Murder in Montparnasse (18 page)

‘Report,’ said Robinson, sipping. Constable Burnett opened his notebook, flicked to the right page, and began in his official voice.

‘Well, sir, I come from Traffic and they said to look out for a black Bentley. I really like cars, sir, so I notice them. I was in hot pursuit of a handbag snatcher down an alley in St Kilda when I lost him in the lanes. He must have ducked over a fence, I thought, so I proceeded along the lane, looking over the garden walls. Didn’t catch a glimpse of my man but I found a black Bentley, all covered up in an old bedspread, in the garden of this house. I was off my beat, sir, so I didn’t know what house it belonged to. I could see the number plate and it was the right number that the Sarge had given us before we went out, so I went to the corner of the lane, counting back yards. Then I went along the actual street—Acland Street, it was—counting, and worked out where it was. Then I proceeded to the station and reported my finding—’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you did it all by the book. Did you read the bit which said “Do not attract any attention and report to Jack Robinson as soon as possible”?’

‘Yes, sir. We know the number of the house and we know that the car is there. My sergeant says just to report to you and not do anything else. Is that all, sir?’

‘Yes, thanks. Good work,’ added Robinson. ‘Tell your sergeant that I said you did very well. Just give the details to the cadet here, will you? And keep quiet about this.’

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the constable.

Acland Street. How had they got a car as big as a Bentley into one of those small back yards? And why would they want to? Robinson wished that Miss Fisher was not so economical with her facts. Well, now, perhaps she would tell him more, since he’d found the car for her.

The phone rang. He ignored it. Robinson did not like telephones. A necessary evil, he thought. Cadet Quinn answered it.

‘Yes, he’s here,’ he said. Robinson glared. He took the phone and snarled, ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Hugh Collins here,’ said a cautious voice.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m in the Mildura telephone exchange, sir. I want you to find out about a man who was touting a plan to send frozen orange juice to Europe. He was here at the Mildura Hotel on the night of the death. He registered as René Dupont. His address was given as the Melbourne Town Hall.’

‘Interesting. I’ll call you at the police station when I find out.’

‘Er . . . I’m not staying there, sir.’

‘You’re not at the station?’ said Robinson coldly.

‘No, sir.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At the Mildura Hotel, sir.’

‘Ant is there a reason why you aren’t staying at the police station?’

‘Yes, sir, there is,’ said Hugh with extreme care.

‘Let me guess,’ said Robinson. He might not like telephones but he was quick on the uptake. ‘You suspect that he murdered the man?’

‘No, sir,’ said Hugh, shocked.

‘Ah. In that case, you suspect that peculation is taking place.’

‘That’s the general view, sir. I don’t think I’m going to be welcome there,’ said Hugh.

‘As welcome as the tax inspector,’ said Robinson. ‘I see. Well, gather up what you can tomorrow and then come home. We can’t be paying out a fortune for you to stay in the Mildura Hotel, can we? And I’ll be asking around about your Dupont. By the way, was that Dupont with a “t” or Dupond with a “d”?’

‘With a “t”, sir.’

‘Good. Don’t take risks and don’t get into any trouble,’ ordered Robinson. ‘Those country towns can be chancy. Is everyone in the Riverina listening to this conversation?’

‘No, sir, I’ve found the dead man’s fiancée, and her sister runs the exchange.’

‘Women will be the ruin of you, Collins,’ warned Robinson.

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Hugh, and rang off.

‘Quinn!’ exclaimed Robinson.

The head of close-shorn dark hair came up and the frank brown eyes stared into the Detective Inspector’s, eager to be of service.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Run down to records and have a look at that list of French arrivals. See if you can find a René Dupont. I wish I could believe that you will,’ he added gloomily.

Quinn raced off down the stairs, aglow with delight at having some real detecting to do. Robinson sipped his tea and wondered if he had ever been that young. Probably, he considered, not.

He would wait until Quinn came back to telephone Miss Fisher and tell her that her car had been found. On second thought, he was lunching with her tomorrow at some French place. He could tell her then. If there had been any rush, she would have told him more about the case. One of her snobby friends could wait another night for his stolen car.

Hugh Collins watched the brassy girl—Elsie clearly shared a hairdresser with her sister—as she removed the plug and broke the connection.

