The Dress Thief (13 page)

The comte could tell her about her father’s war service, Alix knew, but she didn’t know how to ask. Men who’d suffered the horrors of the trenches hated to speak of it. Well,
except Bonnet. He told you even the things you didn’t want to hear. So she asked a different question.

‘Did you meet my mother, Monsieur?’

‘Danielle’s daughter …’ Alix heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘I sent a card of congratulation for the wedding but couldn’t
make the ceremony. Soon after, it was too late. What a sad subject, Alix. Finish your wine. We’re having Pinot Gris with the lamb.’

‘Did you ever meet my grandfather? I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve a lifetime of questions stored up because Mémé can never remember things. You don’t mind?’

‘Of course you want to know about your family. Which grandfather – John Gower’s father?’

‘My Alsace one. Alfred Lutzman. I know you and he and Mémé lived in the same town and you were the most important person there.’ She added the last bit in
case he thought she was imagining they’d had picnics together.

‘I don’t know about the most important – the mayor and the chief of police would argue that one. Our paths didn’t cross much though, of course, I was aware of Lutz – of your grandfather. A superb artist. The way he captured faces was breathtaking, and as a colourist I consider him without equal.’ His eye rested on the flowers beside
Alix’s plate, tender yellow with their bold ribbon. ‘My mother was an early collector of his paintings, some of which I inherited, and I was lucky enough to obtain one or two.’

‘I knew you had some! How many? Oh, monsieur, when may I see them?’

‘Some day. I’ve tried to acquire more down the years, without much success.’

Waiters circled, bearing silver domes that they lifted in a
choreographed
flourish. As they were being served, Jean-Yves told Alix about Arnaud, the hotel’s chef, who came from the Auvergne, a remote place where men were hunters. ‘One day, we’ll come here for the wild boar. Sauce for you? Tell me when.’

It dawned on Alix that the comte was trying to change the subject. Politeness told her she should let him, but she couldn’t waste this rare opportunity. ‘Monsieur,
why did you fight for England during the war? Because really, you were German, were you not?’

Something stern came into her companion’s face. ‘I am a Frenchman. My mother was born in Paris and my father’s lineage was French. The invasion by Germany of Alsace in the 1870s trapped us in a new nationality. My father chose German rule rather than abandon his estates, but I assure you it was always
a technicality. I studied in England, took work there and when war broke out joined an English regiment. Not to fight ‘for England’. To fight for freedom. But enough questions, my dear. Please understand, I have come to the age where my wife and daughters ignore me. To be face to face with a beautiful young woman who finds me interesting –’ a smile crinkled his eyes – ‘is a little overwhelming.’

Alix blushed.

‘May I say something? It is not a criticism, but you have an intensity …’

‘I stare?’

‘Your eyes have the power to unsettle. Some men will be knocked off their feet. Use that power wisely.’

She really was blushing now.

He tapped the edge of her plate. ‘Come on. I want to see proof of this greed of yours because I can’t believe it. You’re slender as a conductor’s baton.’

‘One
more question. Just one? Please?’ It had just revealed itself, this last need. She looked at him through her lashes. ‘If my father could see me –’ she pointed to herself – ‘not clever, not always good, sacked from the telephone exchange, what would he think? You’re the only person who really knew him. Mémé is always bad-tempered about the whole thing. I think she was cross that my mother … well,
you know,
had
to marry him. If they’d left it any longer, she wouldn’t have fitted into her wedding dress. Monsieur, do you think he would like me?’

Jean-Yves took her hand in his. ‘I knew John Gower as a soldier, not as a father. But I’ll try to answer. Looking at you, he would be rather shocked – you’re so modern and self-sufficient. Remember, he was born when Queen Victoria ruled the globe
and ladies wore corsets that made their waists smaller than the crowns of their husband’s top hats. Your spirit would remind him of Mathilda—’

‘So you did meet my mother?’

He squeezed her hand and continued. ‘I’m sure your father would adore you.’ He raised his glass. ‘To your future at Javier.
May you burn a comet’s trail. But leave some of us standing, wicked little Alix.’

*

Stopping beside
St-Lazare
Métro
station, the comte opened the car door for her and waited for her to step out. ‘Got your flowers?’

‘Of course.’ She’d cradled them in her lap so they wouldn’t bruise.

