Belle - Lesley Pearse [191]
‘No, thank you,’ Etienne replied. ‘I think I have the wrong hotel. I’ll have to contact my friend and ask him which one he said he left my parcel at.’
Etienne was jubilant as he left the Ritz. Now he had the right name, he had contacts in Paris who would be able to tell him more about this man. For the first time since the fire he felt he had a purpose. He just hoped that Belle was still alive, for when girls of her age and experience went missing they were invariably found dead in a back alley or floating in the Seine. It was the innocent, trusting girls that got whisked off to work in brothels; they could be moulded to the owner’s will. But Belle would not be like that now.
Le Chat Noir was a dark, smoky bar close to the Moulin Rouge. It was a favourite haunt for men who lived by their wits – confidence tricksters, gamblers, thieves and a variety of entrepreneurial fly-boys. Yet they were in the main the elite of their chosen profession, and Etienne by reputation was one of them.
The doorman, a thick-set ex-boxer, embraced Etienne with delight. ‘We didn’t think we were ever going to see you again,’ he said. ‘Word got around you’d retired.’
‘I have, Sol,’ Etienne replied, and pinched the man’s cheek affectionately. ‘Only in Paris on personal business, but I couldn’t not come and see you all.’
‘We heard about the fire,’ Sol said, his face suddenly serious and sad. ‘A terrible thing!’
Etienne nodded. He didn’t wish to talk about it and hoped not everyone would feel they’d got to bring it up. Perhaps Sol understood, for he remarked on how fit and well Etienne looked and after making a joke about his expensive suit, let him go on into the bar.
About fifteen men were in there drinking, and perhaps five or six women too. Later, in the early hours of the morning, it would be packed and the air virtually unbreathable. Etienne heard his name called and saw a very short man in a checked jacket waving him over on the far side of the room.
Etienne smiled. It was Fritz, a very old friend and one of the people he’d hoped would be here tonight. Fritz had always been a mine of information, and Etienne doubted he’d changed in the four years since he’d last seen him.
He went through the same routine with Fritz as he had with Sol – the embrace, the sincere condolence.
‘Don’t let’s speak of that,’ Etienne said. ‘I came here looking for you to pick your brains. All right?’
Fritz shrugged, which said that whatever Etienne wanted he could have, and then called the waiter for drinks.
Fritz played the part of a clown to strangers. He was less than five feet tall, and with the loud jackets, spats and bright waistcoats he always wore, and a voice to match, people automatically assumed he was a buffoon. But in fact he was one of the most intelligent men Etienne had ever met. When he was younger he’d single-handedly robbed a diamond merchant here in Paris. It was an audacious and meticulously planned robbery which baffled the gendarmes. Fritz was never suspected and only three people knew he’d done it – his wife, his brother and Etienne.
At the time the diamond merchant claimed the haul was worth four million francs, but Fritz had always smiled when that figure was mentioned, which Etienne took to mean it was far less than that. But to this day people still talked about the daring robbery, and each year they exaggerated the value.
Fritz had got away with it because not only had he left no clues behind as to who was responsible, he didn’t brag about it either. Etienne knew it was just that which got most thieves caught, and that they splashed too much money around. Fritz bought a small house, and he and his wife and the children that came along later lived quite simply and happily. He had told Etienne at the time that he’d always planned to do just one big job that would keep him comfortable for ever, and he’d stuck to it.
‘I want to know if you know anything about the concierge at the Ritz, name of Edouard Pascal,’