‘But I am the future!’ Simone rebuffed Fen’s words. ‘The war is over and we should look to tomorrow, you know?’
‘I know, I know. And perhaps you’re right and maybe it is mostly jealousy from the other women. But—’
‘No. No “but”.’ Simone seemed to be more in a huff now than scared or upset. ‘This is my life and I shall wear what I like. Catherine didn’t risk her life and end up in Ravensbrück for us all to wear sackcloth for the rest of time. You’ll both see, Christian will start his own atelier and the clothes will be fabulous and luxurious and I shall be wearing them.’ She sounded nothing less than triumphant and all Fen could do was nod and sip her tea and let the young woman, ably supported by James’s strong arms and words of reassurance, settle down.
A little while later Fen stirred the pot of bean cassoulet on the stove as James rested his back against the wall of the galley-style kitchen. She had picked up some simple cooking tips from her hostess in Burgundy a few weeks ago, and although that sojourn had ended in a murderer being brought to justice, it had also left Fen with a new appreciation for simple French cooking.
After she had drawn Simone a nice steaming bath to help her forget the trauma of being set upon, she had sent James out to see if he could find a grocer still open to pick up some items she could cobble a supper together from. James had returned with some canned goods and half a pound of good herby sausages from the local butcher who was just closing up for the day.
‘I either caught him at the right time or wrong time, depending on your viewpoint,’ he had reported back to Fen.
‘Meaning?’
‘Good in that I got a very keen price on the bangers and he threw in those lardons too. Bad in that they were practically the only things left, so sorry if you fancied gammon or lamb tonight instead.’
Fen had laughed and taken the waxed paper parcel of meat from James. ‘This will do very well, James, thank you.’
So she had started to cook and soon enough Simone had emerged from the bathroom and got herself dressed. She was in the studio room and Fen could imagine that James felt slightly torn as to which room he should be in. Fen was about to put him out of his misery and claim he was getting under her feet in the kitchen when he brought up the subject of the painting again.
‘How much did you say that street vendor was charging for the Delance?’ he asked.
‘Two thousand francs at first. That’s about three pounds! He came down to fifteen hundred as I kept telling him I wasn’t interested.’
‘He might have given it to you for nothing if you’d kept playing that game,’ James joked, but Fen just shook her head at him.
Simone appeared around the kitchen door, a pretty shawl draped around her slim frame, covering the peasant-style blouse she had dressed in, along with a simple floor-length skirt, after her bath.
‘What are you two talking about in here?’
‘That painting of Rose’s,’ James explained, ‘The little Impressionist one. Fen’s found it for sale on the Right Bank of the river.’
‘Oh really?’ Simone looked interested.
‘I’m pretty sure, yes. This apartment was like a second home to me when I was younger, I’m sure I’d recognise those swirls and colours anywhere.’
‘How macabre, to find something of Rose’s so soon after…’ Simone couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes filled with tears and she dabbed the corner of one with the edge of her shawl. ‘Was it expensive? Could we afford to buy it back, do you think?’
‘Out of my reach, sadly.’ Fen sighed and stirred the pot.
‘I could buy it for you…’ James pushed himself off the wall and stood up straight.
‘Oh, James, that really is awfully kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept—’
‘Ah, well, I meant Simone… sorry, Fen.’ James looked a bit awkward and pushed his fingers through his sandy-blond hair a couple of times. He smiled apologetically to Fen and shrugged, then turned back to Simone. ‘If you’d like it?’
‘You would do that for me?’ Simone looked at him, her eyes still glistening with tears and her hands clasped up to her chest.
Fen accidentally dropped the wooden spoon on the floor. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She nudged James out of the way as she picked it up and carried it over to the sink.
‘Well, there we go,’ James seemed pleased with himself, the awkwardness of just a moment ago gone. ‘We can go there tomorrow morning if the fine weather holds. That would cheer you up, wouldn’t it?’
