Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

‘Over here!’ They followed their guide, whom Joe guessed to be a master builder, judging by the signs of recognition he was receiving from his crew as he passed. ‘There he is. The gentleman you were looking for, young lady.’

He waved an introductory hand as Dorcas stood wondering, a tiny figure, in front of the seven-foot-high angel. A perfect, gleaming new figure. Beneficent and urbane, he beamed his remembered welcome.

‘But how? Can it be. .?’ Joe murmured.

‘Not the original unfortunately. No. That was shattered beyond repair. But — ’ he held up a finger for emphasis — ‘the Monuments Museum had, years ago, had the forethought to have a cast made and it was preserved in Paris. I have replicated the angel using the cast as a guide for my carving.’

‘What a beautiful result!’ said Joe. ‘Worth every effort and a witness for evermore of your talent, monsieur.’ His admiration compelled an old-fashioned but spontaneous bow.

The sculptor beamed in recognition of the compliment.

‘And when may we see him back in his rightful place?’

‘I fear this will be some time in the future. Money has been short. What the town has it spends on rehousing its inhabitants.’ He smiled. ‘You’d say every architect in France is busy in Reims and all trying to express themselves in the new style.’

‘Art deco, you mean?’ said Joe.

‘Is that what you’d call it?’ said the sculptor with gentle irony. ‘Not sure about “deco”. . or “art” for that matter. But we’ll see. I shall have to try to get used to it. Repairs to the damaged fabric have been going on here at Notre Dame though not as fast as some of us would like. But with the injection of a very large sum of American dollars and some English pounds, work — as you can hear — goes on apace. Soon we may have a façade on which to mount him. Well, there you are. I hope he does not disappoint the young lady.’

‘I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen! Don’t you think so, Joe?’

‘Always have,’ said Joe.

They said farewell to their guide and made their way back out into the morning sunshine.

‘Two special smiles in as many days,’ said Joe. ‘Any similarity?’

‘Hardly any,’ said Dorcas. ‘Thibaud’s smile was sweet but it was just a reaction. There was no thought behind it. It didn’t really reach his eyes, did it? The angel was all bright intelligence and good humour. His brain was creating the smile. I really think Thibaud’s brain is mostly dead or frozen up somehow. But I’ll tell you this, Joe — if ever our forgotten soldier were to come back to the world again and if he were to smile. . good heavens!. . it would be a smile worth waiting for.’

‘Are we going back to the hospital?’ Dorcas wanted to know as they regained the car.

‘Ah, no,’ said Joe. ‘I thought I’d make a start on interviewing one or two of the claimants. With Bonnefoye’s introduction and signed permission in my pocket I think they’ll agree to see me. Though I rather thought I’d start by going off at a tangent. One of the names on that list is a bit of a dark horse and I’d like to take a surreptitious look at its teeth before I begin anything so formal as an interview. My first call is at a house a street or two away and there is no way in the world I will agree to your accompanying me there. I’m going to park the car a couple of doors down and lock you in with your book while I go in.’

‘Are you seeing one of the claimants?’

‘No. I’m paying an unscheduled visit to someone who may be able to shed light on one of them. A past employer, if you like, with. . um. . commercial premises in the rue de la Magdeleine. The lady may be able to furnish a reference and background information.’

Dorcas’s look of puzzlement cleared. ‘Oh, you’re off to a brothel! On the trail of Mademoiselle Desforges.’ She nodded wisely. ‘That’ll be the Rêves de l’Orient. Everyone’s heard about that! It has quite a reputation in tourist circles. Well, don’t get carried away by your research. I don’t want to have to tell Aunt Lydia you parked me outside a Reims house of ill-repute for an hour while you visited. Oh — and I won’t be locked in. Suppose the car caught fire? They do , you know! Look — park the car here,’ she said as they passed along an elegant shop-lined street. ‘There’s things for me to look at. I can see the new Galeries Lafayette. You can walk from here. Leave me the keys and I promise I’ll be here safe and sound when you get back.’

She consulted her watch in a marked manner.

‘If she tells me to “run along now” I shall put her on the first train to Nice with a label round her neck,’ Joe vowed silently.

He strode along the pavement of the rue de la Magdeleine checking the blue enamelled numbers of the refurbished town houses, a run of elegant façades. Had he got the right street? And there it was at the end, set a little way back and looking very proper with its newly painted front door and fresh draperies at the windows. He avoided turning in through the wrought-iron gate and strolled on around the corner. A second entrance at the side of the house and giving on to a street leading towards the river showed signs of use. The iron handrail which led up to the door was worn to a ribbon slenderness, the steps slightly dipped towards the centre. He was quite certain that, in their discreet French way of going on, there would be an even more reticent back door if he were to pursue his exploration. As he lifted the knocker and rapped he thought he could well be visiting his doctor or his dentist. Only the brass plate was lacking.

The door was opened at once by a maid in dark dress and white cap. She took his hat and whisked ahead of him down the tiled hall, calling to him to take care — the floor was just washed and not yet dry. She showed him into a parlour overlooking the street. Joe looked around him. The furnishings were sumptuous and very new and all were imported from the East. A small jungle of large-leafed plants appeared to have broken out.

‘Do sit down, monsieur. Madame will be with you directly,’ the girl said sweetly and left him deciding what to do with himself.

The air was stale with the scent of last night’s Havana cigars, last night’s Soir d’Été perfume too, both beginning to lose the battle with the not unpleasant smell of freshly laid Wilton carpet and beeswax polish. A silk-covered divan which appeared to be the principal seating was piled high with cushions in raging shades of red and purple and was disconcertingly low. He did not wish to be discovered lolling. Nor did he wish to stand about in a menacing way. His eye lit on two Louis XV chairs, one on either side of the door, and he firmly carried them over to the window and set them facing each other. He’d carry out this interview knee to knee, eye to eye. A moment’s study of the window-locking arrangements, never simple in France, was productive; in six moves he had managed to raise the window a foot and stood by it breathing in the fresh morning air.

‘Monsieur makes himself at home?’

He hadn’t heard her enter and turned to see a handsome woman of middle age watching him. There was calculation in her eyes though the tone of her question had been light, almost teasing.

‘I’ve never felt at home in a kala jugga , madame,’ he said, waving an explanatory hand at the greenery.

‘Ah? Monsieur has lived in India?’

‘For a short time.’

‘You are English?’

‘Say rather — Scottish.’

She appeared to be encouraged by this confidence and moved forward to take the chair opposite him. Lydia would have approved of the single row of good pearls and the dark linen pleated day dress which could have come from the hands of Mademoiselle Chanel. The head-hugging haircut with its emphatic fringe framed a face which needed no additional emphasis. The strong, over-large nose and black eyebrows would have been overpowering without the sweetly curving red cupid’s bow of a mouth. She crossed her legs neatly at the ankles and leaned towards him. ‘Always delighted to welcome a Scottish gentleman,’ she murmured. A flash of interest in her expression made him think that perhaps her sentiment owed more to experience than flattery. She looked at him with increasing warmth.