The Perfume Collector (9 page)

She watched in fascination as the cards flashed between his fingers. She’d never met anyone who carried a deck of cards with them everywhere.

Except herself, she realized, with a flush of excitement.

‘Is it a good game?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, is it a gambling game?’

‘Now there’s a question. Let’s see – you can place a bet on whether it’s going to rain tomorrow or not. If you’re inclined to gamble, everything’s a gambling game. But the definition of gambling means taking a chance. Now, if I’m right about you, your talent for numbers means that chance, or risk, is considerably reduced. So in fact, you’re not gambling at all. You’re simply proceeding with what you believe to be true, which is like faith, really – the spiritual dimension of this exercise is one we’ll touch on another time.’

‘Will we?’

‘Don’t interrupt. So you see, you can play the same game I do. However, I can be gambling because I know very little and therefore am taking a huge risk – this is hypothetical, of course. I want to stress to you that I’m extremely proficient in what I do . . .’

‘And what is that, sir?’

‘I am a connoisseur of chance, a pioneer of probability, little girl. And, as I was saying, I can be gambling because I know only a little. You, on the other hand, with your unique gift, can be simply playing out a rather complicated equation whose conclusion only you can see. So, “no” and “yes” and “sometimes” are the answers to your question.’ He had done dealing. ‘Here are the rules. We’re playing with one deck for the purpose of this demonstration but normally it’s six. I want to break you in slowly.’

She stared at his handsome face. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

He looked up at her as if it were obvious. ‘Some day it will be useful to you. And remember what I said, it’s only a gamble if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

So Mr Lambert taught her how to play Twenty-one. The next day he schooled her in the rudiments of poker. And she was frighteningly, thrillingly quick to learn. There was a disarming calm about her; she simply proceeded, first to learn the games, then to beat him. Hand after hand, with no sign of nerves.

It was easy for her; she knew what was going to happen.

Eva had never been clever at anything. And she wanted to please Mr Lambert.

She focused on the cards he discarded, the number of cards played; holding the facts to one side in her brain. She seemed to see in her mind’s eye all the various possibilities and combinations of scenarios at once. Then another card was played and they narrowed. Before long she could see pretty much the whole game in her head and then it was only a matter of what order cards were being played rather than what they would be. And when this happened, Mr Lambert became excited. His eyes lit up and he regarded her as if she were delightful and amazing.

Eva had never actually seen the expression directed at her before, but from all she’d read and been told, Mr Lambert looked at her as if he loved her.

And then the Laughing Blonde came back.

Only she wasn’t laughing any more.

She was hungover, smoking a cigarette, picking the crusts off a slice of cold toast.

She appeared one morning, without any warning, when Eva knocked on the door to service Mr Lambert’s room.

Worse, her suitcase was in the corner.

Eva stared at that suitcase in silent desperation. The woman was one thing. The case was another.

The Blonde blinked at her through puffy, red eyes. ‘Yeah?’ She had lines across her forehead, hollows in her cheeks. She wasn’t nearly as pretty in the daylight.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Eva spoke stiffly, trying her best not to betray her feelings. ‘I’m here to service the room. Would you like me to come back?’

The Blonde shrugged, took another bite of toast, tossed it back on the plate. ‘Sure. Though I guess I’d better get dressed,’ she sighed, ‘if we’re going to make the noon train.’

‘Train?’ The word slipped out before Eva could stop it.

The Blonde stood up, pulling the robe sash tighter around her waist. She was so thin, it looked like it would cut her in two. ‘Yeah. Niagara Falls.’ She smiled to herself, flicking ash into her coffee cup, where it fizzled in the remains. ‘Very romantic, wouldn’t you say?’

Eva felt all hope drain away. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll come back later, ma’am.’

As she pulled the door shut behind her, Eva could hear the Blonde singing softly to herself . . . ‘It Had to be You’.

Halfway down the hall, she realized she was crying.

Paris, Spring, 1955

The shop on Rue Saint-Claude was, like most second-hand shops, stacked indiscriminately from floor to ceiling with all manner of furniture and objects: lamps, appliances, cushions, curtains, vases, pictures, books. Wooden chairs dangled from hooks on the ceiling along with chandeliers and drying racks; every available space had not just one but at least five unrelated objects crowded on to its surface. A small bell jangled when they opened the front door. It smelled of mildew, damp fabric and dust.