Both James and Fen were a little shocked when Simone stammered and started to cry. ‘Oh, no… no… I can’t go back. I mean, in that direction. The memories of this afternoon…’ She clutched the shawl around her some more and shivered. ‘Please don’t make me cross the river by that quayside. It’s too embarrassing to think that those men, those kiosk vendors, might have seen me so… so vulnerable.’ She shuddered.
James reached a hand over to her shoulder to reassure her. ‘Of course, of course. I’ll take Fen, she can show me which one it is…’ James followed Simone into the studio, comforting her as he went.
Fen rinsed the wooden spoon off in the sink and let out another sigh. She would have loved to have bought that painting, but at least if James bought it for Simone it would be back in its rightful home, in this apartment. For the time being anyway.
Supper was delightful and the sausages really were a treat and so unlike the wartime ‘bangers’ that had popped and spurted in Mrs B’s greasy frying pan. The meat content in some sausages from as far back as the Great War had been so low and the water content so high that the sausages often exploded if left too long to sizzle over a high heat, hence the term ‘banger’. These sausages, however, were more like the ones from Toulouse, filled with pork meat and bulked up with herbs and spices. They were delicious, but that didn’t stop Simone from picking at her plate. Fen couldn’t bear waste so was pleased when James stuck his fork in Simone’s untouched sausage and devoured it in two or three bites.
Simone herself didn’t even notice, and although Fen and James had tried to keep the conversation light and their spirits as high as possible in the recent circumstances, it was only when James started talking about the previous evening that she fully entered into the conversation.
‘And it wasn’t just you that surprised us last night,’ he said, nudging Simone, who was staring at the floor where Rose’s body had lain.
‘Hmm, no that’s right.’
‘Oh really? Do tell, and I hope they weren’t as sopping wet as I was.’
‘Well,’ Simone seemed more with it now and gave Fen her full attention, ‘oddly enough, it was Michel Lazard. You know that art dealer of Rose’s.’
‘That is bizarre,’ Fen agreed, and as James and Simone talked about the other people they’d seen in the hotel bar, Fen thought how interesting it was that Simone had seen Lazard in the very same place that Henri had led her to. ‘Did you see Henri Renaud, just before I came in?’
‘No, Fenella, but then, before you charged in last night, we only had eyes for each other.’
‘Right. Quite so. Of course.’ Fen felt a bit flustered and busied herself picking up the plates so that she could remove herself from the lovebirds and have some space to think in the kitchen. Something wasn’t adding up, that was for sure. It was as if she was being given all the clues she could wish for, but all mixed up. What could it mean, Henri Renaud possibly meeting Michel Lazard in private at a hotel? What had Henri been carrying and why did he lie to her so often about his relationship with the art dealer he himself said was a charlatan?
Forty-One
The next day was bright if a little blustery, which meant that James and Fen’s plan of visiting the quayside art dealer could go ahead. Simone had insisted the night before that even if the thought of heading towards the Right Bank hadn’t given her the shivers, she should really head back to the atelier for a debrief on the disastrous photo shoot. Expensive clothes had been ruined and no doubt the police would be called. So
it had been agreed, as James had bid the ladies farewell that night, that he would call for Fen the next day and the two of them would head over the river and buy back the painting that had been stolen from Rose.
‘I suppose,’ Fen said as she tightened the fashionable scarf around her neck a little more to keep off the chill wind as she and James crossed the Pont des Arts, ‘we could just tell the gendarmes that we’ve located some stolen artwork and it could help them trace the murderer?’
‘We could… but then it would be confiscated as evidence and end up locked in some police station for evermore, or worse, end up in the undeserving hands of some crooked police inspector.’
‘Well, when you put it like that…’ Fen was unsure if James really believed what he was saying, or if he was just talking himself into thinking he was doing the right thing. It was admirable that he wanted to buy a piece of Rose’s estate back for Simone, even if Fen was secretly rather jealous that she couldn’t afford it herself.
