“Do you think he worked so hard because he was a genius,” she asked now, “or did he need to work that hard to produce something that looked like genius?”
Dolly considered. “Everyone at the company certainly thought he was a genius. And the maison was structured to cater to his creative work. The business side, for example, was almost completely separated from the creative. Antoinette would communicate through her assistant, and sometimes come for meetings about matters that required both of them, but there were no casual encounters, no melding of the two sides, at least during work hours. Antoinette and Gabrielle dealt with everything practical and left Monsieur Guipure to create.”
This description fit with what Naquet had said. “Like an absent-minded professor.” Rachel smiled at the image.
But Dolly’s face was grave. “Or a prince in a tower, walled off from the outside world. I’m not sure such separation was ideal for either side. I confess, when I read that the police were treating his death as murder, I was surprised. If you’d asked me to predict which one of them would’ve been murdered, I’d have said Antoinette. She was the one who risked more.”
Rachel was taken aback. “How so?”
“Oh …” Dolly leaned her head on the wall behind her, so that her hair made the blackboard say the restaurant offered “whiskies and c ails” and turned her cheek to touch the window’s long curtain for a moment. Then she sat up again. “Although they both had very clear ideas about how things should be done, Roland could do those things alone or with a very small group of people who were totally loyal. Whereas Antoinette had to work with suppliers and bankers, deal with all the legal issues. Which is where people make enemies.”
Something in Rachel’s face must have asked for more, because she expanded. “Look at Maison Sauveterre’s headquarters. Both of them dreamed of owning that building again—they’d spent time in it as children; it was a symbol of their family for them. You know about their grandfather’s dealings during the war, of course.” Rachel nodded. “So they both also understood that it would be wonderful for business to be based in the same building where their grandfather had actually bought the Jewish art.” Rachel thought of the framed receipt on the wall of the landing outside the business offices. “But Antoinette handled the actual purchase of the building. She arranged the mortgage, the surveys, the negotiating. She had to deal with the other potential buyers; she oversaw the renovations … Such things require hardness, build resentments. I know she found that difficult sometimes—I heard them argue about it once or twice.”
Again Rachel’s ears pricked up. “Did they argue a lot?”
“They were business partners and brother and sister. What do you think?” Rachel acknowledged the point. “But nothing out of the ordinary, I would say. She was angry at him sometimes, but she loved him.”
It seemed to Rachel that love didn’t stop you from murdering someone. If anything, it was often a motivating factor. She kept that thought to herself, though.
“I went with her to identify his body,” Dolly said abruptly. “Their parents are dead; there are no other siblings—I think she asked me to come because she thought that after her, I was closest to him.” She closed her eyes. “It was terrible. I’ll never forget the noise she made. She cried like an animal, for hours. It was only after I finally persuaded her to take a sleeping pill that I was able to slip out.”
“Did you hear from her afterward?”
“Not until the Monday. She came in as usual. She said there was just too much to do for her to stay home. But she looked like a ghost.”
What must it be like to go to a police station and identify your dead twin? Rachel, an only child, found she could not imagine it—she didn’t even know how to start imagining it. Instead, she focused on trying to examine logically what she’d just heard.
Two equally driven people—Antoinette had come to work two days after her brother’s death—leading a company that prided itself on loyalty and dedication. One of these people, by Dolly’s description, might invite resentment and anger (she thought of Naquet’s face when he described Antoinette’s lack of communication with him and the brisk severance letter that followed it) and thus might make a plausible victim. But the actual victim seemed only to have inspired protectiveness, at least in those who were close to him before his death—well, protectiveness and exploitation. And, she reminded herself, he had recently been bringing money and critical praise to his company.
She exhaled, an irritated little puff. The case would make a lot more sense if Antoinette had been the victim. But fine: if asking about Guipure wasn’t turning up anything useful, maybe she should try the two suspects.
“May I ask you some questions about Gédéon Naquet and Cyrille Thieriot?” Dolly nodded. “Thanks. Let’s start with Thieriot. What were your impressions of him?”
Dolly thought for a minute. “If you work in fashion for even a short time, you come to recognize Cyrille’s type. He was a person who was exceptional at nothing except overvaluing himself.” She shrugged. “He thought he deserved the best, but really he was just a leech.”
Another echo of Naquet. But Rachel didn’t say anything, and Dolly continued. “And when he met Monsieur Guipure, he found an ideal person to leech off. Monsieur Guipure already … wasn’t well, and Thieriot took advantage of that. He was always persuading Monsieur Guipure to take him out, and always to places where they could spend a lot of money and be seen together. He said Monsieur Guipure worked too hard, but his answer to that always involved buying things, or staying in expensive places, or giving parties where all his so-called friends could see how well he’d done for himself.” She kissed her teeth. “And he was absolutely responsible for the growth of Monsieur Guipure’s habit. Within two or three months after they met, Monsieur Guipure was a hardcore addict.”
“He told us he had a plan to get Guipure off heroin.”
