Madame Rachline, having conducted him to her room, had left to go in search of one of her maids. Surely she must have known he would realize the room was unused and totally for show?
The walls were papered with pale green linen on which there was a white-rose motif in sprays and single flowers. This was matched by a quilted bedspread and curtained canopy which was draped from the ceiling over the head of an Empire-style four-poster of brass and ebony rods.
There was a brass peacock-fan screen in front of a grey marble fireplace on whose mantelpiece stood two flanking, pale green amphorae filled with white silk roses. One could imagine their scent. The same was true of the luminous poppies in a painting by Henri Fantin-Latour and in the older, and far richer spring flowers of van Dael.
The room was a museum. It felt like it-just as cold, just as remote and silent. All that was needed was a glass display case over the tall vase of pink silk lilies. Exquisite-yes, yes, and untouched. Yet now … why now she would try to suggest that it’ was used.
Even as he unstoppered a pale green bottle with entwining, swimming nudes, graceful, gorgeous things, he wondered if she had left him alone on a dare just to see how far he would go.
The scent was troubling. Bergamot and jasmine, rose absolute and petitgrain of lemon-tree. Orange flower, Clary sage and musk. Though it took him back to the belfry at the Basilica, it also took him back to his boyhood, for it called up with a suddenness that shocked, the faint-hearted trembling steps of a boy of ten who had found himself slipping guiltily away from his parents to search out and walk through the forbidden exhibits in the Palais des Fils, Tissus et Vetements-thread, fabric and clothing-at the great Universal Exhibition in Paris, the year 1900.
There had been sweeping skirts and tiny, bejewelled or richly embroidered bolero jackets, smallish hats trimmed and veiled; frock coats, toppers and silk cravats for the men of substance. But deeper, deeper into the maze and to one side as if forbidden, there had been the lace and muslin over silk petticoats that had always rustled when maman or Aunt Sophie or any of his other aunts and older cousins had been angry or simply in a hurry and all too willing to box his ears.
Les Toilettes de la Collectivitee de la Couture it had been called, the first really public exhibit of haute couture. The chemises and corset-bodices-the whalebone and steel-shanked armour the women of those days had strapped themselves into. The camisoles, the white drawers that continued right down to their knees. The silk night-gowns that were so soft and sensual, all hand-sewn and monogrammed and edged with Cluny lace or Flounce of Argentan or any of the other antique laces and with pink or blue ‘baby’ ribbons inserted as if one would have to untie each of those tiny bows to get at what was within.
Black silk stockings of knee length and black shoes that were high and laced up the front, and more like boots with sharply pointed toes. Openwork muslin blouses of broderie anglaise that were deemed immodest yet allowed only the sight of a stiff white bodice that hid all cleavage beneath an armour of white lawn if one were decent and not up to mischief or really dressing up.
They’d shaken him savagely, both his mother and father. For days afterwards he had sweltered. His mother had refused to speak or acknowledge a delinquent son. The maid had accused him of secretly going through the laundry to find out things no boy should even think about!
And now? he asked a little sadly. Why now that boy knows far more of evil than that mother or father could ever have imagined.
He stared at the perfume bottle in his hand. The scent was earthy, not common and most certainly from forty to fifty years ago. It contained far too much musk for his liking-at least he thought so now, for it suddenly embarrassed him.
Madame Rachline had returned-she had caught him at her dressing table.
‘Inspector, this is Michele-Louise, one of my housemaids. Unfortunately one cannot retire without assistance. Please, we can talk while I …’ She indicated the dressing screen, said nothing about the perfume vial that was still in his hand. Not even a hint of surprise or question. Clever … had she been clever?
The girl was sleepy-eyed, in plain white muslin that rose right up under her chin and was tied round the wrists, all but hiding her completely. About seventeen, he thought, with deep brown eyes, pale lips and thick brown hair that protruded in wisps and curls from beneath the night-cap. ‘Good evening, monsieur,’ she said, a shy whisper, the girl ducking briefly as if genuflecting.
The game began, Madame Rachline talking to him from behind the screen as the girl hung Madame’s clothes over the top of it.
‘La Belle Epoque is a well-established house, Inspector, with an excellent clientele who pay in advance of each visit, in addition to a yearly membership. This ensures that they try to get the most out of each visit.’
‘Is the prefet a client?’ he asked, realizing she’d done this deliberately to avoid scrutiny.
A white cotton petticoat followed the dress. ‘Am I forced to answer?’
‘It would help.’ Would she tell the prefet everything, or would she feel it best to say nothing of the visit?
Another shift or petticoat followed. More flounce to the skirts. ‘La Belle can have no connection with that terrible fire, monsieur. How could it have?’
So much for the prefet being a member and having filled her in. ‘Of course,’ he said drily, ‘but the fact is madame, this work card was dropped in the place Terreaux.’
‘By whom?’
Again there was that coldness, that remoteness of tone. Utter blandness could mask so much. Would honesty be best? ‘That we do not know as yet.’
There was a pause-perhaps she breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps it was only that a lace had been done up too tightly.
The girl gave a sharp cry. ‘Ah, madame, I have broken a nail!’
‘Then you must trim it, isn’t that so?’
As he watched, Michele-Louise came out from behind the screen and went over to the dressing table to find the clippers but, as the nail was on the right hand, she had difficulty with it. Swore under her breath. Did a bad job and decided to bite off the rest.
Was caught momentarily knowing the inspector was looking at her. Felt those eyes of his. Asked herself anxiously, Is he going to question me, too, about this place? and answered, Ah merde, I think he is!
Another petticoat was flung over the screen, silk this time. Again Madame Rachline spoke. She must have gestured impatiently-a first sign of emotion perhaps-for the screen rocked a little. ‘That card is a forgery, Inspector. Someone’s trying to implicate the house. It’s …’ She must have shrugged near-naked shoulders. ‘It’s the times, the hatred, the popularity of using anonymous letters that are sent to the police and now to the Gestapo at the Hotel Terminus.’
‘Yes, yes, the times,’ he said blandly. Quite obviously the letters had unsettled her and quite obviously the prefet, though he had told her of them, had failed to inform her of the contents.
‘Is Monsieur Artel one of your clients? Please, I must insist on an answer, madame.’
‘Is he under suspicion of burning his own cinema to the ground?’
Was it so impossible? He’d take out his pipe and tobacco pouch. He’d make her wait for a bit.
Angered at the lack of reply, she said, ‘Yes, Monsieur Artel is a member in good standing but that one, he does not choose Claudine, monsieur, since he prefers the youngest of my girls and pays extra for them.’
‘Michele-Louise, eh, madame? Does he covet your little maid and is that why she shrinks under scrutiny?’ he all but shouted.
‘Michele, undo my laces this instant!’
Grateful for the outburst and her refusal to answer for it said so much about Artel, he decided against the pipe but did not put it away. ‘And his associates, madame, what of them?’