Murder in Montparnasse (32 page)

‘Hello, Jack dear, up this early on a Sunday?’ Phryne asked.

He laid her photograph on the table.

‘Thought I’d better tell you,’ he said carefully. ‘We showed that picture about. No one was really sure. Could be him, possibly he was older, not one positive identification.’

‘Oh,’ said Phryne. ‘That’s a pity.’

‘However, the man in the picture was found dead in Carlisle Street early this morning. Run down by a speeding car, looks like. No one saw anything. Day men been all round the houses, everyone was either asleep or out on the town.’

‘I see,’ said Phryne.

‘Went to his house,’ continued Robinson. ‘Found that Madame had gone and left a note which mentions you,’ he continued.

‘Quite right. She’s here. She’s gone to church with Dot. I knew her in France, and when I met her again and she said that she wanted to leave her husband, I said she could stay with me. She was sitting in the dining room until quite late last night, giving drawing lessons to the girls. Your own constable could tell you that,’ added Phryne without a touch of smugness. ‘He was here visiting Dot.’

‘While we were at the Lord Mayor’s Ball,’ said Robinson.

‘Yes,’ said Phryne.

They looked directly into each other’s eyes. Jilly, the solicitor, was fascinated. It was like watching a duel.

‘You wouldn’t know anything about this death, Miss Fisher?’ he asked.

‘Do you really want to ask me that, Mr Robinson?’

The policeman looked away first. ‘By God, you could outstare a cat,’ he said. ‘Let us look at a theoretical case, then, Miss Fisher, if you please. Suppose that we had a murder by motor car which a policeman knew about and had no way of proving. What would you advise that policeman to do?’

‘In purely theoretical terms, I would advise the policeman to consider that the dead man was also a murderer. That he killed two ex-soldiers, who are mourned even now. That the police whose task it was to take on the Crown’s duty of revenge did not properly investigate these murders. That the friends of the dead men, perhaps, might have taken matters into their own hands, because they believe in Justice rather than Law, and Law had failed them.’

She held up a hand to still a protest.

‘And the policeman might be comforted,’ she added, ‘by the thought that by the death of the deceased his misused, maltreated wife has been set free.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

Phryne smiled on this discomforted officer of the law. ‘Do you want to ask me any questions, Jack dear?’

Robinson gave up and accepted a cup of really strong tea from Mrs Butler. No great harm had been done, he thought. And if he knew soldiers, no one would have seen a thing and no one was going to answer any queries from any cops.

‘No, I don’t want to ask. Two things. Landlord’s creating about the empty house, wants someone to remove the deceased’s effects and pay the rest of the rent. Can you arrange that? And, when she’s recovered a bit, can you ask Mrs Dubois to make arrangements for the funeral? We’ve got all we can off the body. Few flecks of paint—common black. The driver didn’t stop and leave his card and there’s thousands of vehicles painted with that sort of paint. Vans, cars . . .’ he paused. ‘Taxis.’

‘I’ll break the news gently,’ promised Phryne. ‘And let you know about the funeral as soon as I can.’

‘Thanks,’ said Robinson. He put down his empty cup. ‘I’ve been asked for an extradition order for this René Dubois by the French police,’ he added. ‘They’re going to be disappointed.’

‘Possibly,’ said Phryne.

She saw Robinson and Jilly out, refusing to answer any questions. Sunday was a good time for reflection. She reflected. Paris was hers again.

She had been sitting at a white iron table in the Jardin Luxembourg, waiting for her poulet reine and sipping the first glass of her very own bottle of champagne. She was rich, for the moment. Her father had paid her a generous commission on the small Renoir, ‘Berthe in a hat’, which she had seduced out of Dupont, the dealer. The sun dappled down through the leaves, spring breathed scents of water and moss, the returned ducks quacked in the cascade, and Phryne was possessed of a gentle, not entirely unpleasant melancholy that none of her friends had been at leisure to share her good fortune.

Then the waiter approached with a tall young man in a loose white shirt.

‘If you would be so kind, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘There are no more tables. Can this person be so fortunate as to share yours?’

‘Certainly,’ said Phryne, her curiosity awakening. ‘And a glass of wine, if you would drink with me. I am celebrating,’ she told the young man. He smiled.

‘It is sad to celebrate alone,’ he said. He raised the glass. ‘My name is Jean Lafontaine,’ he said. ‘My father makes this wine. Mademoiselle has excellent taste. To what shall we drink?’