‘Tell you what is interesting though,’ James cut across her thoughts.
‘Oh yes?’
‘When I got back to my hotel last night, guess who I saw in the reception area?’
‘Henri Renaud again?’ Fen glanced across at James as the wind caught both of their hair in a mad twirling dance.
‘Bingo. He didn’t notice me, even though he was sitting by the bar with another man.’
‘Who?’
‘That Lazard chap. They were talking about a meeting at four o’clock this afternoon.’
‘A handover perhaps?’ Fen remembered the brown paper-covered parcel she’d seen Henri carrying.
‘The man is an art dealer, after all.’
‘Yes… not one that Henri usually deals with though…’ Fen was deep in thought still when they arrived at the kiosk where she had spotted Rose’s painting. James nudged her back into the present and she pointed it out to him.
‘I recognise it, you’re right,’ he agreed with her, but kept his voice down in case the dealer could hear. ‘What price did he offer it to you at yesterday?’
‘Fifteen hundred by the time he really wanted me to clear off.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ the art dealer appeared from behind his stand, his voice making them both jump, ‘have you come to buy this time?’
James interceded and started negotiations, which they were surprised to find out started much higher than Fen had assumed.
‘Well,’ the dealer argued. ‘There’s been more interest in it since I last saw you, mademoiselle, and look, you are back with your young gentleman to buy it for you, too.’
‘What tosh,’ Fen harrumphed as James haggled him down from an overinflated three thousand francs, finally handing over two thousand francs for the painting. ‘You should have held out, James. I swear he was just stringing you a line.’
‘I don’t mind. Rather him than me standing out here in all weathers selling tat. A few extra francs is no skin off my nose but might pay his rent for a few more weeks.’
Fen felt slightly chastised and walked a few steps ahead as James waited for the dealer to wrap the painting up in brown paper and string. James’s generosity paid off too as the dealer, when handing over the package, slipped James a few postcards.
‘These are rather, er, risqué, thank you,’ James stammered as he poked the postcards into his coat pocket.
‘Always popular with my gentleman customers,’ the vendor winked, and Fen shook her head as James blushed slightly. Then she remembered the other reason for their visit and turned back to join James and the kiosk owner.
‘Just out of interest, from whom did you buy that painting? Have you had it long?’
‘Eh, la…’ the vendor took his cap off and scratched his head. ‘A day, two days perhaps.’
‘And your supplier?’ Fen wondered if she’d used the right word. It had been hard not to say ‘fence’. But the vendor must have read between the lines and turned his back on Fen and James and started to pull down the shutters of his stall. Fen was about to ask him again when he turned around and spoke to them.
‘It was a young man, I think, it was hard to see.’
‘How can you be sure it wasn’t stolen from someone?’ Fen couldn’t help it, the thought of all the stolen art, sold just like this but on a greater scale. The buyers not questioning where their new purchases had come from. With the Germans doing the thieving for you, how easy it must have been to get your hands on paintings you had only ever dreamed of owning…
‘I must close now, the painting is yours, thank you for your custom.’ The street vendor turned his back on them, saying the words quickly and mechanically and not answering Fen’s question at all, and continued locking up his stall. Fen wanted to quiz him and opened her mouth to ask him the question again but before she could speak she felt James’s hand on her arm.
‘Fen,’ he whispered to her. ‘It doesn’t matter now. We know where the painting is from, no point pushing him. I don’t think we’d get much more out of him anyway.’
Fen looked at where the two-bit art dealer was shaking the padlock on his shuttered stall, checking it was locked, and then half ran, half skipped off down the quayside before they could ask any more questions.
They were almost halfway back across the Seine when Fen, who had been mulling things over as they’d walked, spoke.
‘James, would you do me a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Could you bring Simone to Henri’s gallery this afternoon, at four o’clock.’
James stopped on the bridge and looked at Fen. ‘I could…’
‘And could you possibly find Antoine Arnault and bring him there too?’
