[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  James looked at the handwritten note towards the bottom of the bundle of paperwork he was holding. He was quiet for a while.

  ‘It’s his handwriting all right,’ he said quietly, and exhaled. Then he looked at Fen. ‘Looks like you might have been right about him being the blackmailer after all.’

  By the time the police arrived, Fen and James had decided they had unearthed all they could about Gervais – they’d found inventories and itineraries, logbooks and manifests… basically all the paperwork you’d expect from a lorry driver-turned-mechanic. Before they’d even had a chance to show what they’d found, including the manifests, to the gendarmes, the officer in charge had declared this a murder between underworld gangs and questioned James intently about what he might know regarding Gervais’ various contacts and where they could find his brother.

  Fen decided at that point that their own findings would only muddy the waters and slipped the envelope containing the manifests, the example of Gervais’s handwriting and the invoice to Michel Lazard into her bag.

  After what seemed like hours of waiting around and questioning, the police finally allowed them to leave. Having to wait so long for them to finish questioning James did have one advantage though. As he was stating time and again that he was nothing to do with Gervais’s underworld dealings and just a new friend, Fen had eavesdropped on the police surgeon’s dictation to his assistant.

  Turns out they hadn’t stumbled on a recently deceased body at all, and poor Gervais had been lying in his own blood in the cold, dark, stench of the garage since eleven o’clock the night before.

  ‘Now don’t think I’m trying to encourage you into bad habits,’ James said as they finally ducked through the small door out into the daylight, ‘but I think I need a strong drink.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue there.’ Fen pulled her lightweight trench coat around her, suddenly quite chilled from the cool of the garage and most likely from the shock of finding another dead body. She shivered and then had to admit that the warmth of James’s arm, which had slipped around her shoulders, was not unwelcome at all.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘I can’t help but think that finding mention of all those paintings in those manifests in Gervais’s garage means the murders are linked, don’t you?’ Fen said between mouthfuls. The pair of them had decamped to the café at the end of the road and a strong drink had turned into lunch. Fen had been untowardly delighted when she’d seen that coq au vin was on the menu and ordered it. James had followed suit, and asked for a portion of potato tartiflette too, which had arrived, hot and steaming, in a heavy black cast-iron dish.

  ‘They were so different though. In their modus operandi,’ James argued. ‘One a paintbrush to the neck and the other an execution-style gunshot to the head. And you couldn’t get more different people than Madame Coillard with her eccentricities, and salt-of-the-earth, lorry-driving Gervais.’

  ‘Yes… true… but those itineraries and manifests – all to do with art. I mean, that has to be a connection. Plus, we know they knew each other and the murders happened so soon after one another.’ Fen spoke, but she also watched as her hand still trembled as she reached for the carafe of wine. James must have noticed it too and got to the wine first, taking the carafe and pouring some into her glass. ‘Thanks, James.’ Fen sipped it and thought again about what they’d just discovered. She cleared the final few pieces of chicken from her plate, still grateful to be eating such succulent meat after the austerity of the war, and sat back.

  ‘I agree, there’s a connection all right,’ James said, sitting back too and then reaching forward for his own glass of wine. He cradled it in his hand and swirled the red liquid around. ‘So Gervais was blackmailing Rose, and Henri.’

  ‘I think I’m thinking what you’re thinking.’ Fen looked at James. ‘If Gervais was the blackmailer, was he Rose’s murderer too?’

  ‘Not quite,’ James corrected her. ‘Gervais may have been the blackmailer, and he may even have murdered Rose, though I doubt it. No, the pressing question now is… who killed Gervais?’

  Fen took a sip of her wine and then looked James in the eye. ‘And is Henri next?’

  After the lunch had been chased down by a brandy, on James’s part at least, the pair of them set off in the direction of Rose’s apartment.

  ‘It’ll always feel like Rose’s apartment,’ Fen mused as they walked along. ‘I can’t think of it yet as Henri’s.’

  ‘While her belongings are there, I suppose it must feel like she’s still very present,’ James agreed.

