The Perfume Collector(37)

‘I’m conducting a thorough investigation on your behalf.’ Leaning in hard with his shoulder, he pushed. The door handle was jammed.

‘Well, stop it this instant!’ She looked around quickly to see if anyone had spotted them. ‘I don’t want you to! This is against the law, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all a matter of intent. You don’t intend to steal anything, do you?’ He pushed again, harder. The rotting wood of the door frame splintered and the door gave way, groaning as it opened. ‘Voilà!’ he smiled, triumphant.

‘You’re mad!’

‘You’re welcome.’

Gingerly, they both stepped inside.

Ahead of her in the cool darkness, Grace could just make out the dim outlines of a shop counter, high shelves lining the walls. It smelled of damp, of cold, stale air and mildew. Wind whistled in through the shattered corner of one of the windows.

Monsieur Tissot jiggled the light switch to no avail. ‘There’s no electricity.’ He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains that hung across the front windows and light flooded in.

‘My goodness!’ Grace gasped.

Even in its state of extreme neglect, the room dazzled; walls of glass and mirrors reflecting light so that Grace was blinded for a moment. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that the space had been designed as a series of bold contrasts. The dark wood counter was a rich warm mahogany. The floor was covered in black and white marble tiles. A tiered crystal chandelier, thick with dust and filmy cobwebs, hung from a heavy black silk cord in the centre of the ceiling. And the shelves were filled with rows and rows of slim glass flacons, cloudy grey with dirt.

In the curve of the bay window a pair of salon chairs stood, covered in black velvet, faded and rotting, and an ottoman in leopard skin. Grace reached down to touch the smooth fur. It was real.

Silvery white silk taffeta lined the walls, now badly water damaged and falling away in strips. The ceiling was fitted with an enormous mirror, cut from a single piece of glass, now shattered in one corner, long cracks reaching out like fingers from the central wound. Somewhere in the back recesses, water dripped; leaking, into a bucket long overfilled.

On the counter were a number of shapely glass bottles, in various sizes, with crystal stoppers.

‘This isn’t like any shop I’ve ever seen,’ Grace said. ‘It’s more like a nightclub. But it’s in a dreadful state – like it’s been ransacked.’

‘It clearly hasn’t been open in years but it may have been plundered by the Nazis. They weren’t known for their manners. Also, we’ve been having strikes lately. There has been some violence.’

Grace pushed aside a curtain, peering into the back room. ‘What do you think it was? Some kind of chemist?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up and took down one of the bottles. She watched as he removed the stopper; a rich floral fragrance escaped.

Raising an eyebrow, he looked across at her. ‘I think we’re in a perfumery.’

Grace stared in amazement at the walls crowded with hundreds, even thousands of tiny bottles. ‘You mean, these are all filled with scent?’

The sheer number was astonishing.

‘I have to admit, this isn’t like any perfumery I’ve ever seen.’ Monsieur Tissot reached up, fitting the flacon back on the shelf. ‘A traditional perfumery has just a few categories, like florals, orientals, greens and citrus . . . maybe a dozen bottles for each . . .’

Grace looked across at him. ‘How do you know so much about perfume?’

‘It’s common knowledge. I know what everyone knows,’ he insisted. ‘Every man alive has bought perfume at one time or another.’

‘My husband has never bought me perfume.’

‘Your husband isn’t French. Besides, all women love perfume.’

‘All women except me.’

‘Madame Munroe,’ he sighed, shaking his head, ‘you are an exercise in perversity!’

‘That’s not quite a compliment, is it?’ she pointed out.

‘What have you got against perfume?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I never found anything that didn’t seem too . . . too loud.’

‘You mean strong,’ he corrected her.

‘No, loud. And I hate to be contradicted, monsieur.’

‘As do I.’

‘I wanted something that whispered, not shouted. I gave up a long time ago.’

‘Well, if you were interested in perfume, this would have been the place to come, I can guarantee you that. Look, you probably cannot read these headings, with your appalling French, but allow me to translate.’ He pointed to a section. ‘There are entire scent collections listed under sun, sea, air, earth – they’re referenced and cross– referenced . . . some under ages.’ He indicated another shelf. ‘This row is devoted to women between the ages of thirty to thirty-five and then over here, for forty-seven to forty-nine.’