‘Now then, flower, I know how that feels.’ Poor lass, he thought. ‘Same thing happened to me and I thought he was a friend too. But enough of our worries, let’s have that song, eh?’ She smiled and nodded like a little girl.
Three hours later he was as happy as he had ever been, wandering down the hill past Place Pigalle with this pretty girl chirruping and whistling on his arm. If she wanted his company on the way home it was worth a walk into Rue Laferrière. She actually seemed to like him. He thought so right up to the moment two men stepped out of a doorway and threw a sack over his head. Something struck him and he fell into their waiting arms.
Tanya was seated at dinner between the owner of one of the daily newspapers and Perov, but neither got a great deal of her attention. She tried to talk pleasantly to each of them, but realised she missed their questions and her answers were often vague to the point of rudeness. Perov would probably interpret her distraction as modesty and embarrassment, and draw his own egotistical conclusions. The newspaper-owner probably thought her an imbecile. There was nothing to be done about it, Tanya could not draw herself away from the sight of the Morels seated opposite her. Sylvie was clear-eyed and smiling, and making a conquest of the men who sat either side of her. Tanya occasionally heard her light laugh or her questions. The men were bankers apparently, and both falling over themselves to answer her naive enquiries about their business. They glowed and swelled as Tanya watched.
Further up the table, Morel was talking to the American opposite him, who seemed to have some interests in construction, about his plan to leave France for America, telling him how impressed he was by the buildings of New York he’d seen in photographs. The man, handsome, clean-shaven, in his fifties, was much more taken with Tanya’s aunts, who sat either side of him. Their view of America as a land of savages and cowboys obviously amused him. They asked if there were theatres in America and whether they had managed to educate their peasants as yet. Tanya could almost admire the way Morel stuck to it until the man in construction said yes, he would be happy to receive Morel in New York when he happened to be there. Morel smiled around the table as if expecting general applause and, belatedly, tried to charm the very bored woman to his left.
Tanya could not eat. The food was all too rich, and wondering if Yvette had found the man she was looking for and led him to the Countess’s house had twisted her stomach into a knot. She wished Allardyce were here. Even if he knew nothing about Maud or the horrors of what had been done to her, she knew that seeing him smile at her across the silverware would have helped her to get through the evening. Being next to Perov was making her skin crawl. His cuff links were diamonds.
She looked again at Sylvie. What had that girl done to surround herself with luxury? Lied and stolen and play-acted, killed and tried to kill, all for money, ordinary boring money. Tanya pushed at a piece of fat white flesh on her plate. The lobsters had come up alive on a special train from Normandy that morning. If she married Perov, perhaps everything would taste this stale – even his proposal seemed to have drained the joy out of Paris – but her father was adamant that this would be a good match.
The newspaper-owner asked her what she was thinking, and before she could stop herself she answered truthfully. ‘I was wondering what it might be like to be poor, or at least have very little money compared with what I have now. I’m wondering if I would miss lobster.’ She looked round guiltily but Perov was explaining wheat imports to the woman next to him and had not heard her.
The newspaper-man smiled and nodded into his wine. ‘My father was a carpenter. A good one, but there were times when he couldn’t get enough work to feed us all. I’m one of seven, you know. The little brother!’ She looked at his wide belly and the length of his white moustaches and he laughed at her. ‘A long time ago, dear child, even old men like me were once boys.’
‘Forgive me, I did not mean . . .’
‘I can hardly believe it myself. Now I am as rich as any man at this table, I think, and have seen every stage of wealth in between.’
‘Being rich is much better, isn’t it?’ Tanya said sadly, jabbing at her plate again.
‘It’s a great deal better than being very poor, but I think I was happiest in those early days, when as a young man I set out to do something all fire and fluster! Working next to my wife, wondering if we were going to have enough money to print the next issue, then gradually, gradually watching the circulation rise. Those were the best days.’
‘Your wife worked with you?’ Tanya said.