Grace squeezed past the entrance, and Monsieur Tissot trailed in after her. This was not going according to his plan. They should be back in the office now, not foraging among garbage. ‘Explain to me again why we’re here, madame?’

‘The concierge’s daughter said this man cleared Eva d’Orsey’s apartment.’

‘Yes, but what does that have to do with us?’ He sidestepped a wooden crate, filled with nothing but old doorknobs. ‘Are you looking for something? What do you hope to find?’

‘I don’t know. Whatever I can. An address book and a complete set of personal diaries would be useful.’

‘An address book?’ He looked at her incredulously.

‘I’m teasing. What I mean is, there may be something here, some clue about who Madame d’Orsey was – something personal.’

He cast round at the chaos. ‘Here?’

‘You never know.’ Grace continued to push her way through. She picked up a small metal object that looked like a sugar sifter but turned out to be some early eighteenth-century magnifying glass. It was badly rusted and the glass was broken. ‘Besides, Monsieur Tissot, you didn’t need to come with me. I’m sure you have more pressing business to attend to.’

‘You are my business, Madame Munroe.’ He brushed a patch of dust from the elbow of his suit jacket; a gift from a set of moth-eaten velvet curtains. ‘I’m your lawyer.’

‘My lawyer?’ Grace put down the glass. ‘I’m sorry but I thought you were Madame d’Orsey’s lawyer.’

‘Yes, but her interests are now your interests. Until the sale of the property is complete, my obligations remain unfulfilled. Unless of course,’ he added, ‘you would prefer that I no longer represented you.’

‘I see.’ Grace hadn’t anticipated this. ‘Doesn’t this go somewhat beyond your brief?’

‘I’ve never had a client in your situation before. Especially one that requires additional proof in order to proceed.’ He folded his arms across his chest, looking at her squarely. ‘So we are both beyond our brief, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose, though I certainly don’t want to monopolize your time, Monsieur Tissot. I don’t want you to feel you must chaperone me the entire day.’

‘Yes, but I cannot allow you to wander all over Paris without an escort,’ he pointed out. ‘Your French alone, madame, would get you arrested.’

‘Actually,’ Grace straightened, ‘I thought it was improving.’

‘You’re wrong.’

‘Well then, what do you propose?’ she challenged, crossing her arms too. ‘I hope you understand, I cannot simply accept a large sum of money without knowing where or why it’s come to me. I have to have some answers.’

‘And what if there are no answers?’

She held her ground. ‘Then at least I will have asked the questions.’

Monsieur Tissot sighed, running his hand across his eyes. She was surprisingly stubborn. Not a lot of people argued with him, ever. And he wasn’t used to capitulating. But he judged the fastest way forward was to let her have her way for an hour more. And, in truth, part of him respected the fact that she wouldn’t let go of her principal.

‘Fine,’ he decided, ‘then I will help you. As I said, your interests are my interests.’ Suddenly scrunching up his face, he sneezed violently, three times in quick succession. ‘
Mon dieu
! The dust in here.
Allô
!
Bonjour
!’ he called out.

A small middle-aged man poked his head up from behind a wall of soft furnishings. He had thick glasses and a sharp pointed nose underneath a worn leather cap. ‘
Oui
?
Qu’est-ce que vous cherchez
?
’

‘Please tell him that I’m looking for anything to do with Madame d’Orsey,’ Grace said.

Monsieur Tissot explained but before he’d even finished, the man interrupted him.

‘He says,’ Monsieur Tissot translated, ‘that most of the furniture went very quickly. He had people waiting for it, bidding against one another.’

‘Are you telling me there’s nothing left?’

Monsieur Tissot quizzed the man again. But he just shook his head, waving his hand dismissively.

‘He says he could hardly even unload it from his truck.’

Grace looked at him in disbelief. ‘Is that normal?’

Before he could answer, the man began to talk again, very rapidly, hands waving emphatically. Whatever he was saying, he felt strongly about it.

‘Apparently, she had a reputation,’ Monsieur Tissot elaborated.

