Murder in Montparnasse (29 page)

Hugh had never learned French and Dot’s was not adequate to follow these fast exchanges. He looked at Dot. Dot looked at Hugh and shrugged. Phryne looked up and gave some orders.

‘Dot, find the rest of her clothes and possessions. Stuff them in a suitcase. Look also for her passport. Too much to expect that there is any money in the place—René always keeps money next to what would be his heart if he had one. Find me paper and a pencil, too, if you can. Véronique, drink some more water. How long have you been sitting there?’ she asked, switching to French.

‘Since he went out before dark,’ said the woman.

‘Will you come with me?’

‘Yes,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘But I don’t know if I can walk.’

Dot returned with a suitcase, a passport, and a piece of butcher’s paper. She had a pencil between her teeth. Phryne extracted it, wrote ‘Adieu cochon noir. Phryne et Véronique’ on it in block capitals, and turned to Hugh.

‘Pick her up,’ ordered Phryne. ‘If René comes in, just step on him.’

‘Yes, Miss Fisher,’ Hugh thought it best to reply. No one disobeyed Miss Fisher when she used that tone. The woman was light enough, all bones and rags.

A taxi drew up as they reached the street. Hugh loaded Madame Dubois, Dot, Phryne and the suitcase inside then squeezed himself into as small a space as possible. Dot would have eased the tight fit if she had agreed to his perfectly rational suggestion that she sit on his knee, but she gave him Madame Dubois instead, which was not what he had had in mind.

‘This is where he lives, Bert,’ said Phryne. ‘But he isn’t here.’

‘Yair,’ said Bert. ‘Noticed that. This his missus?’

‘Yes,’ said Phryne.

‘Poor cow,’ observed Bert. ‘I’m leaving a couple of us to mind the house. And I know where he’ll be tonight.’

‘Oh?’ asked Phryne. ‘Where?’

Bert told her and she started to laugh.

Madame Dubois did not object when she was stripped, bathed, bathed again, dabbed with iodine, examined by a gruff Scottish female doctor, anointed with expensive scented unguents and clothed in a silk petticoat and dressing gown. Dot washed and combed the coarse dark hair, shot through with grey streaks.

She only revived when Phryne sat her down in her own boudoir and offered her a glass of strong red southern wine, a sausage out of which the garlic beaded in oil on the red surface, a baguette and some imported brie. Véronique, once Madame Sarcelle, took two mouthfuls and burst into tears.

Phryne let her cry for a long time. Finally she managed to stop, sniffed, dried her face and blew her nose, and then took a gulp of wine.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she asked in wonder. ‘La Petite Phryne? Or has René finally killed me and I am in heaven? I am sorry to see that you are dead too, mademoiselle. You have died far too young.’

‘No, we are alive, you are in my house and eating my bread and drinking my wine. And you need never see René Dubois again,’ added Phryne.

‘But no,’ said Madame Sarcelle-as-was. ‘He will find me. He always does.’

‘Do you know what he has been doing in Australia?’ asked Phryne gently.

Véronique began to tremble. ‘I cannot say.’

‘But you know,’ insisted Phryne.

‘Yes,’ said Madame Dubois.

‘Then you know that when we catch him, he will hang. René cannot find you after he is dead, and he will not go to heaven. Not unless the requirements for admission have changed dramatically.’

‘You do not know what he can do.’ The clawed hands came together again in a tight clasp. The bruised eye sockets seemed too deep to house eyes which could see.

‘He doesn’t know what I can do,’ said Phryne. ‘And he has murdered some men with very strong-minded friends. And also annoyed a lot of policemen in what would be rather an uneasy alliance, which is why I’m not telling them about each other—it would only lead to trouble. This is my own house, Véronique. No one gets in unless I let them in, and René is not invited. This,’ she said, ‘is my companion, Dot. She speaks much more French than she thinks she does, but talk to her slowly. Dot will stay with you every minute. If René comes to get you and manages to get through the locked doors and the barred windows and the guards, she will shoot him.’

Dot caught the last line of that sentence and looked at Phryne, who handed over her own small pearl-handled revolver.

‘You know how to use it,’ she said. ‘And you will have Hugh downstairs. Can you do it, Dot? I can’t leave her with a man for the moment, not until she recovers a bit. I doubt she ever wants to see a man again.’

‘I can do it,’ said Dot stoutly. ‘But I hope I don’t have to. Where are you going to be tonight?’

