[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  Fen had expected to see a bustling workplace full of crates and stock, and she was more than a little surprised to find the cavernous space almost empty, save for a few packing cases stacked up in one corner and barrels of varying sizes along one wall. Electric lights hung from swooping wires, suspended from the cross-beams, and much like a simpler version of the Gare de Lyon, daylight came from vast skylights, each mottled with dirt. Clunking great chains on pulleys hung down from the highest girders and as Fen looked up at them, she could see dust motes hang in the air, gently floating in the stillness of the empty space.

  Then, from nowhere, a crack of a pistol sent Fen to her knees.

  Suddenly James had thrown his own body over hers, shielding her, turning the air blue with his language.

  Crack!

  Again, a report from a gun, echoing around the empty warehouse.

  ‘Get down, Fen, stay down!’ James all but pushed her to the dirty floor as he risked looking up. The sound of another shot ricocheting around the building had James swiftly ducking back down. This time it was followed by a metallic ping and the sound of breaking glass.

  Fen raised her head. ‘James,’ she hissed. ‘James!’

  He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t think they’re shooting at us,’ she whispered and he nodded, helping her up from the floor.

  She was just about standing when a fourth shot echoed around them and James risked shouting out a warning to the shooter.

  ‘They’re a lousy shot if they are. Still… hallo there!’ he shouted again and his voice was met with a shuffling and the sound of a bullet chamber being emptied.

  ‘Who’s there?’ The man’s voice echoed from the darkness at the back of the warehouse.

  ‘Captain Lancaster—’

  ‘And Fenella Churche!’

  Their introductions were met with a belly laugh and gradually out from the murkiness of the far corner of the all-but-deserted warehouse a man’s figure appeared.

  ‘Thought I was taking potshots at you, eh?’ Antoine Arnault laughed again, twirling the pistol around his forefinger as he walked.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Fen had just about brushed herself down and didn’t feel the need for any more pleasantries. She did feel the need, however, to know why Antoine was walking towards them with a gun.

  ‘Target practice,’ he simply replied. When he was just a few feet away from them, he brandished the gun one last time and then tucked it into the back pocket of his overalls. He stuck out his hand for James to shake.

  ‘In the dark?’ James asked, taking the words out of Fen’s mouth. He looked disturbed at Antoine’s behaviour.

  ‘Best place to practise.’ Antoine smirked and eyed Fen up and down. ‘Sorry if I shocked you. You’ve probably never heard a gun before, eh?’

  Fen tried to disguise the shake in her hands by making a show of nonchalantly patting down her hair and adjusting her coat. And she’d heard guns before all right, just not like this.

  ‘Unless it’s pointed at a pheasant, no,’ she replied quite tersely, as she crossed her arms, still trying to hide her shaking hands. She didn’t like his overt style of machismo and was annoyed at herself for being a bit shaken up.

  Luckily, Antoine laughed and ushered Fen and James towards an internal door that had a sign saying ‘OFFICES’ over it.

  Fen had to remind herself that, as far as they knew, Antoine was still just the fun, if slightly buffoonish, man she’d met the other night, and, target practice with an old service revolver besides, it was only Henri that suspected him, or at least his brother, of being part of some sort of gang. Still, asking the right sort of questions to work out if he was or not wasn’t going to be easy, especially with her heart beating like she’d just finished the Tour de France…

  Antoine sat himself down behind an old wooden partner’s desk and it reminded Fen of Henri Renaud’s at the Louvre, just much, much smaller and far less imposingly ornate. ‘Sit down, friends. Can I get you a drink? A coffee? Perhaps a little cognac?’

  Fen could see James’s eyebrow raising in interest, but quickly declined it herself – her hands had finally stopped shaking and she wasn’t in the mood for early-morning drinking. Luckily, it seemed James wasn’t either and he shook his head, too.

  ‘How can I help you both?’ Antoine asked, and James turned to face Fen. They had agreed, while on the bus on the way over, that Fen would do most of the talking and James’s role would be to wrestle the conversation back to the jovial if Antoine started to get a bit tetchy. So Fen jumped in and started the ball rolling.

