Folly Du Jour (10 page)

‘We have different roles,’ Joe said, recovering from his surprise. ‘My questions will not be the same as his. He has other fish to fry.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. I understand that.’

‘I am, as you’ve noticed, English. I’m representing the interests of the gentleman who was taken in as a suspect.’

‘Not the interests of the
murdered
Englishman, then?’ she asked sharply.

‘His interests also,’ Joe hurried to add. ‘Indeed, I am shortly to meet his widow and conduct her to an identification of the body. An inconvenience to the French authorities and an embarrassment to us that what may prove to be a quarrel between two of my countrymen should be played out on French soil. I am doing what I can to assist the Police Judiciaire and working under the auspices of the British Embassy, of course. Interpol also, of which –’

‘All right . . . all right! You’re a big shot! Got it! Will Your Eminence deign to take a seat?’ She heaved an armful of fabrics off a sofa and Joe lowered himself on to it. ‘Oh . . . carry on then! I’m listening. I suppose I should be grateful they’ve not sent old sourpuss . . . the Chief Inspector . . . um . . .’

‘Fourier?’

‘That’s the one!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He interviewed me at the theatre. Looks and talks as though he’s sucking an acid drop.’

‘You take, I detect,’ he said with a grin, pulling a straight pin from under him, ‘more than an amateur interest in couture?’

‘I’m sure you’re not here to count my dresses and check their provenance.’ She sounded slightly on her guard. ‘I’ll tell you straight, Mr Detective, that every last frock you can see has been acquired legally. Working in a theatre, they’re easy to pick up, if you know the right people. Did you know there’s a whole workshop underneath in the basement, sewing away day and night? I go down there sometimes and chat to the girls. They’re always pleased enough to hear news from the world above! The show clothes aren’t much use to me, of course – all ostrich feathers, tulle and lamé – but the girls pass on the occasional remnant that I can use.

‘The stars are my best source. Now – Josephine! She’s incredibly generous and if you know just when to show your face – as I do – she’ll shower you with stuff she doesn’t want or gowns she’s only worn once. We’re much the same size and sometimes she asks me to model a gown for her to help her make up her mind.’

So that accounted for the head-hugging hairdo with the over-sized curl slicked on to her forehead. Francine had a dark complexion for a Frenchwoman, Josephine had a light skin for a black American. The two girls met somewhere in the middle. But the conscious attempt to mirror the looks of the star was more than just flattery. Josephine must have found it useful to see herself from a distance in this bright young woman. And the thought came to him: ‘Probably enjoys her company, too.’

‘You get on well with the star?’

‘Yes, I like her. We French
do
like and admire her. It’s the Americans – her own countrymen – and the English who give her a rough time. Her dancing is too scandalous for some and she’s black. There are those – and some are influential people – who’d like to see her closed down and put on the next liner home. Not the French. We don’t care at all about her colour. And her morals . . .’ Francine shrugged. ‘Well, that’s up to her, isn’t it? She’s entertaining and stylish and we love her for it.’

‘I expect she suffers professional jealousy – one so successful at such a young age? What’s the name of the Queen of Paris Music Hall? She must be feeling a bit miffed!’

‘Mistinguett? Yes, she’s a rival but she’s big-hearted, you know. Reaching the end of her career . . . she must be in her fifties, though she still has the best legs in Paris. She can afford to rise above it. But there are two younger stars, French, both, at the Casino de Paris and the Moulin Rouge, who hate Josephine’s guts. She’s rather stolen their thunder. Either one might have hoped to inherit Mistinguett’s ostrich feather crown as
meneuse de revue.
And one of them has a very wealthy protector. A banker. You’d know his name. He sends his Rolls Royce to the stage door for his little mouse every night.’

‘Does Josephine mind? All this antipathy?’

‘Too busy enjoying herself. I’d say she doesn’t give a damn! In fact,’ she added dubiously, a sly, slanting question in her eyes, ‘those close to her think she doesn’t care
enough
. For public opinion or her own safety.’

Joe seized on the word: ‘Safety?’ he murmured.

‘Everyone thought when she had her accident last year –’

‘Accident?’

‘Not actually. It could have been nasty . . . In one of her acts, she’s lowered in a flowery globe down over the orchestra pit. A breathtaking bit of theatre! Luckily she’d decided to rehearse in the damn contraption before the actual performance.’ Francine shuddered. ‘She was on her way down from the roof in this thing when one of the cables jammed. That’s what they said. A mechanic was sacked afterwards and everyone heaved a sigh of relief. The globe suddenly tilted over and swung wide open. She
ought
to have been thrown out into the pit. But she’s a strong girl with fast reactions. She jumped for one of the metal struts and hung on like a trapeze artist until someone could get up into the roof and haul her up again.’

‘Good Lord! What would have happened if she’d fallen?’

‘She’d have been dead. Or so badly injured she’d never have walked again.’

‘Dangerous place, the theatre.’

And a breeding ground for all kinds of overheated nonsense, he reckoned. Scandal, exaggeration, petty jealousies. He was allowing his own tolerance of gossip to put him off track and guided Francine Raissac back on to the subject he wanted to pursue. ‘These clothes the generous Miss Baker gives you – where do they come from?’

‘Gifts. They arrive at the theatre in boxes for her to try. If she doesn’t like something, she’ll tell me to take it away. I found her knee deep in Paul Poiret samples the other day. Wonderful things! She’d just had an almighty quarrel with him and was throwing the whole lot away. Before she’d even tried them on!’ The girl was filling the space between them with irrelevant chatter, taking her time to get his measure, he guessed. And, unconsciously, going in exactly the direction he’d planned to lead her.

‘Does she have a preferred designer?’

‘Hard to say. I doubt if she can tell one style from another. She hates turning up for fittings so they take a chance on what she’ll like and send her lots of their designs, hoping she’ll be seen about town wearing them . . .
I
think Madame Vionnet suits her best and Schiaparelli . . . her bias cut is very flattering . . . Lanvin . . . of course . . .’

‘And your outlet for these dazzling couture items?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming you don’t acquire them simply to decorate your room.’

‘I send them on to my mother. She has a little business in Lyon. We started it together when my father died.
Location de costumes
– but not your usual rag and bone enterprise. We’re building up a well-heeled client list – plenty of money about down there. Industry’s booming and it’s a very long way from Paris. Everyone wants a Paris model for her soirée!’ She indicated her sewing machine. ‘I can undertake adjustments here at source if I have a client’s measurements. Then the lady’s box is delivered and she tells her friends it’s straight from Paris – just a little confection she’s had specially run up for the Mayor’s Ball or whatever the event . . . And the label – should her friend happen to catch a glimpse of it – has a good deal to say about the success of her husband’s enterprise. And
her
taste, of course. We rent out things by the day, the week. A surprising number we sell.’

‘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.