by Kate Parker
“This was all he told you?” There wasn’t much to help us.
“Yes.” General Alford looked a little embarrassed.
“Did he name the English nobleman? Did he name the victim?” Something that would help us?
“No. Nothing.” The general’s face reddened. “He thought we could follow every peer of the realm until one of them led us to a Frenchman.”
“Impossible.” My father sounded shocked.
“And then he was found dead in Mimi Mareau’s basement.” Not much help, but it did point the finger at the four women living in that building. “That would mean you think the assassin is a woman.”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. There must be a couple of men associated with the salon. Hopefully you’ll meet some man working there soon if you haven’t already.”
“Do you suspect the Duke of Marshburn?”
Both my father and the general looked at me with horrified expressions. The general said, “Good heavens, no. He’s a duke, no matter where his political beliefs might take him. Besides, he wasn’t in the right country to have carried out assassinations we know were done by this mystery person.”
“Tell me about these assassinations.” I needed information, and little was being provided.
The general cleared his throat. “You cannot divulge this information to anyone. The so-called French assassin has killed half a dozen French politicians and refugee leaders, all by poison or explosions. No two methods were exactly the same. The French government has been completely frustrated. No suspects. No descriptions.”
“It must be difficult when the murders were carried out at a distance. Poisonings, explosions.” I could see why the police were unsuccessful.
“But there were elements in these attacks that indicated the assassin wasn’t too far away. The weapons, if you will, could only have been sent short distances and over short times,” the general said. “Since Elias had been on a Nazi assassination list for a couple of years, we don’t know if he was the French assassin’s target. Someone else could have executed him.”
“So Elias could have been killed by any number of people for any number of reasons.” What a mess. How could I find his killer among competing suspects? I probably didn’t know most of them yet.
“Will you do this for us? For Britain?” Alford asked.
“What do you want me to do? What am I looking for?” This assignment seemed too vague to succeed. The French police had failed. Why did he think I could do better?
“Talk to people. Keep your eyes open. We want to hear what you find unusual. Questionable.” General Alford scrunched up his face. “Oh, use your initiative, girl,” he snapped.
I suspected General Alford was totally out of his depth when dealing with women or fashion. Even if I somehow stumbled over information that led right to the assassin, Alford wouldn’t see the significance.
I hoped someone else was involved in this investigation. I hoped someone else was in charge of capturing the assassin. “I’ll look around. I can’t promise anything.”
“I’m sure you’ll do very well,” the general said and gave me an uncertain smile.
After we left the building, I asked my father, “How did you get mixed up in this business?”
“Alford came to see me. You remember he was my commanding officer in the war, and when Scotland Yard told him who had found the body, and where, he recognized the name.” He sighed. “While I was telling him not to get you involved, he was asking questions about your background.”
“And he heard I speak French—”
“And he’d heard about your involvement in finding Reggie’s killer—”
“Of course he did.” I allowed myself to sound annoyed. It had been almost a year since Reggie’s death, and still, all anyone seemed to say about me was, “Wasn’t she clever, finding the traitor who killed her husband?”
“The trouble is, Olivia, you have a talent for finding out people’s secrets. And at this time, with all the difficulties Herr Hitler is causing, having a talent like yours is bound to be noticed.” He made it sound like I had been bragging.
All I wanted was for everyone to forget.
* * *
After lunch the next day, Jane and I settled into a taxi and rode to Mimi Mareau’s couture house. I still didn’t know how I would handle General Alford’s request.
There was now a discreet brass plaque next to the black-painted door saying Maison Mareau. We rang the bell and Brigette answered the door wearing a deep rose-colored smock.
“We’re here for the tour Mimi promised us,” I said.
“She hasn’t returned from lunch,” Brigette said as she opened the door more and let us in. Once again I was surprised by how British she sounded when she spoke English.
When I complimented her on her lack of an accent, she said, “A few years in an English boarding school will cure you of any accent.”
I could see the front room now appeared to be copied from a country house drawing room, down to the comfortable chairs and worn rugs. I almost expected a retriever or setter to stroll in and curl up on the rug. “It looks a great deal different than the construction zone I saw last week.”
“The painters and carpenters just finished the changing rooms upstairs this morning.”
“I can’t imagine Mimi wants us to see the changing rooms,” I assured her. “What does the basement look like now that the police are done making a mess there?”
“They didn’t make a mess,” Brigette said.
“I’m surprised. May I see? They made a mess of my flat when I reported a burglary.” I tried to sound annoyed, but I only managed to sound less eager than I felt.
Brigette shrugged. “Sure.”
I hurried to the back room on the ground floor, which was empty of people at that moment, and galloped down the stairs. There was no key in the lock of the outside door, exactly the way I remembered. The windows were still shut. The bolt was still off.
Turning the other way, I found the racks held more covered costumes and gowns than last week. The boxes and trunks were still pushed against the far wall. There was no sign of blood. I couldn’t picture Elias lying there anymore.
