Murder in Montparnasse (11 page)

A dark-haired young woman in the ambulance uniform perched on the arm of Toupie’s chair. She was the image of her Uncle Oscar, even down to the beautiful Wilde hands and the sparkling, seductive eyes. She folded the long, sensitive fingers on her knee and said, ‘How thrilling! Ah, René, when you pursued me for so long and so unavailingly! My chevalier is faithless at last!’

‘As you say,’ said René.

‘I like your taste,’ said Dolly, examining Phryne from several angles, fingers poised as if she were holding a quizzing glass. ‘Oh, yes, she has points.’

‘I believe so,’ said René, holding Phryne tighter. She felt heat rising in his lap, matched by her own ascending temperature. How long was this wake going to last?

‘You are aware,’ Dolly leaned close to Phryne, almost whispering in her ear, ‘that René is a rampant, a self-confessed . . .’ she leaned even closer, her lips touching Phryne’s neck ‘. . . heterosexual?’

Phryne laughed and kissed the red mouth, held out in a pretty pout.

‘I shall just have to accept it,’ she said sadly.

The women watched as she left with René, bundling out into the snow. As she shut the door Phryne heard Toupie say, ‘Another one lost!’ and then she was running in snow, pulled along by René’s clutch on her hand. They dared roads, skidded on ice, found the Impasse d’Enfer almost by instinct and ran inside, shaking off snow, laughing, shivering.

René lit his kerosene heater and completed the unbuttoning of Phryne’s shirt. He kissed each nipple as it was exposed, hard in the cold air. Phryne moaned. He laid her down in his tumbled bed, stripped in haste and threw himself after her, dragging blankets over both of them.

He was not the first naked man Phryne had ever seen, but he was the first she had ever wanted. She handled his body in wonder, so different from her own, the skin rougher, the hair wiry, the touch of his hardened fingers so exciting. And this jigsaw piece, she knew, was meant to fit . . . there.

It felt strange. Not painful. Not pleasurable, either, though it was pleasing René. His swollen lips kissed and sucked, his hips moved in a convulsive, effortful slide inside the cocoon of coverings.

Then a small light lit itself inside Phryne, growing hotter with friction, until it exploded in a burst of such strong sensation that she found herself crying into a sweating man’s neck, her arms around him, collapsed on top of her.

‘Death and love,’ gasped René. ‘Such is life.’

‘I wanted to move in with him,’ she told Lin Chung. ‘But he would not allow it. So I stayed in the Rue de Gaîté with La Petite and kept on being an artist’s model. René was a musician. I used to go to the bal musette to hear him play. In the Rue des Trois Colonnes.’

‘And he broke your heart?’

‘Oh yes, but enough of this. What about your first love?’

‘She was an English girl, when I was at Oxford. Her name was Jonquil—don’t laugh—she was a dancer in the chorus at the Gaiety Theatre and I thought she was wonderful. She had a rope of red hair down to her waist and she could dance like an angel.’

‘I’m not laughing.’ Phryne lounged down into her bed again and took his hand. ‘How did your romance proceed?’

‘I went to every show,’ said Lin Chung. ‘I watched her every night. Then I waited at the stage door. Once I had managed to gather the courage to talk to her, she would sometimes allow me to take her out for supper. It’s hard to recall how much I adored her. I could just sit and watch her eat lobster—she was fond of lobster—and I even loved the way she banged the claws to get at the meat.’

‘I know,’ said Phryne, reminded of René Dubois and roasted chicken.

‘I spent my whole allowance on her,’ said Lin Chung. ‘Grandmother was displeased. Someone told her that I had contracted an unwise relationship with a non-Chinese.’

‘And you are still doing it,’ said Phryne.

‘So I am,’ said Lin Chung softly. ‘So I received instructions to break off this friendship at once. What do you think I did?’

‘You defied her,’ said Phryne. ‘At that age and in that situation, I would have gone to the stake for René Dubois. Singing the whole time they were lighting the fire, too.’

‘Yes,’ said Lin. ‘I had written the letter to Grandmother. I went out to post it. And there I saw my Jonquil, kissing a man. Kissing him as I would have wished to kiss her. I stood there with my defiance in my hand and watched as she caressed him, standing in a corner of the theatre doorway.’

‘Poor Lin,’ said Phryne.

