The Perfume Collector(77)

‘That is the symbol of Lanvin. The . . . ah,’ the girl thought a moment, her brow wrinkling, ‘how do you say it? Tag? You see,’ she leaned closer, pointing to the delicate outline on the glass, ‘Jeanne Lanvin loved her daughter, Marie-Blanche, very much. The most important person in her life. They say this trademark is from a picture of them before a ball. Now it’s the symbol for Lanvin. It’s very unique, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes,’ Grace agreed. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I was thinking of getting a new perfume,’ Mallory said. ‘Can you recommend something different? Something I wouldn’t be able to find in London?’

‘You know what I like,’ the girl said, picking up another bottle – a narrow slim black rectangle with a tall golden stopper. ‘This one is by Hiver, Ce Soir. It’s an unusual scent, very compelling.’

‘Tonight,’ Mallory translated the name and advertising slogan. ‘“Some chances only come once.” Oh!’ She gave Grace a look. ‘That sounds a bit thrilling!’

‘There’s nothing else like it.’ The girl sprayed a little onto her own wrist and held it across for Mallory to smell. ‘Here.’

Intrigued, Grace bent forward too.

The layers of fragrance that unfolded were soft at first, darkly sensual layers of wild violet, amber, cedar, and bark . . . dry mossy woodland smells which then, very gradually, stealthily, gave way to raw musky richness; they had an intensity, a slightly damp, earthy density that was mesmerizing . . . and there was something else there too . . . sharp, almost acrid, yet hauntingly familiar . . .

‘I never thought I’d say this,’ Mallory frowned, ‘but I think there’s something almost obscene about it.’ She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. ‘Then again, it’s rather more-ish, isn’t it? How much is it?’

‘Well, that depends,’ the girl explained. ‘There is the original perfume, which is the one you’re holding, and then there’s a newer formulation. I’m afraid the original is quite costly.’

‘Why are there two formulations?’ Grace asked.

‘Well, you see, Ce Soir was first made during the war, when the Hiver factories were taken over by the Nazis. Hiver commissioned this fragrance from a private perfume house, which produced it by hand. During the occupation, it was very exclusive, almost impossible to get. Now it is the most popular fragrance Hiver sells. I have a bottle. It’s very unusual, very refined.’ The girl leaned in. ‘They say Hiver gave in to the Germans too easily. That the war was too comfortable for him. But no one can resist this perfume. However, apparently the perfumer who made it never sold Hiver the formula. This is common, for perfumers alone to know all the ingredients. Hiver has tried to recreate it but they cannot get it right. No one wants the newer version. I cannot sell it.’

‘Oh, then I must have a bottle!’ Mallory opened her handbag and took out her purse.

‘But you said this was their most popular fragrance.’ Grace picked up the bottle. ‘If Hiver can’t reproduce it, then they’ll have a crisis on their hands.’

‘Precisely,’ the girl agreed. ‘When Jacques Hiver died, the company suffered. But you see, while there are many lovely perfumes, there are only a few great ones.’

‘In that case, we’ll both have one.’ Mallory pulled a stack of French francs from her purse.

‘Mal . . . where did you get all that?’

‘Coutts, silly. I ordered them in advance. I’ve been planning this trip since the day I drove you to the airport. And I want to treat you,’ she insisted. ‘A woman who buys her own perfume is a sorry creature.’

‘You just bought yourself a bottle.’

‘I’m the exception to every rule,’ she smiled. ‘Especially my own.’

Grace watched as the assistant wrapped up their purchases.

‘Why would someone create a perfume for a company like Hiver and then not sell them the formula?’ she wondered. ‘Surely it would be in their best interests financially to do so.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t about money,’ Mallory said.

‘It’s a business. What other motivation could they possibly have?’

‘Who knows?’ Mallory tucked the bag with her latest acquisition over her arm, with all her other bags. ‘Perhaps it was out of sheer spite.’



The woman’s name was Paulette and she spoke no English at all.

Not that it would have mattered. From the moment Grace and Mallory appeared in the famous Carita beauty salon on Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré for their scheduled appointments the next day, their fate was clearly out of their hands.