The things one learned. ‘Accidentally witnessed the murder of two bank employees and the partial robbery of their van.’
Yet there had been no news of such in any of the papers. ‘Partial? Me, I will go upstairs with you since it is her room you wish to search, is it?’
Having missed a little something on the last visit-was this what Figeard was now thinking? ‘Just stay where you are and stop any who might attempt to follow.’
‘Unless there’s a concert, I lock that side door at dusk and am just a little late this evening.’
The artists then having to ring for him. ‘Then lock it and leave me to do what I have to, but tell me this: You mentioned part-time positions as an usherette here and as a salesperson at the German bookstore. Did Mademoiselle Jacqueline Lemaire happen to have anything to do with getting her those jobs?’
Since a beautiful dress, shoes and expensive underthings had been delivered to that address last year on 14 August by a shoe salesman. ‘And the job every other Sunday afternoon at Madame Bordeaux’s residence on the rue de la Boetie?’
And circles within circles. ‘Yes, that one too.’
‘Those shoes, though brand new and very expensive, didn’t quite fit as they should have.’
‘So you suggested she stuff some newspaper into the toes that fortunately weren’t of the open style?’
There was no need to give the chief inspector the name of the paper or its date. ‘Annette-Melanie had never had anything so good as that dress, those shoes and the pearls.’
‘What pearls?’
And sudden interest. ‘The necklace she’d been given on loan.’
‘By whom?’
And yet more interest. ‘Mademoiselle Lemaire. There was also a bracelet of diamonds from Cartier. Of course Annette-Melanie shy; could not possibly accept such a loan. She said she would be terrified of losing them. Madame Bordeaux offered to keep them for her so that they could then be worn only at the Sunday gatherings.’
Diamonds and pearls, and with Jacqueline Lemaire and Hector Bolduc present. Hermann wouldn’t hesitate. He would simply say, If you hadn’t been so preoccupied using the cameras of the mind on your first visit, you’d have thought to ask Figeard about those jobs and all the rest.
The suite was magnificent, felt Evangeline. Never had she seen anything like it, and turning to Herr Kohler as he tipped the porter, thought to throw her arms about him but already he was indicating what he had arranged. Beyond the entrance room with its mirror, vase of flowers, stand for coats and place for walking sticks and umbrellas, there was the salle de sejour with a carpet so thick one wanted only to walk barefoot. Sofas, settees and armchairs seemed at every turn, a desk, too, with writing things. A liquor cabinet on little wheels had such a selection, the glasses for every sort of drink and all of crystal. There was a cocktail shaker and an ice bucket with tongs.
Attentive, Herr Kohler’s generous smile said that he was delighted by her every reaction. In the bedroom, there was a mirrored armoire that would tell no lies and another facing the bed that would tell none of its own, either.
‘There’s also an en suite,’ he said.
Bath, lavabo and bidet had their own room in white tiles and with towels, the bidet something she had seen only in torn catalogue pages used for somewhat the same but outdoors, of course. ‘It even has hot water,’ she heard herself saying.
‘Real soap, too,’ he said, letting her catch the scent. ‘Soap like it used to be. Perfumes too. Samples. Lanvin’s Mon Peche.’
He had chosen My Sin.
‘The parfumeurs are still very much in business,’ he said. ‘Coco Chanel’s shop still sells Chanel No. 5 and all the other things her firm makes, but she’s decided to retreat a little and has holed up in the Hotel Ritz with her German lover. Remember to try them all and when your visit’s over, tuck a few into your purse. Guests always do. It’s expected. The toilet paper, too, and the soap.’
There was no question Herr Kohler was used to such places and would know exactly what to do with a girl like herself, but first she would have to ‘freshen up.’
‘Check out the rest of the suite,’ he said. ‘Pack away your things. Just give me a few minutes to settle something, then we’ll go down for a drink in the Bristol’s lounge, or have one here.’
Evangeline would keep for the moment. Louis was going to need all the help he could get, himself as well, and there was only one place and way to get it: give Mrs Florence Gould exactly what every arch-socialite desired the most. Gossip none of the others had, something new to talk about, but for later.
Diminutive, with soft brown eyes and long lashes, her uniform grey-blue and complete with white lace-trimmed cap and apron, Mademoiselle Beauchamp was not quite seventeen but probably thirty in experience. ‘Is this the residence of Mrs. Florence Gould, the American who constantly avoids arrest and being interned in the camp for foreign nationals at Vittel’s Parc Thermal?’ he asked. ‘The one who pays her way out of it but should be with every other American woman and girl over eighteen and locked up as in the autumn of 1942 along with all the British females, too, those who hadn’t escaped when the Occupation first started in June 1940 and were summarily arrested then?’
Ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu, they had arrested Madame, felt Yvette, and would now arrest herself and the others, Madame Volnee as well.
‘Hey, go easy, eh? Easy. I only need her help with the murder investigation my partner and I are working on.’
‘A murder? In this hotel?’
‘Not here, elsewhere, but perhaps if I were to come in, I could explain things in confidence.’
He had even looked both ways along the corridor to see if anyone else was listening. Like so many of les Allemands, he was big and tall but also wore the slash of the fencing sword from the left eye to chin. Formidable, Madame would have said of him. Monte comme un etalon aussi. ‘Your name, please? Madame, she will insist.’
‘Oh, sorry. Kohler, Kripo, Paris-Central. A detective inspector.’
And a womanizer but also one of Gestapo Boemelburg’s men, that one having been to several of Madame’s Thursday lunches, his people constantly listening in to madame’s telephone calls. Those of others, too, both staff and guests.
‘Mademoiselle Beauchamp, let me have your first name. It’ll be easier.’
This ‘Kripo’ had closed the door behind himself and had even put the lock on. Well, one of them. ‘Yvette.’
‘Good. That’s a lovely name and one I won’t forget. Yvette, we’re after the killer of two bank employees. Apparently he had his mistress with him, for she left her shoes behind in the bank van he then robbed with the others of his gang. All the press need is a photo of something like those shoes, and me, I thought Madame Gould might have a pair and be only too willing to oblige.’
A gang, a killer and a mistress, a moll, une nana de gangster. ‘Is it that you are hoping someone will come forward who saw something?’
Maybe she wasn’t as ‘old’ as he’d thought. ‘Detectives have to try everything.’
Yet he didn’t have the shoes, only the memory of them. ‘And the reward, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, does it include a little something for such assistance?’
Lieber Gott, had the Occupation corrupted her too? ‘Five thousand for the loan of the shoes, ten if I don’t manage to get them back to you.’
He had a thick wad of those notes. ‘Back to my mistress, wasn’t it?’
Louis should have heard her. ‘Fifteen, then.’
Three big ones and she would stuff them down her front since that was what he would be expecting. ‘The shoes, they are this way, Inspector.’
In a suite of rooms upon rooms with floor-to-ceiling damask curtains and paintings, sketches and pieces of sculpture, knickknacks too, Florence Gould had one reserved for the clothes she wore, and in it, a wall of shoes and a pair probably for every day of the year.