The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty-Nine

A PRIL 14, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

Only when we disembark from the ferry and amble down the cobblestone street adjacent to the docks does it occur to me that we have an abundance of enthusiasm but no real plan. We seem to think that if we march down the Boulogne streets like one of our fictional detective heroes, the clues will come scampering out to meet us.

I chuckle at the thought of this, examining each Queen as we traverse the docks. Margery, attempting to stride along in high spectator pumps and a fashionable but too-flimsy overcoat; she has not learned her lesson about the importance of practical shoes. Ngaio, wearing wide-legged pants that resemble a full skirt and sensible brogues that allow her to sidestep a pile of rubbish in the nick of time. Emma, tiptoeing from cobblestone to cobblestone in her Victorian-style dress and delicate shoes, as if that will save her from the fish-market refuse scattered about. Agatha, wearing a forgettable gray tweed suit and coat and lugging an unwieldy bag but determined nonetheless. Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Peter Wimsey, Harriet Vane, Roderick Alleyn, Albert Campion, and the real Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy Blakeney, we are not.

The chuckle turns into a roar that won’t let go. Doubled over with laughter, I see the tips of my friends’ shoes as they gather around me. Are they worried that I’m not well, that I haven’t really recovered from the attack they refuse to call an incident? In between peals of laughter, I manage to choke out, “Look at us! We really do think we are detectives.”

One by one, they see the hilarity in our situation as well. Soon each Queen is laughing, searching for a bench upon which we can temporarily land. I remember that the H?tel Morveaux is not far away. We should stop there in any case.

I gesture for the others to follow me, and we wander down a narrow lane until we reach a dead end. There I make a sharp right turn toward the tumbledown little hotel. “Let’s pop in. Madame Brat may have heard something of interest.”

“Here? Again?” Emma turns up her nose.

I decide not to reply but plow ahead. Pushing open the front door, I hear the familiar jingle of the bell. The establishment isn’t as empty as it had been on our last visit, so Madame Brat doesn’t step out from the back. Instead I spot her, wearing a different dress but the same style of apron, serving a table for two in the restaurant.

We linger in the reception area because no other waitress or employee seems to be present. When Madame Brat finally joins us, I address her in French. “Bonjour, Madame Brat. I’m not sure you remember us, but we stopped in a couple of weeks ago and had a lovely coffee.”

“Lovely” is an overstatement; “perfectly serviceable” would be a more apt description. But I’m trying to wheedle our way into the somewhat taciturn Madame Brat’s good graces.

“I do remember you,” she replies, slowly enunciating each word. “You came in for coffee but asked about the nurse.”

“That’s right,” I explain.

Along with the menus, she gives us a sly little smile. “Will you be ordering coffee and food? Or mostly information?”

I snicker. I hadn’t thought the dour-faced Madame Brat capable of a joke. “We’d probably like to order some of each.”

She gifts me with an unexpectedly wide smile, one that reveals her to be prettier and softer than I initially thought she was. “Let’s start with coffee.”

Several strong espressos and a mountain of delectable croissants aux amandes, chouquettes, and pains au chocolat later, we have learned little from Madame Brat. Not that she’s been recalcitrant. All she can offer is an update on the state of the investigation, which we already know. While the local and regional authorities have not formally announced its end, they are not expending any more resources on it, either. The entire affair is being chalked up to the drug trade, one way or another. The shopkeepers of Boulogne must be rejoicing; the newspaper coverage of May Daniels’s murder can hardly be good for business.

“I cannot eat another bite.” Ngaio sits back and pats her belly contentedly.

“I would have thought you’d reached your limit long ago,” Emma chides. “In the name of decorum.”

Ngaio and Emma seem unable to stick to polite pleasantries. I glance over at Ngaio to see how this latest of many barbs registers. But she’s smiling. Not a sneer—a joyful grin. As is Emma. And I realize that these spiky exchanges are simply their way of communicating and that these two very different women—one proper and old-world, the other modern and boundary-pushing—actually quite admire each other.

We leave a generous tip and begin to gather the stack of luggage we’ve piled by the wall. Madame Brat calls over to us. “Your hotel won’t open until later today. Why don’t you store your bags in Left Luggage at the Gare Centrale instead of dragging them around town?”

I freeze. Left Luggage. Suddenly an entirely new sequence of events occurs to me.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, I kiss her on the cheeks. As she stands there staring in amazement, I call to the Queens, “Let’s go. There’s been a change of plans.”