It was just an ordinary, but clean, basement.
I marched back up the stairs. When I reached the top, I heard Mimi saying, “Where is she?”
I came out of the back room, all grace and polish. “Hello, Miss Mareau. Ready for your interview? I imagine you want to be photographed in your workshop, looking over Reina’s or Fleur’s work.”
“There’s no magic in that. I’d like to be photographed in our new showroom looking at one of our designs on a model. As I will look on Wednesday for my fashion show.” She snapped her fingers. “Brigette, put on the blue gown. And put up your hair.”
Brigette headed up the wide, carpeted front staircase as I said, “There are four British designers who have been readying their salons for weeks for their shows this Wednesday. Don’t you feel ill-prepared?”
“Why should I? I’m not some provincial seamstress with no experience. I’m Mimi Mareau. I’ve been putting on fashion shows in Paris for years.”
There was no argument for that. “How many weeks a year do you plan to work in England?”
“I don’t know. I expect for a few weeks after the Paris fall and spring shows so I can bring a uniquely British slant to the newest fashions.”
I scribbled furiously as I marveled at how good her answer was.
Mimi settled onto one of the chairs and lit a cigarette. “Many of my clients are British or American, and this new salon will be more convenient for them. Plus, we’ll cater to special English and American tastes.” She waved Jane over to take her photograph.
“Who will manage your London salon while you’re away?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“How many of your employees will be working here while you are in residence in this salon?”
“You’ve met Fleur, Reina, and Brigette, my th
ree right hands. Several seamstresses, another cutter, and an assistant to Brigette for the fittings arrived from Paris this weekend. My clients will keep all of us busy, but at Maison Mareau, we are at our best when facing a challenge. And the models for the show, wonderful girls, arrive tomorrow.”
“Did the body of the dead man in your basement interfere with getting the salon ready to open?”
As I hoped, mentioning the dead man rattled Mimi. “No. Why should it?” she snapped.
“It might be considered—inconvenient.” Like having to question a woman whose talent left me in awe on behalf of a general who didn’t understand artistry or genius.
“So?” She stared at me as if she didn’t understand how a dead man could be important.
I tried to explain. “The police would have blocked access to the basement and the frocks stored down there as well as stopping people from working by asking them questions.”
She shrugged. “It was a minor inconvenience.”
“Did any of you know the dead man?”
“Of course not.” The man’s temerity to die in her salon, not the waste of her time, seemed to anger her.
“Then why was he in your basement?”
“I have no idea.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Come upstairs and I will show you where we display our fashions and where customers come for fittings. Bring your camera,” she added to Jane.
We followed her up the grand, carpeted front staircase to the first floor. The paint was the same color as downstairs, a pinkish beige, but here the furniture was modern. Instead of armchairs, there were black leather upholstered ottomans and curved padded benches to sit on. Neither looked comfortable. The floor was painted a shiny black.
She led us to a silver metallic cloth curtain at the back of the room and pushed it aside to reveal the doorway into the back of this floor. “This is where the magic takes place,” she said, walking through.
I followed her to find a well-lit area with a number of closet-sized changing rooms and racks to hang outfits. The walls and floor were the same colors as on the other side of the curtain. The insides of the tiny chambers were mirrored on all sides and each contained a black leather ottoman.
“I’d like to take a photo of you inside one of the changing rooms,” Jane said, and Mimi posed in the entrance to one so you could see her reflection in the mirror without getting Jane in the photo. She gestured Jane to set up on her right.
After she took the photo, Jane turned away to put her head near mine and murmured, “She had to practice, and practice hard, to give me an angle to photograph her that was so perfect.”
“Brigette,” Mimi called out behind us, “are you ready to go into the showroom in the blue gown?”
The girl stepped out of one of the small spaces, her hair piled up. She looked elegant in the sweeping gown, her posture erect and her chin up. “How do I look?”
“Breathtaking,” I said.
“Let’s go into the showroom,” Jane said, walking through the curtained opening and checking her light meter.
“Once the gowns are designed and the customer is measured, how many frocks can you make in a week?” I asked as Mimi and Brigette posed for Jane.
“By sending seamstresses to and from Paris, I can handle any demand we may have in either city,” Mimi said, her head up, one fist on her waist with her arm akimbo.
I jotted her response down. “Are Reina and Fleur here so I can get their photographs for the article, too?”
“Fleur’s not returned from lunch. You’ll find Reina upstairs with the seamstresses. You’ll have to use the back staircase to get to the next floor.”
I thanked her and took off through the changing room and then up the stairs, hoping to get a word with Reina before Mimi stopped me. I heard Jane say, “That shot wasn’t any good. Let’s try once more.”
When I reached the second floor, Reina was showing three women the stitching on a wool tweed skirt. All four wore deep rose dusters like Brigette’s that had to be the uniform for this fashion house. Reina looked over at me and I waved for her to come over as I walked forward.
Setting down the skirt, she met me in the middle of the room.