He had beautiful dark blue eyes and a soft red mouth and Phryne felt the stirrings of sexual interest, which she thought had departed forever along with René. This young man might prove to be just what she needed.

‘To freedom,’ she said, and drank down the wine.

And Jean had been a darling. Also, he had been rich. He had even allowed Phryne to drive his racing car. The Sapphics approved of Jean Lafontaine because he was both decorative and generous and also he wrote good poetry. He had even taken her to see Miss Stein, though Phryne had ended up in the kitchen talking to Alice and drinking raspberry eau-de-vie. Thus she had recovered from René, or so she had thought. Now she was free of him forever.

Mr Butler came in, bearing a silver salver with a cup of coffee on it.

‘Thank you,’ said Phryne. ‘Your notice is running, Mr Butler. Are you still of the same mind?’

‘Well, as it happens, no, Miss Fisher. A long conversation with that young man Mr Sole has opened my eyes to a lot of things. The stories he had to tell, miss! Curl your hair. No, if it’s all the same, Miss Fisher, I would like ro rescind my notice and continue in your very respectable employment.’

‘That is a load off my mind,’ said Phryne, breaking into a grin. ‘So you have no objections to Mr Lin?’

‘None whatsoever, Miss Fisher.’ His impassive face softened for a moment into an expression which was almost apologetic. ‘And if I delivered myself of any opinions which you might have found objectionable, Miss Fisher, I unreservedly withdraw them.’

‘Done and done,’ said Phryne. ‘But I feel a bit sorry for Tobias Sole. I did offer him the job.’

‘That’s all right, Miss Fisher. I rang a friend of mine who is leaving the gentlemen’s club where Mrs Butler and I used to be employed and Mr Sole said that he would accept that position with pleasure. He likes, he said, a lot of variety, and he expressed the view that your house might be too staid for him.’

‘But not for you?’

Mr Butler drew himself up to his full height. His watch chain gleamed before Phryne’s eyes.

‘I am very happy to be staying where I am, Miss Fisher.’

‘Wonderful. Tell Mrs Butler that I am so pleased. A little bonus, I think, Mr Butler? On occasions when—like last night—the company is a little noisy and late?’

‘That would be very acceptable, Miss Fisher. Thank you, Miss Fisher. Will that be all, Miss Fisher?’

‘Thank you, Mr Butler,’ said Phryne and leaned back luxuriously. Her household was back to normal.

Monday’s mail bought a crudely drawn religious tract with ‘Repent!’ written on it in heavy red crayon. It was postmarked Kew. Phryne grinned. Julia had commenced her campaign.

Jacob Stein arrived, with notepad, magnifying glass and pen, to value Phryne’s paintings. His father had indeed been pleased with him and when Papa saw what was on this inventory, the young man reflected, his eyes would drop out of his head. Five Picassos,
five
, and seven Sarcelles, a Sisley, a definite genuine Manet, a lovely Douanier Rousseau dog . . . Yes, Papa was going to be pleased, especially since the lady had been kind enough to say that she was going to sell the big Sarcelle ‘Landscape with trains’, and he would have the selling of it. Phryne heard him whistling under his breath as he worked. Well, that had made someone very happy.

On Tuesday she saw Madame Dubois through the process of identifying her deceased husband, interviewing an undertaker, interviewing René’s bank to release some funds, and a small but tasteful funeral on Wednesday. She was not surprised to find, following the priest with hats firmly on heads, five burly men who watched until the coffin was lowered, stuffed a pound each into the surprised hands of the widow, and went away. The remaining soldiers wanted to make absolutely sure that René Dubois was gone.

By Friday Véronique was recovered enough to buy herself some clothes. Most of her own were not even good enough for the rag-bag. She bought bright colours, purple and sky blue and yellow. René’s effects she gave away immediately, except for his accordion, which she gave to the only member of that dance band who had ever spoken a kind word to her. And the bank said that René was rich, and that as soon as certain documents were lodged, they would release the funds to the widow.

Jilly lodged the documents.

Phryne came home to find the widow reading tourist leaflets.

‘I think I shall go here,’ she said. Phryne looked over her shoulder at the brochure. Daylesford. The spa offered mud baths, mineral water baths, massage, cold water sprays, healthy food, music in the evenings and a tranquil atmosphere.

‘Excellent idea,’ she agreed.

‘Women who lose a husband often hurry themselves into another marriage,’ said Madame Dubois. ‘I do not wish to do this. I need to find out who I am and what I want, and I need to do it alone. It is unlikely that I shall find another French speaker so I shall have my thoughts to myself. I will return in two weeks,’ she said. Then she wiped away a tear.

