Naughty In Nice (38 page)
Authors: Rhys Bowen
“And what can you tell me about him?”
“It was such a tragedy. His poor mother never recovered.”
“What was such a tragedy?”
“His death,” she said. “He died so young.”
“He died? The Marquis de Ronchard died?”
“It was years ago now.” She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin. “And yet I still feel the sorrow. I was close to his mama, you know.”
“How did he die?” I could hardly make the words come out.
“In the great influenza epidemic. They were out on their estates in the West Indies. They had gone there to escape the war and when his father was killed in the fighting they stayed on because France was not an agreeable place to be for a long while after the war. Then the epidemic reached even far-flung corners of the world and the young man succumbed. The influenza, it targeted the young, you know. The young and healthy. They were the ones stricken.”
“So he died in the epidemic. Did his younger brother inherit the title, or a cousin?”
She shook her head. “The title died with him. He was an only child and soon after his death we received word that his mother had died also. Of grief, if you want my opinion. She worshipped that boy. And now they are both buried in a foreign field, so far from home. Life is full of such tragedies, is it not?”
Theodora nodded vigorously but didn’t stop munching on her dessert. Coffee was served. As soon as possible I made my excuses of an urgent appointment and took my leave.
“You will come again soon?” Princess Marie asked expectantly as she clutched my hand between her bony fingers. “Such a treat for both of us.”
I promised I would return and made my way down the broad curved staircase. As I came out the front door, blinking in the strong sunlight, someone came running up the steps toward me. I looked up into the face of Darcy.
Chapter 32
January 28, 1933
In Nice. But really not very nice.
In Nice. But really not very nice.
It was all I could do not to fling myself into his arms.
“Georgie?” His face showed concern. “Is everything all right? What are you doing here? Did you come to find me?”
“I didn’t know you were staying here,” I said.
“Oh, yes, we’ve been here a couple of weeks. They’ll probably stay on another couple but I have to leave soon.”
“I see.” The desire to hug him faded. “Darcy, I want you to do something for me. The Marquis de Ronchard—you warned me against him. Was it just because you thought he had a bad reputation with women or did you suspect something more?”
He was still frowning. “Let’s just say that certain people wanted me to check up on him. He may not be what he seems, Georgie.”
“I know. He’s not.” The words burst out. “Darcy, he’s not a marquis. I suspect he’s a clever thief who stole the queen’s necklace and is probably responsible for the death of Sir Toby Groper. You must go and arrest him.”
“How did you come by this knowledge?” he asked.
“I worked it out,” I said. “I put together the pieces of the puzzle.”
“Then you are very astute, my dear. But arresting him—that won’t be so easy. The gentleman is more slippery than an eel. There have been incidents before when his name was implicated and every time he walked away smelling like a rose. But this time we have someone who might be willing to testify against him.” He looked hard at me. “If we can just come up with one damning piece of evidence.”
“I heard him on the Channel steamer speaking to a man in French. They were discussing whether it was to be the sunflowers or the chair. At the time I thought this sounded like nonsense but then in Sir Toby’s villa it was determined that the Van Gogh picture of a chair had been replaced by a forgery while the picture of sunflowers beside it was unharmed. And I realized that his attentions to me were only to set me up as the suspect.” It really hurt to confess this to Darcy but I forced the words out, feeling my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Darcy nodded. “I thought you weren’t his usual type. But I suppose he would turn any girl’s head. He’s handsome and rich and has a good title.”
“Which is a lie,” I said.
“It is?”
I nodded. “I’ve just been speaking with two elderly princesses upstairs. They knew the real marquis. He died abroad right after the war. His mother died soon after, so there was no one in France left of that line.”
“And then this man appears several years later, and nobody disputes his claim. If we could prove that, it would be a step in the right direction.” He touched my arm. “Look, Georgie, I want you to go back to the villa where you’re staying and don’t move. The place is guarded by police still, isn’t it? It was last night.”
“They’re still outside Sir Toby’s villa next door,” I said. “You will put a watch on the marquis, won’t you?”
“I’ll pass along your information through the correct channels,” he said. “You may be required to give evidence, but for now I want to make sure you are safe. I told you before that this is a dangerous man, and you really have no idea how dangerous.” He stopped and put a tentative hand on my shoulder. “Take care of yourself, won’t you? Don’t do anything brave and stupid.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said.
“Good girl.” He leaned forward as if to kiss me, then looked into my eyes and disappeared into the building. I stood on the steps with the wind blowing in my face, wanting with all my heart to call him back. Then I jammed my hat down on my head and forced myself down the steps and started walking. I knew I should go home as he had told me, but I also knew that only I had a chance of finding Jeanine, so I made my way back up the hill to begin my search in earnest. The streets to the left of the boulevard were lively with students and housewives shopping for the night’s meal, which reassured me that I was relatively safe. And on the way up the hill I had developed a plan. I would go into every café and bar and shop. If I got a flicker of recognition from anyone, I’d tell them I was Jeanine’s cousin, looking for her. If nobody recognized me, I’d ask for directions to the Roman amphitheater and act the part of a lost English tourist.