‘It’s been a lovely afternoon, Alix. Thank you.’ He presented her with a card. ‘This is my office in Rue du Sentier. Contact me there any time you want. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to Montmartre?
I can get the car most of the way there.’

She told him it was no trouble. She’d take the
Métro
to Abbesses. In truth, she didn’t want the comte to see the Place du Tertre side of her life. She’d promised to pose this afternoon for Bonnet, but she wished she hadn’t, because she was slightly drunk and also didn’t fancy taking her crêpe dress into Bonnet’s den. But then she couldn’t let her friend
down either. And as Bonnet only ever talked to himself when he painted, it would be a good opportunity to mull over everything the comte had told her.

*

Bonnet’s shutters were closed. Alix paused, thinking that he was unlikely be sleeping on such a warm spring day. Perhaps he’d gone out to paint by the canal. Without much expectation of finding him, she climbed the stairs to his studio. There
was just
enough light in the stairwell for her to read the note pinned to his studio door:

‘Bonnet absents himself’ was written in messy capitals. He’d drawn a cartoon of a bearded buffoon asleep in a wine glass. How like him to forget their appointment. Bonnet never locked up, and his studio door opened with a push. Wrinkling her nose at the mess – empty bottles, the remnants of strong coffee
and that vile rabbit glue – she scribbled a note, pinned it on his easel and was just closing the door behind her when she heard a creak from the stairs below. Then, a moment to realise that a figure was pounding up towards her before she was grabbed and pushed against the studio door – the air knocked out of her.

*

She tried to scream but nothing came out because whoever he was he was pressing
the back of her neck with his forearm. She felt scratchy wool through the silk of her dress and smelled its oily heat. One of her hands was trapped between her ribcage and the door panel. It was the hand holding the flowers, their scent invading her nostrils. Something icy touched the side of her neck – a blade so sharp she could feel it splitting her skin without pressure.

A voice growled, ‘Listen
to me and no noise. Understood?’

She whispered, ‘Yes,’ into the door.

‘I warned your stuck-up friend the comte that I’d hurt someone he loves if he didn’t pay up, and I reckon he loves you, doesn’t he?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘Oh, he does. I was letting him off lightly, asking for only five hundred thousand francs. Well, the price has gone up: one million francs, because he cheated. He pays it,
and you won’t get hurt. Got it?’

‘One million … and I won’t get hurt.’

‘He’ll get a letter saying when to leave the cash. If he doesn’t –’ the knife blade moved to the flesh beneath her eye. ‘Such a shame if my knife slipped. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ she cried, then felt a rough pressure on her scalp … he was cutting her hair.

It was over in an instant. ‘Close your eyes and count to fifty,’
he snarled. ‘Don’t look round or I’ll make sure nobody will want to paint you again.’

When the pressure on her neck was eased, she collapsed on to her knees. She heard boots thumping downstairs and the front door slam shut. If she ran to the studio window she’d see her attacker in the square, but she didn’t dare. Her lips moved in shocked bursts. ‘One … two … three …’ she kept counting even while
she was sobbing. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight …’

On forty-nine she stumbled downstairs, opened the street door and ran … straight into a person walking past.

*

Somebody was reaching to help her up. ‘Are you all right?’

A man. Anxious, curious – when all she wanted to do was
curl like a shrimp and be sick. ‘Leave me alone. I have to find the comte,’ she moaned.

‘I see.’ Though clearly he didn’t.
‘You’re crying.’

‘He made me count to fifty.’

‘And you’ve blood on your face. Oh dear, your flowers. Mademoiselle, what happened?’

His concern made her cry harder and, perversely, hate him. What she could see of him, which at the moment was just boots and trouser hems. She raised a hand and he helped her to her feet. He was tall and intimidating in a tan fedora hat and trench coat, crumpled
and unbuttoned. Her blurred vision told her he was older than Paul, younger than the comte, and a different species from Bonnet. He had a nice voice but she wished he’d go away.

‘You have to find the comte, you say. Which comte?’

‘I don’t know … I mean, I don’t know where he is. He went home, and I can’t go there.’

‘Ah. Then how about a taxi to your home? I don’t have my own car here, I’m afraid.’

Her knees gave way, shock belatedly rolling in.