  ‘Antoine, we’re here with terribly bad news, I’m afraid…’ Fen told him about Rose, and as she spoke she noted the colour drain from Antoine’s face. He fidgeted as she went on and when she got to the part about finding Rose with the paintbrush piercing her neck, he jerked up from his chair, leaving it spinning on its central column and skidding across the floor on its castors.

  ‘He couldn’t have, he couldn’t have…’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘Who couldn’t have, Antoine? Do you know who might have done this to Madame Coillard?’

  Antoine shot a glare at Fen, then softened his look as he received an equally ugly look from James. Antoine licked his lips as he worked out what to say.

  ‘A burglar, you say?’ Antoine asked and Fen wondered if he was stalling for time, or if he was purposefully avoiding answering her question.

  ‘I’m only repeating what the gendarmes have said,’ Fen told him. ‘Personally, I think she was murdered for some other reason. Do you have an inkling who it might be?’

  Antoine couldn’t avoid answering the question a second time, so once back in his seat, he leaned forward and said, ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. But it sounds like something The Chameleon would have done in the war. Catching someone in their own home, unawares…’ he mimicked stabbing someone and then leaned back, gently rocking on his chair.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you know who The Chameleon is, by any chance?’ James asked, seeing that Fen was deep in thought.

  ‘Lazard… lizard…’ Fen tripped the words off the end of her tongue. Then she looked up at Antoine. ‘Do you know Michel Lazard at all?’

  ‘Of course, he’s a colleague here in the warehouse. An art dealer of sorts. He had a certain niche, shall we say, in the art market. For the more, how would you put it, duplicated paintings.’

  ‘He sells forgeries,’ Fen said matter-of-factly, explaining it to James as much as answering Antoine.

  ‘Ye…es.’ Antoine hesitated. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Rose told me.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘And Henri Renaud knew about it too.’

  ‘Ah, well, they say Monsieur Renaud has eyes and ears everywhere…’

  ‘Can you introduce us to Lazard?’ Fen asked outright, feeling emboldened by having James next to her.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Antoine moved forward and shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘I think he’s away now down in the south, but I’ll get a message to him.’

  ‘Thank you, Antoine,’ Fen said, wondering if perhaps he was being just a little too helpful. ‘Henri Renaud also said that you and Rose had fallen out recently. About some sort of gang Gervais has got himself muddled up in.’

  Antoine laughed. ‘A gang! Gervais? Can you believe this?’ He gestured towards Fen, looking at James.

  James just shrugged one shoulder and the laughter left Antoine’s face.

  He continued, ‘Look, if Henri Renaud has anything he wants to say to me or my brother, he should come here and say it to my face. I spend my life in this dump looking after his second-best paintings, and risked my life in the war to help him and Rose with their little scheme, not that I ever saw anything come my way because of it.’ He rubbed his fingers together to indicate money changing hands.

  ‘I should hope not,’ Fen interjected. ‘They weren’t exactly making any money out of it either!’

  ‘Ha, you
say that, but…’ He sat back again with his hands crossed over his chest.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fen was genuinely puzzled.

  Antoine merely drew his fingers across his lips, as if zippering. This made Fen shudder with frustration, but, luckily, James fulfilled his brief and took over the questioning.

  ‘Antoine, my friend, we’ll be out of your hair in two ticks. And hopefully see you at the Deux Magots tonight? A drink on me, at least.’

  Antoine nodded and sat forward slightly.

  Fen took the opportunity to question him again. ‘Just one more question before we head back to the city. Were you and Gervais at the races a couple of days ago? Out in the Bois de Boulogne? I heard there was a fine filly who’s worth keeping an eye on?’

  Antoine looked at James and then laughed at Fen. ‘Miss Churche, I’m glad that you were not in the Resistance with us. You are a terrible liar. If you want to know where I was at the time of Rose Coillard’s murder, just ask me outright.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I was here. At work.’ He got up from the chair, leaving it to spin again, and crossed the floor towards the office door, which he opened and called out into the warehouse, ‘Guillaume! Guillaume!’