‘Then she walked past me with him—and I knew where they were going—and she saw me and waved a hand, carelessly. And I heard her say as they walked away, “Nice little Chink.” I was devastated. I tore up the letter and went home to my digs and for six months I seriously contemplated suicide.’

‘Oh, Lin dear,’ said Phryne.

She drew him into her arms and his mouth came down on hers. Phryne knew about sex, now. As the clever fingers slid down her spine, seeking the pressure point which would light her response, she considered that, perhaps, after all, things had improved.

Breakfast was late and served by Mrs Butler. Mr Butler was, it appeared, absent on some errand. Phryne expected that he was at the employment office, seeking a new position. Mrs Butler slid a perfectly poached egg onto a warmed plate and Phryne ate with pleasure.

‘Have the hens started laying again, Mrs B?’ she asked. Surely hens were a safe topic.

‘Seven this morning, Miss Fisher. Are you likely to be in for lunch?’

‘I have to go and visit a young woman, but I will be home for most of the day. Mr Bert and Mr Cec are coming, as is Detective Inspector Robinson, and Madame Fleuri, probably not in that order. So, a light lunch, possibly for all of them. Bert and Cec always need feeding.’

‘Pies, perhaps?’ offered Mrs Butler. ‘I’ve got three cooked and they can be reheated easily.’

‘Sounds wonderful. Thank you.’

‘Another egg, Mr Lin?’ asked Mrs Butler, to show that there were no hard feelings and this wasn’t her stupid idea. Lin accepted.

‘What do you have to do today, beautiful man?’ asked Phryne.

‘We must sort and package the spices. I will bring you some saffron and some of our curry powder, ready to be ground. It is the best in Melbourne.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ Mrs Butler beamed on Lin Chung and bustled away.

‘And you?’

‘You heard. I wish I had some clue about that poor girl. I’m a firm believer in direct action when there is some action to take but I don’t have a clue as to who snatched her or what they are likely to do. I mean, Lin dear, those Chinese pirates had kidnapping as a cottage industry. They had to hand over the subject or their credit would be shot. Westerners do not handle these things as well.’

‘I believe there has been an epidemic of kidnappings in America,’ said Lin. ‘The Mafia make a good living out of kidnapping.’

‘They’ve got the organisation for it,’ said Phryne. ‘This sounds like someone who is making it up as they go along . . . now why should I think that? The actual grab was well arranged. And how did they know she was going to be at a private party? She seldom went to parties. It smacks of an inside job. Mr Chambers is so notably unpleasant to work for that he must have scattered enemies all over the Melbourne metropolitan area.’

‘Why would they keep the car?’ asked Lin. ‘If Mr Chambers is as described, it would be a big, showy car. Much harder to hide than a small frightened girl.’

‘Good point. I’ll tell Jack about it. But modern car thieves are pretty good at car-faking. Change the colour, alter the engine number, new headlights, Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt.’

‘No,’ said Lin. ‘I meant, if they are aiming for a five hundred pound profit, isn’t it an odd thing that they should keep the car, too, when that might lead to their being detected?’

‘Greed? There’s a lot of it about. I could say something withering about the idiocy of the typical criminal mind. Or maybe this is a frolic of some subordinate. Told to take the car and dump it outside Flinders Street Station where it would be readily found, he decided that he just had to keep it. Might be a crack in the case, Lin dear, thank you.’

‘My pleasure. Camellia and I will be here tonight—about seven?’

‘About seven,’ said Phryne. She kissed him goodbye in a lingering fashion, and let him go.

Ember floated up onto Phryne’s knee, indicating politely that a piece of bacon rind a day was a dietary supplement which all cats needed. She supplied it and considered her day.

An hour later, dressed in a dark blue suit made of fine crepe de chine and a white blouse, which seemed businesslike enough for what was indeed going to be a hot day, she set off for Kew and the home of Miss Julia Chivers, whose name had been publicly coupled as a prospective bride with that of the well-known racing identity and grump, Hector Chambers.

Darkness flowed over the prisoner. Today he had allowed her to
wash. The water was half cold and the bath was filthy but it felt
very good to scour some of the dirt off her skin with yellow soap.
Then, knowing how cowed she was, he had allowed her to remain
unsecured. She lay rubbing her wrists, contemplating a hopeless
escape.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Fashion: the search for a new absurdity.

