Murder in Montparnasse (28 page)

‘That’s good,’ said Julia. ‘I’m sort of . . . I mean, I like . . . my friend is Tim Purcell. He’s nice. But . . . I don’t know how he feels about me. Oh, this will work.’ A gleam of malicious mischief sparked in her bright blue eyes. She looked like a fairy princess who has just got the goods on the wicked queen. ‘Oh yes, that will work. Thank you.’

Phryne got up to leave but Julia caught at her black pullover. ‘Miss Fisher?’

‘Yes?’

‘When did you know I had Lizzie hidden here?’

‘I suspected as soon as I saw two used cups on a tray when breakfast had been cleared away, you had had no other visitors and there was no more metho in the primus,’ said Phryne. ‘I suspected more when I was listening to your excellent imitation of a giddy Miss. But I only knew when I opened this door,’ she added, opening it again. ‘Goodnight, my dears.’

Phryne left the house with care—after all, somewhere in this ruin the Chivers parents were asleep. She tiptoed down into the street and found that Bert was watching and her two daughters were curled up in the back of the taxi, fast asleep.

‘All right?’ asked Bert, starting the car. ‘We watched for your light.’

‘All right indeed, Bert dear.’ Phryne got in beside him so as not to disturb the sleepers in the back. ‘Home now, if you please. That’s one mystery cleared up. One lost girl off my mind. Now, Bert, we need to find out who killed your mates. And to do that, I have the strongest feeling that we need to find René.’

‘Got a few whispers out,’ said Bert. ‘Might have something for you tomorrow. Got a few mates who play jazz. Not my kind of music, but. And them musos drink like wharfies, a man can’t hardly keep up with them. I’ll come round about lunchtime tomorrow, all right? Today, I mean,’ said Bert, noting that the church clock said half past twelve.

There was no reply from beside him. Bert’s taxi was full of sleeping women. He drove to St Kilda in a calm and circumspect manner, so as not to disturb their slumbers.

Phryne’s morning started with a cup of inky coffee and someone at the front door. She accepted the cup from Dot. It was ten a.m. and she had been woken by the doorbell, and had heard Mr Butler go to the door.

‘I suppose Mr Butler hasn’t changed his mind, has he?’ Phryne asked, without much hope.

‘No,’ said Dot sadly. ‘Mrs Butler is real cut up. They’ve been fighting about it every night.’

‘I think that must be the dismissed butler from Mr Chambers’ house,’ Phryne remembered. ‘What was his name? Something to do with fish. Sole, that’s it, Mr Tobias Sole. Such a butlerine name, isn’t it? I asked him to come for an interview. Fling me some clothes, Dot dear. Something bright. I don’t want this butler to have any illusions about what sort of household he is joining.’

‘Go down in your dressing gown, then,’ said Dot. ‘It’s perfectly decent.’

‘So it is.’ Phryne eyed Dot suspiciously. ‘Are you up to something, Dot?’

‘Me, Miss Phryne?’

‘You have been practising your innocent expression,’ said Phryne severely. ‘Very convincing. Slippers. Hairbrush. Mirror, please.’ She watched the ruffled black hair fall into its accustomed smoothness, wrapped and tied the gorgeous dressing gown around herself, and descended the stairs into the smaller parlour, where a tall young man leapt to his feet.

‘Miss Fisher?’ he asked, as though someone else might be walking into Phryne’s parlour at ten of the morning in a dressing gown. ‘I’m Tobias Sole. Delighted to meet you,’ he said. His widening eyes indicated that this was the truth. Phryne, just woken and newly supplied with coffee, in her royal purple double damask gown figured with golden phoenixes, was a sight to gladden any male eye.

‘Good morning, Mr Sole, do sit down. Mr Butler, coffee for me, if you please. And you, Mr Sole?’

‘Oh yes, coffee by all means,’ said Mr Sole.

Mr Butler, who had come in as usual, took the order without blinking. But Phryne thought that she surprised, just for a second, a look of deep offence on his bland face.

‘Now, I know who your previous employer was, so I am not asking him for a reference,’ said Phryne. ‘Why did you leave him, Mr Sole?’

‘He was intending to marry, Miss Fisher.’

‘And you object to marriage, Mr Sole?’

