A Crime of Fashion (8 page)

After zipping my dress, the stylist helped me step into a pair of high-heeled snakeskin sandals and gave me a thumbs up. I launched myself down the length of the room towards Claude. As I teetered past him and turned, Claude's phone rang. “What now?” he answered.

I was trying to hear what Claude was saying while concentrating on not tripping. Walking on heels is definitely easier said than done. The music had suddenly changed – the volume had been turned up and an energetic dance beat throbbed through the room, nearly bringing me to my knees when the first loud note shot through the speakers. Remembering Ellie's command to “feel” the shoes and to “trust” myself, I lifted my eyes and as I was about to walk past Claude again, I tried to concentrate on what he was saying – he was clearly irritated and completely distracted, paying me no attention whatsoever. The room was vibrating with the music, but even over the pulsating sound, I could just make out his angry hiss: “I am telling you the truth!” he was saying. “Do you actually think I'd kidnap my own sister? Some friend you are!” He was sitting very still, his limbs tense. “Listen, I'm telling you once and for all: I was home on Saturday night – the whole night.”

I added an extra turn in front of Claude before heading back to the waiting stylist. I wondered how I'd be able to double-check what he'd just claimed. Furthermore, who'd called him? Was it really a “friend”, as Claude had said? And, if so, why did the friend doubt Claude's story? As I finished my walk, I turned around to see him set his phone down next to the pile of iPods lying on the end of the table. Perfect! This was my chance. Claude and the others were already deep in a discussion concerning the hem length of another model's dress – I was forgotten for the moment. They had their backs to me and, before I'd even consciously made a plan, I grazed the table as I passed it and grabbed his phone. Hiding my fist in the folds of the ballgown, I made my way back to the rack of dresses. A quick glance reassured me that I was alone – the stylist had been pulled into the hemline argument. I took his phone and found my way to
Received Calls
.
Philippe de Vandrille
was the name of the last caller. Who was he?

I opened Claude's agenda setting and looked up last Saturday – the day Belle went missing. Claude had had meetings all day and into the evening. Then dinner at eight o'clock with his family at their house. The only other thing noted down on that day's entry was
CAT
at the bottom of the screen. What did that mean? Suddenly Claude's phone began to ring. I switched it to silent and saw that it was Philippe de Vandrille again. I let it finish ringing then switched the ringer back on. I had to get it back to Claude! At that moment the stylist returned – team La Lune wanted to see me in another dress – and I heard Claude asking if anyone had seen his phone. As the stylist moved behind me to adjust the fastening on a turquoise dress of layered chiffon, I erased the record of Philippe's missed call from Claude's phone. Then I stepped into a pair of sparkly heels, tucking Claude's phone loosely into one of the ankle straps under my long skirt.

I walked out, moving as carefully as possible, until, just as I passed Claude and his team, I gave my foot a swift flick to send the phone flying, and then stumbled as if I'd slipped on it. I watched as the phone skidded across the polished floor and stopped at Claude's chair. Without taking his eyes off me, he leaned down and picked it up.

Stay calm and keep walking
, I told myself.
Ignore him, pretend you never took his phone. Remember: you want to get booked for Friday's fashion show – and for the advertising campaign shoot tomorrow – so you can spend as much time investigating the La Lunes as possible.
I walked the length of the room and by the time I turned back Claude was in another deep discussion.

Ellie joined me and together we walked back to the rack. “You took his phone, didn't you?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“Did you find anything?”

“I'll tell you when we're out of here.”

The stylist helped me out of the turquoise gown and I dressed in my own clothes and ballerina flats. Then Ellie and I went back to Claude and his group to say goodbye. He really gave me the creeps – despite, or perhaps because of, his fashionably thin build and edgy suit. He was standing slightly apart from the rest of the team and as I shook his hand he looked at me through narrowed eyes, as if trying to decide whether I'd intentionally taken his phone or not.

He decided on the former. “Are you in the habit of taking other people's phones?” he asked quietly, a fake smile on his lips.