‘Really?’ Grace didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What kind of reputation?’

‘Everyone knew her. Or rather,’ he corrected himself, ‘everyone knew
of
her.’

Grace bristled, suddenly defensive on this stranger’s behalf. ‘And what precisely does that mean?’

Monsieur Migret didn’t answer but instead spat on the floor and narrowed his eyes, suspiciously.

‘What about the bed?’ Grace persisted. ‘Why did he leave that behind?’

Again, Monsieur Tissot asked and the man shook his head.

‘Apparently the bed wasn’t his to sell,’ Monsieur Tissot explained. ‘It’s an antique, belonging to the Hiver family. The new owner is to collect it himself.’

‘Arnaud Hiver,’ Monsieur Migret interjected, with a low, sneering chuckle. ‘
Le souvenir de son père
!’

‘A memento from his father,’ Monsieur Tissot offered quietly, under his breath.

Grace glared at Monsieur Migret. She didn’t like him at all. But to Monsieur Tissot she whispered, ‘Is that customary? To leave such a thing to one’s son?’

Monsieur Tissot shrugged. ‘I’m unfamiliar with the customs of having a mistress, a son or an antique bed, madame.’

The man stepped forward. ‘
J’ai quelques plaques, des bagages, quelques lampes
. . .’ He pointed to a table in the corner piled with odds and ends.

‘There are just a few things left – over there on the table.’

Grace headed eagerly to the table and Monsieur Tissot followed.

There were a pair of matching chinoiserie black lacquer lamps, a stack of blue-and-white china plates, a couple of large leather cases . . . Grace bent down, rifling through a box of books, all of them in French, while Monsieur Tissot dug half-heartedly through a box of table linens. She’d joked about the address book and journals but still she’d hoped to find something more revealing. However, the novels looked like rather mundane romantic popular fiction. There were no hidden notes inside; no telling inscriptions; no underlined passages.

Monsieur Tissot picked up an old leather satchel. ‘This isn’t half bad, actually. It reminds me of something I had as a student.’

Grace got up again and began combing through another crate of kitchenwares. Serving spoons, mismatched cutlery . . . nothing.

She sifted through a box of art and exhibition catalogues. Then she rifled through a pile of old shoes; opened handbags, turning them upside down. That was it. In a matter of minutes they’d been through what was left.

And there was nothing, nothing at all specific or even remotely intimate.

Monsieur Tissot was still examining the leather bag, testing the latch. How like a man to be fascinated by the obscure.

Grace looked round the shop again, her frustration mounting. The whole idea of a second-hand shop had captured her imagination. Now, she was childishly disappointed. ‘Let’s go,’ she decided grimly. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘I wonder how much he wants for it.’ Monsieur Tissot turned the bag over.

First she had to drag him in here and now she couldn’t get him out. She was losing patience. ‘The strap is broken. And I don’t like that man, he’s rude. Please, Monsieur Tissot, you were right. This was a waste of time. Let’s get out of here.’

The latch snapped open. ‘There’s something in here.’

He took out what looked to be a delicately made blouse. Only it wasn’t.

Grace bent in closer. ‘What is that?’

‘I believe it’s a dress.’ He held it up. ‘A very small dress.’

It was a child’s pinafore, cut from white linen, now yellowed with age, finished off with smocking and tiny embroidered yellow flowers. He laid it on the table.

‘That’s odd.’

‘Maybe it belonged to someone else.’ Monsieur Tissot checked the inside of the bag again. ‘It’s empty.’

Grace ran her fingers lightly across the yoke of the dress. It wasn’t a manufactured garment, but handmade. The delicate silk thread still gleamed, highlighting the exquisite detail and skill of the handiwork involved. It was a true labour of love; even the tiny leaves of the blooms were rendered in varying shades of contrasting greens.

‘I used to have a pocket kerchief with little embroidered flowers like this when I was small,’ she recalled.

‘Little girls have flowers over everything. Don’t they?’

‘These are little daffodils – narcissus. They bloom in the springtime. The English call them paperwhites.’ As she said it, she felt her cheeks flush, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I suppose it’s just a coincidence but they’ve always been my favourite flowers. Someone’s gone to a lot of effort. Embroidery like this takes real skill to make. I haven’t seen anything like it in a very long time.’

