Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [84]
‘Not we, Sandilands. They would be instantly suspicious of two men arriving with a strange enquiry.’ He looked at Joe then tweaked the sample from his fingers. ‘I’ll deal with this. You can loiter outside, window shopping. I suggest the jeweller’s. That’s safe enough. You’re choosing a ring for your girlfriend.’
It took a considerable amount of confidence to put on a routine such as Bonnefoye was demonstrating, Joe thought, in this smartest, most exclusive of streets. There were men to be seen entering the salons but they followed, dragging their heels, in the slipstream of their smartly dressed wives. Their role was clear: parked in a little gilt chair, they were required to smile and admire everything they were shown until, finally catching a nod and a wink from the vendeuse, they would come to a decision and pull out their wallets. The solo flight Bonnefoye was contemplating was daring. Professional, well-disciplined and having the sole aim of charming large sums of money from rich and fashionable women, the elegant assistants Joe caught glimpses of through the windows were truly daunting. They moved about with the easy arrogance of priestesses tending some vital flame.
Bonnefoye looked smart enough – he wore his good clothes well – but he would be entering hostile territory. He watched the young Inspector’s reflection in a shop window opposite the gold and black façade of Maison Cresson as he straightened his tie, tilted his straw boater to a less rakish angle and strolled inside, humming an air from Così fan tutte.
He was in there a very long time, Joe thought suspiciously. He saw Bonnefoye emerge finally, scribbling on a page of his little black book. He slipped it away into his breast pocket. Joe sighed. An address had been added to his list. But whose?
‘Another success, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘Two successes!’ Bonnefoye gave a parody of his best slanting Ronald Coleman smile to indicate method. ‘But the one that concerns you, my friend, is the identification of the fabric. It wasn’t easy. Sacrifices had to be made! There’s a good café just around the corner. Why don’t we walk on and have our second coffee of the day?’
They moved off out of the sight lines of the salon.
‘A charming girl greeted me . . . Delphine . . . I told her I was desperate. I wished to buy something special for my mother – for her birthday. And the trouble with rich spoiled old ladies . . . I was quite certain Mademoiselle Delphine would understand . . . was that they had everything. I had noted (sensitive son that I am!) on a recent visit to the theatre that she had been very taken with a certain evening cape being worn by a blonde young lady. I produced the swatch at this point. A dear friend of mine – the Comtesse de Beaufort – had advised me that such a garment might be found at the Maison Cresson.’
‘A moment, Bonnefoye . . . the Countess? You’ve lost me! Who’s this? Does she exist?’
‘Of course. And I know the lady to be a devoted patron of this establishment – Cresson labels right down to her silk knickers! I arrested her husband two months ago for beating a manservant nearly to death. The Countess was duly grateful for the brute’s temporary removal from the family home. And the suggestion of intimacy with a valued customer impressed Delphine. She was very helpful. She identified your scrap – though claims the stuff they use to be of better quality. Twice the weight and a richer dye, apparently. She remembered the garment for a very particular reason. They had designed and sold no fewer than four as a job lot, a highly unusual procedure, and all in the same size and fabric. The capes had been commissioned by a certain customer with whom they do a good deal of business. To reproduce a copy for my mother, it would be only polite to seek permission, of course.’
‘Understandable. The thought of five examples of a designer piece out and about in Paris would horrify your Delphine.