As Dede had suggested, he had followed in Joanne’s footsteps and had window-shopped westward from the Bourse Metro station. But he mustn’t let the bracelet’s presence disturb him so much he gave away what he now knew and jeopardized her life. He must go into this shop and ask a few simple questions about the robbery-the jewellery only in passing if at all. Yet for the moment he could but stand here seeing that thing among a cascade of others, on deep blue satin near white antique lace and a soft woollen evening dress that was such an intense reminder of pre-war days.
The bracelet was of delicately wrought gold and blue enamel in the style of ancient Egypt, with mummiform coffins, scarabs and winged gods. Tutankhamen’s tomb had been discovered in early November 1922, spawning a roaring trade in such things. There had been a good ten years of them but since the mid-thirties such pieces had seldom been seen.
There were necklaces of lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold in which the sun god appeared in the form of a scarab that was worshipped by two naked servant girls holding funerary urns of embalmed organs. The heart, the lungs, the brain. There were rings and brooches, pendants and ear-rings, some of which he was certain had been worn in other photographs. A pharaoh’s fortune but why display it like this if it was involved? It made no sense.
The stuff had to be old stock that had been brought to light by the Occupation. Few, if any, today could be making such things. The gold alone precluded this.
The shop, and others nearby, were on the very northeastern fringe of the fashion district that encompassed the rue de la Paix, the place Vendome and extended southward to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore. Yet could it have occupied a prominent place right in the heart of the trade? Had the owner seized on the Occupation to lift it from the fringe?
The clothes were really quite exceptional, given the extreme shortages. There was, as in most such places, that flagrant acceptance of the black market and the two-tiered economy. Those who could buy and, sadly, those who didn’t even have enough for food and ate sparingly since the rationing system was so lousy and niggardly.
A classic Chanel-type bolero was to be worn over an exquisitely uncomplicated little dress of black silk crepe de Chine. A Schiaparelli-like purple satin dress with plum-green Ottoman friar’s cape was complemented by scarves, berets, hats and gloves, all of which were displayed with flare and feminine eloquence by a person who had a real eye for such things and left no detail to chance.
But the styles and the fabrics-indeed the whole of the window-were of the 1930s. It was as if, not only would the shop work within the system and flaunt this in the faces of all, it would show people what things had once been like before the war.
Determined to find out what he could without jeopardizing Joanne, St-Cyr let himself into the place and stood there looking around. The shop was not overly large but very elegant. There were several customers-not all were German officers and their mistresses. There were the wives of bankers and investment brokers, of industrialists and others who profited from the Occupation. Their men, too, some of them and … ah yes, a smattering of lesser types and their girlfriends.
‘Monsieur, can I be of service? A little something for your wife perhaps?’
Must she look at him as if she saw flic written all over him? ‘The owner, please, mademoiselle, or the manageress.’
‘Ah! then you will want Mademoiselle de Brisson.’
‘Mademoiselle de …’
Was he ill at the thought, or merely alarmed? she wondered apprehensively. ‘De Brisson, monsieur. Excuse me a moment, please.’
That the banker’s daughter should work directly across the street from her father’s bank was troubling enough, but to add the presence of the jewellery in the window … Nom de Jesus-Christ! what was he to think?
With difficulty, much apology to a client in the Kriegsmarine, and a troubled glance his way past trousers of grey tweed with the generous legs of the thirties, Mademoiselle de Brisson sought him out. The knitted, forest-green woollen dress, with its ribbed collar and long sleeves, accentuated the green eyes and made the pixie-like cut of dark red hair far more attractive than they might otherwise have been. She was perhaps twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age, a little taller than himself, of good figure but not beautiful. The rather plain and sharply chiselled face was made bright by the use of cosmetics-indeed, everything about her had been used to good advantage. But still there was a brow that was too high, a nose too broad and long for smallish ears. The lips that forced a smile did so awkwardly under scrutiny and he had to ask himself, Does she think it cruel of me to look so closely at her? and answered, Yes, it upsets her a great deal.
Her voice was harsh. ‘Monsieur, to what do I owe this intrusion? I … I’m very busy as you can see. If you would like to wait, I could perhaps …’
A backless, white pique evening dress with green and white taffeta halter attracted him momentarily. The intricate embroidery of a brightly coloured blouse caught his fancy. He told her who he was and said, ‘Your shop is impressive, Mademoiselle de Brisson. I had no idea it was still possible to achieve such elegance.’
‘Then you should understand that to forget is to survive.’
Not only was there the acid of a swift rejoinder but a nervousness that made him edgy. To forget is to survive … Survive what, exacdy, he wondered? ‘A few questions, Mademoiselle de Brisson. On Thursday last your father’s bank …’
Impatient with him, her voice remained harsh. ‘Look, I know nothing of that business! I’ve already told the police all I know. Mademoiselle St. Onge, the owner, and I were in the office at the back discussing things when one of my girls came to tell us what had happened.’
‘Yes, of course. Perhaps you would be good enough to conduct me to the office, mademoiselle?’
‘So that everyone in the shop will think I’ve done something wrong? Is this what you wish? Ah mon Dieu, mon Dieu, the nerve! I saw nothing!’ She stamped a foot. ‘Nothing! Denise …’
‘Mademoiselle St. Onge?’
Ah damn him for picking that up! ‘Yes, the owner.’
‘Is a friend?’
‘Yes. Yes, a friend, but it’s stricdy business between us when she comes to the shop. There are always things to be discussed.’
A nod would suffice. He would ask how Mademoiselle St. Onge had taken the news of the robbery.
Why must he watch her so closely? she wondered. Why must he be so suspicious of her? ‘Mademoiselle St. Onge was extremely distressed, Inspector, both for the sake of the driver and for the car since it was not hers.’
Uncertainty registered in her eyes. She waited for him to ask whose car it had been and when he didn’t do so, was troubled and had to ask herself, Why has he come if not for that reason?
St-Cyr set his shabby fedora on the nearest display case and, taking out pipe and tobacco pouch, appeared as though prepared to stay until closing and afterwards if necessary.
‘The fabrics, Inspector. The perfumes. It is requested that there be no use of tobacco in the shop.’ She gave him a tight little shrug and forced herself to apologetically grin. ‘Of course we cannot ask our German friends to comply but with ourselves … Ah, I am sorry. Each day I hunger for my cigarettes and tell myself I must wait.’
The urge to ask what she was afraid of was almost overwhelming, but he would have to wait until Hermann was with him. He couldn’t jeopardize Joanne’s life.
His shrug said, Okay, it’s all right about the tobacco. I quite understand. A nearby cafe will suit just as well. Shall we?
Ah, it said so many things.
‘Tell me, Mademoiselle de Brisson, how is your father taking the loss?’
Starded, she blurted, ‘My father …? Ah, I … I suppose not well. Eighteen million …’