  ‘What?’ a disembodied voice called back.

  ‘You know two days ago we had that shipment in, and you dropped that crate on my foot? What did I call you?’

  There was a pause and then Guillaume, whoever he was, shouted back, ‘You called me a stupid ass only fit for donkey’s work, sir.’

  ‘Quite right!’ Antoine came back into the office, looking pleased with himself. ‘There you go, instant corroboration that I was here that afternoon, being sentimental and caring to my underlings.’

  Fen frowned. ‘It’s not exactly an alibi, is it. I mean, I didn’t tell you what time in the afternoon she was killed and poor Guillaume out there might have been confused about dates or—’

  ‘If you don’t trust Guillaume, then you’ll trust the manifests. I can show you the time-stamped delivery papers signed by me.’ He went towards the filing cabinet. ‘What time do you think she was killed?’

  ‘Around two o’clock.’

  Antoine pulled open a drawer and pulled out some carbon paper documents. ‘Here,’ he pointed at the bottom of the sheet. ‘My signature and the time of delivery, 1.45 p.m.’

  ‘Definitely not enough time to get from St Denis to St Germain, thank you, Antoine.’ James pushed himself up from this chair. ‘Come on, Fen, let’s leave this poor man in peace. Drinks later, yes. On me?’

  Antoine snorted but nodded and bid them goodbye.

  ‘He’s not wrong, you know…’ James said to Fen with a wry smile as they closed the metal door of the warehouse behind them. ‘You would have made a terrible spy.’

  Twenty-Six

  Fen and James spoke quietly to each other as they sat on the bus, the government posters stating that ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ still drilled into them. Who knew who was listening in, and just like the war, lives were possibly at stake here too.

  ‘Do you think this Lazard chap is The Chameleon?’ Fen whispered to James, following it up before he could answer with another theory. ‘And do you think he might have killed Rose if she refused to paint more forgeries for him to sell?’

  ‘Perhaps. You’re leaping to a lot of conclusions though.’

  ‘He and Rose were arguing just before she died. So, if he is in the south, as Antoine suggested, he almost certainly wasn’t at the time of the murder.’

  The pair of them mused over their theories as the bus pulled in alongside the stop on the Rue de Seine and they clattered down the stairs just in time, before the impatient driver took off again.

  ‘Seems we need to take our lives in our hands almost every day here!’ Fen gasped as she grabbed her hat from blowing off in a gust of wind.

  ‘Good thing you have the solicitor coming next then,’ James chuckled at her, sticking his hands in the deep pockets of his overcoat. ‘You can make your own will.’

  Fen and James had barely had time to get back into the apartment, greet a waggly tailed Tipper and put some hot water on to boil for a decent cup of tea, when the flat reedy sound of the front doorbell buzzed. Tipper was the first to dash to the door, yapping away, while Fen was quick on his heels, scooping him up and shushing him as she opened the door.

  Monsieur Blanquer was a short, fat man with a black goatee beard and sharp blue eyes. Despite his portly nature, he was dressed smartly in a well-tailored three-piece suit, complete with pocket watch and the shiniest of black leather shoes. The morning light in the atrium bounced off his bald head, which was the first thing Fen saw as she greeted him. He passed his hat between his hands and reached one out to her. ‘You must be Mademoiselle Churche?’

  ‘And you Monsieur Blanquer, please come in.’

  Tea was poured and pleasantries and condolences made. Monsieur Blanquer had indeed brought Rose’s will with him and proceeded to read it out for Fen and James, in lieu of any of the actual beneficiaries being there.

  ‘She left a strange sort of c…codicil,’ he stammered, being a man who, although professional in the utmost, obviously found it hard to form the harder consonants. ‘She insisted that whomsoever be in her apartment c…could act as an exec…utor.’

  ‘How strange,’ Fen shrugged but didn’t argue as she was keen to hear who or what would benefit from her friend’s death. She wouldn’t have been surprised if a local dogs’ home was about to become considerably better off.

  Monsieur Blanquer opened up the folio-sized document and cleared his throat before starting.