‘Look here.’ Monsieur Tissot held up the battered leather luggage tag. ‘I suppose it did belong to someone else after all.’

Scrawled across a faded, yellowed label was a different address.

M. A. Valmont

23 Rue Christine, Paris

Grace frowned, concentrating. ‘I know that address. I’ve seen it before, in Eva’s apartment!’

‘And . . .?’

She looked up. ‘Do you know where that is? Rue Christine? Is it far?’ He was staring at her. ‘I mean, not that I expect you to take me or anything like that . . .’ she fumbled.

It was his own fault. He should never have shown her the apartment in the first place.

‘Well, madam,’ Monsieur Tissot put the bag back down on the table, brushed the dust from his hands. ‘I suppose there’s only one way to find out.’

Rue Christine was located on one of the narrow winding streets down by the Seine on the Left Bank. Monsieur Tissot pulled up and turned off the ignition. ‘This is it, madam. Number 23.’

Grace’s heart sank. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Quite certain.’

They were parked in front of an abandoned building, its doors and windows boarded up. A torn black awning flapped wildly in the spring wind.

‘Oh dear,’ Grace scrutinized the bleak exterior, her face falling. ‘Well, I suppose you were right.’ She conceded. ‘That’s it then. A wild goose chase.’

A moment earlier she was full of hopeful anticipation. Now she sat back, dejected. Apparently the matter was much more important to her than he’d realized.

And for the second time in two days, Monsieur Tissot found himself doing something he almost never did – taking impulsive action.

‘Let’s see about that.’ He opened the door and climbed out.

Grace followed him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I thought you wanted answers, Madame Munroe,’ he called over his shoulder, heading to the front door.

‘I do. But this place is deserted!’

He peered between the boarded-up windows. ‘It looks like some sort of shop.’

‘A shop?’ Grace came up next to him, squinted to see through the dirty glass. ‘What kind of a shop?’

‘I’m not sure. Let’s find out.’ Monsieur Tissot stepped back and prised off the large board nailed across the front door.

‘What are you doing?’ Grace hissed, panicking.

‘I’m conducting a thorough investigation on your behalf.’ Leaning in hard with his shoulder, he pushed. The door handle was jammed.

‘Well, stop it this instant!’ She looked around quickly to see if anyone had spotted them. ‘I don’t want you to! This is against the law, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all a matter of intent. You don’t intend to steal anything, do you?’ He pushed again, harder. The rotting wood of the door frame splintered and the door gave way, groaning as it opened. ‘
Voilà
!’ he smiled, triumphant.

‘You’re mad!’

‘You’re welcome.’

Gingerly, they both stepped inside.

Ahead of her in the cool darkness, Grace could just make out the dim outlines of a shop counter, high shelves lining the walls. It smelled of damp, of cold, stale air and mildew. Wind whistled in through the shattered corner of one of the windows.

Monsieur Tissot jiggled the light switch to no avail. ‘There’s no electricity.’ He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains that hung across the front windows and light flooded in.

‘My goodness!’ Grace gasped.

Even in its state of extreme neglect, the room dazzled; walls of glass and mirrors reflecting light so that Grace was blinded for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the space had been designed as a series of bold contrasts. The dark wood counter was a rich warm mahogany. The floor was covered in black and white marble tiles. A tiered crystal chandelier, thick with dust and filmy cobwebs, hung from a heavy black silk cord in the centre of the ceiling. And the shelves were filled with rows and rows of slim glass flacons, cloudy grey with dirt.

In the curve of the bay window a pair of salon chairs stood, covered in black velvet, faded and rotting, and an ottoman in leopard skin. Grace reached down to touch the smooth fur. It was real.

Silvery white silk taffeta lined the walls, now badly water damaged and falling away in strips. The ceiling was fitted with an enormous mirror, cut from a single piece of glass, now shattered in one corner, long cracks reaching out like fingers from the central wound. Somewhere in the back recesses, water dripped; leaking, into a bucket long overfilled.

On the counter were a number of shapely glass bottles, in various sizes, with crystal stoppers.