‘Not as such, Miss Fisher,’ said Mr Sole. He had a pleasant baritone voice and a handsome, slightly tanned face. ‘But I like a little life, Miss Fisher. I like a well-staffed house where we have parties, where we dress for dinner, where there is an exciting air of culture and good paintings and music and . . . well, fun. A house with a wife is soon a house with a child, or even,’ he shuddered slightly, ‘children. Then there are the nurses, governesses, teachers and little play mates. The standards of cleanliness plummet. The food invariably goes downhill right away, because few good cooks like houses where children may wander into their kitchen at any time, and they do not like making bread and butter pudding instead of sole à la meunière. Within a few months, Miss Fisher, the cuisine has become abominable, the noise is appalling and the whole tenor of the household has become—you understand—domestic.’

‘Dear me,’ murmured Phryne. She sipped her coffee. ‘What about the all male or all female household, Mr Sole?’

‘An all female household, madam, can become a little touchy and precious, prone to tantrums and slammed doors on bad days, but it is generally a pleasure to inhabit. An all male household is rougher, of course, and more boots are flung at attendants’ heads, but as long as the cook is good, there is no reasonable objection to them.’

‘And a household where the lady of the house consorts with a married man? Are you not afraid of appearing in a starring role in the Divorce Court, Mr Sole?’

‘No, Miss Fisher,’ said Mr Sole, also sipping. ‘For several reasons. The character of both the lady and the gentleman must be taken into account, of course, and the character of their household. But should any upstart of a barrister ask one questions about the working of one’s employer’s household, one can only be compelled to answer from one’s own knowledge. I have, Miss Fisher,’ continued Mr Sole, bowing slightly, ‘a terribly bad memory for such goings-on, should I have noticed them, which I haven’t, and should they have happened at all, which, to my knowledge, they haven’t.’

‘You are a valuable man, Mr Sole,’ Phryne told him. ‘Did you have to spend a lot of time not noticing things that never happened in the household of Mr Hector Chambers?’

‘I was thinking of purchasing myself a serviceable blindfold, Miss Fisher. With matching ear-plugs.’

‘Your opinion of the Chambers daughter, Miss Elizabeth?’

‘An unhappy young woman with an unfortunate manner.’

‘Her kidnapping?’

‘Most mysterious. Mr Chambers was ropeable.’

‘Mr Jenkins?’

‘An unfortunate man with an unfortunate manner. In both cases I believe that the hearts, Miss Fisher, are in the right place.’

‘And your employer?’

Mr Sole gave her a wry smile. ‘I really cannot comment, Miss Fisher.’

‘Quite right. All other things being equal, you’re provisionally engaged. Hand me your references and I shall check them. Just ring the bell for me, will you—oh, Mr Butler, there you are. Standing behind me all the time. This is Mr Sole, whom I have provisionally engaged for your job. Take him into the kitchen, please, introduce him to Mrs Butler, and give him all the gen about the way the house is organised. As always, Mr Butler, I greatly value your opinion.’

Mr Butler bowed fully a quarter of an inch to his replacement and led the way out of the smaller parlour.

Phryne went into the breakfast room rather puzzled. She took an egg and some toast and wondered what Dot was up to. Another cup of coffee brought her no nearer to an answer.

She breakfasted well, lit a gasper, and wondered whether Julia Chivers would dare to follow Phryne’s suggestions as to her future religious conversion. To keep up the pretence of having no one in the house she must have a fine natural talent for intrigue, doubtless fostered by a good finishing school. Could she carry it off? People like her parents would never give up on getting their fairy princess Julia suitably married, however she tried to bribe them. But people who cared so much about social position were terribly vulnerable to embarrassment, and by this method Julia would embarrass them finely. The future looked like it could be very amusing.

There was still René, though. Hugh Collins was due in an hour and she had to get dressed, so she stubbed out the cigarette and went to the stairs.

From the kitchen she could hear a hum of conversation.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Every victim waits her hour. ‘When I no longer
care for the one who keeps me in chains, what
freedom I shall have to loathe him!’

Natalie Barney,
Their Lovers

Hugh Collins, in plain clothes, looked like an out-of-place wrestler. His honest face shone with soaping and his hair was combed so flat that his head looked like a billiard ball. His suit, however, was bought off the peg and, as Madame Fleuri would have said, ‘fitted where it touched’. It strained over his mighty chest and squeezed his impressive biceps. A new suit for Hugh would have to be one of Dot’s wedding presents. Made by Mr Rosenstein in Flinders’ Lane, a charming and excellent tailor of Phryne’s acquaintance.

