‘Police! Wait!’
That claimed her attention. She came towards him. ‘Shh! Keep your voice down! This is a respectable street,’ she hissed at him. ‘Police? Again? She’s given a statement. Can’t you leave her alone?’
‘I will see her here, discreetly, in her own room, for half an hour or I will haul her off to the Quai des Orfèvres for a rather lengthier interview. I’m quite certain neither you nor the young lady would relish the appearance of a panier à salade outside your front door, madame.’ Joe was not at all certain that one of these sinister motorized cells would be deployed at his request for the conveyance of one suspect but the old dragon appeared impressed by the threat.
‘You’d better come in then . . . sir. And you can show me your proof of identity.’ Her voice would never be capable of expressing deference but at least it was now verging on the polite. ‘You can wait in my parlour while I go up and see if she’s prepared to see you. Through here.’
She took him to her two-roomed loge on the ground floor off the hallway and offered him a hard-backed chair. The small room which served as both kitchen and living room was sparsely furnished but neat and well polished. A few ornaments twinkled on the mantelpiece above an open fire on which a blackened pot had been left to simmer. Monsieur’s supper no doubt.
She wiped her hands on her pinny and reached for the warrant card he held out to her. Every aspect of it came under her searching eye and finally: ‘Well, it’s good that the flics are taking a serious interest in this tragedy. Bit unusual, isn’t it? Not something we’re used to round here – courtesy visits from the Law with roses in its hand. Have a glass of water while you’re waiting, young man. You look overheated,’ she said, surprising him, and poured a glass from the tap. ‘Don’t pull that face! No need to be fussy! Paris water is good water.’
Joe drank gratefully, puzzled but relieved by her change of attitude. On a whim, he reached into his pocket and took out the bag of coffee beans. ‘For you, madame. I hope you can drink coffee?’
The tight lips twitched slightly and she took the bag from him, squinting at the label. ‘From La Bordelaise! I can certainly drink that! Thank you very much.’ She set it down on a dresser beside the polished copper funnel of a coffee-grinder and went to summon her lodger. In the doorway, she turned and spoke to him over her shoulder in her clipped, machine-gun phrases. ‘Francine is a good girl. Never been in trouble with the law. She works every hour God sends. As good as a daughter to me. And she’s still reeling from the shock. You’re to treat her with respect.’
Joe’s saluting arm twitched in automatic response to the tone.
As her slippered feet thudded up the staircase, he eyed the coffee. A sop to Cerberus? It still seemed to work.
A sleepy face peered round the door at him, focused blearily on his card and, after a delay calculatedly long enough to register her protest, she opened the door with a grudging: ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’
Her room was untidy and, Joe thought at first glimpse, perfectly charming though he would not have relished the task of carrying out a detailed search of the premises. The afternoon sun streamed in through the window illuminating, on the opposite wall, an open armoire densely packed with dresses of all colours and fabrics. They spilled out to hang in bunches on hangers along the picture rail. A treadle sewing machine with a piece of work still clamped across the needle plate stood under the window to catch the light. Against one wall of the single-roomed apartment was a bed, made up and covered with a gold brocade eiderdown. A low table held a row of unwashed coffee cups and one or two baker’s shop wrappers covered in crumbs and patched with grease.
Once he was inside, she rounded on him. ‘Two interviews in as many hours? What’s going on? I’m a witness not a suspect! Couldn’t you leave me alone to get over it? And why are they sending me the handsome inspectors? Is this a new tactic? Are there any more of you lurking round the corner? I’m not in the chorus line, you know! Though you seem to think so – are those for me?’ She seized the roses and went to put them in a jam jar that she filled with water from the wash basin in a corner of the room. ‘Doesn’t it cross your mind that you might be ruining my good name? Arriving here with flowers? Wish I’d got dressed . . .’
Francine Raissac was wearing a creased white silk dressing gown embroidered – and rather richly embroidered – with black and red dragons. Her eyes were puffy and last night’s mascara smudgily outlined her dark eyes, giving her the comical air of a cross panda. Joe said as much and she looked at him first in astonishment, then with a flash of amusement. He rushed on while he had this slight advantage. ‘Handsome inspectors, did you say? I thought I was the only stunner they could field . . .?’