  ‘My apartment on the Rue des Beaux-Arts I leave in its entirety to my g…good friend Henri Renaud, and request that he uses it either for himself or uses any monies forthc…coming from its sale or rental to further our war work vis-à-vis the restoration of artworks to the Jewish c…community. My paintings I donate to the École des Beaux-Arts for the further educ…cation of the students therein, and any other chattels I request to be divided among my friends, of whom I supply a list.’ Blanquer flourished another piece of paper as he spoke, indicating that it was indeed the list of said friends.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur,’ Fen brought the will reading to a close and offered him another cup of tea. ‘I think we should make Henri aware of the situation and talk to him about Simone, and me, moving out of this apartment. Monsieur, was there anything else that perhaps Madame Coillard had deposited with you? Another list of some sort, or a code or cipher at all?’

  Blanquer shook his head, but then seemed to suddenly remember something and raised his finger. ‘There was this… that is all.’ He slipped his fingertips into the small pocket in his waistcoat and rummaged around behind his watch chain to extract a small key. ‘The spare for the mailbox d…downstairs, I believe,’ he said, handing it to her as he began collecting up all of his papers. ‘You know where to find me, mademoiselle. If any bills or t…tabs need paying from the estate, then please send them through to me and I’ll settle them. I will be c…contacting Monsieur Renaud, but if you wish to give him the happy news of his inheritance, I should not stand in your way.’

  Fen took the key and thanked the solicitor, adding, ‘I’m not sure it’s particularly happy news. We’d all rather have Rose alive.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed. But the fact remains, Monsieur Renaud is now the proud owner of this rather charming apartment.’

  Which might well give him the perfect motive for murder, thought Fen as she showed Blanquer to the door. She made a mental note to check his alibi about buying those watercolours somehow.

  While James washed the teacups, Fen trotted down the wide stone staircase to the communal hallway at the bottom. The key that Monsieur Blanquer had just given her fit like a dream as she turned it and used it to pull open the small metal door of the mailbox. A few flyers for theatrical nights and restaurant openings covered what looked like the real post: two brown, official envelopes and one handwritten one. Fen scooped them al
l up, closed and locked the mailbox and climbed back up to the fifth floor.

  Once inside the apartment, she settled down in the saggy old armchair and let Tipper scramble up onto her lap and lick her nose a couple of times before he curled up in her lap.

  Fen looked at the envelopes. ‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ she apologised into the ether, ‘I know it’s terribly rude to open someone else’s post, but needs must.’

  ‘If you’re going to talk to yourself, at least do it with a cup of tea,’ James said as he brought a fresh brew over to where Fen was sitting.

  She smiled a thanks up to him as he moved over to the other armchair and sat himself down with the newspaper.

  Fen went back to the post. The first was a bill from Rose’s grocer – seventy francs! Fen was grateful that Blanquer had offered to settle any accounts from the estate. The second brown envelope was even more heart-stopping in its contents – four hundred francs to the art supplier.

  ‘Ooh la la,’ Fen sighed, thinking of how little she had left in her purse at the moment and placed the bill along with the one for the grocer.

  The third envelope looked less official, it was on blue paper for a start and was altogether grubbier, as if it had been stepped on a few times or dropped in the coal scuttle. Fen opened it carefully and pulled out the handwritten note within.

  As she read it, the hairs on the back of her neck rose and a shiver went down her spine. She raised the hand that had been idly petting Tipper to her mouth in shock and read it through again, just to make sure.

  Madame Coillard,

  Thought you could get away with it? I know what you’re doing. Stealing from Jews and helping the Nazi scum. You’ll pay for this, you mark my words. I know you’re no better than a dirty thief. I’m watching you. Pay what I asked or I tell HR. NOW!

  Fen couldn’t believe what she had just read. She dropped the letter suddenly, her pragmatic mind suggesting that her fingerprints might contaminate this evidence, while her more emotional side wanted nothing from that letter to contaminate her. Tipper, roused by her sudden movement, jumped off her lap and then stood, looking at her, as if demanding an explanation for her behaviour.