Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [91]
The reporter had rushed forward and sunk to his knees beside her before they thought of calling a warning, touching her sleek head with a caressing hand. ‘She’s dead,’ he whispered. Then he recoiled and froze, eyes starting. He gasped and cursed and, taking the body by the shoulders, turned it over.
Chapter Nineteen
It was Joe’s turn to draw in his breath in surprise. ‘It’s not her . . . No – that’s not Miss Baker!’
He stared at the face and added, ‘No scarlet thread. Thank God for that at least.’ His gaze lingered uncertainly. ‘But all the same, there’s something odd here . . . something missing . . .’
‘You’re right, though. It’s Francine,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Francine Raissac.’ He moved to the body with quiet authority. ‘Would you both move aside?’ Bonnefoye checked for signs of life and shook his head. ‘Dead – and very recently. Within the last half-hour. After a second’s inspection, I’d say she’d been strangled. No – wait a moment – neck broken. Better leave that to the pathologist. But what on earth was she doing here? By herself in the star’s dressing room? All dolled up for a party but feeding the animals? It’s unreal!’
The reporter, visibly shaking from the shock, had taken a pipe from his pocket and was attempting to hold a match steady enough to light it. ‘No, you’re wrong. Everyday scene. The girls were very thick,’ he started to say, between puffs. ‘Josephine liked her. They were always giggling together. She had the run of the place.’
‘I understood from Francine herself that she often modelled new outfits for Josephine. They’re the same size and I suspect Francine may have worked hard at acquiring the new fashionable Baker look. Not difficult with her dark skin and hair,’ Joe said.
‘She would choose clothes for Josephine to wear after the show. Josephine always goes on somewhere after she’s performed. She’s tireless, you know! Usually to a nightclub. To her own, first of all. Chez Joséphine, it’s called. In the rue Fontaine. And then on somewhere else. Bricktop’s more often than not. She’s not captivated by fashion as Francine is . . . was – she takes her word for it that what she’s picked out for her will be just right for whatever party she has in mind.’ The words spilled out, a confusion of thoughts and tenses, a reaction to the relief he clearly felt. Relief that the dead girl at his feet was not Josephine but also guilt that, in these circumstances, he could be feeling relief at all. He collected himself. He stared at the body and frowned in pity. ‘Francine always got it right. This green satin gown is probably the one she’d selected for whatever Josephine was planning for this evening.
‘And she used to come in before work to see to the menagerie.’ Simenon waved a hand with distaste in the direction of the animals. ‘Josephine adores them but she isn’t all that consistent in her care . . . no more than she is with people, I suppose. Francine couldn’t bear to see them go without attention. She even cleaned up after them and took them for walks. The ones that can walk. I suspect Derval slipped her a little extra for her trouble. She never stopped working, that girl.’
They watched in fascination as Bonnefoye in total silence poked and prodded his way through a textbook examination of the corpse. Joe determined to extract as much information as he could from the man who was so close to both girls. For Joe, listening to witnesses’ early reactions was more important than firing off the usual series of routine police questions. And he’d never met a witness so involved and so insightful, he thought, as this man. He would encourage him.
‘Are you thinking that this may be – if indeed it is murder we’re looking at – a case of mistaken identity? Finding Francine, looking as she does, in Josephine’s clothes, going about what ought to be Josephine’s chores, perhaps with her back to the door, one can understand that a mistake might have been