‘A moment, Bonnefoye . . . the Countess? You’ve lost me! Who’s this? Does she exist?’
‘Of course. And I know the lady to be a devoted patron of this establishment – Cresson labels right down to her silk knickers! I arrested her husband two months ago for beating a manservant nearly to death. The Countess was duly grateful for the brute’s temporary removal from the family home. And the suggestion of intimacy with a valued customer impressed Delphine. She was very helpful. She identified your scrap – though claims the stuff they use to be of better quality. Twice the weight and a richer dye, apparently. She remembered the garment for a very particular reason. They had designed and sold no fewer than four as a job lot, a highly unusual procedure, and all in the same size and fabric. The capes had been commissioned by a certain customer with whom they do a good deal of business. To reproduce a copy for my mother, it would be only polite to seek permission, of course.’
‘Understandable. The thought of five examples of a designer piece out and about in Paris would horrify your Delphine. Suppose the ladies all chose to wear it at the same occasion? The reputation of the House for exclusivity would be ruined! Have you noticed, Bonnefoye, that we men all try to look alike, toe the fashion line, cringe at the thought of looking different, but a woman would die rather than be seen in the same get-up as one of her friends?’
‘Exactly! So why on earth would they want so many cloaks? Not kitting out a nunnery, do you suppose?’
Bonnefoye produced his book again and flipped it open. ‘Delphine was very happy to undertake the negotiations on my behalf. I’m certain she didn’t take me for an haute couture pirate or anything of that nature but, all the same, the training prevailed. No address was forthcoming, I’m afraid.’ He grimaced. ‘And I even went to the length of ordering one of those things. There on the spot! I heard myself selecting twilight blue silk. Grosgrain. Lined with pigeon’s-breast grey.’
‘Shantung?’
‘Of course. Have you any idea of the cost? A month’s pay! But I thought I ought to underline the urgency. Birthday next Thursday, I said. It seemed to work!’
‘That – or the appeal in your spaniel’s eyes, liquid with filial affection?’ said Joe.
‘We have a saying – A good son makes a good husband. Perhaps that’s what Delphine was thinking? But whatever it was, it did the trick. She swayed over to the telephone and asked for a number. I memorized it.’
They settled at a café table outside on the terrace and ordered coffee.
‘The temptation,’ said Joe, ‘of course, is to nip straight inside and use their phone. See who answers . . . but . . .’
‘We could do that. I have ways of tricking identities out of people who answer their telephones. Ordinary, innocent people, still slightly bemused by the new device on their hall tables. I wouldn’t expect any success if we’re dealing with a criminal organization. And if I mumbled, “Sorry, wrong number,” or “Phone company – just checking,” and cut the connection, it might alert them.’
‘I don’t want to be boring,’ Joe began tentatively, ‘but in London –’
‘And here in Paris!’ said Bonnefoye. ‘We have the same facility. It’s not so exciting as establishing a direct contact with a suspected villain but I’m about to go inside and ring up a department on the fourth floor at the Quai. They hold reverse listings of all the numbers in Paris.’ He took out his book again. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
Joe was drinking his second cup of coffee before Bonnefoye emerged again. In silence he passed the notebook across the table to Joe.
‘Ah! I think we might have been expecting this,’ said Joe, smiling with satisfaction. ‘Let me teach you another London expression, mate: Gotcha!’
Vincent Viviani strode smartly down the avenue Montaigne towards the Pont de l’Alma. He was glad that his schedule had led him back to this part of Paris. He’d make time in his day to go and have a look at his favourite bridge over the Seine. Not being a theatre-goer, there was little to bring him to this increasingly smart area. Like everyone else passing by, he gave a swift, unemphatic glance at the three-storey, art nouveau façade of the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. Overblown, sweet-toothed, but perfect for its purpose, he supposed. Offering rich men the chance of parting with large sums of money for the privilege of gawping at acres of jiggling, gyrating female flesh – of all colours now, it seemed. He flicked an interested eye sideways, following the two men on the opposite side of the road. They ducked into the alley that led to the side door of the theatre. Stage-door Johnnies? Yes, they looked the part. At least the boater was a good attempt. Vincent wasn’t sure the grey felt would open many doors.