Phryne had adopted a dark blue suit of restrained cut and a hat with only one feather on it. Dot wore a terracotta cardigan over her oatmeal dress, though the day was promising to be hot, and a hat with geraniums, making her look like an ambulant window box. She carried a large loose-weave basket. They both stood obediently, listening to Phryne’s instructions.

‘Now, we are going to stroll along with a nonchalant air until we get to the corner. Then Dot is going to the door with that handful of charity appeals—you have the parish leaflets, Dot? Good. We need to know who is in the house. I am going to go to the side window and Hugh is doing the back door. Now, we haven’t got any official standing, so if we strike any real opposition, we may have to retreat.’

‘If we see anything which could be considered a crime or which constitutes a breach of the peace, I can intervene,’ said Hugh. ‘I’m a police officer.’

‘Not on private property when we haven’t been invited in,’ said Phryne.

Hugh nodded. It was not a long walk. The street looked down to the sea. It had been a Good Address once. Now it was fading and falling with the fortunes of St Kilda. Once immaculate facades were cracked and patched, windows were replaced with neat pieces of cardboard and there was a proliferation of bells at each door. Many people lived in Fitzroy Street now. Most of them poor.

The morning was bright and the air fresh. Phryne walked along ahead of Dot and Hugh, ignoring them, looking like a woman with bills on her mind. She walked straight past the house. It was a small watchman’s cottage which must once have belonged to a large house before the city had crept up like a tide and engulfed the mansion.

Phryne stopped, pantomimed that she had forgotten something, and went back to the house as Dot managed to open the gate. Hugh passed Phryne on his way to the back door, huge feet clumping like a dray horse. Phryne reminded herself not to take him on any sneaky expeditions unless she needed a battering ram.

She tried not to touch the peeling paint of the window. It was uncurtained. The room inside was empty. Damn! Did that mean that the snake René had somehow heard that she was looking for him and had already basely fled? René was good at fleeing basely. She had not heard whisper of him in Paris again after Toupie had threatened to run him over. Dear Toupie . . .

Next window. The scullery. Dishes piled in the sink. Didn’t mean anything. René wouldn’t do the washing up if he was basely fleeing. In fact, he wouldn’t do the washing up ever, under any circumstances. Two of everything, plates, cups, glasses. He was here with someone else. Probably Madame Dubois.

Third window. Another empty room. Not even any furniture. Damn again, round the house, past Hugh standing like something from Easter Island by the back door. The side fence had almost fallen and it was a squeeze to get past it. I am spending altogether too much time in the jungle lately, she thought crossly, freeing a strand of hair. If I want jungle, I’ll go to Africa. Next window. I believe this house is empty. I can hear Dot knocking from here. And another window. Dear God in Heaven.

Hugh was shaken out of his policeman’s resting trance by the smash of glass. Miss Fisher had done something impulsive, he thought, as he shoved past the lolling fence and completed its fall. Just in time to see her legs vanishing through the window.

‘I’ll open the front door,’ he heard his fiancée’s excitable employer shout. He tramped to the front, brushing off leaves and plucking twigs out of his hair. He heard the door tried, then another noise; someone was picking the deadlock. The toll of unlawful activities was mounting. What would the boss say? Still, the boss knew Miss Fisher and he might be angry but he wouldn’t be surprised.

The door yielded and Phryne flung it back, gesturing to them both to come in. They followed her to the parlour.

‘Ditch the parish magazine, Dot, and get me some water. Hugh, have you got a knife? These ropes have bitten into her wrists and ankles.’

A woman was tied to an armchair. She was moaning faintly. Hugh, galvanised by a fierce glare from Dot, dropped to his knees, producing his handy folding knife with the attachment to extract stones out of horses’ hooves. It had a useful sharp blade and he sliced through the bonds, pulling them away. Dot came back with water and managed to make the woman drink.

She opened her eyes, coughed, saw Phryne and blinked. Then she said, ‘Alors,’ and Phryne knew her.

‘Véronique? Véronique Sarcelle? What are you doing here? That is a stupid question. The first thing to do is to make sure that you are no longer here. My house is close. Come with me.’

Véronique raised a clawed hand to her face. ‘He will follow,’ she warned.

‘Then he will be really, really sorry,’ said Phryne grimly.

‘He is afraid of you,’ said Madame Dubois, shakily.

‘He has reason,’ said Phryne.