Tug of War (10 page)

‘I am here, not in the capacity of Metropolitan London detective, madame, but working under the auspices of Interpol. You are aware of Interpol?’

She nodded, puzzled.

‘The French authorities investigating the problem have cast doubt on the man’s nationality. There is a suspicion that he may, in fact, be English and Interpol called on us to check
this. Being an ex-soldier myself and having some experience of this part of the land and the French language, I was deputed to look into the matter.’

‘And you start your enquiry with me? I am flattered by your attention, monsieur, but suspicious as to your motives. Mireille is a valued colleague and I do not feel easy discussing her
private life with you. As soon as you leave I shall telephone her and warn her that you are sniffing along on her trail.’

She would have delivered a further broadside but was distracted by the side-door bell which rang out, signalling more serious business. At once her anger evaporated and her professional mask of
calm understanding descended.

Joe didn’t wait to be dismissed. ‘The back door?’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll show myself out.’ He reached for her hand and held it. ‘I have heard all
that you have said, madame, and am truly grateful for the time you have spent talking to me.’ On impulse, he clicked his heels, raised her hand and kissed it and made at once for the
door.

It was a moment before he noticed. ‘What’s that strange smell?’

Dorcas waggled her head about and stared at him until he realized.

‘Good Lord! What have you done with your hair?’

The wretched girl was wearing almost the same haircut as the madame he had just left.

‘I thought I’d just slip into the coiffeur over there and have it trimmed. It looks far more modern, don’t you agree? Estelle who did it said it was about time. No French girl
has had long hair like mine for years. She trained in Paris, you know. This is the look all the mannequins have. She waved it with setting lotion – that’s what you can smell. I’m
very pleased with it.’ She glared at him from under the fringe, disappointed by his silence. ‘And so will be Aunt Lydia. She told me I might have it done if I wished. She even gave me
some money for it,’ she lied.

‘Yes, she’s bound to like it, Dorcas. And so do I. I think. In fact, I’m almost sure. I suppose, as our friend the sculptor said, “I shall just have to get used to
it.” Bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid. But young Georges at the château will love it. Bound to!

‘Now, if you’re prepared, I think you could well accompany me to the rue Baudricourt to meet Mademoiselle Desforges who turns out to be the entirely respectable owner of a tailoring
and design establishment. Another example of post-war female enterprise.’

Dorcas grinned. ‘Men had better watch out. Soon all that’ll be left for you to do is fight each other.’

Gold lettering on the dark blue fascia of a renovated shop announced her business:
Desforges, Tailleur. Confection de Dames. Paris Reims.
As an illustration, one window showed a single
gown discreetly lit. A carved mannequin turned its back with insouciance on the window-shopper, showing off a black cocktail dress in mousseline de soie. The low-cut neckline dipped almost to the
waist, silk ribbons floated from the shoulders and a long rope of pearls swung teasingly down the back. Dorcas stared in fascination.

The elderly servant who answered the bell was resentful of their presence on the doorstep. She greeted them, grudgingly acknowledging that Mademoiselle was expecting them. ‘She is very
busy and can only afford you a short interview,’ she added.

‘Thank you, Marie. I’ll take our guests through to my office. You must be the Scottish policeman but I had no idea you had an assistant. Ah? Your niece. I’m delighted to meet
you, mademoiselle.’ The voice was low and musical, the figure they followed along a corridor was youthful and slim, charming in its navy linen dress and white collar. She paused before a door
and turned to them, a finger raised in warning. ‘Here I must ask you to step with care – we’re about to pass through the machine room. The girls are busy with a rush order for a
Paris nightclub. They are always rush orders! And it all moves so quickly these days. Every week a new cabaret opens and we’ll have barely filled their first order before they’ve
changed their star and the new prima donna demands an entirely different set of costumes.’

To Joe’s amusement the ten girls pedalling on treadle sewing machines were churning out a series of extremely short skirts in yellow and green. Mademoiselle Desforges laughed and picked up
one of the outfits.

‘This week it’s bananas – with the odd discreetly placed green leaf, of course. Suddenly everyone wants tropical fruit. Next week . . . who knows?’

‘Surely that’s . . .?’ Joe began.