‘What is it?’ asked Phryne.

‘That is the first thing I have decided for myself since I met René,’ she said proudly.

Phryne patted her shoulder. Progress indeed.

A week later, the papers reported that Miss Elizabeth Chambers, daughter of the noted racing identity Hector Chambers, would be marrying Mr Anatole Bertrand of Café Anatole on Saturday fortnight. One percipient fashion writer noted that Miss Chambers had been indisposed since she returned from Paris but now seemed to be very well and very pleased at her approaching union.

So Daddy had paid up, Phryne thought. Elizabeth had come home a model of dutiful girlhood and Daddy’s matrimonial plans were on track. Or so he thought. The mail brought her a wedding invitation from Lin Chung, a wedding invitation from Elizabeth Chambers, an invitation to a private dinner the night before at the café, and another treatise on sin, badly printed and abominably spelt, with the unusual message ‘It’s working!’ in the same red crayon.

Phryne smiled privately and got on with her correspondence. Mr Edward Dunne wrote weekly, sending her a list of people who needed a little anonymous help. She picked one and sent a pound. It assuaged her social conscience.

Two weeks later she had a thank you letter from someone called Maisie. It was postmarked Mildura. The will had been found. Maisie was going to be an orange farmer. She was presently looking for partners for a scheme to send frozen orange juice to Europe, and the Railways Commissioner, Mr Clapp of Eat More Fruit fame, was interested.

Thus to the Café Anatole, on a warm night. There was a ‘closed’ sign on the door but it opened at Phryne’s knock. Phryne was ushered in by a resplendent Jean-Jacques, or possibly Jean-Paul, dressed in evening costume and a large smile. A long table was laid for the party. There sat all of the Anatole family, even M’sieur himself. He jumped up and kissed Phryne on both cheeks.

‘Madame, dearest Madame, do sit down and we will open the champagne.’

Jean-Paul eased the cork from a bottle wrapped in a white napkin and poured. Phryne tasted. It was superb. A mouthful of summer, yeasty, velvety. She had never tasted better champagne in her life. She said so.

‘Pol Roger,’ said M’sieur Anatole proudly. ‘The ’14. The best year of this century. You recall my family?’ He introduced them all again. ‘My cousin Henri, his wife Mary, my sister Berthe, my cousin Louis and his wife Janey, my nephews Jean-Jacques and Jean-Paul.’

‘Of course,’ said Phryne. ‘Very pleasant to meet you all again.’

‘This is my fiancée’s friend, Julia,’ said M’sieur Anatole.

Julia was still dressed in her rusty black zealot’s drag, but her face was alight with joy and she held up a pair of keys.

‘House?’ asked Phryne.

‘House,’ she replied. ‘You were right. They hated all that public praying and all that bible reading. But they really cracked when I threatened to join the Salvation Army and bring my band members home for supper. Then father said I could do as I liked as long as I didn’t bring shame upon them and I’m moving into my own house next week. And until then I am staying with Lizzie in case they change their minds. And Mr Chambers called around to see me. After half an hour’s Epistle to the Corinthians he told my father the deal was off and stormed out. I don’t think I’m going to get a Christmas card from him,’ she said, without any visible regret.

‘Probably not,’ Phryne laughed. She looked around the table. There was a notable absentee.

‘M’sieur, you invited me to dinner and I see no dinner,’ she said archly. ‘And where is my friend, Miss Chambers?’

‘She’s in the kitchen,’ said Henri, grinning. ‘With a poor deaf-mute boy and a tramp and all of them are cooking the dinner.’

‘Interesting,’ said Phryne.

Before long a stream of cold dishes issued from the kitchen, starting with a cold cucumber soup, hors d’oeuvres variés, and little tartelettes with a foie gras filling. Phryne was sure that she could taste truffles, though that seemed very unlikely in view of their cost and scarcity. On the other hand, she was drinking Pol Roger ’14. Truffles they were and very tasty.

Finally the cook emerged from the kitchen to accompany her pièce de résistance, a whole salmon cooked in court-bouillon, in aspic, with potato salad and petits pois and a choice of three sauces; mousseline, hollandaise and mayonnaise, to eat with it.

Elizabeth was quivering with anxiety until everyone started to applaud, and then she bowed, took off her tall hat, and chuckled. The waiter put down the huge dish without making the jelly quiver. It wasn’t until he lifted his head that Phryne recognised him.