“Reina, who was he?” I asked her in German in a low voice.
A shocked look crossed her face.
“The dead man. Who was he?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “Well?”
After a moment, her shoulders drooped. “Josef Meirsohn. I told you, we came from the same village. He went away to university and I never saw him again.”
General Alford was right. And my guess that Reina knew Elias’s real name paid off. “Do you know who would want to kill him?”
“Nein.”
“Come down here, Reina. We don’t have all day to take your photograph,” Mimi bellowed up the stairs.
She grabbed my arm. “I’m afraid to have my picture taken. If Josef was killed because of something from the old days, they might come after me next.”
I made a quick decision. “Don’t worry. No one will see it.” But it might prove useful in the investigation. “But why was he here? Had you arranged to meet him here?”
Instead of answering me, she rushed downstairs. I followed and then Jane and I had the three women pose as the sound of the front door banging shut reached us. “Anyone here?” Fleur shouted in French.
“Yes, come up here,” Mimi yelled back.
Fleur came up but hesitated when her gaze fell on Jane and her camera. “Oh, no. I look a fright.”
“Get in the photo,” Mimi said.
“I haven’t brushed my hair.”
“Come over here. I’ll comb it,” Reina said.
“No. You’re too rough.” Fleur pulled out a brush and walked into the back area where there were mirrors.
We waited about two minutes before Mimi called out, “Fleur?”
There was no answer.
Mimi cursed in French and stormed into the back room. “Where are you?”
“Here.”
The two women came out, Fleur transformed by a dramatic drape of fabric over her head and shoulders. Only her eyes peeked out from beneath the black velvet.
She was completely unrecognizable.
They lined up then with Jane looking annoyed. It would make a terrible picture. Before Jane could snap the shutter, however, Mimi yanked the fabric away from Fleur’s face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I suspected Fleur looked shocked in the photo as the flash went off.
“Let’s try that again,” Jane suggested.
Fleur and Reina both said “Non” and hurried toward the back room and the staircase.
Mimi shook her head at her assistants’ antics. Then she looked at me and said, “Do you have my drawing?”
I pulled it out of my handbag, awaiting her decision with trepidation. I wanted her to like my work. To like me.
Although I was spying on her for a general.
Mimi studied the paper. “It’s good, but not quite right.” She then pointed out several things she wanted changed. “Corrected,” she called it.
My pride tripped and landed, nose first, on the pavement.
After a few more questions, Mimi showed us down the grand staircase and out the front door. She was gracious, she was charming, and she couldn’t wait to get rid of us. The door nearly hit me on the backside as I left.
“That was a little strange,” Jane commented as we looked in vain for a taxi.
“I want a copy of the picture of all of them. As large as you can blow it up without it getting fuzzy,” I told her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I have this feeling that having a record of what these women look like could be useful.”
Jane stopped and stared at me. “You’re doing another project for Sir Henry. The last one sent us both to Vienna. If this one sends you to Paris, count me in.”
I understood her interest. I would like a newspaper-paid trip to Paris, too. “So far, it doesn’t take us any farther than
a few steps to the basement entrance.”
Jane nodded and off we started. When we reached the cement stairs leading down to the basement where Elias, or as I now knew, Josef Meirsohn, died, I veered off and left Jane on the pavement without saying a word. I walked down three steps and bent to look in the window. Without light inside, I couldn’t see a thing through the dirty glass.
I went down the rest of the steps and carefully turned the door handle. The lock must have been set on the latch because the door opened easily. I held up a hand to Jane, who was waiting up on the pavement, and went in, quietly shutting the door behind me.
If the now-dead man had come here for anything, it had to be in the trunks and boxes at the far end of the room. I tiptoed across and began to open them. The first few were empty, but I finally opened a trunk that held vials and little boxes and medicine bottles. I opened one of the tiny boxes and found a fine gray powder inside.
Just as I closed up the trunk, wondering at the reason for such things to be at a couture house, the ceiling lights came on.
The last thing I needed was to be caught snooping at the site of a murder. Especially by the murderer.
My heart hammered against my ribs when I saw a woman’s shoe appear at the top of the open staircase. I crept to the back side of the racks of gowns, hoping whichever one they wanted was in the front. Hoping they’d just take it and leave so I could escape.
I ducked down, hiding as best I could as footsteps sounded coming down the wooden stairs, and then heels clicked across the stone floor. They seemed to pass me. Then I heard what sounded like a box or trunk opening and the clink of glasses.
A moment later, the heel clicks crossed the floor again and started up the stairs. When they sounded as if they were most of the way up, I rose. All I could see was a pair of two-inch sensible heels in blue and the hem of a blue skirt that moved gracefully as the wearer disappeared from sight. Then the light clicked off.
I pictured the four women who had posed for the photographs just a few minutes before. Brigette’s gown had been blue, but it was long. Mimi had worn gray, and she was always in stylish high heels. But both Fleur and Reina had worn blue day-length dresses and sensible shoes.