  ‘That reminds me, Henri asked me if I could start clearing out her clothes. I don’t suppose you have anything better to do this afternoon, do you? I can’t see Henri wanting to inherit a section of colourful turbans and housecoats along with his property.’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to rifle through any knicker drawers, then yes. Though I feel as if I should try and find some of Gervais’s friends in the bars and tell them about his, well… his murder.’

  ‘Yes of course. Some of them might know something about who could have done it. See if they know of anyone who wasn’t in the bar at ten o’clock last night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold out any hope. Snitches aren’t looked upon fondly these days.’

  They walked on in silence until they arrived at the large double doors of Rose’s apartment building. Fen turned to James. ‘Good luck. It never gets any easier, does it. Giving bad news, I mean.’

  ‘Especially not to family. I don’t suppose anyone has told Antoine yet.’

  Unless he did it…? The thought flashed through Fen’s mind, as suddenly as those gunshots had rung out in the warehouse the day before, but she kept quiet. There was no reason for Antoine to murder his brother, and he had an alibi for Rose’s death, too. Fen waved goodbye to James and headed up the cantilevered staircase to the apartment.

  A few hours later and Fen and Simone were hard at it, clearing out Rose’s bedroom. Simone had greeted Fen’s idea of going through Rose’s belongings with a squeal of excitement.

  ‘I don’t think there’ll be much of any value there, the thief saw to that,’ Fen said, rather guardedly, hoping that a lack of spoils wouldn’t put Simone off helping her.

  ‘Who is to say what is valuable to whom? She had some amazing dresses and I don’t think Henri would be interested in them! Or the men’s clothing she had either.’

  ‘Men’s clothing?’ Fen raised an eyebrow.

  ‘For her models. You know, a cloth cap, a pair of trousers… in case someone needed props for their portrait.’

  ‘Explains this tricorn hat, I suppose!’ Fen laughed as she pulled the dusty, felt-brimmed thing out from under the bed.

  Together they set about sorting and tidying, placing various items in piles either for refugee charities or to sell. Fen kept a little pile of the best pieces separate, hoping that Magda might like them, and she hoped Henri wouldn’t mind if she took one of Rose’s feathered hatpins home for her mother as a small memento.

  Simone was the most animated Fen had ever seen her, as she dramatically pulled long satin gowns and velvet housecoats out of the wardrobe and large tea chest at the bottom of Rose’s bed. ‘These fabrics are so beautiful! Oh, Christian and Catherine would love these!’

  ‘You should take them to them. I think Rose would like to think that her dresses were inspiration for the designers of tomorrow.’

  ‘And you’re right, Henri wouldn’t be interested at all. He was never one for commenting on what we wore.’

  Fen wanted to question her more when Tipper suddenly started barking and emerged from under a pile of feather boas and scarves and dashed towards the door.

  ‘That’ll be James then,’ Simone said matter-of-factly and put the silk blouse down that she was folding and went to go and answer it.

  Fen could hear the door click open and the yapping finally cease.

  ‘What ho!’ James popped his head around the door. ‘Captain Lancaster reporting for knicker-
drawer duty.’

  Thirty-Five

  The sun was starting to set on what had been a rather long and emotional day for Fen. From finding Gervais dead this morning to spending the afternoon clearing out Rose’s clothes, well, it had left Fen far from fancying hitting the cold streets to go and meet up with Magda, who had telephoned just after James had left and asked Fen if she could make the time to see her.

  Fen could hear the scream of a hungry or tired baby in the background, which she knew wasn’t Magda’s, plus shouts and general hollering, so Fen had assumed she was making the call from a municipal box in the hallway of her building. Although Fen’s feet still ached from squeezing them into Rose’s velvet high heels last night and she was desperate for a bath and bed, she had agreed. However hard done by Fen was feeling today, she had to remind herself that Magda and Joseph’s plight was far worse. At least if she went to see Magda tonight, she could take the bundle of clothes she’d set aside for her too; they might not be Atelier Lelong scarves or haute couture, but sometimes just something new was a treat.