She scoffed. “If that plan involved buying it for him in large quantities, sure.” Then she closed her eyes, pulled in a long breath and exhaled it. “No, let me try to be fair. When it came to the heroin, Monsieur Guipure was using Thieriot too. He knew that having him make the buys meant less likelihood of being caught, and made it harder for anyone to realize how much he was taking. But if buying is easier, you buy more. And there was no reason for Thieriot to try to stop him because being the middleman meant that he could skim money off the top, and it made Monsieur Guipure more dependent on him.”
“He claims that buying was an easy way to control the amount he was taking.”
“Lies.” Dolly’s voice was clear and firm. “He bought him heroin because it was to his advantage.” Again she sighed, then passed a hand over her forehead and tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. “I’m making him sound like some sort of Machiavelli, and he’s not. He isn’t intelligent enough. But he knew which side of his bread had the jam. He knew that a clean Monsieur Guipure would need him less.” She met Rachel’s eyes. “As proved to be the case.”
Rachel nodded. “As proved to be the case. But can you tell me what happened between them when Guipure came back from Eirini? He told us a story of undying love and a conspiracy to keep them apart, but I have my doubts.”
“Very wise. However—” Dolly looked uncomfortable. “I said Monsieur Guipure didn’t have many dealings with the outside world, and he didn’t. But because of that, he didn’t have very much experience with problems either. Antoinette took care of all his problems for him, so he didn’t really know how to deal with the ones he couldn’t avoid.”
Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Like ending relationships?”
Dolly nodded. “Like ending relationships. For him the solution that removed a problem most quickly and completely was the right one. And after he came back from Eirini, the quickest and most complete solution to the problem of Thieriot was simply to cut him off. He told me to delete any messages from him—I sorted Monsieur Guipure’s e-mails—and not to put through any calls from him.”
�
�Thieriot said he contacted your office several times trying to reach Roland after that. Is that true?” Dolly nodded again. “And how did he seem?”
“Like a tramp locked out of his usual hostel.” After a second, she elaborated. “First he telephoned the office over and over, insisting there must be some mistake. Then he sent an e-mail to me and Antoinette, in which he accused the two of us of working to keep him and Monsieur Guipure apart. The whole time he was also calling and texting Monsieur Guipure’s old portable—I know because I had it in my desk, waiting to be recycled. Finally he telephoned the office again and pleaded with me to let him speak to Roland just once, just for one moment. He was sure if Roland heard his voice, he’d want to see him. But Monsieur Guipure insisted that he didn’t want to hear from him at all, under any circumstances, ever.”
“And Thieriot gave up?”
“Eventually.” She looked unhappy. “But I can’t lie: I thought Monsieur Guipure behaved badly. I didn’t like Thieriot, but he had made Monsieur Guipure happy, at least for a while. He deserved better than the treatment he got. But I always thought … you know, he found one meal ticket, and he’s still young. He could find another.”
Rachel looked out of the restaurant’s long window. The leaves on the trees in the square were dark against the sunshine, and as she watched a tiny boy in an impeccably cut miniature corduroy blazer and little dark trousers guided a scooter along the white pavement. She thought of Cyrille spending the next few years of his life looking for men who might keep him, then all the time after that when he would be too old to be kept. Still, his future was her concern only insofar as it might involve a jail cell. She drew herself back into the restaurant and to the matter at hand.
“And what about Naquet? What was your impression of him?”
“Oh, him.” Dolly rolled her eyes. “He was just a mosquito. He was Antoinette’s idea. His publisher approached us about his biography, and Antoinette thought if we timed it right, it could coincide with the announcement of the licensing agreement. Of course, it would be a rush job, but it would be in every store window right after we announced.”
“But Naquet started in 2014. The licensing agreement didn’t happen until this March.”
She frowned. “Oh. Yes. Yes, that’s right. I was confused. Probably because the biography was called off at the same time that the original agreement stalled. Now I remember: Gabrielle told me he’d been sent a check to compensate him for his time.”
“According to him, he’s thinking of getting the book restarted, only in a more serious vein. A ‘respectful summation,’ he called it.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Dolly laughed. “You know, I vetted him when his publisher approached us. His editor at his previous publishing house told me that as soon as it was clear the Ann Pingeot biography wasn’t going to get noticed, Naquet approached him about writing a celebrity biography. Not a particular celebrity. He had a list of possible subjects, and he told the editor he could have a biography of any one of them ready in six months. The editor just needed to tell him which he thought would sell the most.” She gave a thin smile. “He doesn’t want to be a serious author; he wants to be a rich author.”
Rachel smiled. “Thieriot said something similar.”
“Ah, bon? Maybe he’s smarter than I gave him credit for. Or maybe like recognizes like.”
It was Rachel’s turn to laugh. “If you don’t mind my asking, Dolly, what happened between you and Sauveterre? Until Naquet and Thieriot mentioned you I had no idea Guipure had had an assistant. But it sounds as if you worked for him for years. What made you leave?”
“Oh, they fired me.” She waved away Rachel’s surprise. “It’s standard practice. They’ll appoint a new creative director at some point, and he’ll bring in his own assistant. And in the meantime, I was given a healthy indemnité de licenciement. I have no complaints.”
* * *
“So he and Antoinette argued.” Over the telephone line, Magda’s tone was speculative.
