Lace (23 page)

“Do we tell the police?” asked Guy.

“Not yet,” Judy said, “they’ll only give us another hundred forms to fill in. Anyway, I think I’m their chief suspect. Let’s try and get more information
before we go back to the police. Let’s try and analyze what little we know.”

Suddenly, she shook her head. “Both telephone calls were for
me.
Why not you? Everyone knows when you’re showing your collection, but very few people have heard of me or know
where I live. Besides, I’m a foreigner—I can’t describe a French telephone voice except to say whether it’s a man, woman or child. So it must be someone we know! Someone in
the workshop, or a buyer, a journalist perhaps, or even one of our suppliers. . . . Let’s make a list of them from the order and delivery books and the press addresses.”

The next morning outside the workshop door was a parcel penciled “Judy.” It contained a topaz silk shirt ripped across the middle.

Guy was distraught. “They’re only showing us they’re tough,” Judy reasoned. “They won’t cut up the whole collection or they won’t have anything to sell
to us. They’ve only destroyed two blouses and a pair of pants, not jackets. Maybe we’ll have time to remake them. They’re all made by Marie, aren’t they?” She paused
for a moment. “Now that’s interesting! Not
one
of these three garments was made by José. Perhaps someone who sews as exquisitely as José couldn’t bear to
slash her own work.”

Guy refused to believe that José, who had been with him since he started, would rob him. “How about the cutter?” asked Judy, but Guy refused to believe that he could have been
betrayed by any of his tiny staff, all of whom had seen how hard he worked, how much he worried and how careful he was not to be overdemanding of them.

Then Guy suddenly remembered, “José’s husband is a meat porter and the café Rubis is near the meat market! I once gave José a lift there to meet him. I took her
in the delivery van. I don’t suppose she’d remember.”

“Hardly a coincidence with the whole of Paris to choose from.”

At four o’clock that afternoon they walked into the café Rubis. As the door swung open, a blast of steamy noise hit them; violet neon lighting glared down from a ceiling supported
by slim iron columns. Against a zinc bar leaned hennaed whores, bloodied, white-aproned butchers and meat porters with leather-bound wrists.

Without being requested, a plate of appetizers was put on the table before them—thick slices of aromatic spiced sausage, chunks of fresh ham and large green aspic cubes containing smoked
tongue. For the next three hours they dawdled over black coffee, but nothing happened and no parcel was delivered. They grew increasingly anxious, nervous and depressed until Judy said,
“I’m going to telephone Aunt Hortense and ask her advice.”

Luckily Aunt Hortense was at home. Quickly, Judy told her story. There was a silence, then Aunt Hortense said, “Wait until ten o’clock, then telephone me again and if nothing has
happened, come around here.”

But at nine o’clock the waiter said,
“Vous-êtes Americaine, Mademoiselle Jordan? Téléphone.”

She went to the phone booth at the back of the café, an upright, coffin-sized wooden box that smelled of old sweat and dead cigarettes. She grabbed the old-fashioned earpiece off the wall
and crisply said, “Judy Jordan.”
Concentrate
, she thought. Listen for the sound of his voice, write down the words as he speaks them. But there was no writing surface and
one-handed she couldn’t hold her notebook against the wall.

“Get the money tomorrow morning and put it in a plain white envelope, the sort that’s used for letters. Then wait in your office. Make sure the money is unmarked because we’ll
check it. If you try any tricks with the cops, you won’t hear from us until Thursday because we’ll be busy with the shears.”

Judy left the foul-smelling booth and repeated the message to Guy. The voice had been fairly deep, a man’s voice, a rough bark. She couldn’t tell more, couldn’t even guess if
the voice were disguised.

“He said ‘shears,’ not ‘scissors’? Are you sure? Only workshop staff would do that,” said Guy, grim.

They hurried to Aunt Hortense’s apartment. She was waiting in the library and to their astonishment Maurice, the chauffeur, was sitting back in an armchair, legs comfortably crossed,
sipping a whiskey and soda. Guy and Judy both refused a drink. “Then let’s have some black coffee to keep us awake,” said Aunt Hortense. “The staff have gone off for the
night so I’ll make it myself—the Nescafé, so practical.”

“I’ll do it,” Judy said, and moved down the gloomy corridor that led to a kitchen.