‘Are you sure that no one could have overheard me?’ he asked, worried.

‘Not unless they happened to be ringing in at exactly the same time, and then my board would have lit up,’ said Elsie. She seemed sure of herself. Hugh relaxed a little.

‘Did you know the decea . . . I mean Thomas, your sister’s fiancée, Miss Elsie?’

‘Yes. Nice bloke. I thought she was doing real well to have caught him. He liked her. She liked him, too. Used to natter away all the time about what sort of oranges they was going to plant. Soon as he made enough he was going to marry her. Pity he didn’t.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Hugh leaned one hip on the edge of the desk. He was tired.

‘Well, now she’s heartbroken and she never got to find out what being married was like. If they’d gone ahead, then she’d be a widow. She’d have his little place and could plant her own orange trees.’

‘True,’ said Hugh. ‘Did he leave a will?’

‘I never asked,’ said Elsie, a light of intelligence dawning in her eyes. She felt his disapproval and explained.

‘It’s just, she’s my little sister, and I ought to look after her. It’d mean a lot to Maisie, not to have to work for someone else. She’s too independent to really get along with the Old Trout, and she’s not a bad Old Trout. But she rubs Maisie up the wrong way and then Maisie rubs the Old Trout up the wrong way and it’s not nice.’

‘I can see how that might happen,’ said Hugh carefully. ‘Did you ever meet this French gentleman?’

‘Oh yes, he was in the pub the night that the party was on. He’d been there a few days before, talking about frozen orange juice. I never touch that muck. Raise blisters on your tongue, it would.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Not much taller than me. Now I like a big man,’ said Elsie, eyeing Hugh with approval. ‘But he wasn’t much taller than a boy. Wasn’t a boy, though. He had dark hair and dark eyes which kind of stared past you. Gave me the creeps, he did. I say,’ Elsie was struck with an idea. ‘You don’t think he killed poor old Tommy, do you?’

‘Enquiries are continuing,’ said Hugh.

He thanked Elsie, handed her some money ‘for her sister’ and walked out into the fresh darkness. For a moment, he stood breathing deeply. He could smell river water and . . . was that orange peel?

Then someone hit him hard on the back of the head, and he pitched forward into the street.

The prisoner wept quietly, trying not to be heard. Her hands were
bound securely to a bedpost and she dared not cry out. She knew
that no one was looking for her. No one would rescue her. She knew
that she was quite alone, at the mercy of a monster.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Violence, a pimp’s argument.

Natalie Barney,
Little Mistresses

Phryne dreamed of a tea party in Thé Sybaris where she danced with Dolly Wilde. Dolly pressed close to Phryne, soft breast to flat chest, hoping to make Natalie Barney jealous. Natalie Barney was never jealous . . . and into the all female environment, steamy with sex and kettles, had come the beautiful twins, les enfants terribles, and the whole crowd became merely a background for their magnificence. Jean and Jeanne Bourgoint, doomed, inseparable, morphine-slender and golden. Dolly, in Phryne’s arms, said in a waspish whisper, ‘I’ve seen them far too often recently. Love never dies of starvation, but often of indigestion.’

Phryne woke laughing, wondering where Dolly Wilde was now. Probably in bed. There was nothing Dolly had liked more than a suitably luxurious bed, with free stationery and someone bringing chocolate, gossip, peaches and orchids.

What had she to do today? Answer some questions. First, what was wrong with the charming and educated young woman Camellia? Objected to Lin Chung as a husband? Disliked him on sight? Surely not, though she did seem frightened occasionally. In love with someone else? Certainly she’d had time in Hong Kong to meet people outside her family and the Lin family were probably replete with gorgeous men. One only had to look at the local specimens. Or—wait a moment. This girl had come across the South China Sea in a ‘difficult’ escape. What if she had been caught and raped? Therefore she was no longer a virgin as per specifications? That would be a difficulty. But surely not with the urbane and educated Lin Chung. If that was the problem, and Lin made any objections, Phryne was prepared to clip his ears.