‘Come and sit down.’ The man supported her a few steps and unlocked the front door of the house adjoining Bonnet’s. He took her into a hall and helped her to a chair, first removing a pile of musical scores from its seat. ‘Your parents live where … ?’

‘Nowhere. My grandmother … we live –’ she paused blankly
– she couldn’t remember where she lived.
All she could call to mind was the brown door of their old house in Charlotte Road, Wandsworth. ‘I’ve lost my memory.’

‘Tell you what, we’ll go into Mme Konstantiva’s sitting room. Give me your weight.’

‘About eight-and-a-half stone.’

‘I meant, lean on me.’

This room was heavy with velour furnishings and dominated by an upright piano. Alix noticed dance figurines on the bookcase, and photographs
of ballerinas with kohl around their eyes. She wasn’t in any state to be curious, however. When the man helped her to an easy chair, she slumped down into it, then started in shock as a cat leaped on to her lap.

‘I believe his name is Percy and my new landlady borrows this property from him. Here –’ the man took a shawl from the back of the armchair – ‘I’ll put this between you and his wretched
paws. Or you can chuck him off. He ruined my one pair of trousers in the time it took me to drink a cup of tea so I’m not his best friend, but he’s a harmless fellow.’ As the stranger tucked the shawl over her knees, Alix smelled his hair. Kitchen soap. Clearly he was poor. Probably a poet. Bonnet always said that if a painter ever wanted to feel sorry for somebody, he should go out drinking with
a poet.

‘I’m going to make tea for you. My landlady’s out, so I’ll have to search for tea leaves and work out how to light the stove.’
He left her and a moment later she heard a tap running and the striking of a match. He came back some minutes later with a tray holding a teapot with a knitted cosy, eyelid-thin china, milk jug and sugar bowl. He’d shed his coat, and even in her distress Alix
couldn’t help but make an audit of his clothes: very loose trousers belted around the middle, cat-claw damage apparent; dark-blue jersey rubbed thin at the elbows, a soft collar just visible above its crew neck. His boots had once been good quality – he’d walked or laboured recently, she decided, or maybe been in a fight. There were shadows around his eyes and fading grazes on his chin.

He laid
out two cups. ‘Milk in first?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘And who cares? Sugar, lots, under the circumstances.’

When she took a teacup from him, it rattled and he quickly rescued it and drew up a side table for them both. ‘Take your time.’

‘You were going out,’ she said, ‘and I’ve stopped you.’

‘I was going to work, but it’ll keep.’ He smiled and two things dawned on her: without realising it,
they’d been speaking English from the outset, and she knew his voice.

*

Had they met? He had a strong face, a straight nose – dark hair, dark brows and eyes of ink blue. No, they hadn’t met. She’d have remembered.

He reached for her teacup once more, minus saucer, and held
it out to her. ‘Drink it down – England’s secret weapon. Able to tell me what happened?’

She looked at her flowers, still
clutched in her hand, necks broken. She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I was at Bonnet’s – the artist?’

‘Fellow next door? We had a conversation earlier. He called here, wanting to borrow fuel for his spirit stove.’ He switched suddenly into French. ‘From his breath, I did wonder if he’d drunk his own supply for breakfast. But I’m being unfair. Is he a relation?’

‘No, I just sit for him
sometimes. I thought we had a session today … but sometimes he forgets. I left him a note and a man came up behind me and rammed me against the door. Chopped off my hair.’ She indicated the damage. ‘He had a horrible voice, like a crackly radio.’

‘Hmm … deliberately distorted, you mean? So perhaps he thought you’d know him?’

She stared. How could she know such a brute? ‘He threatened to come
back and hurt me.’ She touched the flesh under her eye where the knife had rested. Tears ran over her fingers, into her teacup and on to Percy, his ginger coat readily absorbing them.

‘Really you should call the police.’

But she was already shaking her head by the time he got to ‘pol—’. ‘Mémé is terrified of the police. Almost as terrified of them as she is of the National Socialists in Germany.’

‘Well, she has a point. Mémé is … ?’

‘My grandmother.’

‘Of course. You need to go home, and I’ll take you.’

She protested. Even in shock, etiquette asserted itself. She would take the Métro. She knew how to get home even if she’d forgotten the address.