‘The divine Miss Baker. Yes. Costumes for her new show. Josephine designed the original – bananas threaded on to a string – but you can imagine the dangers! Energetic dancer
that she is, that delicious derrière is in danger of exposure at any moment. And perhaps that’s the point, but we are engaged to kit out a whole chorus line with something a little
more substantial and durable.’ She tugged at the waistband to demonstrate the strength. ‘You see? We wouldn’t want an unforeseen event on the front row stealing the limelight from
the leading lady!’

A further room was crossed, this one crowded with racks and rails of colourful garments, an Aladdin’s cave for Dorcas who managed, by loitering, to finger some of the satins and furs as
they passed by. Catching her interest, Mireille loitered alongside identifying some of the costumes. ‘. . . and this one, all diamanté and red feathers, is a commission from Max for
the Folies Bergères and these will be worn by Mistinguett . . . she opens in
Ça c’est Paris
at the Moulin Rouge later this year. Ah! Those are for the Dolly Sisters at
the Casino de Paris . . .’

Joe’s impatient throat-clearing and foot-tapping went unregarded and it seemed an eternity before they broke free of the frou-frous and entered her office.

The room was small and, in contrast with the previous display, spartan in appearance. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of ledgers. A third wall was covered with tacked-up music hall
posters of a style and radiance that caught Joe’s eye. Mistinguett, Barbette, Doriane flaunted extravagant confections of feathers and chiffon revealing tempting glimpses of long
performers’ limbs and bold eyes. ‘Your designs, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could say so. No. I pin them there for inspiration. The artist is Charles Gesmar. Have you heard of him? He is depressingly young but a genius, I think.’

The desk taking up most of the floor space was polished and clear but for a note pad and an elaborate black and gold telephone. An open french window gave on to a small courtyard bright with
flowers. Joe settled to take his first steady look at Mademoiselle Desforges. Older than her silhouette suggested, she must have been about his own age. Her fine skin was beginning to line but the
high cheekbones, the well-shaped mouth and the tilted hazel eyes would ensure that she remained a beautiful woman. Her gaze was intelligent, her gestures responsive. An actress. Yes, that
expressive face, those controlled but slightly exaggerated movements were those of an actress. He was on his guard.

Most people he interviewed automatically put on a mask for the occasion even if they had nothing to hide. Nine times out of ten he would patiently prise away the mask only to find the same
innocent features hiding underneath. On the tenth occasion something dark and hideous would be exposed.

But he thought he had never spoken to anyone less bent on concealment than this woman. ‘You will, of course, want to know the truth of my relationship with Dominique. Yes, that is his
name. He is Dominique de Villancourt. A cavalry officer with the Dragoons. A Parisian. Graduate of the Academy at St Cyr. He was my lover throughout the war years. He told me that he had a wife in
Paris and that he did not love her. I can only assume he was telling me the truth of this because he spent every available leave with me. When the German army invaded Champagne in 1914 he managed
to reach me and put me on the last evacuation train into Paris. He pushed an address into my hand and told me to go there. It was an apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. I spent the more
dangerous periods of the war years there and he came whenever he could. Sometimes we met here when things calmed down. We were lucky – this house escaped the shelling, you see.

‘His wife, he said, knew nothing of the arrangement. The Paris apartment was in my name. He transferred the deeds from his name to mine. I kept all the documents and handed them to
Inspector Bonnefoye for verification. He has, I understand, successfully authenticated Dominique’s signature. After the war when he did not return I sold it and invested the money in
reinvigorating my father’s business here in Reims. I learned much in Paris. I was not a “kept woman”, monsieur. Oh, no! I earned wages by working in the theatres. Starvation
wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing
rather well, you see.

‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work – ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel – for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death . . .’ She
gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and
will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’

‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry . . . excuse me . . . it’s none of my business . . .. Sorry, Uncle
Joe.’

Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.

‘It was very romantic! I was working here – in the old shop, that is – helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a
hurry – his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed
attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time . . . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and
watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came
to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’

She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.

‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’

‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’

He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black
leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.

‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I
want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world . . . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not
fear it but who can – and does – live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short.
You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you.
This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’

Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before
the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the
belle époque
, was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal
scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room – after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it
was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.

There was a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the
collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown
liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of
War and Peace
had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The
other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.

Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t
doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through
shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered
invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself
for this indulgence.