‘Fen…’ There was a tone of warning in James’s voice.
‘Trust me, I think I know what I’m doing. I need to check one more thing, and then I’ll meet you there.’
‘Be careful, Fen, whatever it is you think you know, there is one thing that’s certain. There’s a murderer out there who’s killed two people already—’
‘And I don’t want to be the third, believe me. That’s why I need you all there. Galerie Renaud, at four o’clock.’ She caught James’s eye and he nodded at her.
‘Me, Simone and Antoine Arnault.’
‘Yes. And I’ll make a few phone calls too.’
They neared the end of the bridge and James took his leave. ‘Be careful, Fen.’
‘I’m not the one who’s taming lions, James.’ She winked at him. ‘Four o’clock, don’t be late!’
Forty-Two
Bronzed and curled leaves decorated the pavement as Fen crossed Paris, darting under the shelter of a café awning every now and again to avoid a downpour. She didn’t mind, however, as she was pleased with a certain piece of information she had picked up. A written testimony no less, that was now securely in her trench coat pocket. Alibi or not, she was surer than ever over the guilt of one particular person.
She was thinking it through in her mind as she approached the Marais district and found the entrance to Joseph and Magda’s apartment building. Fen climbed the staircase, picking her way between children playing games. She made her excuses each time and squeezed past, until she was at the Bernheims’ door. Before she knocked, she took a few breaths and looked at her grid again. ‘Tipper… and the blackmail… of course, the warehouse would be vital… those auctions… and who says they’re degenerate…’
More confident now in her own mind, she knocked on the Bernheims’ door.
A few moments of quick explanation later and all three of them were on their way back down the staircase, picking their feet carefully over complicated games constructed of string and sticks, and apologising to languid youths, driven inside due to the rain and wind.
‘Are you sure Monsieur Renaud won’t mind us suddenly appearing without an appointment?’ Magda had worried as they walked briskly from the Marais towards the Palais du Jardin and Galerie Renaud.
‘He’s helping you find your artwork, isn’t he?’ Fen replie
d, asking the question semi-rhetorically. Henri had told her in no uncertain terms that he could no longer help the Bernheims, but they didn’t know that, not yet.
The rain had really started to fall when the Bernheims and Fen reached the shelter of the colonnade of the Palais du Jardin. Fen felt a pang of guilt bringing the couple to an area of Paris that was once so accessible to them, but now the fancy goods in the shop windows were temptation far beyond what they could afford. Never mind, almost there… Galerie Renaud was in sight.
‘Are you sure it’s open, Fenella?’ Magda asked, seeing the blackout blinds drawn down across the main window and the glass of the door.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Fen pushed the door open, and the tinkling of the bell made the two men, deep in conversation either side of the desk, turn their heads to face the incomers.
‘Fenella, and the Bernheims, what a surprise.’ Henri stood to greet them.
The other man turned to face the other way, and Fen noticed his hands rub up and down his thighs; he was agitated, that was for sure.
‘Monsieur Lazard here was just about to leave.’ Henri gestured for Michel Lazard to stand, and without looking Fen or the Bernheims in the eye, he started to move towards them to get to the door.
‘Actually, Henri, I was wondering if we might have a word with both of you. Monsieur Lazard, I don’t think you know me, but I’m a great friend of Rose Coillard… and here to tell everyone who murdered her.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me!’ Lazard looked even more nervous, a sweaty sheen appearing on his forehead.
‘Mademoiselle, please, manners,’ Henri looked stern and Fen wondered if his tolerance of her scheme would last long enough for her to reveal the murderer.
‘I’m so sorry, Henri, please excuse me,’ she hammed it up. ‘Speaking of manners, would there be a chair at least for Madame Bernheim? I can stand, although… Ah, hello, chaps.’ Fen ushered the Bernheims further into the gallery as James, Simone and Antoine Arnault appeared at the door. ‘Bang on time, well done.’
[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris Page 22
