Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [111]
‘Your organization?’ asked Joe.
‘Yes. Initially it was mine. I bought the premises in the boulevard du Montparnasse. Girls need protection, you know that. And I needed to show a tough face to the world to make it understood that my affairs were not to be interfered with. There was a power-shift going on at that time. Corsicans killing each other, North Africans moving in . . . an unsettled and dangerous time for one in my business.’
‘Alice, couldn’t you have set yourself up in a tea shop and bought a pair of poodles?’ Joe burst out.
Alice and Bonnefoye both turned a pitying glance on him.
‘A cup of tea brings in one franc,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘A girl, between a hundred and a thousand. A dirty business but a calculatedly short one, I’d guess. Five years . . . I’d say you were pretty well poised to make off with your ill-gotten gains?’ he guessed.
‘I am,’ she said with a confident smile.
‘So – tell us about the moment when your organization became his.’
‘Ah! A sad story! And one you will have heard many times before. I became friendly with one of my clients. Over-friendly. I fancied myself in love with him. He reminded me very much of someone I had been fond of in my past and I allowed him to get too close to me. He also was recently arrived in the city, finding his feet, totally without female companionship. Someone introduced him to the establishment. We were a comfort and a support to each other.’
Joe was remembering just such a confession in a moonlit garden in Simla when she’d talked of a man she’d loved, and he wondered.
‘I was rash. I confided in him. But why not? He gave me good advice and he brought me more clients – he’s a well-connected man. I told him one day, for his amusement, of a fantasy shared with one of my girls . . . Thaïs, it was . . . A regular customer of hers had whispered in her ear. They do. And my girls are required as part of their job to pass on their confidences.’
‘God! I’d like to get a look at your little black book, madame,’ Bonnefoye chortled.
‘Clients assume – perhaps you will know the reason for this, Inspector – that the head on the adjoining pillow may always be disregarded. The woman, by nature of her employment, must be empty-headed, deaf or have a short memory. None of that is true.
‘Thaïs told me that her client, a regular visitor and an agreeable young man, was suffering at the hands of his old uncle. Known for years to be his uncle’s heir, he had been played with, tormented beyond reason by the old man on whom he was financially dependent. Finally the chap had informed his nephew that he was to be cut out of the will, that he (a keen theatre-goer) was leaving the entire fortune to the Garrick Club in London, to be distributed to indigent old actors. Our client spent some time outlining to Thaïs exactly what he wanted to see done to his uncle by way of retribution. His fantasy was amusing. He saw his uncle centre stage at the Garrick Theatre, spotlit of course, knife in his heart and an orifice unmentionable in mixed company stuffed with banknotes.’
‘Oh, good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘November 1923?’
Alice smiled. ‘I told my friend jokingly about this and to my surprise he didn’t laugh. He was intrigued. He gave way to a fantasy of his own. “What a cracking notion! Well, why not? Tell Thaïs to whisper in the boy’s ear that all his dreams can come true! Overnight he will become a very rich and very grateful client, will he not? Let’s put a proposal to him. We undertake to set the stage and provide the body for a fee to be agreed. How much?”
‘Thinking he was playing a game, I suggested a sum.
‘“Ridiculous! Triple that. The overheads will be tremendous. People to pay off . . . Thaïs must be rewarded . . . and Vévé.”’
‘Vévé?’
‘Vincent Viviani, my Zouave. In the end, my friend went to London with him to smooth his path.’
‘Obviously a successful outing. I remember the case. No one was ever arrested. Yes, a smooth beginning. You were inspired to continue?’
‘Yes. Suddenly he was talking about what “we” would do and I realized I’d lost control.