When she returned with the tray of coffee, Judy was made to repeat her tale. Then Guy was asked to repeat the whole story, in case there was any slight difference that might provide a clue.
After a thoughtful silence Aunt Hortense asked, “Do you know where your staff live? Do they have the telephone? No? That’s good. Let us visit this young seamstress, Marie, immediately.
Guy can demonstrate agitation and pretend that he wishes to know how long it will take her to sew two replacement blouses and the pants. Any excuse will do; the point is to catch her by surprise at
home.”

Marie, in a white cotton nightdress with her hair twisted up in curl papers, was indeed astonished by Guy’s late call. She immediately asked him in and said she was prepared to sew,
nonstop, all night until the replacement garments were finished.

“Cross her off the list,” said Guy, scrambling into the Mercedes. “Now the cutter. I’ll ask him if he’s prepared to stay at the workshop tomorrow and work through
the night.” Again, although it was now nearly midnight, Guy was invited in and the cutter immediately agreed to work throughout the following night.

“Cross him off the list. Now let’s visit José.”

A clearly terrified José poked her head around the gray front door of her second-floor apartment. Guy asked if he could enter, but with agitation she demurred. At this hour she was not
dressed so it was impossible, her husband was sleeping and she didn’t want to disturb him, he had to get up early to be at the meat market by five in the morning. Guy said that he wanted her
to try to remember whether any stranger had been in the workshop the previous week. José answered that the police had already asked her twice and she’d said that delivery boys and
fabric salesmen were always in and out. Again Guy asked if he could come in, and again José refused, panic in her eyes. “Tomorrow morning at the workshop I’ll talk about anything
you want but not now. It’s too late. Not now, Monsieur Guy. I dare not wake him.”

Guy said good-night, clumped off loudly down the passage, then tiptoed back and put his ear to the door crack. He could faintly hear low, staccato voices arguing. Furious, Guy felt sure that his
clothes were inside the apartment and felt like breaking the door down. Shaking with rage and impotence, he walked around the block to the waiting Mercedes and reported to Aunt Hortense.

“What do you think, Maurice?” she asked.

“It’s unlikely to be a buyer or a journalist or a supplier, Madame, it’s too great a risk for a mere eight million francs. It’s more likely to be someone with a low
income—a delivery boy or a fabric salesman or one of the staff.”

“A delivery boy or a fabric salesman would never have said ‘shears,’” Guy pointed out, “but workshop staff never say anything else.” He hesitated. “I
once gave José a lift to the café Rubis. Her husband works in the meat market. If we are going to be negotiating in that café, he won’t look out of place, because I
expect he’s always popping in and out, and even if somebody
did
notice him, I doubt they’d say anything to the
flics;
it’s a tough sort of place.”

“But if the husband knows that you have taken José there he would be unlikely to use it.”

“I only dropped her outside; maybe she didn’t mention it or maybe she’s forgotten it. She’s not a master brain, you know, and tonight she was terrified; she gabbled
whatever came into her head first, she wouldn’t let me in and she lied to me. She said her husband was asleep, but I heard them talking two minutes later.
Why
should she
lie?”

“The fact that she lied, that she didn’t let Guy inside, and that she goes to the café Rubis, which is a meat-market café, and that her husband is a meat porter apply
to José and nobody else,” said Judy. “Apart from that there is the odd coincidence that none of José’s work has been ruined. She knows my name, she knows that
I’m a foreigner, she must know that Guy’s father is rich and she would certainly say ‘shears,’ not ‘scissors.’”

“And what none of you saw except me,” added Guy, “was how terrified she was at the thought of letting me into her apartment tonight. She was gibbering with fright. I think she
was terrified of me and even more terrified of her husband. But why should that be unless she’s guilty?”

There was another thoughtful silence, then Aunt Hortense said, “If we broke into their apartment when they weren’t there, what would we have to lose if they were innocent? The police
wouldn’t prosecute unless José pressed charges, and in such circumstances I’m sure she would prefer the cost of a new front door and a large cash bribe by way of recompense. What
is your opinion, Maurice?”

“I’m inclined to think she’s guilty, Madame. I suggest a surprise attack at José’s apartment, at the time of the arranged rendezvous to hand over the money. By
ourselves, Madame. The police will not move fast enough.”

