Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

He gestured to his sketch of the theatre layout. ‘Forget the audience. What no one else seems to have observed is that there were a hundred or so other potential witnesses and all much closer to the scene of the murder at the moment of the murder. The cast! Lined up for the finale, their eyes would have been on their audience. They say that Miss Baker herself is always acutely aware of the reactions of the crowd before her and responds to their mood. Dark, of course, out there, I should imagine. Up to you to see how much you can make out. How close the boxes are to the stage. Which performer was standing underneath.

‘I’ve arranged with the man in charge — Derval’s his name, Paul Derval — for you to be given an hour to scrounge around before the matinée performance this afternoon. I guaranteed you wouldn’t get in anyone’s way. He’ll send someone to open up for you if you present yourselves at the stage door. That’s about it. . Jardine behaving himself, is he?’

He started to collect up his papers. As they reached the door he said: ‘Oh, I fixed a ten-minute interview for you with Mademoiselle Baker. Thought you’d make a better impression on her than I would. She wants to help, apparently. Tender-hearted girl — keeps a menagerie of fluffy animals in her dressing room backstage, I’m told. She was upset to hear some admirer had bled to death while she was singing her heart out a few metres away. See what you can do.

‘We may be getting closer to that headline,’ he added with a chuckle they left.

‘Some time to kill before our two o’clock tryst in the avenue Montaigne.’ Joe emerged with relief into the sunshine. ‘The theatre’s not all that far from my hotel. . Why don’t I take you to lunch there first — Pollock assures me the cuisine is excellent. And I think we’ve earned it! But first — a short walk. What is it about this place — ’ he stabbed a thumb backwards over his shoulder — ‘that makes me want to burst out and run ten miles in the fresh air?’

‘Fourier?’ grunted Bonnefoye. ‘Medieval architecture. . medieval mind? Know what you mean, though. Which direction do you want to take? I’ll gladly trot alongside.’

‘Let’s cross over into the Tuileries, cut through the gardens and make for the place Vendôme.’

‘Why would we want to do that?’

‘Off the place Vendôme, running north towards the Opéra, we’ll find the rue de la Paix. Not a street I’ve frequented much. Wall to wall with modistes , I’m told.’

He took Francine’s scrap of blue fabric from his inside pocket. ‘Well, you never know. This is from the House of Cresson, according to Mademoiselle Raissac. It’s a lead we ought to follow up. It may take us to the beauty who showed a clean pair of heels before the show ended. Think of it as Cinderella’s slipper, shall we?’

‘Not we, Sandilands. They would be instantly suspicious of two men arriving with a strange enquiry.’ He looked at Joe then tweaked the sample from his fingers. ‘I’ll deal with this. You can loiter outside, window shopping. I suggest the jeweller’s. That’s safe enough. You’re choosing a ring for your girlfriend.’

It took a considerable amount of confidence to put on a routine such as Bonnefoye was demonstrating, Joe thought, in this smartest, most exclusive of streets. There were men to be seen entering the salons but they followed, dragging their heels, in the slipstream of their smartly dressed wives. Their role was clear: parked in a little gilt chair, they were required to smile and admire everything they were shown until, finally catching a nod and a wink from the vendeuse , they would come to a decision and pull out their wallets. The solo flight Bonnefoye was contemplating was daring. Professional, well-disciplined and having the sole aim of charming large sums of money from rich and fashionable women, the elegant assistants Joe caught glimpses of through the windows were truly daunting. They moved about with the easy arrogance of priestesses tending some vital flame.

Bonnefoye looked smart enough — he wore his good clothes well — but he would be entering hostile territory. He watched the young Inspector’s reflection in a shop window opposite the gold and black façade of Maison Cresson as he straightened his tie, tilted his straw boater to a less rakish angle and strolled inside, humming an air from Così fan tutte.

He was in there a very long time, Joe thought suspiciously. He saw Bonnefoye emerge finally, scribbling on a page of his little black book. He slipped it away into his breast pocket. Joe sighed. An address had been added to his list. But whose?

‘Another success, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘How did you manage it?’

‘Two successes!’ Bonnefoye gave a parody of his best slanting Ronald Coleman smile to indicate method. ‘But the one that concerns you, my friend, is the identification of the fabric. It wasn’t easy. Sacrifices had to be made! There’s a good café just around the corner. Why don’t we walk on and have our second coffee of the day?’

They moved off out of the sight lines of the salon.

‘A charming girl greeted me. . Delphine. . I told her I was desperate. I wished to buy something special for my mother — for her birthday. And the trouble with rich spoiled old ladies. . I was quite certain Mademoiselle Delphine would understand. . was that they had everything. I had noted (sensitive son that I am!) on a recent visit to the theatre that she had been very taken with a certain evening cape being worn by a blonde young lady. I produced the swatch at this point. A dear friend of mine — the Comtesse de Beaufort — had advised me that such a garment might be found at the Maison Cresson.’

‘A moment, Bonnefoye. . the Countess? You’ve lost me! Who’s this? Does she exist?’

‘Of course. And I know the lady to be a devoted patron of this establishment — Cresson labels right down to her silk knickers! I arrested her husband two months ago for beating a manservant nearly to death. The Countess was duly grateful for the brute’s temporary removal from the family home. And the suggestion of intimacy with a valued customer impressed Delphine. She was very helpful. She identified your scrap — though claims the stuff they use to be of better quality. Twice the weight and a richer dye, apparently. She remembered the garment for a very particular reason. They had designed and sold no fewer than four as a job lot, a highly unusual procedure, and all in the same size and fabric. The capes had been commissioned by a certain customer with whom they do a good deal of business. To reproduce a copy for my mother, it would be only polite to seek permission, of course.’

‘Understandable. The thought of five examples of a designer piece out and about in Paris would horrify your Delphine. Suppose the ladies all chose to wear it at the same occasion? The reputation of the House for exclusivity would be ruined! Have you noticed, Bonnefoye, that we men all try to look alike, toe the fashion line, cringe at the thought of looking different, but a woman would die rather than be seen in the same get-up as one of her friends?’

‘Exactly! So why on earth would they want so many cloaks? Not kitting out a nunnery, do you suppose?’

Bonnefoye produced his book again and flipped it open. ‘Delphine was very happy to undertake the negotiations on my behalf. I’m certain she didn’t take me for an haute couture pirate or anything of that nature but, all the same, the training prevailed. No address was forthcoming, I’m afraid.’ He grimaced. ‘And I even went to the length of ordering one of those things. There on the spot! I heard myself selecting twilight blue silk. Grosgrain. Lined with pigeon’s-breast grey.’