‘Indeed. She was one of my best writers and still does the odd piece for Marguerite at La Fronde – though I can’t get her to write for me any more. She says she has too much fun playing with the grandchildren to bleed ink for me.’ He raised his glass and Tanya realised he was toasting the woman next to Morel. He was explaining something to her a little loudly; she still looked bored, but when she caught her husband’s glance she rolled her eyes and grinned at him. Tanya looked back in time to see the man beside her wink. They were like children, signalling in church. He leaned towards Tanya and said in an undertone, ‘You are aware, I am sure, dear child, how many men complain that their wives do not understand them. I always complain that my wife understands me only too well.’
The butler entered and approached the Countess’s chair, then bowed low to whisper in her ear. She stood up with a quiet apology to the men next to her and a nod towards her husband. Tanya felt anxiety twist in her chest and fought the impulse to stare at the Morels again, so comfortable and pleased with themselves. She looked instead at the Count at the far end of the table. He was a blandly handsome man who seemed charmed by everything around him and delighted in his ability to pay for it. He had already told those close to him the story of the journey of the lobster, and now he was describing how his wife had bought the plates and bullied the manufacturer for a better price. He noticed he was being observed and raised his glass to Tanya with a smile. She nodded back to him and returned to the glitter of her cutlery, the frosted whiteness of the tablecloth and tried to imagine what was happening elsewhere in the house.
‘Happy as a king, isn’t he? Happier.’ The newspaperman was addressing her again. ‘Every time I argue with my wife I tell her I should have married a rich American, but there weren’t so many around in my day. She says that none of them would have had me anyway.’
Perov, it seemed, thought it was time to pay a little attention to them. ‘An American like that comes at a cost,’ he said in his thin pale voice. The newspaperman shrugged. ‘I’m deadly serious, sir,’ Perov went on. ‘Her father made his fortune in oil in the wildest hinterlands of that vast continent, and she, rather than receiving a proper education, used to travel with him. They say she saw three men killed, one by her own father, before she was ten years old. I tell you, she runs this house now. Iron hand in a velvet glove, you know. All very comfortable for the Count if he behaves himself, but what civilised man could want a wife such as that?’ Tanya felt his gaze slide over her and did not look at him, afraid if she did she would hiss like a cat. ‘No, some accomplishments are desirable, certainly, and the taste to create a fashionable and elegant home for her husband, but nothing of the new woman about her, please.’
‘Have you ever had your portrait painted, sir?’ Tanya asked the newspaperman.
‘Indeed, I have, last year. We have hung it in the entrance hall of our building to scare the staff and intimidate the creditors.’
‘And how much did you pay for it?’
He laughed. ‘A thousand francs, dear.’
‘That is very interesting,’ Tanya said, and tried to do better justice to her lobster. Perov said nothing, then returned his attentions to the woman on his other side.
Some twenty minutes later, the Countess came back into the room and retook her seat. Tanya looked at her and she gave a quick nod.
CHAPTER 11
When he woke, the world was the inside of a flour bag; he could taste the dust on his lips. There was a ra
g in his mouth; it tasted dry. He was sitting on a chair and with his hands tied behind him. The air was cold and as he shifted his feet he felt his boots drag against stone. Someone must have seen him move. The flour sack was pulled off him and he blinked hard. A cellar. He looked side to side. Wine bottles all round the walls in heavy, expensive ranks. His view forward was blocked by the bodies of two wide gentlemen in long dark coats. They wore round hats. One looked smooth and well-fed. The other had long sloping shoulders, the broken nose and evil eyes of a prize-fighter. The sort that gouges. Henri steadied himself; he knew the signs of a beating coming but he was confused too. He owed no one money. Not today! And if it was just the francs in his boots they were after, why had they bothered to tie him up and bring him down here? The little grisette in the bar was cheese on a trap then. He sighed.
The smooth man turned away once he had seen that Henri was awake, and said something in English. A woman’s voice replied, and straining in his chair Henri saw between the two men a woman standing further back in the shadows. She was wearing an evening gown and her throat sparkled with sapphires and diamonds. They seemed to gather the light from the oil-lamps and turn it into fireworks. Whatever she had said meant no good for him, for as the woman turned to go, the big man dropped into a fighting stance and drew back his arm. Henri closed his eyes and braced himself. Then another voice, female and rapid. The girl from the bar, but speaking English. Why was she still here? He opened one eye very cautiously. Her words had made the big fella hesitate. It seemed the jewelled lady was in charge, they were all looking at her now. She sighed and nodded to the girl, who then came trotting up to him. She bent down low and spoke in French.
