‘Make sure you clean the tub.’ Muriel puffed on her cigarette. ‘Don’t use the bath oil. It always leaves a ring.’
His wallet, keys and Surete bracelets were placed on the desk, his pipe, tobacco pouch, et cetera. ‘Shall I send the clothes out to be cleaned, Mademoiselle Grenier?’ asked the girl who doubled, as did all the salesgirls, as lingerie mannequins.
‘Discreetly,’ said the detective, Muriel giving her a nod that would have splintered a bank robber’s knuckles.
A slightly wheedling tone entered Chantal’s voice as the pencilled eyebrows took on what might have been construed as a frown if frowns had not long ago been known to be damaging. ‘I will make us some tea, Muriel. Let us send out for sandwiches and a little something to sweeten his tooth. Louis will want to talk to the both of us this time. He will need the knowledge you alone possess.’
Those clear brown eyes that missed nothing and were so sensitive, had already noticed among the trash of his pockets a half-filled crystal vial of perfume and a lipstick. Ah yes.
Muriel snorted. ‘When he’s ready, dearest, and not before then!’
The bath was heaven. St-Cyr lowered himself into the suds and when, at a discreet knock, one of the mannequins asked if he would like his tobacco pouch and pipe, he said dreamily, ‘Yes … yes, you may bring them in.’
Muriel had lit the pipe for him. The girl wore nothing but Chantilly lace, an apology of sorts. She was not plump except in those parts where a little plumpness suited. ‘There is a cognac, too, Monsieur the Chief Inspector, a double.’
She touched the tip of a forefinger to remove a spilled droplet. ‘Please enjoy the bath for as long as you wish.’
Chantal and Muriel occupied the flat directly above the shop, as they had all these years. They owned the building, had lived through the times of war and those of the Depression, the inflation and the repeated devaluations of the franc. They had weathered a lot of storms together, those two, and they had done it exceptionally well.
He knew the shop would be full of high-ranking Germans and their French girlfriends and that neither Muriel nor Chantal would approve, but business was business and the Decree of 1940 had spelled out the rules. Business was, of course, booming, though many things were now becoming quite difficult to acquire. Silk especially unless, of course, one bought it on the black market or from German corporals who might fiddle on the side.
If, of course, Schraum had really been involved in such things to any great extent – Hermann would find that out. Hermann … where was he?
St-Cyr waved the pipe smoke away, reminding himself that Schraum must have been involved with coal and firewood and that these would have been how Victor Morande had first made contact with him.
Then why in the Name of Jesus did Lafont and Bonny have to question the housekeeper of that villa? Why had they had to kill her?
‘They don’t trust us any more than we trust them. They must have wanted to silence her, or perhaps things simply went too far.’
‘Pardon, Monsieur the Chief Inspector?’
This one wore black right from her silk-stockinged legs to her garters, briefs and brassiere. She had a generous smile and raven hair to match the undergarments that were not, of course, under anything!
‘Muriel has thought you might like another cognac, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. Please forgive us for disturbing your thoughts.’
Another apology? ‘Please thank her for me. She’s being very kind.’
Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps a little more. Yet another mannequin, an auburn-haired girl this time, ducked her head discreetly round the door to inquire if a salmon pate would suit?
She laid a pair of flecked beige tweed trousers over the back of a chair, then a new shirt, new woollen socks, a new tie and gold cufflinks.
She was wearing nothing. Another apology from Muriel! ‘Ah, Mon Dieu, you are like a gift from heaven, mademoiselle.’
The girl let him feast his warm brown eyes on her body as Muriel had requested. ‘You are to be forgiven, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. New shoes are on their way and should arrive after you have had your tea. The overcoat and hat will also be replaced as they are considered to be beyond repair and unworthy of a man of your calibre.’
A new man but one who was getting sleepier by the moment!
Muriel Barteaux laid the experience of her perfumer’s eye on the vial that was nothing exceptional in the world of Laliquesque and showed a naked girl scenting her body in frosted glass among some leaves. ‘It is not new, Jean-Louis,’ she said, and he thought he detected a speck in her eye.
The cigarette smouldered in its ashtray – the tenth or was it the twentieth? He had opened his heart to them, had told them everything connected with the case, well, almost everything. A few details here and there had been left out to protect Chantal’s great sensitivity. Only by winning their absolute confidence could he ask what he needed to know.
‘I think it is one of Cartel’s, or perhaps it is one of M Coty’s earlier works. A perfume of …’ She unscrewed the silver cap and removed the tiny glass stopper.
‘Lemon grass,’ breathed the Surete with excitement. ‘Rosemary and coumarin.’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t trouble me,’ she scolded.
The nose was flattish, the cheeks still strong – indeed all of Muriel’s features exuded strength. But in perfumes and their concocting she had perhaps her only sign of weakness, apart from her friend and lifelong companion. The voice was one of gravel and incongruous in a perfumer. ‘There is musk and civet in this and it has the anger, Jean-Louis, of a woman who knows her own mind and body. What we used to call a “fast” woman.’
‘Sex … sex with many men,’ whispered Chantal with great modesty.
‘The civet is subtle, the musk has been used mainly to accent its sharpness. There is some Balsam of Peru, some sandalwood – she wanted those elements of mystery – the wildness of thyme as well. A woman of much abandon, Jean-Louis. One who teases, or did so, since she can no longer be so young and foolish.’
‘The cloves of Bourbon and a touch of sweet fennel?’ he said, watching her every expression with all too evident admiration.
So loyal! Ah, Mon Dieu, it was at once tragic and elevating to see Monsieur Louis and Muriel exchange views like this. A sensitive man, an unmarried man now, a widower. Childless too. Another tragedy but for the best. Ah yes.
‘The lime is for the acid with which she would turn each of her love affairs into bile.’
‘Are you certain?’ he asked. One could have heard a pin drop.
Muriel took a last breath of the scent. ‘It was called Revenge, Jean-Louis, and it was made by a German in the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honore. Gerald Kahn. He died in an automobile accident in Cannes in 1926.’
‘He didn’t. Tell me he didn’t.’
Muriel reached for her cigarette. ‘Your woman was with him.’
‘Michele-Louise Prevost?’
‘We followed the shooting in 1905 with much interest. Everyone did. It was idle chatter to while away the parties. Even a cuckold of a Parisian shoe salesman was of interest in those days. Chantal will have the newspaper clippings in one of her scrapbooks.’
That one ducked her lovely eyes away and into the past. ‘She had been having a running affair with this Kahn for several years, Jean-Louis. Now on, now off. He was much younger. They’d been staying at a villa near Saint-Raphael. M Antoine Audit did not take a very nice photograph.’
‘Revenge?’
‘Michele-Louise had a daughter by Monsieur Charles, his brother. Your Christabelle was the daughter of that girl, but they did not name her father, Jean-Louis. It’s all so sad, Muriel. The past should never be scraped in such a way! Me, I shall shed tears. Tears! Muriel. A father whose name was not given.’
Chantal was stricken. Muriel made her blow her nose. ‘Be strong, little one. Be brave. Jean-Louis does not mean to torment us.’