same sum will buy you a death.’
Chapter Ten
‘And if all I hear is correct, both may be obtained at the same establishment,’ she whispered.
‘Établissement?’ he queried, apparently not understanding the word, and waited for her explanation. A trick he must use sparingly, he thought. She was clever and would soon realize that, in offering a simplified and expanded version of her comments, she was giving away more than she had intended. He listened carefully to her reply and nodded his understanding.
She made an effort not to look about her and Joe was aware of a lowering of her voice even though they were unobserved. Was this done for effect? He thought he’d better be prepared to reserve judgement on Mademoiselle Raissac.
‘If this is an agreement you’re offering, Inspector,’ she went on, ‘I have to accept, but I want your assurance that it will not be known that this information comes from me. Nor will I involve others. They don’t like loose ends. They cover their tracks and they don’t leave witnesses.’
‘They?’ he questioned lightly. ‘Did you mention a name? Did I miss it?’
‘They have no name but they have a reputation, amongst those who need to know these things, for efficiency and even –’ she shuddered – ‘a certain style.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ He glanced around at the couturier’s silk and satin confections. ‘An element of design in their deaths? Bespoke killing? Made-to-measure murder?’
‘Don’t scoff! You have no idea!’
The words burst from her, raw and vehement. What emotion inspired them, he wondered – fear, despair or fury at his wilfully obtuse comments? He had a knack of making people fizz with rage when he chose to use it. Anger frequently knocked down carefully erected defences and left his suspect exposed. But this girl had not yet reached that pitch. Her emotion – whatever it might be – was still surging and gathering. In an anxious effort to impress on him the gravity of her situation, the gestures accompanying her words became intense and urgent.
‘If they found out I’d spoken of this . . . I’d be discovered dead, my mouth sewn up with scarlet thread and a pair of scissors through my heart. Do you understand?’
He affected dismay. ‘Am I to suppose, then, that the – shall we now call it “assassination”? – of Somerton was a commercial undertaking? That someone approached the nameless organization you have in mind and ordered up his death?’
‘Yes. The dead man was probably lured there by this blonde girl who at an agreed moment abandoned him to his fate. At the finale, I’d guess, the killer entered and cut his throat, leaving the knife behind. They usually take the weapon away with them. This knife must have been significant, wouldn’t you say? I caught a glimpse of it. They picked it up with a handkerchief from the floor at the man’s feet. It looked foreign to me. And it wasn’t a zarin, which is the most popular knife in use in Paris.’
‘Zarin?’
‘It’s like a stiletto. The street gangs use it. For ripping and stabbing. Like this.’ She held an imaginary weapon in her hand using a backwards grip and demonstrated. Her face was impassive but her breathing was increasingly fast and shallow.
‘I’ve seen just that action somewhere,’ he said vaguely.
‘Well, this weapon was no zarin. It was short . . . fancy carved hilt.’
‘Ivory. Very distinctive. The dagger in this case was from Afghanistan,’ he said calmly. ‘A country in which Somerton had served some years ago, before the war.’ He calculated he was giving nothing away. It would be all over the newspapers tomorrow. And her response would tell him what he needed to know about Mademoiselle Raissac. Would she fall for the stimulus of the exotic blade he was offering and be inspired to spin out her story?
Yes, she would. Her eyes gleamed, her hands fluttered in expressive embroidery of her tale: ‘Well – there you have it, then! You should be looking for someone with a grudge going back to that time. A clear case of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Someone with enough money and enough hatred, after all these years, to have the man very publicly killed. Payback for something murky in the past? That’s what the scene would have shown if your poor old friend hadn’t stumbled into the box prematurely. And now he’s got himself arrested and it all looks like an exhibition of jealous rage between two old codgers who ought to know better. A fit of rage that got out of hand.’
She considered for a moment and added: ‘They might not like that. An expensively staged act of retribution reduced to a sordid squabble. The customer who paid for his bit of theatre might not be entirely satisfied at the outcome.’
‘Not sure where you’re going with all this. He – whoever he is . . . Client of them perhaps? – can hardly say: “Excuse me – may we see that bit again, from the top?” can he? It’s not a dress rehearsal we’ve been treated to! More of a live – or rather death – performance.’
She scowled. ‘Nothing I can say will make you take this seriously. I’ve said enough. I’ve said too much. Who knows what he’s deciding at this moment? What they are planning? You’d better leave now. But before you go – I’ll remind you of our bargain. What was it? Six months in La Santé or spill my guts? Now, the question is, do I trust a policeman? (Am I naïve?) An English one? (Am I barmy?)’ She put her head on one side and considered. ‘No. I’m not stupid. And I’m not taken in by an affected lack of understanding that comes and
goes, or by a handsome face and a pair of grey eyes that, with a little guidance, could find my soul. I’m going to take you for an honourable man. I couldn’t serve time in prison. Not even a day. I know what it’s like. The river . . . or the canal . . . would be my way out of that. So, unless you want my death on your conscience, you’ll keep your word.’
It was not the moment to tell her that so far she’d revealed nothing he could use. He . . . They . . . Nonsense. But sensing that she was still working her way through to offering something he stayed silent.
‘Look, can I ask you to do something for me before I give you the one bit of information I have that may help you? By coming here you’ve put me in danger. You must do what you can to put things right. No effort on your part involved! Agreed? Good.’
Ten minutes later Joe emerged into the sunshine. He looked around him, a man in an unfamiliar street, getting his bearings. He appeared oblivious of the passers-by though he was noting them through eyes narrowed against the sun: the two men strolling down the middle of the road, the tramp scavenging for cigarette butts in the gutter, the fashionably dressed young hostess on her way to her shift at one of the jazz clubs. Any one of them could be disguising an interest in a man leaving Mademoiselle Raissac’s apartment. Joe loitered on the doorstep as he’d promised Francine he would. She leaned briefly from the window, hitching up the shoulder of her silk gown, and called down to him: ‘Darling – I should have asked – can you make it two hours later next week?’
As a bonus, Joe made a show of adjusting his trousers with a louche smirk. Francine ducked back inside the room, unable to hold back a burst of throaty laughter. He looked at his watch, sighed with satisfaction and made off back to the square, whistling.
Folly Du Jour Page 11