I flushed and shrugged my shoulders. “It fell off the table as I walked by.” It sounded lame even to my ears but I couldn't think of anything else to say – and there was no way I'd admit I'd been snooping or my detective days would be over with this appointment. Clearly, all hope of getting booked for either Friday's show or tomorrow's campaign was rapidly evaporating.

“I bet.” Then, before turning away he quickly said, “A word of advice, Axelle. Be careful. For a model, having greedy fingers is even worse than having a greedy appetite. And it wouldn't look too good for your aunt if her niece was found to be a…you know…” He left the last word unsaid but he'd made his accusation and threat clear: he would label me a thief and rat on me to my aunt if he so chose. I clenched my fists as I watched him walk back to the storyboard.

I swung my bag over my shoulder and turned to leave. What bad luck that he'd guessed I'd taken his phone! But why had he been so menacing? If he really thought I'd stolen his phone, why hadn't he just called me on it and kicked me out in front of everyone? I didn't know him well enough to guess, but it seemed likely there was something in his phone he wanted to keep to himself. And his veiled threat was engineered to make sure I kept my mouth shut in case I'd seen that something. But had I? At this point
CAT
and Philippe de Vandrille's name didn't mean anything to me. Besides, he couldn't have known I'd want to check his schedule for Saturday night. Then again, from what I'd overheard, it sounded as if Philippe de Vandrille was questioning Claude's whereabouts on the night his sister Belle disappeared. In those circumstances, maybe I'd feel edgy and distrustful too…

“I wonder if you'll get booked,” Ellie said as we stepped outside. “He was looking at you so strangely when we left.”

“I wonder too… It didn't really turn out as I'd expected, but, on the other hand, we have two things to follow up on: CAT and Philippe de Vandrille.”

“What and who?”

“It was on his phone. I'll explain…”

It had rained while we were in the casting, but the sky had cleared now to a watery grey with patches of blue. There were no taxis to be seen at the end of the road, so Ellie suggested we wait a few minutes at the kiosk across the street. As we crossed the road, I noticed a black Peugeot saloon car – one like my aunt's – out of the corner of my right eye. It was moving slowly down the left-hand side of the road. In fact, it seemed to have been following us since we left La Lune. I mentioned it to Ellie. “But don't turn and look!” I said.

Of course, she did just that. As we stood in the middle of the avenue, she pointed up the road. “Axelle, look – there are loads of that kind of car lining the entire avenue. They are
the
car for business people who get driven around Paris.”

She was right; there were at least eight of them within sight. “They are either waiting for a designer or for their super-rich shopaholic employer. Look at how many are double-parked outside the La Lune boutique alone,” she continued.

She may have a point
, I thought as we turned and walked away, but I still could've sworn that car had been tailing us.

It was crowded underneath the tented top of the kiosk. While Ellie pushed her way around to find the latest issues of French
Vogue
, American
Elle
, British
Vogue
, and
W
(she was featured in all of them and planned on sending these copies to her family), I quickly rifled through the pages of the French fashion magazines in the hope of finding some possible link to CAT. No such luck.

After a few minutes with no sign of a taxi, we decided to walk to Aunt V's. Ellie and I would have dinner together and work on my runway walk (ugh!). We turned back up Avenue Montaigne and then right at the Christian Dior boutique. It seemed to me that the same black Peugeot was still following us, but, as Ellie had pointed out, the street was thick with them, so I couldn't be sure.

From Christian Dior we headed down Rue François 1er until we reached the Seine. It wasn't the most direct route home, but a colourful sunset was beginning to tinge the sky, so we chose to walk along the river. After ten minutes we came to the Alexandre III Bridge. Looking far down as the river flows, I could just make out the Gothic bulk of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Closer to us, the glass roof of the Grand Palais Museum glimmered in the setting sun and behind us loomed the Eiffel Tower. Overhead, clouds were threatening more rain.

At the far side of the bridge, Ellie motioned that we should cross the large avenue in front of us. We waited for the green man to flash that it was safe to cross, then started on our way, but I stopped halfway to take a last look at the view behind me – and good thing I did, because at that moment a large dark shape came hurtling down upon us.