“Exactly my opinion. Oh, it’s like old times! I’ll drive the Mercedes as I used to. You and Guy can break in; you can hold off any attackers. Guy’s job will be to get a
window open, then throw the clothes out to Judy. She will be waiting on the sidewalk ready to stuff the clothes into garbage sacks and throw them into the Mercedes. If there’s any trouble
I’ll drive off with the clothes and leave you to sort yourselves out. Wear low-heeled shoes, Judy, in case you have to run.” She turned to Guy. “Maurice is very good at this sort
of thing, but you
must
move fast. You’ll only have five minutes, that’s all you can count on. However, you’ll be amazed at what you can do in five minutes.”

The next morning Judy and Guy went to the workshop as usual. While Guy played the part of a distraught designer, the staff started to work again. José—who really
did look terrified—apologised to Guy for not letting him into her apartment the night before.

“Forget it, I shouldn’t have come. I’d had a couple of drinks.”

Guy went to his bank where he obtained a few small bank notes, which he added to an envelope already full of plain white paper.

Back at the office, the sewing machines stopped whirring and everybody froze expectantly whenever the phone rang. The call came at midday, again for Judy.

“Be in front of the Odeon Cinema on the Champs Elysees at five minutes past five o’clock this evening. Come alone or we won’t pick up. Face the photo stills display on the
right-hand side of the cinema. Hold the money in a white letter-size envelope in your left hand down at your side. And do not move your head. The envelope will be taken from you. Don’t move
for five minutes after that.”

“How do we know we’ll get the clothes back?”

“We have no use for the clothes. Once we have the money, we’ll send a message to tell you where we’ve stored the clothes.”

This was reported back to Aunt Hortense. “Clever,” she said. “The film probably ends at five, so there will be a crowd pouring out around Judy and their pickup will be in it.
Judy would hardly feel the snatch and she certainly wouldn’t be able to identify anyone. Of course, they have no intention of handing over the clothes; they’re incriminating evidence. I
expect they plan to dump them in the Seine. We had better plan the surprise attack.”

At a quarter to five that evening, Maurice parked the Mercedes two streets away from José’s apartment and changed places with Aunt Hortense, who wore a navy coat, navy beret and
enormous sunglasses. She turned to Guy, whose face was chalk-white, and cheerfully said, “Justice depends on who is holding the scales. My dear, you have three things to remember. First, if
you’re caught by the police, say nothing, not even your name, just ask for my lawyer. Second, do
exactly
as Maurice says—he is in charge. Unless Maurice gives you an order, just
do your own job and get out after five minutes. Ignore any fighting. With luck you’ll hear me blow three blasts on my whistle when your time is up. And finally,” she added in a
reasonable voice, “remember that you’re merely collecting your own property.” She put the car in gear with a crash as Maurice winced. “We hit them at ten to five when
they’ll be most jumpy, when their thoughts will be at the Odeon.”

Upon reaching José’s apartment building, Judy—also wearing sunglasses and a navy beret—jumped out of the car and stood on the pavement, a pile of garbage bags in her
hands. Guy followed Maurice under the arch into the inner courtyard, up the stairs and along a dark, narrow corridor. Maurice looked around carefully, inspected the grubby, gray door, then put his
ear to it. He felt the lock with the tips of his fingers and paused. He leaned casually against the wall opposite, lifted his left foot to the level of the lock, then gave it one vicious kick. The
door flew open and Maurice charged in, flinging the door flat against the wall with his left arm, then throwing his back against it.

The shutters were down and the apartment was muggy and silent except for the noise of traffic outside. There was very little furniture—a flowered sofa and two armchairs, a standard lamp
with a fake parchment shade, a sideboard, a few pictures of agonised saints hanging from the wall.

Maurice stuck his head out of the door and beckoned Guy in.

“You take the left room and I’ll take the right.”

The right door led to a small, bare kitchen and a lavatory. The left door led to a large room containing a double bed with a crucifix hung above it, a small wardrobe, an ornate bird’s-eye
maple dressing table with triple mirror and another fake parchment lamp, this one with maroon fringe. Leading off the bedroom was another smaller room. In the dim, shuttered light, Guy could see
that it contained another small wardrobe, a kitchen chair and a single bed—upon which was piled his entire collection of clothes.