‘Henri, I’m going to take that rag out of your mouth. Would you like that?’ He nodded. ‘But if you say anything foul, I’ll shove it right back in your gob. Understand?’ He nodded again.
She yanked out the rag and he spat on the ground at her feet, but held his tongue. She waited, but when it became clear he was going to keep quiet she dropped into a crouch next to him, holding on to the back of his chair for balance. He leaned away from her slightly.
‘Look, Henri, I’m sorry. These men are Americans. They work for the lady and they think you’ll be more likely to talk to us if they beat you up first.’ That was probably true. He looked at the prize-fighter again. The man was rolling his shoulders. ‘I say you’re not that bad a fella. Just made a few mistakes long ago, didn’t you?’ This whole thing was odd, but by the sound of her voice it was best to agree so he nodded hard. It made the pain in his head wake up and beat on the inside of his skull. ‘So will you answer this lady’s questions? Then we’ll let you go.’
‘Without the beating?’ She nodded and flashed a grin at him. ‘They ain’t police?’
‘They are Pinkertons.’ She breathed the word into his ear and he shivered. ‘American thugs for rich people. Clean-shaved, both of them! The gendarmes wouldn’t have them even if they could speak French worth a damn.’ He shot a quick look at the men. They looked wary, but obviously had not understood her.
‘You staying here?’
She put her hand on his shoulder as if he was a schoolboy being presented to the headmaster by his mother, and said, ‘He’s happy to talk.’
The woman in sapphires stepped towards them. ‘Yvette, remember I can speak French and I’m not so old I can’t hear what you’re whispering.’
His champion lost some of her bravery and looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, Madame.’
Sparkles looked him up and down for a moment or two. ‘You are sure this is the man?’
‘Yes, Madame. Henri Bouchard. He’s been talking tonight about not getting paid what he’s owed, and people taking advantage of his bad luck. I’m sure it’s him.’
Had he said that? Probably. Red wine and a big smile like that and he would run on. The tunes the band had been playing had made him mournful too, for his youth when the world seemed like a good place. Then the world took to teaching him the same lesson time and time again. People took advantage. And he’d never found the trick of making a woman like him without making her sorry for him, and he had been unlucky! He’d been caught swapping real stones for fakes when cleaning a necklace in 1893 and done five years for it. Now here he was, an artist really stuck making pennies in the back room of a dump that catered to shop girls. And he’d tried to keep his nose clean – at least till that shit Gravot turned up.
Sparkles was staring at him. He found he couldn’t look her in the eye so concentrated on the hem of her long dress. It shimmered with all sorts of fancy stuff.
‘The tiara, Henri? Who brought it to you?’
That fucking tiara. Of course it was the tiara. He got half – no, half of half – what his work was worth, and now he was in a cellar. ‘I’m saying nothing.’ Sparkles said something in English to the two men; they started moving towards him. Yvette went pale. Not a good sign.
‘They are going to break your fingers, Henri!’
Shit. ‘Gravot! Christian Gravot!’ Sparkles held up her hand and the prize-fighter looked disappointed. Henri tried to catch his breath. ‘He found me. He . . . he knows about a couple of little jobs I did that the cops never caught on to: enough to send me away a good few more years. He said I had to do the job or “the information would get to them”. Bastard.’
Sparkles nodded. ‘How did you do it so fast, Henri?’
‘There are lots of drawings of that tiara. It’s famous, isn’t it? And they had a good photo of some American chit wearing it, so I had a few weeks to get ready.’ He couldn’t resist a little smirk. ‘Four days was plenty to polish them up nice and swap out the real ones.’ Sparkles raised her eyebrows and suddenly she looked sickeningly familiar. Shit again. The smirk disappeared and his shoulders slumped.