  Before heading out, Fen decided to run a bath, and enjoyed filling the deep steel tub up more than a few inches, which had always been the approved etiquette during the war. She decided to throw in some of Rose’s lavender-scented bath salts too – it wasn’t as if Henri was going to use them – and just before she undressed, she remembered the letter from Kitty that she’d picked up from the mailbox this morning. She fetched it from her coat pocket and eagerly opened the envelope before slipping into the hot bath.

  Mrs B’s kitchen table, Midhurst,

  Tiresome West Sussex,

  October 1945

  Darling Fen!

  We are sitting here round the kitchen table with mugs of tea in our hands puzzling over your clues. Dilly got there first on the TRAIN one, swot, but I got PAINT, though really that was too easy.

  I can’t believe you got to go to a real fashion house – how simply divine! I’m dying to hear more – please come home soon… and if some of those scarves accidentally fall into your luggage, promise I won’t tell!

  We tuned into the wireless the other day and you’ll never guess what we heard? Josephine Baker singing just like you wrote about. I closed my eyes and imagined I was in a dark, smoky nightclub with you, wearing red lipstick and drinking hard liquor – then Mrs B stoked the fire (it’s perishingly cold here, you know) and the parlour was full of smoke, so in that way at least I didn’t have to imagine too hard. I’m sure you were with much more glamorous people than I was though: Mrs B has taken to wearing three cardigans and two pairs of thick stockings – Parisian fashion this is not!

  Fen laughed at Kitty’s letter and could well imagine the scene in the old farmhouse. Kitty carried on with some local news and signed off.

  Fen read the whole letter through again and then let it drop to the dry floor beside the bath as the steam filled her nose and the warm water soothed her tired muscles. She was just about to doze off when the buzz of the doorbell, and Tipper’s accompanying barking, roused her.

  Fen listened as Simone answered the door and realised it was only James, returning from a brief freshen-up at his hotel to take Simone out. She got more of a shock when Simone breezily stepped into the bathroom, much to Fen’s embarrassment, to say a quick goodbye.

  ‘Oh, no need to cover up,’ Simone had said, sitting on the edge of the bath, ‘it’s not like I don’t see naked models all the time in the fitting room at Lelong.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well…’ Fen sat up a bit in the bath and grabbed a pink flannel to cover her slightly. ‘Anyway, have a lovely time tonight. Where are you two off to?’

  Simone clapped her hands together once and held them in the prayer position, closing her eyes with excitement and anticipation as she replied, ‘The Ritz! A show and The Ritz! I’ve never been and I hear it’s where Madame Coco Chanel lived during the occupation, and I am obsessed by her designs.’

  ‘Gosh, lucky you.’ Fen hated to admit that she was rather jealous.

  ‘I think tonight could be the night,’ Simone said, winking conspiratorially and getting up from the edge of the bath to look in the mirror above the basin. It was steamed up, so she wiped her hand across it and Fen watched as she pouted her rouged lips into it.

  ‘For…?’

  ‘For a proposal! I mean, I don’t see the point in waiting until we are old, well, until I am old – he is already very old.’

  ‘He’s only… well, I don’t know how old James is actually.’

  ‘Thirty-six apparently. Ancient.’

  Fen, who was twenty-eight, wondered if she was regarded as ‘ancient’, too. Simone’s next statement cleared that up though.

  ‘You should find someone to take you out, you know? You’re not getting any younger and I know you’re sad about Arthur, but life goes on.’ Simone pouted again and dabbed a finger to the corner of her mouth. ‘Got to fly now, lover boy is waiting!’ She winked and blew a kiss to Fen, then left in a flounce of skirts and confidence and Fen was alone once more, thinking about Arthur as the water around her started to cool.

  A little while later and Fen had bucked herself up and dressed ready for heading out into the chilly evening. Simone had looked stunning in a dress that must have come straight from the atelier, while Fen settled for her woollen trousers and trench coat. As much as she’d loved dressing up for the Louvre last night, and would adore to be wined and dined at The Ritz too, she was relieved to be slipping into her sensible lace-up shoes for the walk over to the Marais tonight. As a nod to her and Magda’s trip to the atelier, though, and just to jazz things up a little, Fen fixed the Lelong scarf from Simone around her neck and tied it in a jaunty bow.