She swung her legs out of bed and rubbed a thoughtful instep. Second question: where was Elizabeth Chambers? Time was running away. Fairly soon her father would be paying up, grudgingly, perhaps, but paying up. And, with any luck, might get his daughter back. No clue had leapt into Phryne’s grasp. Mr Chambers hadn’t found anyone in the underworld who might have arranged a kidnapping and he could be relied upon to rummage rather thoroughly. Especially with a payment of five hundred pounds in prospect. Unanswered subsidiary question: what had been missing from Miss Chambers’ room? Her passport and her pocket money she might have had on her. Possibly a few of her clothes. Possibly a book. The ones on the bookshelves had been tumbled down. Who would break into a lady’s boudoir and only pinch a book?

Phryne shook her head. Who would know which book? Surely not the incurably blonde Julia. She might be able to read, but Phryne got the impression that fashion magazines were challenging enough for her.

And where was René? That reminded her. She scrabbled through the pictures she had found in her kitbag when talking to the ex-soldiers. Sarcelle’s studio, light flooding through the multifold panes. Morning. And there they were: Edouard the Englishman, Sarcelle himself, Madame Sarcelle, Anton, LeBain from downstairs, both picture dealers Sardou and Dupont, and René. What was René doing there?

René never came to Atelier Sarcelle. He had always refused to have anything to do with Phryne’s career as an artist’s model. He had been jealous that other men would stare at her nakedness and had always been cross when she came to see him after posing, until she produced her fee and took him out to dinner in the Rue de Gaîté or down in the Rue de Vaugirard for pancakes and cider at the Breiz. Phryne examined the picture more closely, taking up the magnifying glass which Dot used to mend stockings.

Yes, that really was René, next to Madame Sarcelle, with Sardou and Dupont behind them. Phryne knew Sardou, of course. When René had persuaded her to re-establish contact with her family, she bought pictures for her father from Sardou. Her telegram ‘Hello family having fun in Paris how are you?’ had not been answered by the outburst of parental fury that she had almost hoped for. Her mother had sent a long telegram (which must have cost a fortune) full of concern and affection, after which Phryne could hardly refuse further contact. Her father had even told her that he was proud of her ambulance work and glad that she was amusing herself among the artists but she should come home. When Phryne refused, he asked her to buy him some pictures, since she was so undutiful. He had purchased a Picasso dancer in London and believed that he was a fine artist. Though the Hon. Fisher didn’t know a lot about art, he knew what he liked. Each bank draft was accompanied by a stern order to buy so many francs worth of late Impressionists and that fellow Picasso, and then come home.

Sardou liked Phryne and although he had not sold her any paintings cheaply, because that was contrary to his code, he had always given her a ten per cent discount for, he said, her beauty. He offered to pay her for standing in his shop, nude, to attract buyers, but that was too close to pneumonia for Phryne to consider. Sardou kept a vast collection of paintings, only a few of which were on display. When pressed, he would grumble and drag out canvases from cupboards—all the light and joy of Renoir, sprinkled with flowers—and mutter, ‘Don’t want to sell this one, pretty, very pretty, but if you insist . . .’

Phryne had insisted to the limit of her father’s purse. She had visited Picasso herself, bidding for his exquisite line drawings.

‘Bah,’ the artist had scowled. ‘Facile. See, here is a line . . .’ and he had plopped a brush full of Indian ink down on a big sheet of butcher’s paper and flicked it without even looking, producing a cat. It arose magically out of the paper. One line, the brush never lifting from the surface.

‘Facile, but only you could do it,’ Phryne told him. He smiled at her, a supremely seductive smile, compounded of Spanish Dominant Male and a curious detachment, a seeing eye. At that point his wife always moved gently between Phryne and the artist and concluded the deal for a sheaf of line drawings. Phryne had been fascinated by the portrait of Gertrude Stein which he would not finish. There she sat, Doyenne of Patrons, as heavy and blocky and impressive as the Venus of Willendorf, her hands dangling on her knees. Miss Stein was in Belgium with her constant companion Alice B. Toklas, distributing food to the starving, and Phryne had yet to meet her.

She looked at the photograph again. There was René in the Atelier Sarcelle, where he had no business to be. What had he been doing there?

What did she really know about René, anyway? That he was clever, skilled, attractive, ruthless and cruel? That was probably enough. In any case, he was not relevant to the third question: who was killing the ex-soldiers? Or was he? And if he was in the same picture as the Sarcelles, could René have had anything to do with the death of Sarcelle? Surely not . . .