Natalie Barney,
Little Mistresses

Phryne left the car in the street because she could see that she would need both hands to get to the door, if she ever made it alive. What she really needed was a solar topee, tropical kit, a native guide, a team of bearers, and something rather tasty in the guise of a Great White Hunter. Whole tribes of pygmies, probably with blow darts tipped with some strange untraceable South American poison, were doubtless lurking in the wisteria. The jasmine had twined itself through the iron lace on the verandah, falling down into heavy veils of green shadow. Rhododendrons rose like a black wall. Phryne wished she had brought a machete. Or a tank.

A narrow path had been beaten through the jungle to the front door, doubtless trodden down by the feet of the postman and the bailiff. This house was not even shabby genteel. It was something in a new category . . . ruined genteel? Phryne searched for a definition. This might, she decided, be that Distressed Circumstance about which she had always wondered.

She rang the doorbell, which came off in her hand. The iron wires had rusted through. Placing it on a windowsill, she knocked at a door from which the paint was peeling.

Through the stained glass panels she could dimly see someone moving. Reminded of her own poverty-stricken past, she called, ‘It’s Phryne Fisher. I’m not a sheriff, a bill collector or a cop. Do let me in, I’m sure I can hear war drums in the undergrowth.’

She was answered by a faint giggle and the opening of the massive door, just wide enough for her to slip in.

‘Hello,’ said Phryne. ‘Are you Julia?’

‘Yes,’ said a slight, golden-haired girl. ‘Come into the kitchen. It’s the only furnished part of the house that’s halfway comfortable.’

Miss Julia Chivers, Phryne thought as she followed the girl’s straight back down the dark hall, was beautiful. She had spun-gold hair like a princess from a fairy-tale, china-blue eyes, a mouth like a pink rosebud and a slim body, emphasised by the short and skimpy house dress she was wearing. It was made of cheap cotton cloth with cornflowers printed on it and was washed white in some places.

The girl walked like a deer, not in an elegant or studied manner, but as a product of being young and strong and given to, Phryne guessed, long walks and five sets of tennis before breakfast. She shone with health.

The kitchen was huge. Feasts for fifty guests (plus coachmen and lady’s maids) had been cooked in these cavernous ovens. Thousands of elaborate desserts had been concocted on this long scrubbed table. On one end of it, directly opposite the large window, lay an ivory crepe gown with a heavily beaded hem. Boxes of beads and fine needles indicated someone’s occupation.

A small portion of the room contained Julia’s family’s remaining comforts; two easy chairs, a shelf of tinned and packaged food, a basket of eggs and some fruit. There was a tea tray on the table, two cups and saucers, both unwashed. Julia lit the primus under the kettle. It sputtered and went out. The fuel bottle was empty. Julia let the match burn down before she dropped it. Phryne could not see her face.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said mechanically. ‘I can’t offer you a cup of tea. Do sit down, Miss Fisher. What brings you here?’

‘Come out,’ said Phryne. ‘Let’s go and get a proper tea. This place must be getting on your nerves.’

‘Can’t, I haven’t anything to wear. My only good dress is on the line.’

‘Wear my coat,’ said Phryne. ‘It’s nice and voluminous and you won’t need to take it off.’

‘The girl looked longingly at Phryne’s crepe de Chine coat, a poem in dark blue with faint damasking patterns, and was lost.

‘Good,’ said Phryne, flinging it briskly round the slim shoulders. ‘Wrap it around you and tie it on the hip and your secret is safe. Is there any other way out?’ she asked, not wanting to contend with Darkest Africa again.

Without a word Julia led the way out of the back door and through a yard in which someone had, without much success, tried to grow vegetables. Depressed silver beet drooped in rows and sad pumpkin vines failed to clamber over the broken fences. The couch grass crop, however, was going to be abundant.

Julia didn’t speak until she was seated beside Phryne and the car had pulled away from the kerb. Then she drew a deep breath and said, ‘Oh, lovely to be out.’

‘Cinderella, Cinderella, what is your pleasure?’ murmured Phryne, quoting the fairy-tale, turning the big car towards the city.

‘Tea,’ said Julia. ‘With cakes. Lots of cakes. What did you want with me, anyway?’ she demanded, suddenly aware that she had been lured out of her house.

‘I wanted to talk about your friend, Elizabeth. I’m trying to find her.’ Phryne handed over one of her cards.

Julia read it and faltered, ‘Her father . . . has her father hired you?’

‘No,’ said Phryne, wondering what had elicited that note of fear. ‘The chef of Café Anatole, he is concerned about her. I gather he was expecting to marry her—is that true?’