‘Anything is possible. Anything. Edith … Well, Edith, what is it? Where is Kohler?’
Rooted in the doorway, her expression one of shock at what had so obviously been revealed, she seemed unable to react.
Outraged, she finally spat, ‘You fool, Auguste!’ and, finding a candle, departed.
The flame from the matches had gone out almost as soon as Edith Pascal had left him. She hadn’t wanted to go, Kohler told himself, but had needed to get away from him, to check on her boss and Louis, to be alone, if only momentarily to settle herself and gather her thoughts. A very troubled woman. A heart that had yearned for far too long.
The smoked-glass, trifold mirror of the dressing table was off to his left through the darkness. Beautiful cut-glass bottles, too, some a soft blue, others clear or citrine and all with silver caps or glass stoppers. A comb and brush set — Russian that had been, in blue enamelwork and silver. Jars of face cream, rouge and powder, lipstick too …
A small, cut-glass ashtray served as a lamp, perfume as the fuel. Within a minute or two of her leaving him, he had what was needed, a beautiful blue flame just like that from burning cognac, but Jesus, merde alors, there were no dustsheets in the room. The soft grey satin-and-lace spread on the gilded Louis XVI cane bed was rumpled; the generous, white silk-and-lace-covered pillows were propped against the headboard as if the bed had only just been slept in.
The armoire, of perfectly matched walnut, glowed richly in the softly flickering light, and was still crammed with Noelle Olivier’s dresses and suits. A hacking jacket, waistcoat and whipcord riding breeches, silks and soft woollens, satins too. Cotton summer frocks, crepes de Chine, grey flannel slacks, blouses, shirt-blouses, some sheer, some with ruffles, some with lace, a ball gown, another and another. And yes, that silvery silk halter-necked dress and the shoes must have come from here.
A Boulle commode held lingerie one couldn’t buy now except at a fortune: chemises and half-slips, several brassieres, a black lace teddy, black mesh stockings, a black garter belt and frilly pink peekaboo undies a l’Ange bleu, but that film had first come out in Berlin in Deutsch in 1930 and who could ever forget Marlene Dietrich singing ‘They Call Me Naughty Lulu’ and ‘Falling in Love Again’?
Peacock lariats hung from one of the footboard’s posts, their black-centred eyes greeny-blue to a deep coppery-orange ringed with white. Why, really, do some birds dress up?
The thongs were black, not more than a metre in length and tightly bound by spirals of silver wire at both eye and loop, but had she liked to be tied up with them?
On a bedside table there was a Sevres gold-and-enamelled cup and saucer. Empty, of course, but the tisane’s leaves were still damp, not frozen, and the ashes in the fireplace still warm.
A photo of her standing, leaning against the edge of a half-opened door, was behind the bedside lamp. Only the fingers of the left hand could be seen gripping the edge just above her head. The right hand, with its cigarette, was pressed against that forward thigh, the diamond ring catching the light, the sequined dress with black halter-neck and deeply plunging neckline, the laughing smile coy and alluring and full of fun, the hair jet black and bobbed.
Another framed photo found Noelle Olivier wearing a black bowler hat, cabaret costume and smoking a cigar.
‘Louis has to see the room,’ he muttered. ‘Louis is always better at this.’
Books — novels — a photo album were also on the table. Laying the latter on the bed, Kohler quickly flipped through it, could hear Edith Pascal saying something downstairs, had little time now, must hurry … Hurry.
There were snapshots of men on leave behind the lines of that other war, none of the boys actually in the trenches, of course. No, wait, there was one, and to send such things home, if one could get them past the censors, had been definitely against the rules, yet here it was. Two men in uniform, wearing open trench coats and officers’ caps, were sitting face to face with a board between them on their knees. Mud and pools of water around their boots, ammo boxes strewn about and barbed wire — skeins and skeins of that fucking stuff — up above them, the timbers shattered and not, tin mugs of coffee and cognac to hand, the one man not much older than the other, if at all.
Rain, too, and the ruined remains of a canvas fly strung above them to sag and piddle its constant stream. 15 April 1917. Chemin des Dames.
‘Ah Christ,’ he said as he read the rest of the pencilled note on the back. Playing chess in the warmth and comfort of the Hotel des belles tranchees, our Lieutenant Charpentier and Captain Olivier await the game of war.
Charpentier.
‘Louis … Louis …,’ he croaked and, feeling moisture welling up in his eyes, cursed himself, for detectives should never get sentimental. Never!
Blurred, the light from the little lamp that was cupped in his hand was reflected in the mirrors of her dressing table and he saw himself first in one, then another and another, old now and beaten. ‘I was there, too,’ he said of that other war, ‘and so was Louis, but he took part in that battle, I didn’t.’
Dreading what he’d found, for that lieutenant had to have been Ines Charpentier’s father, he pocketed the snapshot, closed the album, then reopened it to the back, to more recent snapshots of Noelle Olivier on horseback, a goddamned grey gelding, a stable … ‘And as a cabaret dancer. A chateau, a party …’
These last two photos joined the first but Edith Pascal would be certain to realize he’d taken them. The pungently sweet and heady smell of burning perfume was now everywhere.
Quickly crossing to the dressing table, Kohler wet a tissue with the perfume, tucked it away for Louis and replaced the stopper. Quipped guiltily when the woman sucked in a breath, ‘Oh, sorry. I had to have light and had run out of matches.’
Louis was right behind her. ‘Hermann, please have Mademoiselle Pascal show us where the jewellery was kept. Check the window catches for signs of forcible entry. The usual, mon vieux. Spare nothing, even if it takes us all night.’
These two were hateful, Edith told herself. They pried into everything, but unlike the one called Kohler, St-Cyr had infinite patience. For hours it had seemed, while she’d shown the other one the drawer in which the jewellery had been kept, St-Cyr had stood in front of the dressing table, unable to take his gaze from it.
‘I remember this,’ he had said, marvelling at it and the thought. ‘It was in one of the room exhibits at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Modernes, Hermann. Paris, summer, 1925.’
Had he now memorized the position, style and use of everything on that table? He hadn’t touched the clear, fluted crystal flacon a parfum his partner had half emptied, hadn’t even said anything about its distinctive fan-shaped sapphire-blue stopper, but must have known it was Shalimar.
For some moments Herr Kohler had deliberately distracted her. St-Cyr, she was positive, had opened the top drawer of the table — he’d have seen the billets doux, would have noted the soft blue envelopes, the handwriting, would have surmised that not all of them were there.
Perhaps he’d asked himself why Auguste had not burned the Marechal’s love letters to Madame Noelle; perhaps he understood that Auguste had locked the room after her death and hadn’t since set foot in it.
But had St-Cyr noticed what had been lying among the garters and pins in her little porcelain box? Had he taken that cork that once came from a bottle of Bollinger Cuvee Speciale, the 1925 Madame Noelle and the Marechal had drunk?
He had, she thought when next she was able to glance his way, not touched a thing, or so it seemed. His hand still cupped that cold and empty pipe of his …