I felt the hair on my neck stiffen, yelled Ellie's name, and threw myself at her. I fell into her and together we rolled and landed on the sidewalk. In a blur I saw the menacing mass of a black Peugeot fly past, its heavy bulk smelling of hot oil and fuel. I coughed as a cloud of black exhaust fumes wafted over my head, all that was left of my near encounter with the speeding car. It was only then that I realized it had grazed my hand. In fact, it would have hit me if I hadn't suddenly stopped to look at the view one last time.

“What the…?!” Ellie gasped. Slowly we picked ourselves up, then stood in silence, leaning against the traffic light pole, as the cars sped past us. “We have to report this to the police,” Ellie said. “Do you…do you think that could have been the car that you thought was following us?”

“Uh-huh…”

“But then…they must have done this…on…” Ellie looked at me, her eyes wide. She didn't finish her sentence but I knew what she was thinking, though I dared not say it either: someone had just tried to hurt me on purpose.

“I didn't see the licence number, did you?” Ellie asked.

“No, it happened so fast…”

“It must have been Claude La Lune! It must have been. You saw the car pull away from outside the La Lune headquarters!”

“I did see the car pull away from La Lune, but I didn't see the driver.”

“Yeah, but who else could it have been? Claude was furious with you when we left! You saw the look he gave you— ”

“Well, I did take his phone—”

“Yeah, but he's obviously worried about what you saw on it. He must think there's a chance you'll figure out who or what CAT is. And then, not half an hour later, somebody tries to run you over. I think the police should know that you're at risk.”

“Ellie, honestly—” But before I got any further, she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me after her.

“We're going, Axelle. This morning I listened to you, now you're going to listen to me.”

There was clearly no point in arguing with Ellie. After seeing how she'd tackled Hervé and Miriam this morning – not to mention her cancelled booking and my future modelling career – I decided to follow her. Five minutes later we mounted the steps leading to the entrance of the police headquarters for the 7th
arrondissement
(that's French for district).

It was half past five and the station was winding down. The officer at reception seemed more interested in going home for the day than dealing with us – he didn't even bother to look up at first. But when he did, he took one look at Ellie's well-known face and led us straight to his superior.

Inspector Joaquim Witt was both large and small at the same time. Although not tall, he gave the impression of size due to his broad shoulders and thick torso. And while he didn't present himself as especially fastidious, he nonetheless looked…well, kind of chic. His lush moustache, elegant trench coat, and smart suit gave him an undeniable flair. We stood waiting as he filled his pipe with tobacco. Finally, with measured movements, he put the small pouch in a desk drawer and leaned back in his swivel chair to look at us.

“Asseyez-vous, asseyez-vous, Mesdemoiselles,”
he said, waving his large hand at the two nondescript chairs facing his desk. “And don't worry, I've stopped smoking,” he informed us as Ellie eyed his pipe. “But I still go through the motions of filling it. It calms me.”

As we introduced ourselves, Inspector Witt's office door suddenly opened. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were still busy,” a voice said. “I'll come back…”

“No, no. Come in, Sebastian,” the inspector said. “This is my son, Sebastian,” he continued for our benefit. “He's here for a week of work experience – as a journalist, learning about crime from the police force's point of view. If you don't mind, he'll take a few notes as we chat.”

When Sebastian came in, I found myself staring at a familiar face. The shock of recognition took a few seconds to wear off: it was Mr Leather Jacket with the Wicked Grin! From behind his father, he brought his finger to his lips. He obviously didn't want it known that we'd met earlier – or maybe he didn't want his father knowing that he'd been at Miriam's. Why?

Ellie and I started talking as Sebastian settled down in an armchair in the corner behind his father, notepad in hand. We began with the La Lune casting. The inspector didn't interrupt once but kept sucking on his unlit pipe, observing us through half shut eyes. Sebastian's outwardly relaxed demeanour, on the other hand, was betrayed by the lively spark in his light blue eyes as he followed what we said. I watched as his hand busily moved across his pad of paper, taking notes – or so I thought.