‘At the Lord Mayor’s Ball,’ said Phryne. ‘I had quite forgotten. With, as it happens, Jack Robinson and his wife.’

‘Oh,’ said Dot. ‘Of course. I came up to tell you, Miss Phryne. That nice Chinese lady, Mr Lin’s intended, she’s come to see you. Will you talk to her?’

‘Of course. You stay with Madame. Make sure she eats some food and give her as much wine as she likes. I’m personally dying to find out how she ended up married to that absolute bastard René, but I don’t think she can tell me that yet. When she gets sleepy, give her my bed. Don’t leave her alone. She’s under René’s thumb and might go back to him, just to reduce the stress of knowing that he’s going to come for her. She used to like handcrafts. Show her your knitting.’

Dot went downstairs to get her knitting bag and when she returned found Madame Dubois looking a little better and eating brie. Dot couldn’t stand the stuff—cheese should not be runny—but it, or the wine, was putting some roses back into Madame’s cheeks. Dot tried a sentence in French, suggesting more wine, and Madame agreed. And Dot understood the answer. She was overwhelmed by the idea that all that grammar, all that laborious learning of joujoux, hiboux, cailloux, genoux and so on was actually meant to facilitate communication with a foreign person. Flushed with success, Dot tried a comment on the weather, and Madame asked how long Phryne had been in this house.

She was speaking French to a Frenchwoman. Dot was delighted.

Camellia was sitting in a corner of the smaller parlour, tense as a wire. Phryne felt that she was surrounded by tense women. She offered Chinese tea and rang, only to find the bell answered by Mrs Butler.

‘Where’s Mr Butler? Left already?’

‘He’s still talking to Mr Sole, Miss Fisher,’ said Mrs Butler with a concealed air of—what? Smugness? Pleasure? ‘I’ll fetch the tea and some of my ginger snaps directly. They’re just out of the oven.’

‘Right you are, Mrs B,’ said Phryne. ‘Camellia, let’s cut this short, I’m having a strange day. I solemnly swear that I won’t relate anything you tell me to Lin Chung unless you say that I can. Now, what is it?’

Camellia looked down at her clasped hands. ‘I . . . am finding this very hard to say.’

‘Then all you need to say is yes or no. You object to Lin Chung?’

This directness seemed to steel the young woman. She leaned forward, answering the questions eagerly and quickly.

‘No, he seems a fine person, a nice man, gentle. I like him. And my family are now allied with the Lin family. Everyone is made more secure by this. In fact, that is my first problem. What if . . . if I like him too well?’

‘Sorry?’ asked Phryne.

Camellia explained. ‘You have the prior place, and might become angry if Lin Chung and I . . . become too close.’

‘I am perfectly aware that one man can love two women without them being jealous of each other,’ Phryne told her. ‘I lived in such a ménage à trois myself in complete amity. Do not let it concern you, Camellia. Love Lin as much as you like. But that isn’t all, is it?’

‘No,’ said Camellia.

‘Then is it that the pirates got you on the way and you’re not a virgin?’

‘Not . . . not the pirates. And I’m not . . .’ she faltered.

‘Not a virgin?’

‘No, but also not . . .’

Mrs Butler handed over the tea and biscuits. Phryne did not want to be interrupted as she felt that she was at the nexus. She pushed the tray aside.

‘Not what, Camellia?’

The answer came out in an almost comic squeak. ‘I’m not Camellia!’

‘Oh,’ said Phryne. ‘That is a bit of a surprise, I admit. Who are you, then?’

Confession had unchained Camellia’s tongue. ‘I am called Camellia, but I am not the Camellia the Lin family thinks I am. They contracted a marriage between my cousin Camellia and Lin Chung. At a distance, of course, and communications in China are very bad. They did not hear that my cousin Camellia was killed by bandits. So the family thought . . .’

‘Ah, I see. They had a spare Camellia, and you were substituted. So far I don’t see a problem. Cousin Camellia is dead, poor girl, and you are here, and a very intelligent, well-spoken, personable young woman you are. And Lin Chung likes you, too.’

‘But I’m a widow.’ Camellia began to weep. ‘I’m no virgin. My husband died of typhoid two years ago. I’m nineteen, not seventeen.’

‘Had you children?’ asked Phryne, lighting a meditative cigarette.

‘No. Well, yes, one, but she died at birth. It was a bad year for typhoid.’

‘You should tell Lin,’ said Phryne.

‘I don’t think I can.’ Camellia buried her face in her hands. Phryne took them in her own.