“But it sounds as if they were reasonable arguments. Plus, to put it at its most brutal, wasn’t Antoinette better off with him alive? There’s no business without him.”
“Well,’ Magda said practically, “Dolly did say they would hire a new creative director.”
“Yeah, but how long is that search going to take? And given that Guipure was so closely associated with Sauveterre, how wise would it be to get rid of him unless Antoinette absolutely had to? They created a season’s looks out of designs he made while he was in rehab, for God’s sake—that gives you an idea of how dependent they were on him. So Antoinette’s hardly going to off him out of irritation over unfair division of duties.”
“I’m not saying it was that simple.”
“I know you’re not. To be honest I wondered the same thing until … you should have heard her describe Antoinette’s reaction to seeing his body.” She repeated what Dolly had said.
“A good actress could fake that.”
“Again I’d agree with you if not for the crying. You can’t fake tears without people noticing, and you can’t conjure them out of nowhere.”
Magda’s silence indicated that she wanted to argue but couldn’t. Rachel generously changed the subject. “How are things going in the Cyrille search?”
It turned out that Magda had overestimated her skills—“although only a little.” She had found a number of Cyrille Thieriots online, but without their Cyrille Thieriot’s birth date or identification number, she had been unable to determine which of them was him, never mind anything beyond that. Amazon had just delivered a book she thought would help, though. “So call me again tomorrow afternoon. I should have more for us by then.”
Chapter Fourteen
At eleven the next morning, Magda texted her.
Meet me at Temple station.
Outside the Temple mètro station the news kiosk showed Rachel that the gossip magazines had moved on from Roland Guipure. Some reality star was engaged; some footballer was divorcing. The bright sunshine almost balanced out the chilly air, and passing pedestrians had opened their coats and let their scarves trail unwound from their lapels. Only a few elderly men and women kept their overcoats closed to the neck and bundled themselves up—they had been around long enough to know that Paris weather will fool you if you give it a chance.
For some reason Magda had decided that a skinny wooden bench set close to the curb was the perfect venue for their meeting. Whether this was because the only obvious choice of restaurant was an establishment called O’Tacos or because she was tired of hunching indoors to talk about murder, Rachel neither knew nor cared. It was pleasant to be able to sit outside in the sun and not talk in low murmurs, even if it did mean an occasional noseful of diesel fumes.
Magda pulled out her neatly labeled folder once again. She waited for a passerby to move on before she spoke.
“So I hacked into the employment records at Bespoke, the restaurant where Thieriot used to work.”
“You what? How?”
“Oh, well …” Her tone was casual, but a tiny smile twitched at her lips. “Once I read the book it wasn’t really very hard. It said that if you can get into a restaurant’s reservation system, you can get into everything else. So I made a reservation and then just followed the book’s instructions. And that’s how I found Thieriot’s tax number, and that’s how I was able to track his employment history, and that’s how I found out that Cyrille Thieriot works at the LaLa Lounge.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I am not. I thought it was odd when I asked him where he worked and he just said, ‘I’ve gone back to the hospitality industry.’ Now we see why.”
“And was he working the night of Guipure’s party?”
Now the twitching became a full-blown smile. Magda pulled a printed screenshot out of the folder and handed it to Rachel. It was the schedule for the week of April 11, and on Thursday the fourteenth, the day of Guipure’s party, Thieriot’s name appeared with some others in the
rectangle for each hour between 20:00 and 23:00, and then through 03:00 the next day.
“This,” Magda continued after a pause, “is why we’re meeting here. We’re going to see who’s available to talk to at the LaLa Lounge.”
Like most people who live in a large city, Rachel knew every street and alleyway of the part in which she lived, but had only a hazy outline of most of the rest. “Where is it?”
The Rue Nôtre Dame de Nazareth angled off the Rue du Temple. There was a branch of the CIC bank at the top of the street and a discreet synagogue midway down, but otherwise it was crowded with the mixture of boutiques, cafés, and storefronts with “To rent” signs that seemed to characterize every side street in Paris. The LaLa Lounge was at the end of the first block, next to a nail bar and across from a shop selling counterfeit designer clothing—which had a version of one of Sauveterre’s dresses in its window, Rachel noticed.
“I know the papers said it’s a known drug area, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place where someone would overdose, does it? The street’s not very wide, there really isn’t anywhere to hide, and now that people have to come outside to smoke, you’d think someone would have noticed him.”
The entrance to the club, however, was certainly designed to be unnoticed. It was a black recess in a black wall with no sign or number to identify it, the only indication of its existence a copy of its liquor license propped in an otherwise blacked-out window. Complete discretion guarantees complete exclusivity, Rachel thought.
She mounted the three steps to the door. There was no buzzer, so she knocked. Then she pounded. Then, while she rubbed the side of her hand, Magda pounded. At last there came the sound of locks turning, and the door opened just wide enough to reveal a man standing on the other side. He had the stocky build of a boxer gone to seed, and, under narrowed eyes, his cheeks and chin were pricked all over with black and gray stubble. He was chewing what appeared to be a mouthful of egg salad.
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