‘I’ve arranged with the man in charge – Derval’s his name, Paul Derval – for you to be given an hour to scrounge around before the matinée performance this afternoon. I guaranteed you wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. He’ll send someone to open up for you if you present yourselves at the stage door. That’s about it . . . Jardine behaving himself, is he?’
He started to collect up his papers. As they reached the door he said: ‘Oh, I fixed a ten-minute interview for you with Mademoiselle Baker. Thought you’d make a better impression on her than I would. She wants to help, apparently. Tender-hearted girl – keeps a menagerie of fluffy animals in her dressing room backstage, I’m told. She was upset to hear some admirer had bled to death while she was singing her heart out a few metres away. See what you can do.
‘We may be getting closer to that headline,’ he added with a chuckle they left.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Some time to kill before our two o’clock tryst in the avenue Montaigne.’ Joe emerged with relief into the sunshine. ‘The theatre’s not all that far from my hotel . . . Why don’t I take you to lunch there first – Pollock assures me the cuisine is excellent. And I think we’ve earned it! But first – a short walk. What is it about this place –’ he stabbed a thumb backwards over his shoulder – ‘that makes me want to burst out and run ten miles in the fresh air?’
‘Fourier?’ grunted Bonnefoye. ‘Medieval architecture . . . medieval mind? Know what you mean, though. Which direction do you want to take? I’ll gladly trot alongside.’
‘Let’s cross over into the Tuileries, cut through the gardens and make for the place Vendôme.’
‘Why would we want to do that?’
‘Off the place Vendôme, running north towards the Opéra, we’ll find the rue de la Paix. Not a street I’ve frequented much. Wall to wall with modistes, I’m told.’
He took Francine’s scrap of blue fabric from his inside pocket. ‘Well, you never know. This is from the House of Cresson, according to Mademoiselle Raissac. It’s a lead we ought to follow up. It may take us to the beauty who showed a clean pair of heels before the show ended. Think of it as Cinderella’s slipper, shall we?’
‘Not we, Sandilands. They would be instantly suspicious of two men arriving with a strange enquiry.’ He looked at Joe then tweaked the sample from his fingers. ‘I’ll deal with this. You can loiter outside, window shopping. I suggest the jeweller’s. That’s safe enough. You’re choosing a ring for your girlfriend.’
It took a considerable amount of confidence to put on a routine such as Bonnefoye was demonstrating, Joe thought, in this smartest, most exclusive of streets. There were men to be seen entering the salons but they followed, dragging their heels, in the slipstream of their smartly dressed wives. Their role was clear: parked in a little gilt chair, they were required to smile and admire everything they were shown until, finally catching a nod and a wink from the vendeuse, they would come to a decision and pull out their wallets. The solo flight Bonnefoye was contemplating was daring. Professional, well-disciplined and having the sole aim of charming large sums of money from rich and fashionable women, the elegant assistants Joe caught glimpses of through the windows were truly daunting. They moved about with the easy arrogance of priestesses tending some vital flame.
Bonnefoye looked smart enough – he wore his good clothes well – but he would be entering hostile territory. He watched the young Inspector’s reflection in a shop window opposite the gold and black façade of Maison Cresson as he straightened his tie, tilted his straw boater to a less rakish angle and strolled inside, humming an air from Così fan tutte.
He was in there a very long time, Joe thought suspiciously. He saw Bonnefoye emerge finally, scribbling on a page of his little black book. He slipped it away into his breast pocket. Joe sighed. An address had been added to his list. But whose?
‘Another success, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘Two successes!’ Bonnefoye gave a parody of his best slanting Ronald Coleman smile to indicate method. ‘But the one that concerns you, my friend, is the identification of the fabric. It wasn’t easy. Sacrifices had to be made! There’s a good café just around the corner. Why don’t we walk on and have our second coffee of the day?’
They moved off out of the sight lines of the salon.
‘A charming girl greeted me . . . Delphine . . . I told her I was desperate. I wished to buy something special for my mother – for her birthday. And the trouble with rich spoiled old ladies . . . I was quite certain Mademoiselle Delphine would understand . . . was that they had everything. I had noted (sensitive son that I am!) on a recent visit to the theatre that she had been very taken with a certain evening cape being worn by a blonde young lady. I produced the swatch at this point. A dear friend of mine – the Comtesse de Beaufort – had advised me that such a garment might be found at the Maison Cresson.’