I put my plan into action at the café on the corner where the bicyclist had called out Jeanine’s name. No reaction but several helpful patrons came out and seemed as if they wanted to direct me in person to the amphitheater, which was quite in the wrong direction. I had to wait until they’d gone back inside again before I could sprint back across the street and continue my quest in the right direction. I went into the next shop and then the next. Then the next street, and the one after it. After a while I felt a prickling at the back of my neck, as if I were being followed. I spun around but saw nobody that I recognized among the passing pedestrians. I continued, but the feeling didn’t go away. I had almost decided that I was being foolish to be hunting down a killer alone, when a young man, dressed in a shabby jacket and wearing a student’s cap, gave me a glance as he walked past me, then a rapid double take. I turned and ran to catch up with him.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I noticed that you thought you recognized me.”
“My apologies, mademoiselle,” he said, “but you resemble a young woman I know.”
“Would her name be Jeanine?”
“Ah, so you know her too? You two are related, perhaps? The resemblance between you is strong.”
“Yes, we’re cousins,” I said, “and I’ve been trying to find her.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little early but she may already be at the club.”
“The club?”
“The Black Cat. She is one of the dancers there. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Oh, of course. I heard that she was now working at a club.”
He looked at me strangely. “You are not French,” he said.
“No. The English branch of the family. It’s a complicated story. So how would I find the Black Cat Club?”
He was still staring at me. “It’s not the sort of place a young woman would go to alone,” he said.
“And if she is not already at the club? Do you know her home address?”
He gave an apologetic shrug. “I have never been one of those lucky enough to be invited back to her apartment, but she has rooms in one of the buildings around here. Not that she sleeps at home much, if you get my meaning.”
“I’ll try the Black Cat,” I said. “At least I can leave a message for her. How do I get there?”
“It’s down by the port,” he said. “One of those buildings below the castle. Ask anyone. They’ll know.”
So it was back down the hill again. By now I was feeling rather tired and ready to give up for the day. A long cool drink and a good dinner awaited me at my mother’s villa. And tomorrow I could set out again with Commissaire Germain and my grandfather. That made a lot more sense. But I decided just to have a look at the Black Cat Club before I found a taxi to take me home. I didn’t think my legs were up to the mile walk to the villa this evening.
I could see at once why it was not recommended as a place for young women like myself to go alone. It was discreet enough, but outside there were framed photographs of young women in provocative poses. The front door was firmly shut. As I turned away, someone came clattering over the cobbles toward me. Her head was down against the strong wind that now blew from the harbor and she wasn’t looking where she was going, so that she almost bumped into me. She realized I was standing there at the last second and looked up. A look of surprise and then recognition crossed her face. We stared at each other for a long moment without speaking.
“You,” she said at last. “It’s you. You really do look like me. He said you did.”
She was not as fair skinned as I and lacked my freckles, and her hair was reddish brown, but a face with my features was staring back at me.
“It’s unbelievable,” I said. “We could almost be twins.”
“Not so hard to believe,” she said, still staring at me. “We are sisters, after all.”
“Sisters? What on earth do you mean?”
She looked around. The street appeared to be deserted but she tapped on the door of the club. “You had better come inside. It would be a serious mistake to be seen together.”
The door opened a few inches. “It is I, Robert,” she said. “I have someone with me. Let us in and then leave us alone. We want to talk.”
We stepped into the nightclub. The chairs were still on the tables and it smelled of cigarettes and old wine. Along one side there was a mahogany bar with leather-topped bar stools and at the back was a stage with red velvet curtains. The only light came from a dirty window on one side that looked out onto an alleyway. One half of the window was open and the cold breeze stirred the curtains. The person she had called Robert had vanished.
Jeanine took down two chairs. “Sit,” she said. “Do you want a cognac or Pernod?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“I think I need one,” she said, and she poured herself a glass before sitting opposite me.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “How can we be sisters? My father’s first wife died soon after Binky was born. My mother certainly only had one child.”
She looked at me, her lip curled in scorn. “You think all children are born on the right side of the blanket?” she demanded. “Our father came to the Riviera after his first wife died. He was enchanted by my mother, who was a famous dancer at the time. I was born. For a while he was enchanted with me too. He set us up in a nice little house and came to visit us often and all was well. Then he met your mother and he married her—although she too was not of his station. We heard that he had a proper daughter now—a legal daughter. He hardly came to see us anymore. You were now the apple of his eye.”
She was looking at me with undisguised animosity. I didn’t know what to say. I was still stunned by the word “sister.” A small voice inside me whispered that I had a sister. I who had longed for a sister during my lonely childhood was now presented with one and she was looking at me with hate.
“And then the war came,” she said. “And France was occupied by Germans. The English did not come to the Riviera anymore. There were no millionaires, no clubs. It was a hard time for my mother. She needed someone to take care of us, you see, so there were several new ‘uncles’ in my life. A German officer once, and then an Italian who was probably a smuggler and a crook. When the war ended, our father came back to visit us, but my mother was with this Fratelli at the time. I was no longer the adorable little girl but an angry, awkward twelve-year-old. So Papa went away. He did not think he was welcome anymore—which was perhaps true.”
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