  She set her hair in victory rolls and carefully pinned a rather natty red beret she had found in Rose’s cupboard to her head. ‘Lipstick…’ she mumbled to herself as she delved around in her handbag looking for her favourite Revlon shade.

  Once pouted and puckered, she looked in the hallway mirror before she left the apartment. She may not have been dressed to the nines, but she looked relatively Parisienne and that made her smile. The Ritz though… lucky Simone. Perhaps James had decided to become a lion tamer after all.

  Fen shook her head and brought herself back to the present. ‘You’re lucky to be alive and in the city you love, old girl,’ she said to herself. Being envious over something as trifling as going to The Ritz really wasn’t becoming.

  With a deep breath, she picked up the clothes she’d put aside for Magda, opened the apartment door and headed out, determined not to let some petty jealousy ruin her evening.

  As she walked out of the building and onto the street, the cool air of the autumnal night embraced Fen and she shivered. But the slight chill in the air only made her walk that little bit faster and soon enough she was crossing the river and heading north towards the Marais. By the time she was past the Louvre and almost at the gardens and arcades of the Palais Royale, she was starting to tire. The walk across the city was longer than she had remembered and she really should have tried to catch a bus.

  Her pace slowed and she was about to pause to reassess the whole sanity of this evening’s adventure when a familiar face caught her eye. It was Henri Renaud, and like her he was wrapped up in a coat and hat. She was about to wave at him when she noticed he was carrying a large package, different to hers, a painting perhaps? It was tied up tightly with brown paper and string but Fen could see it was rectangular and quite slim. A convenient break in the old palace’s colonnades shielded her as she saw him cross towards the other side of the road.

  ‘Why are you carrying paintings around in the dark?’ Fen whispered to herself, thinking of those lists of stolen artworks that never made it to Germany. She watched as he continued south towards the Louvre and the river.

  Fen knew that following him would take her in completely the wrong direction and she’d be letting poor Magda down awfully.

  ‘But,’ she whispered to herself as she crossed the road too, to fol
low Henri, ‘this might just be the three down I’ve been looking for.’

  Fen followed Henri until they reached the Place du Carrousel, one of the road junctions outside the Louvre. She chided herself, What could be less suspicious than an art dealer, nay, a curator, carrying artwork back to his place of work?

  She was about to hang back just in case she was spotted, as she hadn’t come up with an excuse at all about why she might be in the neighbourhood. But then Henri didn’t take any of the paths that led across the square to the great art gallery and instead he carried on walking south, crossing the river at the wide and cobbled Pont Carrousel.

  A light drizzle started to fall and Fen wiped the moisture off her face as she followed on behind him, glad that she knew these streets fairly well, not just from the last few days of holidaying here, but from her childhood too. Her brother had once threatened to throw her over this bridge when she’d naughtily flicked one of his toy soldiers into the Seine. Her claims that the little fellow wanted to be a sub-mariner hadn’t cut the mustard and sibling relations had hit rather a low point.

  Fen wished that she could stop and dwell on these sorts of childish reminiscences, but she felt pulled, almost magnetically, to keep following Henri. The drizzle was getting heavier and Fen could feel the splash of water off the pavement chill her ankles and calves. If she had been wearing Nylons, she’d be cursing the state they’d be getting into, but as it was, it was her woollen trousers that were taking a soaking from the now rather damp pavements.

  Where are you heading to? she wondered as Henri took a sudden left-hand turn off the Quai Voltaire away from the river. She kept back a pace or two as Henri slowed. They were passing more art galleries, much like his and the ones on the Rue des Beaux-Arts where Rose’s apartment was. In actual fact, with all her criss-crossing of the river tonight, she was now only a few streets away from the École des Beaux-Arts and her temporary home in Paris.