‘How many stones did you replace?’
‘Twenty plus the main stone,’ he mumbled miserably to his boots. ‘All the big ones. And the great fat cushion I recut. Been working on it since before Christmas.’ Sparkles flinched when she heard that. ‘Make it easier to sell. Just got the polishing done last night. Been doing nothing else since he brought it to me, but I did it fast even with Gravot breathing down my neck. Had to quit my job to do it. He made me. I just hope they’ll take me back. He said he’d give me the rest of the week, but all of a sudden it’s hurry hurry, can’t stand another stinking evening with me, won’t leave me alone for as much as a piss while I’m working.’
‘Why hasn’t he run, Henri?’ Yvette asked. ‘Why is he still in Paris?’
Henri looked up at her and shook his head. It made his jowls wobble like a bulldog’s. So they knew Gravot. Good. Let him sit in a cellar with the big fella then.
‘Why should he?’ he said. The thought of the prize-fighter catching up with Christian on a dark night and messing up his fancy suit gave him a twinge of pleasure. He could feel it under the pain in his head, his hands. ‘He thinks he’s in the clear. Good conman never runs. Just ambles off when he feels like it. He’s going to sell a few of the little ’uns here, then head off to America. Use the rest to found his business empire.
Henry spat on the ground again, thinking of Gravot sitting behind him while he worked, reading the business pages of the American newspapers, talking about opportunities. How America was the real place for a man with ambitions, not France. The country was full of peasants, he’d said while Henri sweated over that great rock for him, hardly losing any of its weight, but disguising it, keeping it just as beautiful, but anonymous. Like dyeing a girl’s hair and dressing her in a new frock.
The girl patted him. ‘Now Henri, you didn’t keep any for yourself, did you? I know you didn’t like the price he gave you, so weren’t you tempted just to keep one for your trouble?’
Of course he’d been tempted, feeling all that real ice at his fingertips. Such high-grade stones – the clarity, the neatness of the cut. ‘That arsehole knows his diamonds and he wouldn’t leave me alone with ’em for a second.’
Sparkles was takin
g the news pretty well, Henri thought. She hadn’t set the thugs on him or started crying or yelling yet. Just looked at the wine racks and frowned like she’d seen the Bordeaux sniggering.
‘Thank you, Mr Bouchard. Christian Gravot will be arrested and you shall testify that he brought you the tiara and what you did with it.’
Henri jerked up so hard the chair juddered and he almost fell. ‘No! No chance! I’m not going back to that hellhole.’ They were all looking at him like this was a surprise. ‘You don’t know what it’s like over there.’ No one did. The heat and disease, the men dying round you, the ones that lived beating you for rations or for sport even when they knew you had nothing to steal. He blinked hard. ‘You can kill me here, but take me to a cop and I’ll deny it all. I’ll say you lied and I never saw that dog . . . I’m not going back.’ He realised it was true as the words were going out of his mouth. ‘You can’t prove nothing. Only told you to be civil.’ He was not a brave man, he knew that, but letting those men kill him here and now with that girl Yvette fresh in his mind and a belly full of red wine would be a fine death compared with what waited in Guiana.
The American men might not understand French, but they knew a refusal when they saw it. The prize-fighter stepped in and swung hard into Henri’s kidney. The pain ran through his body like wine spilled on a white cloth and pushed the air out of his lungs. He heard Yvette cry out, and he squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself for the next strike. Sparkles said a word and no blow came. He opened one eye cautiously.
‘You mean that,’ Sparkles said. It was a statement not a question, but he nodded anyway. For a long time there was silence then she said, ‘How do we know you won’t warn Gravot?’
He’d bitten his tongue under the surprise of that last blow. He spat out the blood. ‘Because that shit got me here, and I’d love to see him here instead.’
Yvette put her hand on his shoulder again. ‘What’s he planning, Henri? Tell us something else.’ She leaned in very close to him. ‘Tell us, and I won’t tell them you keep your money in your stocking.’ Her breath tickled the inner shell of his ear like the sound of distant water on sand.
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