Barbara Cleverly - Folly Du Jour

He stared at the face and added, ‘No scarlet thread. Thank God for that at least.’ His gaze lingered uncertainly. ‘But all the same, there’s something odd here. . something missing. .’

‘You’re right, though. It’s Francine,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Francine Raissac.’ He moved to the body with quiet authority. ‘Would you both move aside?’ Bonnefoye checked for signs of life and shook his head. ‘Dead — and very recently. Within the last half-hour. After a second’s inspection, I’d say she’d been strangled. No — wait a moment — neck broken. Better leave that to the pathologist. But what on earth was she doing here? By herself in the star’s dressing room? All dolled up for a party but feeding the animals? It’s unreal!’

The reporter, visibly shaking from the shock, had taken a pipe from his pocket and was attempting to hold a match steady enough to light it. ‘No, you’re wrong. Everyday scene. The girls were very thick,’ he started to say, between puffs. ‘Josephine liked her. They were always giggling together. She had the run of the place.’

‘I understood from Francine herself that she often modelled new outfits for Josephine. They’re the same size and I suspect Francine may have worked hard at acquiring the new fashionable Baker look. Not difficult with her dark skin and hair,’ Joe said.

‘She would choose clothes for Josephine to wear after the show. Josephine always goes on somewhere after she’s performed. She’s tireless, you know! Usually to a nightclub. To her own, first of all. Chez Joséphine, it’s called. In the rue Fontaine. And then on somewhere else. Bricktop’s more often than not. She’s not captivated by fashion as Francine is. . was — she takes her word for it that what she’s picked out for her will be just right for whatever party she has in mind.’ The words spilled out, a confusion of thoughts and tenses, a reaction to the relief he clearly felt. Relief that the dead girl at his feet was not Josephine but also guilt that, in these circumstances, he could be feeling relief at all. He collected himself. He stared at the body and frowned in pity. ‘Francine always got it right. This green satin gown is probably the one she’d selected for whatever Josephine was planning for this evening.

‘And she used to come in before work to see to the menagerie.’ Simenon waved a hand with distaste in the direction of the animals. ‘Josephine adores them but she isn’t all that consistent in her care. . no more than she is with people, I suppose. Francine couldn’t bear to see them go without attention. She even cleaned up after them and took them for walks. The ones that can walk. I suspect Derval slipped her a little extra for her trouble. She never stopped working, that girl.’

They watched in fascination as Bonnefoye in total silence poked and prodded his way through a textbook examination of the corpse. Joe determined to extract as much information as he could from the man who was so close to both girls. For Joe, listening to witnesses’ early reactions was more important than firing off the usual series of routine police questions. And he’d never met a witness so involved and so insightful, he thought, as this man. He would encourage him.

‘Are you thinking that this may be — if indeed it is murder we’re looking at — a case of mistaken identity? Finding Francine, looking as she does, in Josephine’s clothes, going about what ought to be Josephine’s chores, perhaps with her back to the door, one can understand that a mistake might have been made.’

‘They’re really meaning to kill Josephine, you mean? I had feared as much.’ He took two deep puffs on his pipe and the atmosphere in the room thickened further. ‘She has enemies, you know. Quite a lot of them are American. Successful, self-opinionated, liberated black girl that she is — that’s too much for some of them to stomach. I was with her at a dinner party the night before last — we were celebrating the arrival of Lindbergh. Some oafish fellow countryman announced in ringing tones across the table that black girls where he came from would be in the kitchen cooking the food, not sitting at table eating it with civilized folks. I think sometimes it breaks her heart. Strong heart though.’

‘And, I’ve heard — enemies in the theatre,’ said Joe. ‘Rival ladies wishing to be the paramount star in the Paris heaven. Ladies with influential lovers, prepared and able to indulge them.’

‘She nearly died when that device she comes down from the roof in misfired. Death trap! There was a fuss and they sacked someone. But there never was a serious enquiry. Certainly no one called the police in.’ He looked at Joe across the body, startled. ‘It could have been arranged. Someone could have been paid to foul up the works.’

‘The most spectacular exit ever on the French — or any other — stage, that would have been,’ said Joe thoughtfully. And with a memory of Fourier’s avid face, ‘What headlines! Black Venus plummets head-first into death pit .’

‘ Dea ex machina. It was just a rehearsal, thank God. But it could have gone to performance, you know. I might have been in the audience, witnessing the death with my own eyes,’ murmured Simenon with a shudder. ‘What a waste of an opportunity! Because, I can tell you, it’s not an article I could ever have written.’

Joe believed him and was glad to hear him say so. And yet Joe was, while struggling with his shock, touched by a feeling of resentment. He could find no comfort in the realization that this was not the star lying dead at his feet. There was no need to mourn Josephine. But this was Francine, the girl he had flirted with, sipped coffee with, and, by his unwitting clumsiness, annoyed the hell out of only yesterday. He’d liked and admired her. More than that. He flushed with guilt as he acknowledged he’d been planning a further meeting with Mademoiselle Raissac. In fantasy, he’d taken her to a performance at the Comédie Française — more her style than the cabaret, he thought — and then he’d walked with her along the Seine and dropped in at the Café Flore for a brandy before. . well. . whatever Paris suggested.

He looked again in sorrow at the chilling flesh and realized how much of her attraction had sprung from her movements, her light gestures, the slanting, upward challenge offered by her dark eyes. He remembered her head tilted like a quizzical robin and now permanently tilted, it seemed, at that angle by a broken neck. The last throaty, gurgling laughter he’d provoked by his clowning beneath her window in Montmartre replayed in his memory. Stylish and intelligent. He was saddened that such a girl had thought it necessary to copy the looks of anyone, even an entertainer like Josephine. The thought startled him into a gesture.

‘Bonnefoye! There is something wrong here!’ He bent and looked closely at the dead face. ‘Her hair. Look, there — d’you see? — it’s been cut. Raggedly. She had a kiss curl on her forehead, I’m certain, when I met her yesterday. You know — one of those cowlick things. . stuck down on her forehead like Josephine.’

‘ Une mèche rebelle ,’ said Simenon. ‘Yes, she had. There’s a pair of scissors — over there on the floor.’ He went to peer at them, carefully refraining from touching them. ‘And there’s a black hair trapped between the blades.’ He looked back at Francine. ‘She’s cut it off. Perhaps that was yesterday’s fashion?’ Concerned, he went to the waste basket and turned over the contents. ‘No hair.’ He checked the crowded surface of the dressing table. ‘No hair anywhere.’

With mounting dismay, Joe pointed to the girl’s mouth. ‘Her lipstick’s badly smudged.’ He touched her cheeks gently. ‘And her face is puffy.’