‘Look at it this way. You wouldn’t have had much of a life in China. Widows are married off again as soon as possible, aren’t they? And half of China is ruined and the other half is killing each other. Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘And what sort of a wife would a scared seventeen year old virgin have been for an urban sophisticate like Lin Chung? You are doing him a favour, Camellia. And we are going to get him to come over right now and we are going to tell him. And if he repudiates you, my dear, I’ll eat my newest Spring Racing Carnival hat. And the artificial hydrangeas on it. Without salt.’

The look of settled despair was leaving Camellia’s face. ‘You really think so?’

‘I do,’ said Phryne, and marched to the telephone. Some things were going to be cleared up right away so that she could concentrate on the evening’s entertainment, which promised to be engrossing.

Camellia expressed interest in Phryne’s garden while they awaited Lin’s arrival. This was a relief. One geranium was much like another, in Phryne’s view, and she could not take the guest upstairs to inspect her Lord Mayor’s Ball dress because a distraught Frenchwoman was occupying her bed.

Phryne’s garden consisted of mown weeds, a couple of dustbins, Mrs Butler’s hen-run (in which the inhabitants clucked and pecked) and a few dispirited shrubs. It was patently the garden of someone who didn’t like gardening.

Camellia considered the space underneath the back verandah and recommended ferns. Phryne replied that ferns might be nice but she had never got over seeing her grandmother feed those horrible buck’s horn things with banana skins, the small Phryne being under the impression that perhaps those sinister projections of vegetable menace might also eat little girls.

To this Camellia assented. ‘One of my uncles collected carnivorous plants,’ she confided. ‘He used to feed them flies. The leaves would just slap shut over the insect. Horrible. I hated them. What about orchids, then?’

‘Too much trouble. I have black thumbs.’

Camellia looked startled until Phryne explained the idiom.

‘Maidenhair, then, and some of the tougher ferns. You could make a fernery and sit here on hot days. And an arbour, with roses and vines. The house and the high fences shelter it from the salty winds and you could plant a bamboo hedge to hide the chickens and the dustbins. This could be a nice little garden. It seems a pity to do nothing with it.’

‘You design it,’ offered Phryne, ‘and I’ll have it made.’

‘Deal,’ said Camellia, so reassured by the exercise of her art that when Lin was shown through by Mrs Butler, she did not flinch.

‘Mr Lin, I am not the person you thought I was,’ she said bravely.

‘I was beginning to think that you were not,’ he said carefully. ‘But you are such an improvement I was not minded to enquire. They told me I was to have a village girl with no education and no English, and I have on offer an intelligent, well-bred, clever young woman who speaks better English than me. I think I’m doing remarkably well out of the swap,’ said Lin, smiling.

‘My cousin Camellia is dead, so they sent me. I’m called Camellia as well.’

‘Good,’ encouraged Lin. ‘That means you will always remember your name.’

Camellia stood up straight, took Phryne’s hand for support, and said with deliberation, ‘And cousin Camellia was seventeen and a virgin. I’m nineteen and a widow.’

‘Then I must ask Grandmother for the phial of chicken’s blood which is customary on these occasions. Some customs are really barbaric but the family will expect it,’ he said equably.

‘Phial of chicken’s blood?’ asked Phryne, amused.

‘Well, yes, Phryne, not all maidens are virgins and not all virgins bleed, so to stop any gossip, we use chicken’s blood. All blood is equal on bed sheets. My dear Camellia, I am delighted that it’s you,’ he said, offering Camellia his hand. She took it. ‘Are you also pleased that it is me?’

‘Yes,’ said Camellia. ‘I am.’

‘Good. Now, Miss Fisher is busy. I know that look of barely restrained ferocity. I propose that we thank her very nicely for being so kind and helpful, because she is both, and take ourselves off. Do you have Grandmother’s car? I’ll escort you.’

‘How do you know that Miss Fisher is busy?’ asked Camellia, allowing herself to be guided into the house.

‘Because she is working on a case, and tonight I am taking her to the Lord Mayor’s Ball.’

‘What a nice man you are, Lin dear,’ said Phryne affectionately, and saw her visitors out.

Véronique woke in a dream of comfort. She was lying on a soft bed with the taste of real southern wine in her mouth. She was clean and combed and without male company. A sleek black cat had joined her and was asleep, warm against her cold ankles. A young woman was sitting by the window, knitting placidly. It was clear from looking at Dot that she was not anyone’s jailor. She was a nice girl who was thinking of her lover, and that alone made her beautiful.